Then You Were Gone Part 25

"Holly." He sat up really quick and grabbed my hand. "Stop it. Okay?" He tightened his grip and creepy tingles rolled up my arm. "I'm not gonna marry the girl."

I looked back at the road, mimicking Nora's babyish lilt. "You're not?"

Nils dropped my hand. "You're a weirdo, Holly."

I pursed my lips. "At least I'm not a baby with . . . big b.o.o.bies."

"Weirdo."

I slapped him hard on the arm and turned up my driveway. We both laughed.

I parted ways with Nils and beelined for the fridge. Harry was at my heels begging for food, so I unwrapped a single slice of American-flavored soy cheese, rolled half into a little ball, and dropped the other half on the floor. He inhaled the thing in two seconds flat, not even stopping to chew.

I walked to my bedroom, simultaneously nibbling on my little ball of fake cheese and taking off my clothes, item by item. I slipped on my running shorts and a tank, grabbed Harry's leash, and poked my head into Jeff and Mom's room on my way to the back door. She'd been gone six months and somehow, the entire place still smelled like her: rose oil and castile soap. I don't know how that happens, someone dies and their scent stays behind. Jeff hadn't changed a thing. All her clothes were still on their racks in the closet, her perfume on the vanity, her face creams and make up in the little bathroom off their bedroom. Most days it was easy to pretend she was still around. Out at the store. On a walk. In the garden. Out with Jeff.

So I took the dog out running. Up the canyon, past Ms. Penn's place with that wicker chair she has tied to a rope so it hangs from her tree like a swing; up p.a.w.nee Lane, past Nora Bittenbender's, past Red Rock Road, and out into town. I bought a ginger ale at the Nature Mart and walked back most of the way, trying to keep twigs and rocks out of Harry's mouth.

Later that night, around seven, Jeff came home.

"Hi, Dollface." He kissed my forehead and took a bottle of seltzer out of the fridge. He held it to his neck, then took a long swig, settling into his favorite wooden chair. "What's for dinner?"

"Tacos, maybe? I was thinking I'd drive down to Pepe's. Another night of pasta, I just might hurl."

Jeff laughed his sad little Jeff laugh and kicked off his loafers. "'Kay, sounds good to me, whatever you want." Then he handed me a twenty. I put Harry in the car because he loves hanging his head out the window at night while I drive, and we sped down the hill, to the beach, to Pepe's, where I bought eight tacos: four potato, two fried fish, two chicken. I kept the warm white bag in my lap on the drive back, away from Harry, and thought about Mom for a second or two. Specifically, her hair: long and thick and dark, like mine. I sang along to a song on the radio I didn't really know the words to, and when my cell rang, I checked the caller ID but I didn't pick up. I didn't recognize the number.

Jeff and I ate in front of the TV that night, watching some cheesy dating reality show that he loves and I hate, but I humor him because he's my dad and his wife is dead and anything that makes him happy now, I'm into. So we finished dinner, I kissed him good night, and then I went out back to The Shack with my cell to listen to the message from my mystery caller. "Hi, Holly," said the voice on my voice mail, "it's Paul. Bennett. I'm just calling to see what you're up to tonight. Gimme a ring." Click. My heart shot up to my throat. We'd never talked on the phone. In fact, we'd never really talked.

I held the phone to my chest and considered calling back, I did, but the whole s.e.x-in-his-car-at-the-beach thing had really struck me as a one-time deal. I called Nils instead.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"It's me."

"You out back?"

"Yeah. Jeff's asleep in front of the TV and I'm bored."

"Be right there. I'm bringing CDs, though, okay?"

"Whatever you say." I flipped my phone shut.

"Holly-hard-to-get. Hi."

Paul and I were standing shoulder to shoulder outside my Chem cla.s.s. He was wearing a battered old pair of khaki cut-offs, black aviators, and a brash grin. "You don't return phone calls?"

I stared at him, mystified, as he shuffled backward. I shook my head.

"Too bad." He blinked. "What do you have now, Chem?"

"Mm," I managed.

"You stoked?"

"What for?"

"Cla.s.s." He c.o.c.ked his head sideways, scanning my face for signs of humor, no doubt. "I'm kidding."

I looked at him blankly. Why were we standing there, talking still?

"Holly?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, yeah. Tired, I guess."

"Well . . . are you busy later?"

I nodded yes I'm busy, sorry, can't hang out and watched, rapt, as he swung his pretty head from side to side. "I don't get you," he said.

I hugged the door frame as a couple of kids tried squeezing past me. "What's to get?" I asked, because seriously, what's to get? I was baffled, really perplexed by his sudden and obsessive interest in me. I wore ratty Levi's and dirty Chuck Taylors to school every day. I rarely brushed my hair. I had one friend besides my dog, and spent nights with my checked-out dad in front of the TV. What about me could possibly hold Paul's interest?

He flashed me one last look, gliding a hand along the wall, then disappearing into a crowd of kids in flip-flops and jean shorts standing around in a big square pack.

Was this some big joke or was I suddenly irresistible? Did I even like Paul? Did Paul truly like me? I peeled myself away from the door frame, turned a quick pivot, and shuffled into cla.s.s.

Nils had his elbows pressed against the black Formica desktop and was fidgeting with some metal contraption with a long, skinny rod. I dropped my books down next to him. "What's that?"

"It's a Bunsen burner." Nils considered me. "What's wrong with you?" He moved sideways, making room. "You look pinched."

I grabbed a stool, dropped my bag to the floor, and plopped down next to him. "Just, no. Just-" I ran a finger over a crooked little heart that had been etched into the side of the desk. "Why Nora? Like, why go after her? Do you like her even?"

"Yeah, sure thing."

"No but, do you like her like her?"

"I like her enough." Ick. This sort of thing was cla.s.sic New Nils-speak. Nils post Keri Blumenthal. Yes, maybe he'd had some experience this past year, and yeah, maybe I hadn't even gone past kissing with anyone pre-Paul . . . still, that didn't give Nils the right to be cagey and smug when I needed real, straightforward answers.

"What does that mean?"

Nils looked at me. He shrugged. "She's a nice way to pa.s.s the time."

I flinched. "Oh. Duh, of course." Then I opened my Chem book to the dog-eared page and pretended to read. So that was it. s.e.x. A way for Paul Bennett to pa.s.s the time. Holly-pa.s.s-time. Holly-ho-bag. I pressed my forehead to the crease in my textbook.

"What're you doing?"

"Resting."

"What do you care about Nora Bittenbender, anyway?"

"I don't."

"You sure you're okay?"

I sat up. "I'm fine." I gestured toward the Bunsen burner. "Come on. What the h.e.l.l are we doing with this thing, anyway?"

"We're making s'mores," said Nils, pulling a misshapen Hershey's Kiss from his pocket and a crushed packet of saltines off the neighboring desk.

"Gross," I said, smiling for real this time, feeling a smidge better. "Just gross."

People warn Alex to steer clear of the twins,

but she wants to be part of their crazy world . . .

no matter the consequences.

TURN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT.

LAUREN STRASNICK'S HER AND ME AND YOU.

I met Fred first.

At a party on Orchard Ave. that Charlotte Kincaid took me to.

Him: "Need a beer?"

Me: "I've already got one."

"Well, drink up," he instructed. He was pale and skinny (and who wears Docksiders and corduroy?). "When you're ready I'll get you another."

Charlotte and I stood shoulder to shoulder chomping pretzels and watching the drunk crowd rock. Charlotte nursed her canned Bud Light and I picked at a pebble of salt wedged between my two front teeth.

"You're new," he said.

"Right." You're new. No question mark.

I'd been in Meadow Marsh a week. I missed home. And Evie. And Charlotte Kincaid would never be Evie. She was soft-spoken and smelled like baby powder and dryer sheets. She had none of Evie's charm or spark.

"Let's sit," Fred suggested.

"I'd rather not."

Charlotte shot me a look, then wandered away. Where was she going? Bathroom? Food foraging? "I want to be alone," I told him, downing the rest of my beer and grabbing another out of the six-pack on the floor by his feet.

"You're at a party."

I felt my face flush, then twisted the top off the bottle and shoved the cap in my coat pocket.

"You don't really want to be alone . . . ."

True. I wanted to be with Evie. Or home in Katonah with Mom and Dad watching c.r.a.ppy TV. I took a bitter swig of beer and handed the bottle back. "You want the rest?" It was time to go.

"Your backwash?"

"Nice meeting you," I said. I pulled my hat from my bag.

"Wait-you're leaving?"

"Do me a favor? If you see Charlotte Kincaid, tell her I walked home?"

"You can't walk-it's pitch-black and freezing."

"I'll be fine," I said. "My grandmother's place is like, half a mile away."

"You live with your grandma?"

In fact, no. Grams was dead. But I'd just moved twenty-eight miles with my unhinged mother to my grandmother's place in Connecticut. Because my favorite parent, Dad, had done some very bad things with a paralegal named Caroline.

"Hey-"