When she says the words out loud—who killed Liz—a silence falls across the table. Josie’s gaze shifts downward. Caroline bites her lip so hard that I almost think it’s going to start bleeding.
Then, as though she’s summoning all of her confidence at once, Josie sits up straight in her chair. In a gesture that seems almost defiant, she flips her hair over her shoulder. She gazes at each of our friends, one at a time, giving them a stony look of authority. “Nobody killed my sister,” Josie pronounces. “She fell. It was an accident. Everybody knows that.”
“Do they?” Mera pauses. “Look at us. We’re sitting here all by ourselves. Even my teachers are treating me differently. And I don’t just mean they feel sorry for me because my friend died. People are talking about us. Don’t you know that?” She turns to Josie. “It doesn’t help that we’re wearing her clothes to school practically every day. Or that you’re going after her boyfriend.”
Josie narrows her eyes. She seems to be completely in control of her emotions, totally unfazed by Mera’s comments. “I told you, Richie and I started seeing each other before … well, you know.” Josie pushes her salad away. “And I was her sister. It’s fine for me to wear her clothes.” For just a second, her confidence falters. “It makes me feel close to her.”
Cool silence. Looking around, I realize that half the room is stealing glances at my friends. My friends, in turn, are all staring at the table’s vacant chairs. Richie’s empty seat. My empty seat.
“Mera, don’t you dare tell me how I should act right now. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to be feeling. You don’t know what it’s been like at my house,” Josie says. “My dad is barely functioning.” She takes a strand of her long hair and winds it around her index finger. “He’s been sleeping on the boat. He thinks I don’t know. He waits until my mom and I are in bed, and then he walks down there and …” She shudders. “It’s so morbid.”
It’s true, too. In the past week or so, I’ve seen my father, late at night, walking to the Elizabeth all by himself. Sometimes he’s already in his pajamas. More than once, I’ve seen him walk down the street in his bathrobe. I don’t think he does much sleeping, though; mostly he sits on the deck, smoking cigars, staring at the water. It seems incredible to me that he can spend so much time in the places where he lost both his wife and his daughter: his house and his boat. After my mom died, it isn’t like we moved or anything. We didn’t even redo the bathroom right away. My dad just had the shower door replaced, as well as the bedroom carpet.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m dying for a smoke.” Topher stands up so quickly that he almost knocks over his chair. “I’m not gonna sit here for the next twenty minutes feeling like an outcast.” He looks at my friends, who stare blankly at him. Even Mera is frowning at her boyfriend.
“Come on!” he says. “We are better than this. We all know that none of us did anything to hurt Liz. This is a disgrace to all of our good names.” He thumps the varsity N sewn to his jacket. “I am Christopher Allen freaking Paul the Third. My father is this town’s most respected dentist and oral surgeon. My mother was Miss Connecticut 1978! Mera, get up. You’re coming with me.” He stares at everyone. “All of you. Now.”
Obviously, nobody is allowed to smoke on our school’s campus. But my friends and I were always different; faculty has a tendency to look the other way for us. Athletes, pretty girls, children of the town’s most respected professionals (despite the fact that Topher’s dad happens to be Noank’s only dentist, and thus the most respected by default) get a frequent pass for their indiscretions.
My friends gather beside Mera’s car in the student parking lot. Topher lights a cigarette, takes a few long drags, and passes it to Mera. She sticks her neck out, leaning as far away from her body as possible while she inhales, her hair stuffed under a pink corduroy hat to avoid smelling like smoke.
“There’s something I need to tell you guys,” Caroline says. She wrinkles her nose at the cloud of smoke hanging in the air. “My dad lost his job a few weeks ago.”
Josie, who has been chomping on a piece of gum, blowing, and then snapping her bubbles so that tiny shreds of pink are collecting at the corners of her mouth, freezes. “But he works on Wall Street.”
“I know that.” Even though the sun is shining, Caroline hugs herself, rubbing her shoulders like she’s cold. “It happens, Josie.”
“But … but he’s a stockbroker. How can he just lose his job? It’s not like he’s expendable, is it? I mean, people are always going to need brokers.” Josie is clearly confused. “How else will they handle their investments?”
“We might have to sell our house.” Caroline blinks rapidly, trying not to cry. “We almost couldn’t make my car payment last month.”
I remember the money she stole from my bathroom and feel a surge of pity for her. Whatever I was planning to do with it, I have no doubt Caroline put it to better use. Maybe she made her car payment. Maybe she gave it to her parents.
“See?” I nudge Alex. “My friends have problems, too. It’s not like we’re all a bunch of spoiled brats.”
Mera, finished smoking, tugs off her hat and takes a long moment to shake her blond tresses free so they spill over her shoulders. “Don’t freak out. You won’t have to move.” She sniffles. “I guess you could always … you know … get a job.”
Caroline’s face turns a deep shade of red. “I am not getting a job. I’ll forfeit my allowance before I do that.”
“Oh, right,” Alex observes. He seems almost amused by my assertion. “You’re nothing like spoiled brats. You’ve all got your priorities fully in order, obviously. Caroline would steal money from her dead friend before she’d go out and get a job.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Caroline begs my friends, her voice barely breaking above a whisper. “I’d be so embarrassed. My parents are freaking out. My sister might have to take a semester off from college if my dad doesn’t find work soon.”
Leaning against Mera’s car, Topher lights another cigarette. “Relax, Caroline. Everything will be fine.”
Mera gazes up at her boyfriend, hooks her arm around his waist. “You’re so levelheaded. I love you.”
He winks. “Love you, too, babe. You got any gum?”
“Put that out.” Josie means the cigarette. She shades her eyes, peering at the end of the parking lot. “Somebody’s coming.” Then, continuing to squint, she says, “Oh. Never mind.” She giggles. “It’s just Crazy-Eyes Riley.”
Mr. Riley teaches something like four classes a day. When he’s not teaching or in his office, he’s told me that he takes the opportunity to go running on the trails that wind through the woods behind campus. As he approaches now, his run slowing to a jog, my friends make no effort to hide what they’re doing. They’re outside when they should be inside, eating lunch. They’re loitering in the parking lot, which is definitely not allowed during school hours. And they’re smoking. But they all know that Mr. Riley doesn’t have the nerve to do anything to them; he is a nerd at heart, and my friends’ experiences with him over the years have proven that he’s just as afraid of them as he likely was of the popular kids at his own high school.
His face is red and sweaty. He leans over, palms on his knees, and tries to give them his most intimidating stare. If I were alive, standing there with them, I know I wouldn’t have let this happen. I would have told Topher to put out the cigarette. I would have made everyone go inside. At least, I’d like to think so.
“I ought to send you all to the principal’s office,” he says, standing upright, stretching his arms overhead. “You’re supposed to be setting an example. You’re athletes.”
Almost instantly, like magic, Josie turns on the waterworks. “We’ve had a horrible morning. Our friend is missing. We shouldn’t even be at school.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Her cheeks glisten with glitter blush. When she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, I notice that she’s wearing a pair of my chandelier earrings. The
y belonged to my mother before they became mine. I realize that it doesn’t bother me that she’s taken them; I’d rather she wear them than let them collect dust somewhere. But I wonder if my father knows that she has the earrings, or if he would notice. If he did, would he care? It isn’t noon yet, but I have no doubt that he’s already down at the Elizabeth, gazing at the water, waiting for something, for anything, to make sense.
Mr. Riley stares at Josie. “I’m sorry about your sister. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that yet.”
“Thank you.” Josie stares him straight in the eyes. I know it makes him feel uncomfortable; how could it not? Imagine having to face the world with mismatched pupils every day. He averts his gaze after a few seconds.
“She liked you,” Josie says to him.
“I liked her, too.”
“So … don’t tell on us, okay? We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
Mr. Riley stares at all of them, his mouth slightly agape. He seems small and self-conscious, the difference in his eyes so awkwardly noticeable. Even as an adult—as a teacher, an authority figure—he’s unable to stand up to a group of teenagers. “You really don’t think so, do you?”
They don’t answer him.
“Look at you,” he says, with a sudden burst of uncharacteristic confidence. “First there were six of you … then five … and now there’s four. You’re not invincible, kids. I would think you’d realize that by now.”
“Alex.” I put a hand on his arm. I feel restless, agitated, and excited all at once. “I have an idea.”
Topher flicks his cigarette on the ground in Mr. Riley’s direction. “You can’t talk to us that way.”
Mr. Riley only stands there, red faced and glowering. He begins to back away.
“Isn’t he going to do something?” Alex nearly shrieks. “He’s just going to let him get away with that?”
“Hey.” I squeeze him. “Come with me. I think I know where Richie went.”
Seventeen
The memories are coming more quickly now, with less warning or time for me to prepare. I don’t have to seek them out as much as I simply fall into them accidentally, as though I’m getting better at accessing them. As I remember more and more, it’s like pieces of the puzzle are getting filled in, one by one. I don’t necessarily like the picture of my life that they’re creating, but I’m grateful to have something other than a blank slate peppered with a few random details.
In one memory, I’m riding my bike—with training wheels—down the sidewalk as my parents stand behind me, watching nervously. In another, I’m at a slumber party with Josie at Mera’s house. We’re maybe eleven years old. It’s the middle of the night, and we’re drinking diet soda straight from a two-liter bottle, passing it around like booze while we play Truth or Dare. A few seconds later, I see myself in high school—probably ninth or tenth grade, from the looks of my hair and outfit—sitting in the back of study hall, my desk pulled close to Richie’s as we doodle on each other’s history notebooks.
Almost as quickly as it appears, the memory dissolves, replaced by another. This time, it is an early winter morning. I’m at home. My house still has its original antique windows. When it gets below a certain temperature, frost will form on the insides of the glass. I watch myself standing in my messy room, doing stretches in thermal running pants and a top, and lean over for a moment to scratch my initials into the frost on my window with an acrylic fingertip: E.V. R.W. I’m older now, a bit thinner. I’m guessing I’m seventeen.
The clock on my nightstand says 5:02 a.m. It’s so thickly dark, the moon obscured by clouds, barely a star to be seen, that it might as well be midnight outside. I own reflective gear to keep me safe from traffic, but I’m not wearing it today. Even the streetlights are out this early. In the dark, alone, with nobody to see me, it seems almost like I’m not even there.
The only light from my room is the glow of the computer monitor on my desk. I check to make sure my door is locked. Then I sit before my computer and open the Internet, find a bunch of e-mails from [email protected]. The first message reads:
For youre entertainment, baby.
Xoxo
Vinny
There are attachments. It’s photograph after photograph, each one worse than the next. There must be close to a hundred in total. In some of them I’m wearing a bra and underpants. There are a few of me on the filthy mattress in Vince’s apartment, posing in trashy lingerie that I could not possibly have purchased myself. The poses are so unlike anything I would ever think of doing that, even as I’m staring at them, even though I know it’s me, there is a part of me that thinks: this could not have happened. I can’t remember ever sending so much as a racy picture of myself to Richie. I am a virgin. This is practically pornography. It makes no sense. Yet it’s here, not Photoshopped: me, degraded, smiling with teeth gritted so tightly that my cheek muscles are visible beneath the skin. My only small comfort is the fact that, behind my forced smile, it’s obvious I’m not enjoying myself.
I notice that my eyes are wide as I stare at the pictures, scrolling down to look at all of them, clearly horrified by what I’m seeing. Once I reach the bottom of the last e-mail, I close the files, shut off my computer, and leave the room. Outside, the air is so cold that I’m sure my face goes hotly numb almost immediately. I’m wearing a hat and gloves, but my cheeks are undoubtedly on fire as I run, breathing in and out, finding a rhythm, burning through mile after mile until the sun begins to rise, cracking against the horizon.
It is torture that all I can do is watch and follow, my motions automatic and ghostly, literally hovering behind myself, unable to run. Unable to free myself from these damn boots.
I run all the way to his house. The kitchen light is on. He’s waiting for me; it seems like he’s expecting my arrival any time now. I tap lightly at the door before letting myself in, and I stand in the warm room, catching my breath, watching Mr. Riley as he spoon-feeds a tiny baby girl who sits in a high chair at the table.
He barely glances at me. “How long have you been out so far?”
The clock on the stove says 6:54.
“A couple hours.” I stretch my arms overhead. The ceiling is so low that my fingertips graze the pale yellow spackling. “Where’s your wife?”
“She’s asleep. I took the morning shift with the baby. Get yourself a glass of water, Liz.” Finally, his glaze flickers in my direction. “You’ll dehydrate. You won’t make it home.”
The baby—her name is Hope, I remember—has applesauce smeared all over her fat, red cheeks. She coos with delight and smiles adoringly at her father, who is wearing a white T-shirt and pajama pants.
“Did you eat breakfast?” he asks.
When I don’t answer, he says, “I’ll take that as a no. You’ve gotta eat, Liz. You want to pass out along the road? You want another concussion?”
“I’m in trouble, Mr. Riley.”
He nods, feeds Hope another spoonful. “You look like shit.”
It occurs to me how totally inappropriate this could seem to any other onlooker: me, standing in my coach’s kitchen at seven in the morning, listening as he tells me I look like shit. Me, watching him feed his baby, his wife asleep down the hall, while her husband shares the intimate quiet of early morning with a breathless teenage girl.
But there’s nothing sleazy about it. I know that for sure. I don’t think I ever realized the fact while I was alive, but it seems obvious now: since my real dad was almost never around after my mom died—and when he was around, he let me do pretty much whatever I wanted—Mr. Riley wasn’t just my coach and friend; he was also a sort of authority figure to me. What did he know? Did I tell him what was the matter before I died? I keep watching, hoping to learn more.
“I mean it. I’m in a lot of trouble. Can’t you help me?”
Mr. Riley pauses, puts down the spoon, and looks around the kitchen for a moment. It’s a small room, but lovely, bright and warm, messy with dishes and coffee stains on the countertop,
the refrigerator covered in family photos. Even if I leave before Mr. Riley’s wife gets up, I’m guessing she knows that I come here. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to keep secrets from the people he loves.
“You could talk to Mrs. Anderson. Have you considered that?”
I almost choke on my sip of water. “The school guidance counselor? Are you kidding me? She goes to yoga with my stepmom.” I shake my head. “No freaking way.”
“How about a psychologist? I know someone in town. He’s a PhD. Very good.”
“Why can’t I tell you? Why can’t you just sit here and listen, and I’ll tell you everything.” I swallow a mouthful of water. “I want to tell you. I want someone else to know.”
Mr. Riley looks at me, glances at Hope—who is still smiling, highly entertained by my interaction with her father—and closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t be coming here. If somebody sees you, coming into my house this early in the morning … I could lose my job, Liz. Anybody could get the wrong idea.” He stares down at his outfit, which is sparse enough to be construed as inappropriate: the thin undershirt, bare feet, his face unshaven. He’s just rolled out of bed.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go. I run and run, and it never gets any better.” My tone is desperate, pleading. “I can’t think about anything else. I can’t live like this.”
“I told you, there’s a psychologist—”
“Let me tell you about psychologists. You know my boyfriend, Richie?”
He rolls his eyes. “Famous Richie Wilson, dealer to the high school stars.”
“You can think what you want about him. His parents sent him to a shrink last year. He had like three sessions with the guy, and he confided in him that he sometimes … well, you know. He sells a little pot. It wasn’t more than a month and the good doctor was hitting up my boyfriend for drugs. His psychologist.” I sit down at the table and push my water glass away. “I’m not talking to any shrink.”
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