Between (26 page)

Richie has never been much of a dancer. I love to dance, but he’s always acted like he’s too cool for it. I know the truth, though: he’s shy, too afraid of looking anything but fully composed in front of our friends and classmates; he’ll usually stay near me, kind of swaying, moving just enough so that he doesn’t stand any chance of embarrassing himself. That night, my girlfriends and I all gather together, dancing in a group while our dates sit at a table watching. The room is dark, lit with floating tea candles that sit in glass bowls. The tables are covered with them, casting shadows all over the room, and there’s glitter and confetti on their surfaces, too, along with fat arrangements of flowers, three or four bouquets each. It’s magic. We’ll only be this young once. Even as I’m standing on the dance floor with Mera and Caroline and Josie, the four of us grinning so hard that our cheeks probably hurt, my shoes stowed under the table hours ago so that I could dance without my feet aching, I recall thinking to myself: remember this forever.

The dance is supposed to last until midnight, but Richie and I slip out a little after eleven.

We took a limo to the dance. All our friends chipped in, $17.65 per person—it’s amazing how these tiny details are all coming back to me now—and the car was supposed to take us wherever we wanted all night, but Richie and I aren’t just going to run off with it, leaving everyone else behind. It’s a warm night, and it’s less than a mile walk back to Richie’s house. We can’t go up to his room; his parents are actually home for once. So we take his mom’s SUV and drive down the shore, along the winding rows of empty vacation homes, until we find a long driveway leading to a clearly vacant house. We park at the very end, close to the garage, and pretend that it all belongs to us.

Richie and I have been together for so long, we almost don’t have to say anything to each other. I loved being alone with him; I loved the deep, comfortable silence between us that was woven by so many years of conversation, of learning to read the nuances in each other’s expressions, in our body language, in our breath.

I watch from the front as we climb into the back, put the seats down. Carefully, so gently, with fingers that I imagine are soft and cool, his breath calm, Richie unzips my dress. I feel so close to him that I can almost sense his touch, even though I’m not in my living body. I watch myself slip out of my gown and fold it across the back of the front seat. I’m not wearing a bra, just a simple white thong, so thin and light that it’s almost like nothing.

As he kneels above me, I lie flat on my back. I stare up at Richie, who’s watching me, tugging his bowtie loose almost without any awareness of what he’s doing. He presses a palm against my stomach, which appears to be nothing but skin over muscle. He leans over to kiss me.

“I love you,” I tell him. I’ve said it a million times before over the years, but this time, it seems different somehow. There’s something odd about my tone.

He pulls away. It’s dark in the car; I can see his eyes flashing in the moonlight spilling through the windows, but I can’t read his expression. “Do you?” There’s doubt in his voice.

“Richie. Of course. I’ve loved you forever.”

He takes a fingertip, traces it along the outline of my rib, which is fully visible beneath my skin. “It’s like you’re disappearing,” he murmurs.

“I’m not disappearing. I’m right here.”

“Where do you go when you’re out running?”

I laugh, but the effort seems hollow. “You know where I go.”

He opens his mouth. He tightens his grip around my rib cage, pressing so hard that it looks like it might hurt. “I want to be your first.” He swallows. “I want to be the only one. Forever.”

“You will be.”

“Promise?”

He already knew about Vince; I understand that now. And as I stare at the two of us together, I realize that I
knew
he didn’t believe anything I was telling him.

Then why doesn’t he confront me? Why does he kiss me, and continue to love me, when everything we have built together over all these years is dissolving into lie upon lie?

“I promise,” I whisper. Maybe he doesn’t want to know the whole truth. Whatever it is, it was too terrible for me to share with Richie.

And if I’d told him, would things have been different? Could I have lived? Or were the events that led to my death already in full swing, too far along to be prevented, no matter what I might have done to stop them?

As soon as the memory drifts away, Alex grabs my arm to take me somewhere else. “We’re here,” he says.

I can tell from looking around that we’re in the present; Alex and I are nowhere to be seen. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was just a normal day at a normal high school. We’re in the cafeteria.

“It’s pizza day,” he says.

Right away, I spot my friends sitting at their usual table. It’s our premium spot in the lunchroom: a big, circular table in the far right corner of the room, next to the potato bar, closest to the double doors leading to the parking lot.

“I thought you hated lunch,” I tell Alex.

“Well, I thought you might like to see some familiar faces.” He half smiles. “Did I say that I hated lunch?”

“Yes. Because of me and my friends. You told me you ate lunch in the library sometimes to avoid us.” I stare at him. “I remember. I’m sorry.”

“You can stop saying that you’re sorry.”

“I can’t help it.” It’s true; I can’t.

We position ourselves beside my friends. It might be pizza day for the other students, but for all of my girlfriends, every day is salad day.

Josie is picking at her Caprese salad, nibbling the edge of a basil leaf.

“You okay?” Mera sips a Diet Coke. “Worried about Richie?”

Josie nods. “They’re going to arrest him.”

“Josie, would you relax?” Topher stretches lazily, slings an arm around Mera. “So they’ll arrest him. His parents will bail him out. He’ll end up with, like, probation. It’s not a big deal. He’s still a minor.”

“Leave her alone,” Caroline says. “He’s her boyfriend. She’s concerned about him.”

“Oh, he is not her boyfriend,” Mera says, shooting a glance at Topher, who remains casually uninterested, a far cry from the chatty informant he played earlier with Joe. “Richie’s freaking out. You should have seen him this morning at Topher’s house. He wants to figure out who killed Liz.”

When she says the words out loud—
who killed Liz
—a silence falls across the table. Josie’s gaze shifts downward. Caroline bites her lip so hard that I almost think it’s going to start bleeding.

Then, as though she’s summoning all of her confidence at once, Josie sits up straight in her chair. In a gesture that seems almost defiant, she flips her hair over her shoulder. She gazes at each of our friends, one at a time, giving them a stony look of authority. “Nobody killed my sister,” Josie pronounces. “She fell. It was an accident. Everybody knows that.”

“Do they?” Mera pauses. “Look at us. We’re sitting here all by ourselves. Even my teachers are treating me differently. And I don’t just mean they feel sorry for me because my friend died. People are talking about us. Don’t you know that?” She turns to Josie. “It doesn’t help that we’re wearing her clothes to school practically every day. Or that you’re going after her boyfriend.”

Josie narrows her eyes. She seems to be completely in control of her emotions, totally unfazed by Mera’s comments. “I told you, Richie and I started seeing each other before … well, you know.” Josie pushes her salad away. “And I was her sister. It’s fine for me to wear her clothes.” For just a second, her confidence falters. “It makes me feel close to her.”

Cool silence. Looking around, I realize that half the room is stealing glances at my friends. My friends, in turn, are all staring at the table’s vacant chairs. Richie’s empty seat.
My
empty seat.

“Mera, don’t you dare tell me how I should act right now. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to be feeling. You don’t know what it’s been like at my house,” Josie says. “My dad is barely functioning.” She takes a strand of her long hair and winds it around her index finger. “He’s been sleeping on the boat. He thinks I don’t know. He waits until my mom and I are in bed, and then he walks down there and …” She shudders. “It’s so morbid.”

It’s true, too. In the past week or so, I’ve seen my father, late at night, walking to the
Elizabeth
all by himself. Sometimes he’s already in his pajamas. More than once, I’ve seen him walk down the street in his bathrobe. I don’t think he does much sleeping, though; mostly he sits on the deck, smoking cigars, staring at the water. It seems incredible to me that he can spend so much time in the places where he lost both his wife and his daughter: his house and his boat. After my mom died, it isn’t like we moved or anything. We didn’t even redo the bathroom right away. My dad just had the shower door replaced, as well as the bedroom carpet.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m dying for a smoke.” Topher stands up so quickly that he almost knocks over his chair. “I’m not gonna sit here for the next twenty minutes feeling like an outcast.” He looks at my friends, who stare blankly at him. Even Mera is frowning at her boyfriend.

“Come on!” he says. “We are better than this. We all know that none of us did anything to hurt Liz. This is a disgrace to all of our good names.” He thumps the varsity
N
sewn to his jacket. “I am Christopher Allen freaking Paul the Third. My father is this town’s most respected dentist and oral surgeon. My mother was Miss Connecticut 1978! Mera, get up. You’re coming with me.” He stares at everyone. “All of you. Now.”

Obviously, nobody is allowed to smoke on our school’s campus. But my friends and I were always different; faculty has a tendency to look the other way for us. Athletes, pretty girls, children of the town’s most respected professionals (despite the fact that Topher’s dad happens to be Noank’s
only
dentist, and thus the most respected by default) get a frequent pass for their indiscretions.

My friends gather beside Mera’s car in the student parking lot. Topher lights a cigarette, takes a few long drags, and passes it to Mera. She sticks her neck out, leaning as far away from her body as possible while she inhales, her hair stuffed under a pink corduroy hat to avoid smelling like smoke.

“There’s something I need to tell you guys,” Caroline says. She wrinkles her nose at the cloud of smoke hanging in the air. “My dad lost his job a few weeks ago.”

Josie, who has been chomping on a piece of gum, blowing, and then snapping her bubbles so that tiny shreds of pink are collecting at the corners of her mouth, freezes. “But he works on Wall Street.”

“I know that.” Even though the sun is shining, Caroline hugs herself, rubbing her shoulders like she’s cold. “It happens, Josie.”

“But … but he’s a
stockbroker.
How can he just lose his job? It’s not like he’s expendable, is it? I mean, people are always going to need brokers.” Josie is clearly confused. “How else will they handle their investments?”

“We might have to sell our house.” Caroline blinks rapidly, trying not to cry. “We almost couldn’t make my car payment last month.”

I remember the money she stole from my bathroom and feel a surge of pity for her. Whatever
I
was planning to do with it, I have no doubt Caroline put it to better use. Maybe she made her car payment. Maybe she gave it to her parents.

“See?” I nudge Alex. “My friends have problems, too. It’s not like we’re all a bunch of spoiled brats.”

Mera, finished smoking, tugs off her hat and takes a long moment to shake her blond tresses free so they spill over her shoulders. “Don’t freak out. You won’t have to move.” She sniffles. “I guess you could always … you know … get a job.”

Caroline’s face turns a deep shade of red. “I am not getting a job. I’ll forfeit my allowance before I do that.”

“Oh, right,” Alex observes. He seems almost amused by my assertion. “You’re nothing like spoiled brats. You’ve all got your priorities fully in order, obviously. Caroline would steal money from her dead friend before she’d go out and get a job.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Caroline begs my friends, her voice barely breaking above a whisper. “I’d be so embarrassed. My parents are freaking out. My sister might have to take a semester off from college if my dad doesn’t find work soon.”

Leaning against Mera’s car, Topher lights another cigarette. “Relax, Caroline. Everything will be fine.”

Mera gazes up at her boyfriend, hooks her arm around his waist. “You’re so levelheaded. I love you.”

He winks. “Love you, too, babe. You got any gum?”

“Put that out.” Josie means the cigarette. She shades her eyes, peering at the end of the parking lot. “Somebody’s coming.” Then, continuing to squint, she says, “Oh. Never mind.” She giggles. “It’s just Crazy-Eyes Riley.”

Mr. Riley teaches something like four classes a day. When he’s not teaching or in his office, he’s told me that he takes the opportunity to go running on the trails that wind through the woods behind campus. As he approaches now, his run slowing to a jog, my friends make no effort to hide what they’re doing. They’re outside when they should be inside, eating lunch. They’re loitering in the parking lot, which is definitely not allowed during school hours. And they’re smoking. But they all know that Mr. Riley doesn’t have the nerve to do anything to them; he is a nerd at heart, and my friends’ experiences with him over the years have proven that he’s just as afraid of them as he likely was of the popular kids at his own high school.

His face is red and sweaty. He leans over, palms on his knees, and tries to give them his most intimidating stare. If I were alive, standing there with them, I know I wouldn’t have let this happen. I would have told Topher to put out the cigarette. I would have made everyone go inside. At least, I’d like to think so.

“I ought to send you all to the principal’s office,” he says, standing upright, stretching his arms overhead. “You’re supposed to be setting an example. You’re athletes.”

Almost instantly, like magic, Josie turns on the waterworks. “We’ve had a horrible morning. Our friend is missing. We shouldn’t even be at school.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Her cheeks glisten with glitter blush. When she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, I notice that she’s wearing a pair of my chandelier earrings. They belonged to my mother before they became mine. I realize that it doesn’t bother me that she’s taken them; I’d rather she wear them than let them collect dust somewhere. But I wonder if my father knows that she has the earrings, or if he would notice. If he did, would he care? It isn’t noon yet, but I have no doubt that he’s already down at the
Elizabeth
, gazing at the water, waiting for something, for anything, to make sense.