Then You Were Gone (4 page)

“Well, I can’t.”

We just stand there, kids staring, school bells blaring. I keep crying. Lee takes my hand and I’m too tired to stop him. “Can I see you later?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

My chest heaves. “Dinner with my mother.” Lies.

He pulls me forward. “Tell me you love me.”

“No.”

“Knox . . .”

“Tell me you’re sorry,” I say.

“I am. Already said it.”

“Say it again.”

“Look at me.”

I look at him. Baby skin, sparse stubble, a tiny pimple on his upper lip. “I love you,” he whispers. And it’s true, he means it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You believe me?”

I relax slightly. “I guess.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I say, pressing my nose against his cold cotton jersey. “I’m sure.”

Brit lit. Suspender Sub still here. We’re doing absolutely nothing in class—reading chapters aloud out of
Jane Eyre
—so I watch Julian watch the floor while wondering what he knows. Who he is. Does he look guilty? Grief-stricken? He’s so stupidly pretty. Dirty red hair that droops at the sides and sticks up on top. Freckles like Kate. Dakota used to back him into lockers and suck his lower lip in front of everyone. Now he’s here with his Brontë book and all I see is sex.

Bell.

He bolts. I grab my bag and tailgate him. Kate’s waiting outside and blocks me as Julian slips past.

“Murphy had the baby. It’s a girl.”

“Oh.” He’s gone now, out of sight.

“They named her Adeline.”

“Huh.”

She slaps my upper arm.

“
Ow
. What the hell, why’d you do that?”

“You okay?”

“I
was
fine,
fuck
. Now I hurt.”

“Sorry, I just—” Her cheeks go pink. “You weren’t looking at me.”

My eyes flick to her face.

“You going tonight?”

“Where?” I ask, rubbing the throb out of my arm.

“Candlelight vigil.”

“For?”

Her brow bounces up. Duh, D. Webb.

“Oh,” I say, smarting. “Seems a little premature.”

“Right? Bury the girl first.” Kate laughs a little too quickly, then stares for a bit before changing the subject. “Come on, you’re free this period. Help me stalk Wyatt Earp.”

I glance out the window. There’s a fat camera guy hovering in front of a navy van with a satellite. A suited woman waves a mic in the faces of two tiny freshman.

Kate smooshes her nose against the glass. “Fuck, Channel Five?” Then, softly: “Dakota gets a camera crew. Of course.”

I toss my keys on the bureau, switch on my yellow bedside lamp, and hit play on a mix I made earlier this week: Keren Ann, Olivia Ruiz, Yael Naim, Carla Bruni. Girlie French music. Folk and pop. I can’t understand a word of it, but it makes me feel dreamy and sentimental and tints everything really rosy.

For a while, I don’t do anything but listen. I get down on the floor on my back and just lie there. I watch the ceiling. I flip to my side and watch the wall. Then, feeling restless, I get up. Drink half a glass of water. Change into sleep stuff. Creep downstairs to Sam’s office and switch on his computer.

Ping.

Sam has video footage of Dakota, I’m sure of it. The first five years of his relationship with my mother are taped, digitized, and double-saved to his hard drive. I click the folder
titled
Home Movies
and run a search for “Dakota.” Nothing. I try “Adrienne.” A zillion files flash in my face: “Adrienne Seven,” “Adrienne Swing Set,” “Adrienne & Rach” (Mom). I try searching “Adrienne Nine”, then “Adrienne Ten” (prime DW years)—more nothing. I type “Adrienne Twelve,” and there, finally, a file. I open it.

Me, Mom—getting ready for Ally Rothbaum’s bat mitzvah.

Wrong. Moving on.

“Adrienne Eleven.”

Dakota.

We’re kids. She’s braiding my hair. We’re in a tent with three billion throw pillows, a bottle of bubbly water, and a cordless phone.

“Face me, come on, guys, say something cute.”

“Something cute!” Dakota screams, smiling huge, then frowning dramatically. I laugh and I laugh, so Sam laughs too. The picture cuts out.

Two more clips: “D&A” and “Adrienne B-Day Fifteen.” In the first, I’m fourteen, maybe? My hair chin-length and tinged red. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter eating a fat slice of pepperoni.

“Dakota honey?” Mom says this. She’s fixing one of her weird-looking sprouted salads. D wanders into frame. She looks young. No boobs. Her face still soft.

“Yeah?”

Mom picks an eyelash off her cheek then hands her the salad bowl. “Stick this on the table, will you?”

“Rach, wave,” Sam says. Mom waves.

“Do I have to have salad?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“I
love
salad,” Dakota sings, picking a sprout out of the bowl and nibbling at it seductively.

“Babe, put the camera down?” Mom’s got a fistful of silverware and she’s bumping the drawer shut with one hip. “Get the lasagna out of the oven? Come on, we’re eating.”

“Okay, all right,” Sam says. The picture drops.

Last one: “Adrienne B-Day Fifteen.” I remember this. Not long before our breakup. A few weeks, maybe? We’re at Dar Maghreb on Sunset. Moroccan. Chicken pie with powdered sugar, tiled walls, belly dancers. Mom and Dakota on either side of me. Everyone looking pretty and made-up: three sets of red lips. Smooth hair.

Dakota—boobs now, layered bob—says, “We do this with our hands?” She means
eat
—no utensils.

Mom: “Indeed, we do.”

I reach for something. Chicken pie? Flatbread? Dakota stops me. “Birthday girl! Let me do that!”

“Let you do
what
?”

“I’m gonna feed you,” she says brightly. She reaches down,
pinches some pie between her fingertips, and raises it to my mouth. “Open up.”

“No.” I laugh.

“Why, come on, don’t be scared,” she coos. “Come on. Open your mouth.”

“Be nice,” says Sam.

Dakota looks directly at the lens, says, “I
am
nice.” Then she pries my lips apart while I squirm. “There you go, baby.” She smooshes the chicken onto my cheek, missing my mouth completely.

Freeze frame.

“Can I have one of those?”

Freak section. I’m bumming a cigarette off a girl wearing an apron as a dress.

“Here.” She passes me her pack and a stubby pink lighter.

I help myself, light up, say, “Thanks.” Today I dressed the part: dark brown sweater over black tights. And I lined my eyes with kohl.

•    •    •

Hours later I’m in the computer lab googling like a maniac. I find an online Dakota tribute: an ultra simple website with Dakota photos and some super sappy reader comments. I can barely look at any of it. Except the video. There’s a shitty, shaky video of Dakota performing somewhere. I dig through my bag, find my headphones, and plug into the computer. She’s singing softly. She sounds like a gurgling baby. Below her are a gazillion bobbing heads. People love her.
I
love her.
She’s pretty and perfect and up onstage she makes magic.
Made
magic?

New website. New video. This one’s overexposed. Dakota with Dark Star in some stark rehearsal space. Daytime. She’s barefaced. Her blond hair limp and long and just so fucking glorious. She’s harmonizing with her own recorded vocals. Swaying slightly. Looking girlish and sexy while she smiles at Julian, who’s got his jean-jacketed back to the camera.

“How’s that?” she asks, stopping, leaping up.

“Awful,” says some guy off camera. Everyone laughs. Dakota’s face widens. She’s happy, laughing, flinging herself onto Julian’s lap. The camera rotates. His hands are on her face. They’re kissing and grinning. Someone throws a guitar pick across the room. My heart bleeds/breaks/aches.

Tap tap tap.

“Christ!” I jump, whip around, tug off my headphones.

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s just me.” Lee with his hand on my shoulder.

“Hi, sorry, hi.” I turn back to the monitor and quickly sign out of my session.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing. Email.”

We kiss. Lee pulls back, making a face. “Have you been smoking?”

“I—”
Crap
. “Barely. One drag, I
had
to. Margaret had cloves.”

“It’s shitty for you.”

“Right, I know. One drag, Lee, that’s all.”

“Walk me to chem?”

We walk for a bit, and he doesn’t try to touch me, but he’s staring, so I go, “Something up?”

“Your face looks different.”

“My
face
?”

“I dunno, your eyes, maybe? Is that it? They’re darker?”

“No, it’s nothing.” I shake my head, yanking at my tights and sweater—a far cry from my usual uniform: Lee’s old jeans matched with whichever thrift store top is clean. “I lined them, that’s all. You’ve seen them this way before.”

He considers me. “I like it.” He’s nodding now. “It suits you.”

I get off the bus at Benton and drop into a pocket of hot, sweet air blowing out the kitchen vent of a Mexican bakery. I stop in, buy a big pink cookie and a Coke (old Dakota ritual), then glance out the window. The hill to D’s house is twisty and steep. A long residential road that intersects with the eastern stretch of Sunset Boulevard.

Shoving half the cookie in my mouth, I exit the shop. To my left: two Korean markets, a clothing co-op, and a fruit juice stand. To my right: a ninety-nine-cent store. I finish my treat, dust my fingers on my tights, then start the climb.

When I reach the top, I’m breathless and hunched over, hands on knees, staring. There it is: two stories, pink, flat roof, clay tile. I’m dizzy with kid memories: sleepovers, prank calls, brownie binges, dance numbers. I try to see inside, but
the house looks dead. Where’s Emmett? Do I do this? Do I dare ring the bell?

Slam.

I whip around. It’s Julian Boyd, walking away from a battered blue Datsun. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, incredulous, as if he’s just discovered me hiding at the bottom of his laundry hamper.

“I—what am
I
doing here?” I’m sweaty from the climb and suddenly embarrassed. I pull my sweater away from my tacky body. “Why are
you
here?”

His chest deflates. He looks past me, at the house. “Don’t know.”

We’re quiet. My eyes dart between the car and his face. The car, clearly not a VW Bug. I turn so we’re standing side by side, our faces forward. I say, “I’m Adrienne Knox.”

“I know who you are.”

An unexpected kick,
he knows me
. I look down at my feet, tangled up in an overgrown mess of crispy lawn. “Anyone home?” I ask.

Julian unwraps a single slice of foiled gum. “No,” he says, not offering me any. “No one’s home.”

•    •    •

For dinner, Sam makes spaghetti Bolognese with ground turkey instead of beef. We line our bowls up—one, two, three—on the mosaic coffee table in the den. We curl up
in love seats. We twirl pasta and watch the six o’clock news. Sam kisses Mom. I feel cozy and—not happy exactly, but almost-happy, because for three seconds I’m able to forget Dakota. And heartbroken Julian Boyd. I’m home safe. Sam’s Bolognese rocks. Mom looks flushed and pretty. But then straight from the sky falls this shitty commotion:

“Turn it up!” Sam’s screaming. Mom’s kneeling in front of the TV screen, pumping the volume.

“Early this morning, a body, believed to be that of missing fifteen-year-old Cassidy Chang, was discovered along the shoreline not far from the Santa Monica Pier. The Los Angeles teen disappeared late last month after an argument with a family member. Amber King reports.”

My head swings to Sam, who looks super stiff and alert. My legs tingle. Then back to school photos of Cassidy as they flash across the screen. She’s wearing stripes. She’s grinning. More talk of suicide. Of dental records. Another photo: cheek to cheek with a fluffy puppy.

“This past week, another local teen, Dakota Webb—member of the popular SoCal band Dark Star—went missing. Her abandoned Jeep was found in the same beach parking lot where Chang’s Ford sedan was discovered late last month. Police are investigating a possible connection.”

Mom quickly switches stations. She lands on an insipid sitcom rerun with a laugh track that strikes me as mocking
and dark. She grabs my chin with her free hand. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

The pit in my belly deepens. Any momentary peace I thought I’d found has now completely vanished.

“Nothing’s changed,” Sam insists.

“I know that,” I bluff. I look back at the TV.

The waiting room is windowless. There’s a side table made of fake wood, a minifridge, a coffeemaker, and a faux-silver serving platter with stacks of powdered creamer and saccharin packets.

“Ms. Knox.”

Officer Walsh shakes my hand and leads me through a cubicle labyrinth to a messy desk by a wall of filmy windows. “Have a seat.” He rolls a chair my way, sits with a heavy thud. “Thanks for coming in.” He’s a big guy. Round and happy-looking with wild, watery eyes.

“Sure.”

“Your stepdad—”

“Sam. He’s not—he’s my mom’s boyfriend,” I stammer.

“Sorry.” He’s smacking his clipboard with an eraser head. “Sam said he saw Dakota a few nights before her car turned
up. Fighting with someone outside a music venue—” He checks his notes. “The Echo? On Sunset?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that a club you frequent?”

“Can’t get in.” I raise one limp hand. “Seventeen.”

Walsh nods. “You know anyone who drives an old Volkswagen like the one Sam saw?”

“No.”

“You know anyone who might want to harm Dakota?”

Another “no,” followed by a huge dagger of fear jabbing at my solar plexus. My head jumps to Julian. I chew my cheeks out of guilt.

“Were you two close?”

“I—for a while. We’re not now.” I wait for more. Nothing comes. “Is she—are you sure she’s . . . ?” Can’t say it.
Is she gone for real, for good, forever?
“What I mean, is—”

“I know what you mean.” A beat. “We’re exploring every angle.”