Then You Were Gone Part 15

"Feel like taking a trip?"

"We have cla.s.s in an hour and a half."

"So?"

"So?"

He smiles.

"Come to the beach with me."

"No."

"Come on, you like the beach."

Used to. "How would you know?" I jog in place. "It's freezing." And, "Anyways, I can't. I can't go anywhere with you."

"Why not?"

Lee. "Because."

He looks at me, really looks at me, and I feel my will weaken.

"You're considering it. I see the wheels turning."

How much more damage can I possibly do?

I shove the door open. "Go wait in the car, okay? Just-give me twenty minutes to shower and change."

We take the 101 south to the 110 south to the 10 west. We empty out onto Ocean Avenue. Park at the pier. Big surprise. Julian and I continue our tour of depressing Dakota landmarks. Today's stop: Suicide City.

"You okay?" he asks. "You comfortable?"

We're in sweaters and jackets in a pocket of dirty beach. To our left, tacked to the pier deck, an overblown, rainbow memorial dedicated to C. Chang and D. Webb. Photos, flowers, streamers, ribbons-we stay away.

"I'm okay," I say, feeling a pretty even mix of good and bad. Dakota death site? Bad. Julian Boyd? Good, sometimes. Like now.

We watch the water. We watch the park on the pier: Ferris wheel. c.r.a.p food stands. Carousel. I go, "Goldfish the goldfish."

"Sorry?"

"Goldfish the goldfish," I say. "Clever name, right? He was a gift, from Dakota. We were eleven."

"Nice gift."

I shake some sand off my hands. "He lived a year and a half."

"That's, like, forever in fish years."

"Right?"

Julian leans all the way back, flat to the ground. "She was a s.h.i.+tty girlfriend," he says. "She d.i.c.ked around a lot."

"Other guys?" I ask cautiously. Even though I know this. Or knew it. Rumors.

"Other guys," he echoes, dusting his hands against the sides of his thighs.

"So why'd you stay with her?"

He rolls over. "She was-" His eyebrows bounce up. "I don't know, ya know?" Shrugs. "We were like magnets."

I wince, having a flash: Dakota and Julian on the quad, kissing. Me watching from Kate's car after school. Dakota in his lap, two s.e.xy misfits sharing the s.e.xiest smoke.

"You think I'm weak?" he asks.

I get down on the ground with him, so we're level. "That's not what I think." I think about me and Lee. How pedestrian our love is. How frumpy and unromantic. "She was a s.h.i.+tty friend," I offer. He blinks, earnestly, gratefully. My heart shakes. "Not your fault, you know?" I'm s.h.i.+tty. I'm the s.h.i.+ttiest. I'm the worst girlfriend. I'm her.

"Hold this?" Julian pa.s.ses me his lighter and cigarette pack. Then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls free a tiny Baggie. Floorboard drugs. "You want?" He waves around the plastic. Inside: four dead, curly mushrooms.

I sit up. "You're not serious." He's already eating two.

"Have 'em." He shakes the bag under my nose. "They taste great."

I take the bag. Pull one out. It's dusty and stiff. I sniff at it. "I've never . . ." Am I really doing this? Is this who I am now? The girl who skips school to eat mushrooms with the boy who isn't her boyfriend?

"Live a little," Julian says.

So I eat one. It tastes hideous. Rotten and woodsy and, "You're right. Just like candy." I quickly swallow the last of it: one long, skinny stem. Then, "What happens now?"

"I dunno. We wait, I guess."

"I'm scared." I'm laughing, but I'm petrified.

"Don't be," he says, and takes my hand.

Later.

Everything is slow and humming. Julian's hand feels spongy. I keep crus.h.i.+ng his fingers over and over again, slipping backward into the sand and squas.h.i.+ng him hard because he tells me he likes it when I grip really tight.

"You okay?" Julian asks.

I roll over. I feel so clean. I walk to the water and say a prayer for dead Ca.s.sidy Chang. My cheeks are wet, why are my cheeks wet? Julian says, "You're crying."

"I thought you were back over there." I point.

"I'm right here."

"Hi."

"Why so sad?"

"I'm not."

"You are, look." He wipes my face with his fingertips. "See?" His hand's all wet.

"I don't feel sad," I say.

"Are you sure?"

I'm not. The waves are too loud-cras.h.i.+ng, whoos.h.i.+ng-I can barely hear myself think. Then, "I am sad," I say, suddenly. "I am so sad."

"Told you." He touches my upper arm. "Hey, say my name."

"Julian."

"Say it again."

"Julian."

"Does that sound weird to you?"

It doesn't, so, "No." My chest feels buzzy and bright. "Wanna go for a swim?"

He shakes his head and walks back to the beach. I kick off my shoes and tuck my dress into the waistband of my tights. I wade in. It's icy and right. I go deeper, up to my thighs. I look down at my dress. Dakota wears black. I whirl around. Julian's watching me. "Who do I look like?" I ask, calling back to the beach.

Julian says, "You know."

"I don't," I say.

"Come'ere, let's talk."

I trudge back through the water and sand. I sit down. Julian takes off his jacket and wraps it around my damp legs. "Who do I look like?" I ask again.

"You look like you."

"You're sure?"

"You're dressed like someone else."

"Who's that?"

"Can't say her name."

"Why not?"

"Come'ere, come closer." He puts an arm out. "Let's lie down."

I fold up against his cool chest. He wraps his arm around my shoulder.

All over now.

Ten to six and dark out. Julian's parked a block away from my house, engine off. "You okay?" he asks.

I feel stupid and spent, but, "Fine," I say, not looking up.

He screws with his key chain. "You sorry we did that?" Tears, drugs-intimacy minus the s.e.x.

"No." I shrug, collecting all my c.r.a.p from the glove compartment: wallet, keys, cell. Two missed calls from Mom. Five from Lee.

"Trouble?"

"Yup."

He bats the stick s.h.i.+ft with his fist. I pop the lock and push on the door with one knee. "Thanks for the drugs."

Julian smiles. He says, "You sure you're okay?"

I tug the sun visor down and check my reflection. I look h.e.l.lish-my mascara streaked and smudged. "I am," I tell him. And maybe I'm lying and maybe I'm not. "Anyways, I wanted to come."

I'm buying my own cigarettes now.

"Can I b.u.m one?"

The ones Dakota smoked, with the white, hollow filters. "Here." I pa.s.s my pack to the freshman with the blue b.u.t.ton-down and sloppy bun.

"Thanks."

My free period. I'm chain-smoking. There's Julian, across the quad, staring. We're locked in some crazy glare-off-thirty psycho seconds-and I know it's the dress, not me. It's Dakota's. I put it on this morning because I felt s.h.i.+tty and dumb and remarkably low. So he's staring and staring, but then he turns around and walks away as if stolen dresses and missing girls just don't matter at all.

At lunch, Kate gets me drunk on gin. About the dress she says, "Who died?" I don't reply. The answer seems blindingly obvious.

"Where were you yesterday?"