Then You Were Gone Part 19

Sat.u.r.day.

Sam and I go to the river, which is less like a river and more like an empty cement ravine coiling through the city, valley to beach. We're walking. It's sunny. We pa.s.s people on horses. Written on a rock in red spray paint: Raper.

"Shouldn't it be Rapist?" I say to Sam.

He looks at the rock, at me; he smiles. "Your lit teacher called the house last night."

I freeze. Fear curls around my waist, binding me. "Why? Why the h.e.l.l would he call you?"

"He says you've been pretty emotional. That you aren't turning in your work."

"I did-I have-that's complete horses.h.i.+t. He has my Jane essay. He's refusing to read it-"

"Whoa, kid, it's okay. No one's reprimanding you. He said you got a little weepy at school yesterday and he recommended"-he pulls a slip of paper from his wallet-"you make an appointment with this woman." He reads, "Griffith?"

"Griffin."

"Right, her. He said to call her." He pa.s.ses me the paper with Griffin written in messy cursive.

"I've already seen her. She didn't help."

"Adrienne, hey, just-do what the guy wants. Screw your head on straight. Get your grade up. It doesn't take much-"

"It's been a s.h.i.+t month."

"I know. I explained. I told him about Dakota."

"You did what?" Rising panic. "What did you tell him?"

"No, nothing. I said you knew her. That you were friends. That this-that this has been hard on you." He's watching me. "What's with you? Why is that bad?"

"Did you tell him about the car? About the Bug?"

His chin wrinkles. "Why would I tell him that?"

I relax. I say, "Sorry," and soften.

He blinks, eyeing me still. Kicks a wet rock. "Am I missing something?"

You're missing something, yes, only, "No," I say, instead. Surprising myself. "No, no-I'm being crazy."

I want to tell him everything, but am feeling stupidly superst.i.tious. We're on the verge of something, me and Julian. Saying this stuff out loud might, I don't know, cast some sort of jinx. Foil our d.i.n.ky investigation.

"You're sure?" Sam asks, inspecting my face.

"I'm p.i.s.sed about the paper," I tell him. "Murphy's been pressuring me and I-" I shake off a chill. "I cried about my paper."

I'm on Lee's deluxe doorstep.

I used to love this place.

I loved how Lee lived like a Hollywood prince is his parents' opulent art deco home. I liked lying on silky couches and hiding behind heavy curtains, and I loved the way Lee legitimately valued his life. He wasn't one of those s.h.i.+tty kids who rolled around in piles of money, smoking French cigarettes and eating cocaine. He adored his parents and loved their home and he really, really appreciated life. Lee loved me. For a minute, I loved him. And then s.h.i.+t happened and I f.u.c.ked it all up.

Ding, the bell. The door cracks. "Hi," I say. Lee lets me in.

We sit on the den sofa. I wonder if this is the last time I'll sit here watching the walls s.h.i.+mmer-all that s.h.i.+ny gold-leaf paper. "We're breaking up, right?"

"I kissed Alice Reed," he says.

"What, once?"

"Not just once."

I don't tell him about the things I did with Julian, because what would that matter now? "I figured," I say. "She called me. She's called me a bunch, actually."

"She's scared of you."

"Oh yeah?"

"She likes you."

"She likes me?"

"Sure."

I grimace. "She likes you better."

Lee smiles. I smile. Acting happy hurts. "I'm sorry for treating you like s.h.i.+t," I say.

Lee bobs his head. "Thanks."

I slide across the couch cus.h.i.+ons and wind my arms around his neck. "I don't deserve you," I whisper, and Lee starts to vibrate. He's shaking like crazy and crying. "Hey, hey . . ." I coo.

"I don't need to be with her. I can be with you, still."

"I don't think you can," I say, and we cling to each other. Lee pulls his head back and kisses me.

I'm awake.

It takes me fifteen seconds to realize that that chirpy bird melody is my phone. I switch on the bedside lamp and grab my cell off the nightstand. No freakin' number. Four a.m. f.u.c.k, Alice. Seriously? I pick up.

"What now?"

Sobbing. Full-blown hysterical shrieks. The voice is high and broken and alarmingly familiar. It's not Alice. It says, "Adrienne?"

I shoot out of bed, fully freaked. I trip over my jeans, crumpled up in a ball on the floor. "Who is this?" I screech. My heart is all fast and screwy like a metronome off its beat.

"It's me," replies a thin, shaky voice from so very far away. "It's Dakota."

"Sometimes I think-" She starts, then stops, hurling herself down onto the floor, next to me. "Don't you ever wonder what real love feels like?"

"Real love?"

"Yeah. Like really real love."

"I guess," I say, uneasy. "Sure." I pick at the berber carpet, pulling loose a few nylon loops.

"I never think about loving anyone. You think that's weird?"

"I-" I stiffen. "Never?"

"Not ever." She blinks. "I only ever think about people loving me."

I look at her perfect, poreless complexion. Her bony shoulders. Her puffy upper lip. "That dress looks better on you," I say.

She pulls her chin to her chest, looking down, a.s.sessing herself. "Does it?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "It does."

She smiles. Then she cups my cheek with one hand and kisses me. She does it easily, with zero hesitation. She leans forward, her lips parting, and nudges my mouth with her mouth. I don't stop her. I don't ask where it's coming from or what the h.e.l.l she means by it. I kiss back. Because maybe it feels nice or maybe I haven't been kissed enough. And who doesn't want to be wanted by her?

She moves closer. She sucks on my bottom lip and laughs. She takes my hand and sets it firmly on her breast. I jump a little, but leave it there. Then, abruptly, she pulls back. Swipes at her smeared lipstick. Says, coolly, "Everyone's the same. Boys, girls." She shakes her head, glaring. Then she gets up, grabs her coat and bag, and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" I whisper, still on the ground.

"I told you. On my date." She's halfway down the hall already. She's not looking back.

It's quarter to six, dark still, and Julian's doing ninety on the I-15. We haven't talked since LA. Dakota's three hours east, in some teensy desert town by Barstow. This is happening. I'm scratching and pinching at my thighs through my jeans because, yes, this is totally real.

Julian chews his nails to the quick. We blow smoke out open windows. Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" plays on repeat for a fourth of the trip, making me feel really sentimental and tense.

Half past seven. We're here. The sun creeps over a dry, jagged landscape. Julian parks the car in a dirt lot beside Dakota's motel. The place is sad-ten crumply units, side by side in one long row. Neon sign: "Vacancy. Free TV. Guest Laundry. No pets." For three full seconds I'm sick, then just as fast, I'm fine. I'm watching the moment, not in it. You dump your boyfriend. You chase the dead girl. Life in second person. Things are better this way.

We walk to unit four. Julian looks past me, hesitates, then knocks. We wait a bit. He knocks again. We wait some more. There's some clicking. The door rattles and cracks.

"Adrienne?" I see a sliver of nose first, s.h.i.+ny and thin. Then one wide eye.

"Can you undo the chain?"

She shuts the door. The lock sc.r.a.pes. Then there she is, all of her: bare-faced, kid-like, wearing an oversize Bowie T-s.h.i.+rt. Her legs are bruised. She doesn't look like the real Dakota. Mischievous. c.o.c.ksure. She looks beaten and girlish. A bony pile of white skin and limp hair.

"I can't believe-" My relief is epic. I feel warm and loose. "I'm just so happy to see you."

She doesn't say anything back. Her eyes flick sideways, to Julian. "Why is he here?"

A whack to my gut. I look at sad, stiff Julian.

"I don't have a car," I say lamely. "And he cares about you."

She turns away, walks inside, hides herself. "Make him leave, please? I don't like the way I look."

I'd like to, like, repeatedly rip her face off.

Sorry, I mouth, facing Julian.

"I'll be in the car," he says flatly, and he's hurt, I see it, but he backs away. I follow Dakota inside.

Stained carpet. Orange, pilly bedspread. Kitchenette. TV. The place has a sweet, chemical smell that makes me s.p.a.cey and nauseated. I beeline for the sink, grab two clear cups with a grayish tint off the bar, and fill them with tap water. Then I walk one over to Dakota.

"Here."