Jeff and I ate in front of the TV that night, watching some cheesy dating reality show that he loves and I hate, but I humor him because he’s my dad and his wife is dead and anything that makes him happy now, I’m into. So we finished dinner, I kissed him good night, and then I went out back to The Shack with my cell to listen to the message from my mystery caller. “Hi, Holly,” said the voice on my voice mail, “it’s Paul. Bennett. I’m just calling to see what you’re up to tonight. Gimme a ring.” Click. My heart shot up to my throat. We’d never talked on the phone. In fact, we’d never really talked.
I held the phone to my chest and considered calling back, I did, but the whole sex-in-his-car-at-the-beach thing had really struck me as a one-time deal. I called Nils instead.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“You out back?”
“Yeah. Jeff’s asleep in front of the TV and I’m bored.”
“Be right there. I’m bringing CDs, though, okay?”
“Whatever you say.” I flipped my phone shut.
• • •
“Holly-hard-to-get. Hi.”
Paul and I were standing shoulder to shoulder outside my Chem class. He was wearing a battered old pair of khaki cut-offs, black aviators, and a brash grin. “You don’t return phone calls?”
I stared at him, mystified, as he shuffled backward. I shook my head.
“Too bad.” He blinked. “What do you have now, Chem?”
“Mm,” I managed.
“You stoked?”
“What for?”
“Class.” He cocked his head sideways, scanning my face for signs of humor, no doubt. “I’m kidding.”
I looked at him blankly. Why were we standing there, talking still?
“Holly?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, yeah. Tired, I guess.”
“Well . . . are you busy later?”
I nodded yes I’m busy, sorry, can’t hang out and watched, rapt, as he swung his pretty head from side to side. “I don’t get you,” he said.
I hugged the door frame as a couple of kids tried squeezing past me. “What’s to get?” I asked, because seriously, what’s to get? I was baffled, really perplexed by his sudden and obsessive interest in me. I wore ratty Levi’s and dirty Chuck Taylors to school every day. I rarely brushed my hair. I had one friend besides my dog, and spent nights with my checked-out dad in front of the TV. What about me could possibly hold Paul’s interest?
He flashed me one last look, gliding a hand along the wall, then disappearing into a crowd of kids in flip-flops and jean shorts standing around in a big square pack.
Was this some big joke or was I suddenly irresistible? Did I even like Paul? Did Paul truly like me? I peeled myself away from the door frame, turned a quick pivot, and shuffled into class.
Nils had his elbows pressed against the black Formica desktop and was fidgeting with some metal contraption with a long, skinny rod. I dropped my books down next to him. “What’s that?”
“It’s a Bunsen burner.” Nils considered me. “What’s wrong with you?” He moved sideways, making room. “You look pinched.”
I grabbed a stool, dropped my bag to the floor, and plopped down next to him. “Just, no. Just—” I ran a finger over a crooked little heart that had been etched into the side of the desk. “Why Nora? Like, why go after her? Do you like her even?”
“Yeah, sure thing.”
“No but, do you like her like her?”
“I like her enough.” Ick. This sort of thing was classic New Nils-speak. Nils post Keri Blumenthal. Yes, maybe he’d had some experience this past year, and yeah, maybe I hadn’t even gone past kissing with anyone pre-Paul . . . still, that didn’t give Nils the right to be cagey and smug when I needed real, straightforward answers.
“What does that mean?”
Nils looked at me. He shrugged. “She’s a nice way to pass the time.”
I flinched. “Oh. Duh, of course.” Then I opened my Chem book to the dog-eared page and pretended to read. So that was it. Sex. A way for Paul Bennett to pass the time. Holly-pass-time. Holly-ho-bag. I pressed my forehead to the crease in my textbook.
“What’re you doing?”
“Resting.”
“What do you care about Nora Bittenbender, anyway?”
“I don’t.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
I sat up. “I’m fine.” I gestured toward the Bunsen burner. “Come on. What the hell are we doing with this thing, anyway?”
“We’re making s’mores,” said Nils, pulling a misshapen Hershey’s Kiss from his pocket and a crushed packet of saltines off the neighboring desk.
“Gross,” I said, smiling for real this time, feeling a smidge better. “Just gross.”
People warn Alex to steer clear of the twins,
but she wants to be part of their crazy world . . .
no matter the consequences.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT
LAUREN STRASNICK’S
HER AND ME AND YOU
1.
I met Fred first.
At a party on Orchard Ave. that Charlotte Kincaid took me to.
Him: “Need a beer?”
Me: “I’ve already got one.”
“Well, drink up,” he instructed. He was pale and skinny (and who wears Docksiders and corduroy?). “When you’re ready I’ll get you another.”
Charlotte and I stood shoulder to shoulder chomping pretzels and watching the drunk crowd rock. Charlotte nursed her canned Bud Light and I picked at a pebble of salt wedged between my two front teeth.
“You’re new,” he said.
“Right.” You’re new. No question mark.
I’d been in Meadow Marsh a week. I missed home. And Evie. And Charlotte Kincaid would never be Evie. She was soft-spoken and smelled like baby powder and dryer sheets. She had none of Evie’s charm or spark.
“Let’s sit,” Fred suggested.
“I’d rather not.”
Charlotte shot me a look, then wandered away. Where was she going? Bathroom? Food foraging? “I want to be alone,” I told him, downing the rest of my beer and grabbing another out of the six-pack on the floor by his feet.
“You’re at a party.”
I felt my face flush, then twisted the top off the bottle and shoved the cap in my coat pocket.
“You don’t really want to be alone . . . .”
True. I wanted to be with Evie. Or home in Katonah with Mom and Dad watching crappy TV. I took a bitter swig of beer and handed the bottle back. “You want the rest?” It was time to go.
“Your backwash?”
“Nice meeting you,” I said. I pulled my hat from my bag.
“Wait—you’re leaving?”
“Do me a favor? If you see Charlotte Kincaid, tell her I walked home?”
“You can’t walk—it’s pitch-black and freezing.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “My grandmother’s place is like, half a mile away.”
“You live with your grandma?”
In fact, no. Grams was dead. But I’d just moved twenty-eight miles with my unhinged mother to my grandmother’s place in Connecticut. Because my favorite parent, Dad, had done some very bad things with a paralegal named Caroline.
“Hey—”
I pulled on my hat and headed for the door.
“Wait!”
“What?”
“Your name?”
“Alex.”
Alex, he mouthed. “I’m Fred.”
“Fred, right.” I was walking backward now, toward the foyer. “What’s with the Docksiders, Fred?”
He looked down, then back up. “You don’t like my shoes?”
I smiled, turned, and reached for the door.
2.
My mother was on her back—drunk, messy, her head hanging off the side of the sofa.
“Shit, Mommy.” I dropped my keys, my coat, and hoisted her head back onto the cou
ch cushions. “Hey,” I said loudly, shaking her shoulders. I checked her pulse, her breath—still living. I grabbed an afghan off the recliner and covered her up, then rolled her onto her side just to be safe. I left a trash-can nearby.
• • •
In the morning, I called Evie.
“Yo.”
“Hi.” She sounded groggy; dreamy.
“You asleep?”
“Sort of.”
“Well can you talk?”
A beat. I heard muffled whispering, laughing. Then: “I’ll call you back.”
“Eves?”
“What?”
“Is someone there?”
“I’ll call you later.” Click.
I chucked my cell onto the floor and the battery popped out. “Crap.” I got out of bed, forced everything back in its place, jimmied the window open, and dialed Dad.
He picked up. “Snow.”
“I know.” I hammered the window open wider and stuck my head outside.
“How’s my girl?”
“Freezing.” I was inside now. Creeping back into bed. “How’s home?”
“We miss you.” We: Dad. Chicken, the dog.
“Mom’s a real mess, you know.”
“Honey.”
“Have you broken things off with slutty Caroline?”
“Al.”
“Because I’m ready for things to go back how they were.”
“Honey, it’s not that easy.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. Then, “Gotta go.” I flipped my phone shut and buried myself under piles of covers. I curled my knees to my chest, inspecting a scab on my big toe.
3.
I met Adina the following Monday.
Meadow Marsh High was triple the size of my old school. Stained glass. Brick. Science wing. Student center.
I ate lunch alone at an empty table near the restrooms. French fries and ranch. My fave. I crammed five skinny fries into my mouth and looked up. Hovering overhead? Docksider Fred. With a girl.
“Can we sit?”
The girl wore a tattered black dress with four teensy rosebuds embroidered at the collar. Over that she had on a men’s tweed coat. She was frail and blond and made me feel oversize and mannish.
“Is this your girlfriend?” I asked.
They sat side by side and close. The girl pulled five clementines out of her book bag, frowning. “His sister.”
“Adina,” said Fred, pulling a wad of green gum from his mouth. “Where’s your friend?”
“Who?”
“That girl from the party.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “Charlotte Kincaid. Yeah, I dunno.”
“Orange?” offered Adina, digging her thumbnail into a clementine rind.
“No. Thanks though.”
Fred pulled a to-go bowl of Cheerios from his blazer pocket. “Awesome table.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling the paper lid off his cereal bowl. “Seriously—next time, find a spot away from the bathrooms.” He smiled. His freckled face made me want to bake a batch of brownies. Down a gallon of milk.
“Hey, what’s your name?” The girl asked.
I redirected my gaze. “Alex.”
“Alex.” She chewed. “You’re from . . . ?”
“Katonah.”
“Oh, right.” She nodded like she knew all about it. “So, Katonah, why are you here?”
“Ah—” I wasn’t sure what to say. My dad’s a raging slut? “My parents—Well, my dad—” I stopped, starting again: “My mom’s from here,” I finished.
“Fascinating,” Adina deadpanned, angling away from me. “Eat faster,” she said to Fred.
I winced, watching her nibble at an orange slice. Fred eyed me apologetically. “You settling in okay?”
I shrugged.
“If you need someone to show you around . . .”
Adina laughed, then slapped a hand over her mouth.
“What? What’s so funny?” said Fred.
“No, it’s just—” Who knew a giggle could sound so patronizing? “No, nothing. You’re cute.” She made her eyes into small slits.
“Well, if you’re feeling lost,” Fred said, ignoring her, ripping a piece of loose-leaf from his binder and scribbling something down. “My number.” He smiled, sliding the paper forward.
“Thanks,” I said cautiously, watching Adina. She watched me back. “Hey,” I said softly. “Who’s older?”
Fred took one last bite of cereal and pushed his bowl forward. “We’re twins.”
“Oh.” They looked only vaguely alike. Both blond. Both thin. I wondered briefly what Evie might think of Adina. She’d love her pointy collarbone but would call her names behind her back. Skeletor. Bobblehead.
“Hey, Katonah.”
“Yeah?”
“Here.” She tossed a clementine rind across the table. It landed lightly in my lap.
“What’s this for?” I picked it up, inspecting it.
“I just felt like giving you something.”
“I’m touched?”
“You should be. Those things are precious. You think oranges grow on trees?”
4.
“Mommy, it’s three. Have you been downstairs yet?”
The room was a dull black. I pushed back the curtains and cracked the window halfway.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Meet anyone nice?”
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know yet.” I shut one eye against the light and watched Mom pull her hair into a tight knot. She used to be pretty. Now she looked worn and pale.
“Did Charlotte show you around?” My mother knew Charlotte Kincaid. She was the daughter of Deirdre Kincaid, Mommy’s oldest friend.
“Sort of.”
“Nice girl, right?”
I shrugged.
I could’ve stayed in Katonah. I would’ve stayed, had I thought my mother could survive the additional blow of me choosing Dad over her. “Come downstairs? I’ll make you a snack.”
She smiled. “Have you talked to Dad?”
I nodded. “I’m home with him this weekend.”
Her face fell. She loved Dad, but Dad loved Caroline. I pushed back her covers and tried tugging her out of bed.
“No honey, not yet.” She wasn’t always this way. So screwy. Dad broke her. “Gimme a minute, okay?”
I let go and her hand hit the bed with a bounce.
LAUREN STRASNICK grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, now lives in Los Angeles, and is a graduate of Emerson College and the California Institute of the Arts MFA Writing Program. She is also the author of Nothing Like You and Her and Me and You. Find out more at laurenstrasnick.com.
also by LAUREN STRASNICK
Jacket designed by JESSICA HANDELMAN
Jacket photograph copyright © 2013 by CORBIS
Author photograph copyright © by JADE CHANG
SIMON PULSE
Simon & Schuster, New York
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ALSO BY
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Nothing Like You
Her and Me and You
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition January 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Strasnick
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Designed by Hilary Zarycky
The text of this book was set in New Caledonia.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Strasnick, Lauren.
Then you were gone / Lauren Strasnick.—1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Adrienne and Dakota’s long-term best friendship has been over for two years, but when Dakota goes missing, a presumed suicide, Adrienne is overwhelmed, leading to problems at school and with her boyfriend.
ISBN 978-1-4424-2715-0
[1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction.
3. Bestfriends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction.
6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Family life—California—Fiction. 8. California—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S89787The 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2011040175
ISBN 978-1-4424-2717-4 (eBook)
Then You Were Gone Page 14