Then You Were Gone (12 page)

Julian, of course. My heart palpitates. No happiness here.

I grab the binder off my bed, ripping the
i’m sorry
stuff from the back and shoving it into my book bag. Safer to have.

•    •    •

Now, standing two or three feet away from him, my body is turned toward his car. I can’t completely face him. “Here,” I say, handing him the binder, my fingers quaking like I’ve just eaten a whole pile of Ritalin.

“Thanks.”

I stand there. Afraid to move. Certain a premature exit might seem super conspicuous.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “About yesterday. I shouldn’t have—I have these feelings and I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop it,” I say. “Just
stop
, okay?” Why is he trying to make things right with me? With
me
? It’s not me he has to make things right with.

“I like you, Adrienne. I feel connected to you.”

“Please stop?” I plead. “I have Lee.”
Confess
, I think, willing it telepathically.

Crickets.

“Is there something you want to say?” I ask.

“I’m trying.”

“No.” Not the sex stuff.
Forget
the sex stuff. “Is there something you need to, like, get off your chest? Like, is there something you need to tell me?”

“I told you, I—” A small shriek leaks from his lips. We
stare at each other. “What do you want me to say?” he asks. “Tell me, please. I’ll say it.”

“I don’t . . .”

He looks so eager and earnest. As if he has no clue what I’m getting at.

“You really don’t . . . ?” Is he messing with me? Was I wrong? Did I misread the fine print? Was all that binder bullshit just meaningless dribble?

“Adrienne, hey.” He reaches out.

“Adrienne?” My name again. Only this time it’s Sam. “You wanna eat or no?”

“One sec,” I shout back. Then, to Julian: “I should . . .”

“Right.”

“See you at school?”

He shakes his head, back and forth, like,
no no no
, only, “Sure” is what he says instead. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

No more new me.

I’m at school early, scrubbed clean and wearing my old clothes: blue tee, Levi’s, huaraches, Sam’s wooly cardigan. I’m camped out in front of Lee’s locker, clutching my
Jane
essay and dancing around like an overenergized twit. Essay finished, finally, and
fuck
, it’s bad, but I stayed up all night reading, writing, rewriting, so now I’m wired and spent—all caffeinated, guilty, and hot.

“Primary colors. For a change.” Kate’s here. Taunting and tugging my damp hair. “No more raccoon eyes?” Squinting and inspecting me. “Jesus, Knox.” Her smile fades. “You okay?”

No
. Or, I dunno,
maybe
. “Why?”

“You look like shit. You sleep?”

I shake my head. Four a.m.: I deleted Dakota’s voicemail and dumped her dress in the outdoor trash.

“Shower?”

“Yes, fuck you.” I grab at my hair. “This is water, not grease.”

I get it now.
Really, truly.
Dakota Webb? Not coming back. Gone four weeks. There’s no magic mystery to unravel and
fuck
bullshit clues. She’s dead and she’s wrecking my life.

“You just—you look . . .”

“I know what I look like.”

Kate drops her bag on the ground, then starts rummaging through the front compartment. “Here.” She passes me her makeup tote. “Put on some lipstick.”

I pick out a pink tube of gloss and mindlessly rub a smear of it over my dry lips. “Lee here yet?” I need him. Am ready to repent, beg, make amends.

“Don’t know.”

I’ll be who he needs—I swear it, pledge it, promise.

“Gimme that.”

I pass the gloss back. I’m so guilty and sorry I can’t see straight. My eyes go all bad and blurry, and before I can blink back tears, I’m bawling.

“Hey, Knox . . .”

“I’m sorry.”

“Knox, hey, come’ere.” Kate’s hand is on my head. We’re hugging. “It’s okay . . .”

“It’s not.”

“It
is
, it’s okay.” She pulls back.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I’m just—I’m ready for things to go back to how they were. I can be myself again. I can get better grades and be a better friend and I can make stuff right. With Lee.”

“Oh, Knox . . .” Her face changes—it’s a subtle shift, but I see it.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just—” She looks sideways, quickly. “Have you talked to him?”

“Why?”

“You should talk to Lee, Knox.”

Cue Lee, stage left, coming through the side door with no-boobs Alice Reed. They’re backlit. It’s a movie moment. Plot point two for Lee Dixon—where he dumps his crazy-whore girlfriend and takes up with the sunshiney schoolgirl who’s been eyeing him since tenth grade.

“So, what, they’re, like, legit?” I ask Kate, the pit in my gut expanding.

“I don’t know.”

Lee passes by, doesn’t stop, won’t look over.

“It’s fine,” I say, righting myself, pulling my bag strap over my head. “I know it’s my fault,” I say, and smile while wiping my wet cheeks.

•    •    •

I spend lunch alone in an empty bio lab, eating a sleeve of saltines. White, salty cardboard—the least challenging thing I can think to eat.

Dingaling.

My fucking PHONE.
That thing only rings with bad business. I grab for it. “Hello?” I sound overeager and shrill.

Nothing. No
hi
back. Just that
stupid
, old-hat silence. I check the ID screen—blocked, of course. “Who
is
this?”

There’s actual breathing this time. My head goes berserk. My heart does something speedy and rough. It’s
her
. I know it’s her. “Dakota?” I whisper, disbelieving,
believing
, fully freaked out.

“I—” There’s a girlish sigh on the other end of the line, followed by, “I’m so sorry.”

I’m weeping,
instantly
. Hopeful, panicked: “Dakota?” I try again. “I—”

“Adrienne,” she says, sounding mousy and wrong. “This isn’t—this is Alice.
Reed
.” Oh shit. “I’m sorry, I—” Oh shit, oh
shit
. “I shouldn’t have called.” The line dies.

Last period, lit. Julian’s MIA. I’m zoned out all through Murphy’s lecture, still reeling from Alice’s call. Obsessing over Dakota and Lee and
i’m sorry
s and naked boys.

Then later:

“You.”

“Me.” It’s after class and I’m at Murphy’s desk, waving impishly and tearing through my bag for my
Jane
essay.

“Adrienne . . .” He rubs his head.

“I know, I
know
 . . .”
Found it.
I pep up, dropping the crumpled packet onto his laptop.

“What’s this?”

“It’s late, it’s super late, and I know there’s a chance I won’t get credit, just—
please
read it. I worked really hard.”

“Adrienne.” His brow is arched. “We had a deal.”

“We did. I know we did.”

“I can’t.” He passes the paper back. “It’s too late.”

Stonewalled. I try again: “Please.”

“Adrienne.”
He gets up. “You have to learn.”

“I am.”

“No, about consequence.” He picks up the computer and slides it into his canvas tote. “I gave you two extensions.”

“I know you did.”

“Two.”
His face is red and veiny. “I believed in you. I was—I
am
—invested in you succeeding.”

“So how is this”—I gesture back and forth between us—“me
succeeding
?” I’m pissed now—ready to repent but getting shut down.

“You can still bring your grade up. It’s not too late, okay? You take an incomplete on
Jane Eyre
and you work like crazy the rest of the quarter.”

I exhale. My eyes blur.
“Shit.”
I swipe at them—trying to rub away my tears.

“Adrienne . . .” His voice is soft.

“God,
fuck
.” I look at him through glassy eyes. “I fucked it up. Everything is so, so fucked up.”

“Adrienne . . .”

“You say my name a lot.”

“Come on, come outside, okay?” He throws a hand forward, stepping sideways. His knee cracks. “Come on, walk me out.”

Outside it’s LA’s version of icy weather: low fifties and dull skies. I hold my sweater close to my body and shuffle alongside Murphy. I’ve stopped crying.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I start up again. Ugly blubbering. I miss Lee. Murphy pulls me into a loose embrace and I sob against his jersey polo. He pats my head and I feel momentarily, inexplicably turned on. I jerk back.

“Hey . . .”

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry!” I rub my face, feeling gross and weird and out of my fucking groin,
mind
, whatever.

“What’s up with you?”

I shake my head till I’m sick with dizziness. “Don’t know. Maybe I’m having some sort of psychological break.” I laugh, but mean it. What if I’m crazy? “My boyfriend—we broke up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean, I
think
. I think we broke up.” We walk across the grassy quad, through to the faculty lot. “Did you know . . . ?” I trail off.

“What?” His expression is warm. “Did I know what?” He smells faintly of spicy men’s deodorant. I like it. “Did you know Dakota Webb?” I ask quietly. “I mean, did she have you for lit?”

His smile dies. “Last year.”

“She was my friend,” I say quickly. “A long time ago.” He
doesn’t reply. He doesn’t try to coddle or comfort me. “I hated her,” I hear myself say. “For a long time I really hated her. I didn’t miss her, or wish nice things for her, I just—I wanted her to feel unloved and miserable.” I stop, checking Murphy for signs of horror and shock. But he’s facing forward still, stone-faced. “Then she died,” I add, and that’s when he looks at me. He’s white like snow. “She just
died
,” I say,
knowing
it, believing it, finally. “Now it’s different, you know? I don’t hate her anymore.”

We’ve stopped walking. We’re facing each other. Murphy pulls a set of keys from his computer bag. “I didn’t know you two . . .” He doesn’t finish. “I’m really sorry, Adrienne. You must be . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m bad with things like this. Gwen bitches about how hopeless I am with emotional stuff.” He smiles past his pastiness.

I point at his shirt. “Sorry,” I say. There’s a wet spot where I cried.

He tugs on his jersey, looking down. “No sweat.” And, “You need a lift somewhere?” He gestures left, to his car.

“Oh, I—”

His car.
His fucking car.
We’ve been standing three inches from—
holy crap
—from a yellow VW Bug. I’m sick. I’ve been drop-kicked. “That yours?” I manage.

He walks to the driver’s door and undoes the lock. “Gwen’s dad’s. We keep it in the spare garage. I don’t drive it much, but the Honda has a busted carburetor.” He runs a hand over
the oval roof. “Ugly, right? It’s a tin can. Pete—my father-in-law—he’s sentimental.” He smiles, sheepish. Nevada plates. Massive dent by the back left wheel.
Yellow and dented and old.

I can’t speak or
breathe
, barely—and I must be pale as paper, because Murphy’s eyes are forming question marks. “Adrienne, you okay?”

“I . . .” What the fuck. What the hell is happening?
No way
this is some nutty coincidence. What business does he have driving Dakota places? Or
me
, for that matter? “I have to go,” I stutter, backing up.

“Adrienne?”

I sprint,
tear
, down a residential street off Melrose—just four blocks to cover between bus stop and ranch home.

Murphy.

Murphy all along.

My high school lit teacher.
The guy who grades my papers and threatens me with Griffin in Guidance, the guy with the wife and newborn.

I stop, breathe hard, check the house number with the address I have scrawled on my wrist in black Sharpie. It’s a match. I knock. The door swings open. There’s Julian, looking boyish. Maybe it’s the bare feet, or his mussed hair and Zeppelin T-shirt—but whatever it is, he looks human and sweet.

“Hi, come in,” he says, yanking me forward. “Come upstairs,” he says, taking my hand.

His place is so
regular
. Fuzzy carpet and taupe walls and the soft murmur of a distant television. We go to his room. It’s ferociously neat. Laundry, folded. Bed, made. I wonder if he did a quick clean-job when he got my frantic call.

“Sit.”

I sit on the floor. So does he. He looks tight and uncomfortable.

“What do you know about Nick Murphy?” I ask.

Julian, confused and a touch hostile, says, “What do you mean, what do I know about Nick Murphy? Is that a trick question?”

“No, I mean, do you know if—” I’m suddenly sweating. “I mean—do you know if . . . if Murphy and Dakota were involved?”

Julian laughs, his lips cracking into a huge, ridiculous grin. Then: “Holy shit, you’re serious?” He sobers up. “No. I mean, I don’t know.”

“He drives a yellow Bug.”

“Murphy?”

“Yeah.”

“He drives a Bug,” he says to himself. Then, “What the fuck, he drives a
Bug
?”

We watch each other, disbelieving.

“What the hell does that even
mean
?”

“I don’t know,” I say. Because, truly, I don’t.

• • •

We’re in Julian’s Datsun. Then we’re not.

“We’re really doing this again?”

We’re at Dakota’s back door, knocking, not getting any response and breaking in with the spare key/fake rock.

“What now?”

We’re upstairs.

“No effing idea,” I say. “What the hell are we looking for this time?”

“I dunno.” Julian’s already digging through Dakota’s desk drawers. “
Proof
, a clue—anything that links her to Murphy.”

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

I stand still, watching him spin out. “Stop for a sec?”

“Why?” He checks his wristwatch. “We need to be quick, don’t we? Emmett?”