Then You Were Gone
Page 9
39.
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.
• • •
At lunch, Kate gets me drunk on gin. About the dress she says, “Who died?” I don’t reply. The answer seems blindingly obvious.
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Home sick,” I say.
“Sure you were.”
“Where’s Lee?”
“There.” She points sideways, not looking up. Lee’s sitting on a rock by the auditorium with Alice. They’re sharing one of those big cafeteria cookies and laughing like their lives are just so fucking hilarious.
“He called you nine billion times yesterday.”
“So?”
“So, you didn’t call him back.” She doesn’t sound angry, or particularly impassioned. She sounds over it. “What do you expect?”
I eat some of Kate’s candy bar, picking pieces of brittle chocolate off the tin wrapper. I think about losing Lee. I can’t tell if I care. I feel exhaustingly blank, as if someone wiggled up inside me and sucked out my soul with a vacuum cleaner.
• • •
I go see Griffin in Guidance. Because Murphy suggested it. Because my head might implode.
“I’m going crazy,” I tell her.
We’re in an air-conditioned room with no windows. Griffin’s wearing a silk tank and thin cardigan. She looks reasonable. Levelheaded. She says, “Crazy, how?”
“Like, I dunno, like, crazy. Like, my thoughts won’t stop.”
She uncrosses then recrosses her legs.
“They’re not good thoughts, though, you know?” I say. “My boyfriend’s mom, she, like, dicked around a lot last year. Like, had an affair? I think I’m like that. I think I’m fickle.” My eyes well up.
Griffin grabs a tissue box off her desk. Hands it to me. “Okay.” A beat. “Okay, you know, though, you can be whoever you want to be. You realize that, right? You’re in control, Adrienne.” She grins reassuringly. “You choose your path.”
“This doesn’t—” I wave both hands around, frustrated, super confused. “This doesn’t feel like a choice,” I say. “I’m not me anymore. I don’t know where I went.”
• • •
After school, I walk to my bus thinking of all the things I once hated that now I genuinely love. Gold jewelry. Rod Stewart. Tuna fish sandwiches. And Lee? I loved him last month and last year, but now? What’s real? I wish I could tell, but I can’t anymore.
“. . . they found a boot.”
Someone says this. Who? I whip around and find two slight freshman girls in hats and bangles, gnawing their hair.
“A boot?”
“Yeah, black. The dad identified it.”
“Where?”
“Beach. Low tide.”
My heart goes berserk. “Whose boot?” I demand, interjecting as if it’s my business.
Both turn, blinking. One shrugs, says, “I don’t—”
“Whose dad?” I ask, not letting her finish.
“Dakota Webb’s.”
Everything inside sinks. “How do you know that?”
“My brother,” says the one wearing the floppy felt hat. “He’s LAPD.”
My vision blurs. My neck is on fire. I have to brace myself against the bus to keep myself from falling.
“Was she your friend?” asks the one with the bracelets and overbite. “Dakota,” she says, squinting. “Were you two close?”
I tune them out, turning away. A hand creeps up my arm. “Hi,” Julian says. He smells like cigarettes and soap.
“They found a boot,” I blurt. “A girl’s boot on the beach.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
His mouth is tight. “Talk of the town,” he says glumly.
We watch each other. “This means something, right?” More staring. Julian looks so regular. Regular face, regular day.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me forward. “I’m taking you home.”
• • •
Sam’s out, so we go to my room. We lie on my silky bedspread. On my nightstand is half a glass of water, Jane Eyre, and my blue plastic retainer case. Julian fingers the fringe around the neck of Dakota’s dress.
“It’s not mine,” I say, even though I know he knows it’s not.
“Looks nice on you, though.” His hand is on my neck. His hand is in my hair. For the first time in forever I actually feel something. It’s fuzzy and kinetic and it takes me a second to identify. He tugs my ponytail, lightly, like he’s kidding, and that’s when it hits me.
“Adrienne?”
This is noisy, dizzying lust.
We’re kissing. He’s on top of me. His hands are on my face and he’s shaking. I’m shaking. He tastes like Chap Stick and cigarettes and something sour. I like it. I kiss harder, tug his shirt off, wrap my thighs around his hips. This feels like a fit. Like, right. Like a massive, monumental relief. I want to stay this way—Julian smashed into me, his torso locked between my legs—forever. Dakota’s dress is shoved up around my chest and my underwear is in a ball by my feet. I undo Julian’s pants, push his boxers down. My head is off the bed so he grabs it with two hands and makes me look at him—his eyes glassy and wide, and I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking the same thing myself: Who the hell are you, Adrienne Knox?
“Stop,” I say.
“Stop?”
“Yeah, stop, please.” I roll out from under him, pulling Dakota’s dress down. “I can’t,” I say. But I can, I could.
Julian yanks his boxers up. He’s splotchy and breathless and there’re claw marks on one shoulder. “I’m sorry, I thought . . .”
“I know.”
“Adrienne?”
I’m still crazy on fire. Julian touches my hand and I can’t—I recoil. “If I hadn’t been wearing the dress?”
“Hey . . .”
“This isn’t me, you see that, right? I’m not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, careless. Like, this. Like . . . like . . .” Like her. “Please go,” I say.
“Why?” He pulls his jeans back on over his boxers. “We don’t have to do anything else. I can stay.”
“You have to go,” I tell him. And I don’t turn around or say I’m sorry or say good-bye. “Please?”
He gets up.
40.
Later: I’m freshly showered, tightly wound, ready for bed. I’m making figure eights with bare feet on fuzzy carpet—two steps left, two right, a quick pivot. An easy sequence, so I keep at it. My legs are Jell-O. My mind snowy. No more Julian. No more beached boots. Just me, my moves, and the blue binder resting against the leg of my desk.
Blue binder.
Its corners are peeling. Papers poke out the sides like an overloaded cheese sandwich. Why didn’t I see it sooner? Did he leave it here on purpose? No, right? I made him go too fast. Barely dressed. Hard, still. The binder got left behind.
I bring it to the bed. Peek inside. Jane notes. Franken-notes. It’s Julian’s lit binder. I leaf through, quickly, greedily, searching for something, but what? His heart? Soul? I want him back, suddenly. I want him on me, on top, crushing me. I slam the binder shut and sit for a sec, then open it back up. Graded Jane essay. A–. How? Dude’s girlfriend goes missing and he still manages to keep up with school assignments?
I flip further. A bunch of blank loose-leaf. Four sheets of eyeball doodles. Then, last few pag
es, I see this:
i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry dakota so sorry so sorry so sorry dakota
No punctuation or capitalization, just one long run-on; a marathon apology. It goes on forever. It’s fucking crazy. I hop off the bed and slam the binder shut, as if what’s inside might bite or beat me if I let it.
41.
I’m on Dakota’s lawn, watching her bedroom window. Emmett’s home. His Ford sedan is parked next to Dakota’s Jeep. I’m skipping phys ed, lab, and lit. I’m here to snoop. I need answers. But Emmett? Why’s he home?
My cell bleeps. Text from Julian: Midway thru Murphy. Where you at? I picture the boy in my bed. I feel a flicker of arousal, then guilt-out about it. More circular thinking: Why so sorry? What’s he done? I look left at Emmett’s car. Okay. I’m leaving. Then:
“Who’s here?”
The front door creaks open. Emmett, dressed in green-and-gray fleece, is clutching a newspaper with one hand and shading his eyes from the sun with the other. “Adrienne? Is that you?”
Crap.
“It’s me,” I say, real meek, suddenly nauseated. Emmett in the flesh. “I’m sorry,” I say, crossing the lawn. “I should’ve called, come sooner. I meant to stop by.”
“That’s okay, honey, come’ere, let me see you.”
I walk a ways till we’re standing face-to-face. “Not much to see.” I shrug. It’s been years. He looks older. Less hair, more lines. Sad too. But he always looked sad.
“You’re all grown.”
“I guess.”
He stares. His eyes water and I have to look away.
• • •
Inside, I sit at the dining room table clutching a hot mug of milky tea. Emmett stands, gulping coffee. He steps sideways, away from the window, and a claw-shaped shadow falls onto his face. For a split second he’s 200 percent terrifying. Eyes like pits. Switchblades for cheekbones. I see it: early morning, dead Dakota being dragged by her hair to the garage. Emmett shoving her into the Jeep. Driving them both to the beach. Tossing her off the pier.
I shiver. The light shifts. Emmett smiles and the black fantasy fades. Now he’s docile. Sweet and broken. “Your mom called,” he says. “We talked for a bit. That was nice.”
“Oh, I know,” I say brightly, overcompensating. “She mentioned.” I glance at the steps. Feel bad about the break-in. Stolen dress. Swiped pictures.
He follows my gaze. “Go upstairs,” he offers. “Take what you like.”
A small sound escapes my lips.
“It’s okay, I want you to. All of it—her stuff—it’s just sitting there. Not being used.”
I feel absolutely transparent. I scooch back and forth uneasily in my chair.
• • •
Bedroom. I’m here and it’s legal. I don’t waste too much time thinking about how weird this is—me up here, Emmett downstairs. I start searching. Anything that might incriminate Julian. First, one overall sweep: her drawers, behind the bureau, under the bed, the hamper. What do I expect? More drugs? Julian would never intentionally hurt anyone, would he? Could he have bought bad pills? Could she have overdosed? Maybe he panicked? Tried to make it look like a suicide? Could you do that to someone you love? Do away with them? Dump them in a pond, a ditch, the big, scary sea?
I feel funny. My head, a helium balloon.
I recheck her closet, riffle through the CD bins, press each floorboard—searching for new secret spots. Nothing. I sit for a bit.
Bookshelves: old textbooks; novels for lit (Huck Finn, Lolita, A Raisin in the Sun); a year’s worth of Rolling Stone issues, stacked; one Langley yearbook. I touch the spine. Slide it forward. Flip through to Dakota’s freshman portrait. Page 172. There she is: black-and-white. Square and small. She looks her age. Fourteen. I haven’t seen this thing in years. I stare for a while. She’s the real deal. My friend. The girl she was before high school hit. Before rock music, sex, and a yen for popularity flattened her sweet streak.
Slipping the book back on the shelf, I see it. A photo corner jutting out the top. I pinch it. Pull slowly. My belly bottoms out.
Me. It’s me. I’m twelve, maybe? Thirteen? I’m licking an ice cream cone. My eyes are crossed. Did she take this?
Proof, finally. Of our friendship. I mattered once.
Even if I don’t anymore.
42.
Six p.m. and dark already. Sam and Mom are downstairs clinking pots, NPR on full blast. My room smells like fried potatoes.
Ding.
How much longer till I’m sane again? Is the not knowing what makes this particular brand of bad so miserable? If I knew Dakota was, for sure, dead, would I feel any better? Do I need all the gritty particulars to move on? The whodunits? The whys?
The photo I took earlier is stuck to the corkboard above my mirror. I stare at it. I look happy.
Ding.
I grab my crying cell. New text.
Outside, it says. Know you’re home. Left my lit binder. Bring out front?
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 y
ou 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.”
43.
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.”