“Yeah, I just, I knew her,” I stammer.
“How?” Teddy asks.
“We were friends for a while. Before I met you guys.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No,” Margaret says, watching me like I’m someone she’s met before but whose name she can’t remember. “Were you close?”
I shrug.
“But”—her eyes dart down my body—“you’re not like her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like, I dunno, you’re not crazy.”
“Knox?” Kate quips, trying to lighten the mood. “Knox is nuts. Absolutely wild.” She uncorks one of the reds and waves the bottle around. “Want more?”
Teddy thrusts his cup forward and the energy lifts a little.
“Well, whatever,” Margaret says, talking on. “I like Julian Boyd. He’s a babe.” She shoves Teddy sideways. “He’ll make a good suspect.”
Ice-cold, I say, “Suspect?”
“Sure, why not? This whole thing is already a huge fucking soap opera. Now there’s some homeless dude who’s claiming he saw Dakota the night she disappeared, like, walking into the water. But then Teddy knows a guy—” She faces him. “What’s his name again?”
“Nate Garza.”
“Right, who says Julian has this wicked jealous streak, and that no way in hell would she kill herself—”
“But then, who knows, right?” Teddy again. “Because I also heard she had a Klonopin habit. And that stuff is—it’s antianxiety, right? Or antidepression?”
“Hey, guys?” I warble, on the verge of implosion.
Kate puts her hand on my neck. She shakes her head, says, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Are you deaf? Did you not hear her say they were friends?”
Margaret’s mouth tightens. “I—” She starts to say something cute, then, “Sorry.” She’s facing me now. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
26.
Kate leads me through a crowd of fourteen-year-old girls in Stetsons and sundresses fingering ten-dollar necklaces. We do this most Sundays. Melrose Trading Post at Fairfax High. Used paperbacks, used furniture, white lace shirts with yellow pit stains.
“Eat this,” Kate says, passing me the last of a Nutella crepe. “And come’ere.” She pulls me into a cluttered booth. Pulls a minishift off the rack. “I like the print. Try it on.”
Faded mint polka dot. Pretty, but I have zero zeal for shopping. “Why don’t you try it on?”
“Green makes me look sallow.” She stares at me for a few seconds, then puts the dress back. “You ever gonna pep up?”
No clue. I take a bite of crepe and trash the rest. We’re walking again. I spot a woman selling clothes arranged by color. I go for the blacks and blues. “What do you think of this?” I ask, tugging on something knee-length and dark.
“Where’re you gonna wear that? Up onstage?”
“Screw you.” I turn toward the mirror. “Trying it on.” I slip the dress over my shirt. It’s tight around my ribs and dips between my boobs. “How much?” I ask the woman manning the booth.
“Fifteen.”
“Buying it,” I say to Kate, who rolls her eyes. I unzip the back and shimmy out. I pull a five, a ten, from my purse and thank the tiny lady.
“Chiffon. So versatile.”
“Shut up.” I clutch the dress to my chest and push forward. We hop from booth to booth, browsing. Kate says, “I’m pretty sure Alice likes Lee.”
I search inside for signs of jealousy. “I know.”
“Do you care?”
“I mean.” I pick up a chipped magnifying glass. “I guess? I dunno, doesn’t really feel worthy of worry. Alice isn’t the most complex girl in the world.”
“You just—” She makes a face. “You don’t seem very invested in your relationship right now.”
A surge of fear, followed by a bleak, tangential thought: Dakota—drugged, beaten, bound, maimed. I shake off the image, redirecting my focus. “I’m invested,” I say to Kate. Her brow crinkles. “What? I am. I’m just—I’m not his keeper.”
“But you are.”
“But I’m not.” Would it be so bad if Lee left me? I’d be on my own, absolved of any blame or guilt. “He’s a free agent.”
“He’s not. He’s not free, Knox, that’s the point. He’s your boyfriend. Why commit to someone you’re not interested in being committed to?”
“Who says I’m not?”
She sighs, exasperated.
“Look,” I say, eager for new topics. I grab a wool fedora off a hat stand and slap it over her ponytail. “Sweet.”
She laughs, despite herself, popping her head in front of a mirror tacked to the side of a van. “I look like those little girls in Stetsons.”
“You do,” I say, thrusting my new old dress over one shoulder. “You’re cute, Katie. It’s a good look.”
27.
Julian’s not in lit, so, like a lunatic, I spend most of Murphy’s Franken-lecture pushing the panic back by picturing his possible whereabouts: He’s home, hungover. His car’s stalled out on Beverly. He’s behind the school drinking black coffee from a blue paper cup.
“Adrienne.”
Why do I care? Who the hell is Julian Boyd anyway? Not a real person. He doesn’t have a mom, or go to a pediatric dentist still, like I do. He’s a luminary. A myth. He’s what’s left to gawk at now that Dakota’s gone away.
“Adrienne.”
I snap to.
“Can we talk?” Murphy, of course. He’s next to me now, wedged behind a small square desk, like mine.
“I—okay.” I straighten up. Class is over. I’ve just been sitting here, zoned out like a lobotomized lump.
“Jane Eyre.”
“Sure.” I shake my head. “I’m almost . . .” I don’t finish. I have nothing to offer but transparent excuses.
“Not done?”
“Right, not yet.”
He rubs his nose with two flat fingers, leaning forward. “Well, have you had a chance to see Griffin?” Guidance.
“I just—” I dodge the question. “I need a little bit more . . . can I have more time? With the essay, I mean.”
He’s eyeballing me now. “Adrienne, it’s not just the essay. You’ve stopped participating, you’ve gotten Ds on your past two quizzes . . . you used to be fully invested in discussions.” He stops to suck in some air. “You loved this class.”
I did. “Still do.”
“Adrienne.” His face says bullshit. “Talk to me. You’re having a tough time. That’s an okay thing to say out loud.”
I laugh. Like an idiot, petulant, piece-of-shit kid.
“Okay, or . . . walk with me.”
“Where?”
“Come on, get up. Let’s go see Griffin.”
My stomach seizes. “I don’t need to see Griffin.”
He’s standing now. “Okay.” And shifting back and forth from leg to leg. We watch each other. I wonder briefly what his regular life is like. What he’s like at home, with Gwen, their baby. Sweet, I’m guessing. Superattentive, like Lee. “Just—” He throws one hand up. “Monday, okay? Get me Jane by Monday.”
See? Such a softy. “Yes.” I exhale.
“Monday, Adrienne. Seriously.” He grabs his leather tote off the back of his chair. “After this, no more favors.”
• • •
Me, Mom, Sam—at the fish taco stand on Sunset.
“Where’s Lee, babe?” Mom shovels a chip into a massive pile of ceviche.
I shrug, say, “Home.”
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“And Katie?” She chews merrily. “How’s she? We haven’t seen her since—”
“Sunday,” Sam interjects. “ ’Member? She dropped Adrienne off after the flea market.”
“Oh, right.” More chewing. More staring. “New dress, babe?”
“Yep.”
Her smile looks
wobbly and ready to crack. She gets up, rubbing greasy fingers against her jeans. “You guys need anything? Habanero? More salsa?”
“No, thanks.” I shove half a taco into my mouth and watch as she swerves toward the condiment bar. “What the fuck,” I say to Sam once she’s gone.
“Watch your mouth.” He knocks my elbow with his soda cup. “And cut your mother some slack. She’s worried about you.”
“Worried why?”
“Look at you.” He wrinkles his nose. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
“Clever kid . . .” He taps his temple. Then, “Look, Mom just thought . . .”
Another huge bite. I’m not even done chewing the last. “What? Mom thought what?”
He sniffs. “Are you and Lee okay?”
My mouth is so stuffed I can barely speak. “Why?”
“Jesus, Adrienne, eat faster.”
I laugh. Don’t mean to. But Sam’s jokes always hit unexpectedly. I’m choking on fried fish.
“You need the Heimlich?” He’s leaning across the table, patting my back while I hack up a lung. “I’m certified.”
I swallow finally, clutching my chest, breathless.
“What’s so funny?” Mom’s back with two tiny containers of pico de gallo. “What? What’d I miss?”
“Some sort of magic,” Sam boasts. “I made Morticia laugh.”
“Morticia?” I screech.
Mom smothers a guilty giggle with one hand and high-fives Sam with the other.
“You both suck,” I say, kneeing the table.
They high-five again.
28.
I’m at school superearly, camped out at Julian’s favorite smoking spot. I sit, restlessly chewing my cheeks until ten past eight. He’s a no-show.
At half past, between first and second bell, I go and wait by his locker like a dumb dog. Kate passes by on her way to trig. She flicks a paper clip at my boob and flashes me a curious smirk, but doesn’t stop to say hi.
Ten to nine: I board the city bus.
Fifteen past: I get off at Benton Way.
More cheek chewing. More shitty paranoia. I buy a pink cookie at the Mexican bakery, then I hike the hill to Dakota’s house.
He’s there. That’s him, he’s there. Blue Datsun. Cigarette. He’s on a stakeout. I jog toward the car, elated. Relieved. “Hey,” I say, tapping at the passenger-side window.
Julian jumps, exhaling smoke. Then he reaches over and pops the lock.
“What’re you doing here?”
I get in. “You’re missing lit.”
“So are you.”
He offers me his cigarette. I take it, dragging on the damp, hot filter. “So you’ve just . . . been here this whole time? Watching the house?”
He shrugs.
“What about school?”
“What about it?”
I pass the cig back. “Well . . . have you seen anything?”
He shifts around. “You think I’m crazy, right? Sitting here? Expecting her to just . . . show up?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say, and it’s true, I don’t. I settle against the broken leather headrest, relaxing finally after days of creepy jitters. I pull the cookie from my knapsack.
“Holy shit,” Julian croaks.
It’s Emmett. Emmett, headed toward his Ford sedan with a vinyl computer bag slung over one shoulder. We slump in our seats.
“Can he see us?”
“I don’t know,” I squeak. “Can he?” He looks so normal: skinny, shaggy, serious, sullen. “What the hell, where’s he going?”
“Work?”
“How can he work? How can he work when his kid’s missing?”
“Not his kid,” Julian says, and he’s right. Emmett’s the fake parent. Default dad. The guy who took over when Dakota’s mom left, long ago.
“There he goes,” I say, sitting up. He’s off. We watch the car disappear down Mohawk.
We’re quiet for a bit. Julian messes with the stereo. I watch Dakota’s sad Jeep, parked at an angle in front of the garage, and wonder how long it’s been back. How these things work. How long it takes to dust for fingerprints or search for bodily fluids or strands of hair. “Hungry?” I offer, passing him some crumpled cookie.
Dingaling.
“Crap.” My cell. I grab at it, thinking it’s Griffin in Guidance or maybe Murphy or Kate, wondering where the hell I’m at, but—“Christ”—it’s that private number again. I pick up, overeager. “Hello?”
Dead air.
“Hello, hello?”
Another hang-up.
“What?” he says. “What’s with your face?”
I must look insane. I feel insane—manic, mistrustful—but also, I’m antsy. I can’t sit still. I’m just so sick of all this hopelessness. “Let’s break in,” I suggest.
His mouth clicks open. “What?”
“Come on, let’s. Emmett used to keep a spare key inside a fake rock by the back door.”
“What do you expect to find? The cops . . . I mean, I’m sure anything good is already gone.”
“Well, what do you expect to find sitting here?” I push the car door open and climb out. “I’ll go on my own.” I feel reckless and high. I stalk toward the house. Halfway up the drive, I hear this:
“Adrienne!” It’s the first time he’s said my name. “Wait, okay? Please, wait? I’m coming, just—gimme a sec.”
• • •
I spot it instantly. “Fake rocks look so fake.” Wedged between the watering can and a strategically placed pile of real rocks. I grab at it, brush off the dirt, and shake out the key. “Voilà.”
Julian’s face is green.
“You okay?”
No response.
I wiggle the key in the lock. “Open sesame.” The door pops.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
Where’s his daring dark side? His wild streak? The cool criminal within? “We’re not gonna get caught.”
“That’s not what . . .” He trails off. What’s he so scared of? Booby traps? Alarm bells? Dakota’s lifeless body? “Okay,” he continues, pushing past me. “Let’s go, then.”
• • •
It’s the dank smell that hits first: musty and stuck. Then something else: something waxy and sweet and warm underneath. Dakota smell. Her perfume, maybe? I clutch the kitchen counter for support.
“You all right?”
This. This is what he meant. Did I really want to smell her? Or see her wallpapered walls or her bed?
“Come on,” Julian says, pulling me forward by the elbow. “Let’s go upstairs.”
It’s been two years since I’ve been here last, but it all looks exactly the same: mismatched furniture; heavy blinds; clean, dark wood floors. Dakota’s room is black and blue, with a four-poster bed, a record player, an electronic keyboard, and a Bowie poster. For a minute or two, Julian and I just stand there. Then he starts searching. He picks through a stack of papers on her bureau, pulls a few books off the shelf.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. A Klonopin prescription? A notebook with my name scrawled in the margins? I start under the bed, where all her CDs are stored in big plastic bins. I pull out two discs, look inside, place them back in their jewel cases. I look at Julian. I look at the Bowie poster. I think about my old navy shift dress. The one I loaned Dakota the day I got ditched. I get up and go to the closet.
Racks of silky, witchy dresses, dark linen tops, thin band T-shirts, no navy shift. I touch everything. I dig to the back and tug loose my favorite: sheer black chiffon, similar to the one I bought with Kate at the flea market. Dakota wore this one weekly. I look over my shoulder at Julian. He’s got his back to me. He’s jiggling a loose floorboard. I quickly shove the dress in my purse (an eye for an eye, a dress for a dress), then mindlessly turn my attention to an army jacket with Sharpie scrawl splattered all over its sleeves.
“Oh, wow.” Julian’s eyeing the coat. It lies in a ball by my feet.
>
“What?” I ask, picking it up. “What is it?”
“Her favorite. Lemme see?”
I toss it. He shakes out the wrinkles, holds up both sleeves. “Show dates,” he says, proudly, pointing at the sloppy print. “Dark Star dates.”
I go and sit beside him on the floor. I stare. That’s her handwriting—messy, slanted, small. “You guys played out a lot, huh?” Tons of dates, all arranged in skinny, crooked columns.
“I guess.”
I feel spacey, shaky, and worn-out. I think about the dress in my purse and get a quick pang of shame. “Feels weird here.”
“Does it?”
“Doesn’t it?” I roll my knees to one side. Rest my head against the purple bed skirt. “She used to get really pissed at me.” I flash back to the last time we were here. Dakota and me, shit-show drunk and fighting.
“Over what?”
“Dunno. Everything. She thought I was, like, judgey and smug. That I didn’t approve of the things she liked. I used to do stupid stuff to prove I was cool.” I laugh to offset my embarrassment.
“Like?”
“Like . . . drink a lot. I dunno. That’s what made me think—” I stop, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Last time I was here, we fought.”
“About?”
“We were drunk, I don’t know.”
“Was that the last time . . . ?” He lets the sentence dangle. “I mean, was that when you two stopped . . . ?”
“No, no,” I’m quick to say, although it’s possible that fight was all part of some larger lead-up. “We still hung out for a while after that.” I pause to laugh. “She spit in my face.”
“What?”
“She spit ice at me. Right here.” I tap the bed. “Ice and schnapps.”
Julian snorts. An unexpected, utterly uncool little grunt. “Not surprised. We used to have epic, gnarly, crazy fights. We’d be in the car and she’d be screaming, swearing, skidding sideways off the road, and then she’d stop the Jeep and make me get out. Happened twice, super late. Got to jog home in the dark.”
I’m smiling. So is he. He looks down at the jacket. The smiling stops.
“What?”
He’s touching two dates. “We haven’t—we’ve only been playing together a year and a half.”
Then You Were Gone Page 6