Then You Were Gone (10 page)

Her cheeks flush. She straightens up. “Sonnets? No.”

“Katie.”

“What?” She’s embarrassed. A rarity. The girl barely ever has a vulnerable moment. “I wrote him a note.” She shrugs.

“Saying what?”

“‘Hi. Stellar weather. Cute boots.’” She pauses. “How do you even know about that?”

“Bumped into him. This morning. Literally, we, like, collided. It fell out of his bag.”

“Oh.” She sits back. “Well, why hasn’t he responded?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why doesn’t he love me?”

“Katie.” I open my arms and she curls against my chest.

“I’m not pretty enough.”

“You’re a knockout.”

“I’m not slutty enough.”

“You’re the sluttiest.”

I hug her harder. Lee’s in the distance with a soda can. He looks so upbeat and moony. I let my gaze float left. There’s Murphy.
There’s Murphy, crap
, clutching a lunch tray and staring me down.

“Fuck.” I let Kate go and sit up.

“What’s wrong with you? Why’d the hugging stop?”

“Because. I haven’t been to lit since last week and I’m in huge fucking trouble.”

She twists around. Spots him. “Oh, right.”

I’m not even sure what to do or where to look. For a moment, we just watch each other. Like lovers, only not. Then the head shaking starts. Back and forth and he’s wearing
this stupid, shitty smile that reads,
Adrienne Knox, you are a WILD disappointment.

I armor up, preparing for the worst.
Flunk me, suspend me
, whatever it is, I’ll eat it.

Then, “Where’s he going?” Kate asks.

He’s walking away. No confrontation. No lecture.

“I thought for sure you were about to get royally fucked.”

Lee’s back. “By me? Yes, please.”

Kate laughs, but I can’t.
Nothing
from Murphy? Not a friendly slap on the wrist or a see-me-after-school?

“You okay?” Lee says, leaning into me.

This feels worse than getting reprimanded, but, “I’m fine,” I say with a jovial shrug. “Guess I’m a lost cause.”

•    •    •

New resolution: less Julian, more Lee.

Two fifty. On my own at the curb, waiting for Kate to pull the car around. I stare past the median strip to the freak section. There’re piles and piles of kids wearing all shades of black, so it takes me a minute to locate him—pale, scruffy, skinny, pretty—squatting in the sun with his smoke. He lifts a hand, shielding his eyes. Then he tips an imaginary hat my way. I wave limply. I feel a tug in my gut. I’m panicking suddenly,
desperate
for Lee. I twist on my heel, scanning the side entrance to the gym, but all I see are frosh Dakota wannabes, dozens of them, with their purple lips and lace. They look like me. I want to flatten them all like potato pancakes.
I look back, to Julian, but he’s already gone. Kate’s car materializes: windows down, heat blasting, Stevie Nicks blaring from the stereo. “Get in,” she hollers.

I step off the curb.

Kate and I go to that nauseatingly hip little stretch of Sunset in Silver Lake, where we spend a good hour and a half
not
-buying Lee’s birthday gift. By now we’ve seen inside every book/record/vintage shop on the block. Nothing feels very Lee.

“Dude, time to buy something.”

“Right, no, I know.”

We’re standing inside a comic book store. “I mean, he likes this stuff, he does,” I insist, fondling a skinny booklet with a boobalicious cartoon girl on the cover.

“I’ve never seen him with a comic.”

“He has this, like, graphic novel he really likes . . . by this guy . . . shit, what’s it called?”

“Why not buy him, like, a baseball bat. At that sports memorabilia place?”

“Because.” I blink. “He plays soccer. Not baseball.”

“So?” A beat. “Anyways,” she rambles on, “it’s just a dumb boy-gift. How hard can it be?”

“
Hard
. And you’ve known the guy pretty much your whole life, so why aren’t you more helpful?” I tug her dress playfully, yanking her toward the cashier. Then, “Hi,” to the sales dude at the register. Black glasses, tight tee. “You guys do gift cards?”

Musso and Frank.

White tablecloths, surly waiters, dry martinis, chicken potpie.

“Adrienne, honey, you want?” Leslie, Lee’s mom, is pushing a plate of french fries forward. She, me, Lee, and Lee’s dad, Josh—are all squished into a back booth by the bar.

I take some. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Last year, Leslie had an affair with her Pilates instructor. “Oh, here, honey. Ketchup.”

“Thank you.”

Josh went ape-shit. Lee had a mini-meltdown. Everyone went to therapy. They’re better now. Pretty much.

“The remodel looks great,” I blather, feeling a fast pang of shame. “I got a quick peek last week when I was at the
house.” Newly redone bedroom and master bath.

“Great, right?” Josh now. “Terrific contractor.”

I nod. And, “Here,” I say to Lee, sliding his gift card sideways.

“Already? You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” I’m eager to get the gift giving over with.

“Thanks.” We kiss quickly. Lee drops his fork and slides a finger under the envelope flap. “Oh.” His chin wrinkles. “Oh, cool. Knox, thank you.”

“You have that one graphic novel you like . . . ?”

“
Blankets
. Craig Thompson.”

“Right. I thought I’d get you something similar, but then I couldn’t remember the name of the book. Figured I’d let you choose something new.” I smile insanely. Josh and Leslie smile back. Lee’s smiling too. “Is it okay?” I say, feeling pathetically low.

“Hey, I love it.” He puts his hand in my hair. Leans into me. Nudges me sweetly with the top of his head.

Tuesday. Six fourteen a.m. I’m in bed still, hitting snooze, trying to prolong a happy dream: Kate and me eating custardy flan on a San Francisco trolley. My cell bleeps. I bolt upright, eyes closed still, and feel around for it.

“Hello?” My voice comes out raspy and broken.

“It’s Julian.”

I rub my face to wake up. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Do you even
have
my number? How are you calling me?”

“Magic.”

Happy rush. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “So. Hi, I guess?”

“Hi.” He sucks in some smoke. “I’m outside.”

“Outside, where?”

“Like, outside, on your doorstep. Which one’s your room?”

Instant sweat. I run to my window. There’s Julian, on the lawn, looking left at my neighbor’s apartment. “What’re you doing here?”

“Proposition. Which one’s yours? The one with the curtains?”

“Just—stay there, okay? And keep quiet, please? People are sleeping.”
I hope.
I toss my phone to the floor, pull a pair of jeans off my desk chair, and throw a hoodie over my nightgown. Real quick, I scrub my teeth. Then I slip out the front door as quietly as I can. It’s freezing out. I tuck my hands under my armpits.

“So?” I say, but all I can think about is my bare face and ratty hair. Julian looks like Julian. Beaten beauty. No fair.

“Feel like taking a trip?”

“We have class 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. Crap 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 shitty girlfriend,” he says. “She dicked 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 sexy misfits sharing the sexiest 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 shitty friend,” I offer. He blinks, earnestly, gratefully. My heart shakes. “Not your fault, you know?” I’m shitty. I’m the shittiest. I’m the worst girlfriend. I’m
her
.

“Hold this?” Julian passes 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 crushing his fingers over and over again, slipping backward into the sand and squashing 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 Cassidy 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—crashing, whooshing—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 sex.

“No.” I shrug, collecting all my crap from the glove compartment: wallet, keys, cell. Two missed calls from Mom. Five from Lee.

“Trouble?”

“Yup.”

He bats the stick shift 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 hellish—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 bum one?”

The ones Dakota smoked, with the white, hollow filters. “Here.” I pass my pack to the freshman with the blue button-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 shitty 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.