And yet the cold feeling still sinks all the way into my bone marrow. I don't like Tinsley. But right now I need her help. So I strap on that fake smile I swore never to use, and which is already becoming a habit.
"I’ll make you a deal, Tinsley. You tell me what Drew said during your tutoring session today, and I won't tell DeMott you're the one who's getting tutored."
She narrows her beady eyes. She might be dumber than sandstone, and shallow as a dry creek bed, but she's also the snakiest of snakes. So our stare-down continues and I don't blink. I notice her skin, how it's perfect. No freckles. Not one zit. Not even a blemish. I decide evil has to look this good or else we'd immediately recognize it.
She breaks eye contact first. "Drew didn't really say anything."
"Tinsley—"
She lifts one skinny arm, waving to the couples hurrying across the parking lot to the waiting limos. "See y'all real soon!" she chirps.
I want to grab her bony shoulders, shake her, force her to talk. But my dad, the judge, says lawyers often make the mistake of "leading the witness" with questions that make him doubt their testimony. I want the truth. So I wait.
"Lookin' good!" she calls out.
"Tinsley." My teeth are gritted. "Tell. Me.”
"Before I say anything," she turns to me, her white smile like frost, "you have to make a promise."
“What.”
“Promise-hope-I-die-stick-a-needle-in-my—”
“What!”
She looks offended. "Don't be rude."
“Cut to the chase.”
“Promise you’ll stay away from him."
I frown. “Who?”
“Who else would I be talking about? DeMott!”
“You must be kidding.”
Her green eyes widen. “I most certainly am not kidding. He’s interested in you, for some ungodly reason. It should automatically disqualify him, but . . . ” She gives a skinny shrug.
“But he's so rich.”
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. It sounds like crackling ice. “Rich guys are a dime a dozen.”
I wait, just in case she actually realizes her ironic pun. But the wit sails right over her pretty head.
“Oh, I get it.” I nod. “It’s the Fielding name you want. All that land, the mansion—”
“In any event,” she cuts me off. Because I'm right. The Fieldings own 3,000 acres of prime real estate along the James River. It’s been in their family since England owned Virginia, since the King gave charters to colonists. Something like sixteen generations have lived in the estate’s mansion.
“So we have a deal?” she asks. "You stay away from DeMott, which means you can never tell him I’m being tutored.”
“Okay, fine, whatever, just tell me what Drew said.”
Tinsley leans in close, like we're suddenly co-conspirators. Her perfume smells sweet but simple, like hothouse flowers.
“Drew cancelled.”
I pull back, to get fresh air. “Why did she cancel?”
“You think I care? I was thrilled not to have to listen to her babbling about the 'wonders of math,' especially when I needed to get ready for Homecoming.” She runs another cold glance over me, stopping at my Converse. “Not that you would understand.”
She's right: I would never understand a lot of other things. Like, why the world keeps putting people like Tinsley at the top.
“So Drew didn't tell you why she cancelled?”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Tinsley, she's obsessed with cause-and-effect. So even if you didn't care why she was canceling, she’d give you a reason. She can’t help it. So, what did she say?”
She rubs a skinny hand over a skinny arm. “It's freezing out here.”
“Okay, look, if you can’t—”
"I need to get DeMott's jacket."
I step in front of her. "Tell me what she said.”
“Raleigh, here's a news flash." She smiles. "Nobody cares about y'all. So even if Drew did say something, I didn't pay attention because nobody's paying attention to you two weirdos. Understand?"
"Tinnnsleeeeee."
We both turn.
Norwood Godwin is heading our way.
Most of us southern girls have family names for our first names—Tinsley, MacKenna, and probably Raleigh, although my mom's never given me a clear answer—but of all of us, Norwood got the short end of a stick with a name that sounds like a euphemism for dork. It doesn't help that she's a husky girl—not fat, just big—who should go out for softball or shot-put, but instead squeezes herself into clothing made for girls like Tinsley, girls as bony as coat hangers.
Tonight, Norwood’s crow-barred her substantial figure into a bright orange satin gown held up by floss-thin spaghetti straps. The sight of her makes the words fly off my tongue.
"That dress!”
“Isn't it gorgeous,” Tinsley says. “I picked it out myself.”
“And she’s still your friend?"
She turns to me. "Orange is very au courant right now. Not that you have any great fashion sense.”
This is also true.
But I know enough not to leave my house looking like a shellacked pumpkin.
"Tins," Norwood says, "what're you doing way over here?”
“You'll never believe it. Drew Levinson ran away.”
“Again?”
“Not 'again.’” My voice rises with frustration. "That was a long time ago."
"Sixth grade." Norwood looks at Tinsley. "Does that count as a long time ago?"
“No. But Raleigh's in denial. Bless her heart.”
“Hey," Norwood says. "Let's tell Mr. Ellis to start the phone tree again.” The phone tree is for emergencies. Snow days. School cancellations. "Worked great last time. Everyone got to see how weird Drew really is.”
Tinsley sighs. "I’m sure she's just going to pop up somewhere tomorrow, expecting us to care.”
“You need to come on. They're waiting for us in the limo."
“DeMott, you mean." Tinsley fixes her green eyes on me. "DeMott is waiting for me in the limo."
They start to walk away, but before they’ve gone three paces, Tinsley turns her head, calling over her emaciated shoulder. "Don't forget your promise, Raleigh.”
I stand by the bike rack, watching the human pumpkin and a skinny slice of lemon meringue walk over to Ellis and Parsnip. Both Tinsley and Norwood have that practiced fake smile. I wait to see if they say anything about Drew, but after practically bowing to authority, they dash to the waiting white limo. Parsnip and Ellis don't even look over at me.
The limo's back door opens. Laughter and cheers leak out.
I don't like those two. I really don't. But that ache is back, grabbing my heart again--the feeling that hit me inside the gym.
Tinsley's wrong: I'm not in denial. I know exactly what I'm feeling.
Jealousy.
I’m jealous of two really awful people.
Because at least they have each other.
***
I run through the darkened West End, occasionally seeing a blue flicker in a window. Somebody up late watching television. The idea only makes me feel more alone.
River Road, also empty, pulls my legs down the hill, gravity doing all the work because my legs are too tired. I jog across the Huguenot Bridge, over the James River, then cut directly underneath where I can hear water washing over the rocks, splashing its way to downtown. And my breathing. I can hear my breathing; I am breathing hard.
Once I asked her: "Where did you go?"
The end of seventh grade. We'd been friends for almost a year, the whole time I was dying to know what happened that night she ran away. There was plenty of speculation around school—Drew took drugs, Drew had sex with random guys. I heard it all.
But nobody knew. For sure.
"Where did you go?"
The question came suddenly, when we weren't even talking about That
Night. But now, walking beside the river in the dark, searching for her, I realize that's one of the things about having a best friend: you don't have to explain. Anything. You find your best friend, and suddenly some secret code gets written into your cells. You know each other.
You just know.
“The river,” she answered, immediately knowing what I was asking. “I went down to the river.”
“What for?”
“Because water is required in order to drown oneself.”
Back then, Jayne and Rusty were fighting like caged rats. They divorced soon after.
“Only you didn't drown yourself,” I pointed out.
“Obviously,” she said. “I realized that if I drowned myself, nobody would finish my experiments. Not even you.”
This was Drew: totally rational, completely focused on cause and effect, even when contemplating suicide.
The gravel crunches under my shoes. And I can smell the river now, its deep, rich layered mud on the banks. I walk to the only light, shining over a small wooden boat launch. The water slides past like a channel of black ink.
“Drew!”
My palms are already sweaty from the run, but as I walk away from that single light, I feel a new spurt of perspiration. And panic. The dark feels as thick as molten tar. The gravel snapping like teeth.
“Drew Levinson!”
I know there's a narrow trail down here; I've run it plenty of times in daylight. But as I creep forward in the dark, it seems to get farther away. I turn my head sideways, forcing my peripheral vision to work on the black curtain in front of me. Finally I find the wooden bridge that crosses the feeder creek, but halfway across, I stop. The water gurgles below me. And another sound. Something moving.
“Drew . . . ?”
A groan fills the dark.
“Drew!” I pivot, trying to locate the sound. Coming from my right. I think. But a second groan rises on my left. I turn in a circle, feeling blood pounding inside my head, so hard I can't hear straight. Adrenaline. Running. Fear of the dark.
“Drew—it's me—Raleigh!”
It flies out of the dark. I jump back, scream when it lands at my feet.
More. They come moaning and leaping, bellowing into the night: frogs springing up from the creek, sliming my face, kissing my arms.
My next scream cracks my voice.
I race down the trail, hands swinging in front of my face. Something squishes under my shoe. My throat gags. At the end of the bridge, I trip, get up, sprint until gravel crunches under my shoes.
I cannot stop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What stops me is Drew's back door, which I throw open—it's never locked—and burst inside.
“Drew,” I pant. “Please. Be here.”
There's not even a hiss from Isaac Newton.
The house feels dark, a different kind of dark than outside, more like what you get pulling a blanket over your head. Suffocating dark. When I step into the kitchen, two empty wine bottles stand by the sink. Above them, on the wall, the cuckoo clock swings its pendulum. But the tap-tap-tap coming from behind its little door means Jayne still has the little bird locked inside and he's trying to announce my arrival: 1:30 a.m.
In the den, I find Jayne sprawled on the couch. An almost-empty wine glass waits on the coffee table. Her eyes are closed but the television is on and some woman is demonstrating how to sauté garlic. And prawns. I look back at Jayne. She wears faded yellow pajamas that match the dying leaves outside.
I've never seen the woman so much as stir a can of soup, but for some reason she's obsessed with the cooking channels. You'd think it was because she works for Reynolds Aluminum, but I've seen the expression on her face when she watches these people. Like somebody who can’t swim, stranded on the beach while everyone else splashes in the water.
“Jayne.”
Her forehead is scrunched down, like she's arguing her way through a dream.
“Jayne!”
Nothing. Not even an eye twitch.
I walk upstairs. In Drew's bedroom everything looks exactly the same, which is to say: in order. Her books line three walls, each section grouped topically, then alphabetically by author. Baseball gets an entire wall; to the right, applied science. Then chemistry, general science—with a nod to geology for me—and then tons of physics books that include everything written by Richard P. Feynman. Above her twin bed, the famous physicist grins from a poster. He looks like he's watching the mobile of sun-surrounded-by-planets.
Her closet door is ajar. When I open it further, Isaac Newton leaps out.
After the attack of frogs, I'm feeling fairly freaked out. There’s enough adrenaline remaining in my system to yell, “Get lost, Newton!”
He arches his back, displaying his sharp little teeth.
“Not impressed,” I tell him.
Drew's clothes hang in another compulsive order: color-coded. One empty hanger waits in front, where she hangs her St. Cat's uniform. Her shirts—nearly all purple and never pink—look like they're all here. Same with her jeans, which she hangs because she hangs everything, even summer shorts. Her laundry hamper is empty.
I check the other bedrooms, five total. So many that I've always wondered if Rusty and Jayne hoped for more kids, before they realized they couldn't stand each other. In the master bedroom, Jayne's king-sized bed is layered with satin pillows. The rest of the room looks surprisingly spare. Same with the two bedrooms that are guest rooms. Everything looks stripped down. In the final room, cardboard boxes sit on the floor, their flaps open.
I walk back downstairs. The television tutorial continues.
“Make sure you don't overcook the peppers. Two, three minutes at most. Nothing's worse than overcooked peppers.”
I stare at Jayne. There's something so pathetic about her that half my anger evaporates. She's curled on her side, knees tucked into her stomach like the dream's shifted to somebody coming to kick her. I lift a blanket off the back of the couch and lay it over her. She doesn't even twitch.
I carry her wine glass into the kitchen, dumping the half-inch of ice-diluted wine into the sink. It splashes like blood.
Newton yowls.
I look over. His Siamese-blue eyes lock on mine.
“Now what's your problem?”
He minces over to his bowl, letting out another yowl.
Inside the pantry, I find a can of choice liver niblets. After two years of Friday nights here, this kitchen feels more familiar than my own. I dump the meat-barf into his bowl and rinse the can in the sink—restraining my gag reflex—because one of Drew's rules is clean garbage. She doesn't care if it's an oxymoron. I'm about to turn off the tap, but when I look up, I catch my reflection in the window.
If I thought I looked bad in the girls’ bathroom tonight, things have gotten worse. Shadows circle my eyes. My ponytail has drifted down to my shoulders, loose hair framing a face almost sheet-white. For as long as I can remember, night has always scared me—not just the dark, but the fact that there's going to be this long stretch of time when I’m all alone. Even when my mom and dad used to let me crawl into bed with them, once they went to sleep, I was alone again. Everyone else just slumbers until dawn. But my mind only ramps up, the thoughts pinging through my head so fast I can't follow them. And then, as soon as I see that gray hint of light on the horizon, I suddenly feel like sleeping. Because I stop worrying. A little.
But this night is the longest of my entire life.
I walk back to the den. The cooking host says, "The food should look pretty on the plate, too."
Newton comes into the room after me, licking his whiskers. He jumps on the couch, walks up Jayne's legs and squats on her head. He stares at me, victorious, some sphinx guarding the temple of drunkenness.
I pick up the telephone on the end table and a notepad with Drew's precise penmanship explaining the speed dial crib sheet: Raleigh #1. Dad #2. And way down the list—after information hotlines for Harvard, Yale, and Massachusetts Institute of Technol
ogy—is Jayne, at work, #9.
I glance at my watch, trying to decide if eccentric artists stay up all night and whether Rusty will even pick up the phone. I hit the 2-button and listen to the rings. The cooking host starts making dessert.
I hang up, call again.
And again.
He picks up as the show is ending.
“What?!” he says.
“Is this Rusty?”
“Who's this?”
“Raleigh.”
There's a pause.
I give him a clue: “Drew's friend.”
"Oh. Right."
“Is she there?”
“Who?”
“Drew.”
“Drew?”
“Your daughter?” It's rude to say, but it's a good thing these people only had one kid. “She didn't show up for dinner tonight. I've been looking for her. She still isn't home.”
“What time is it?”
Restraining a sigh, I explain the whole night. Dinner. Bike. Physics lab. “I even went down to the river. You know, because last time . . . ”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Where's her mother?”
I look over at Jayne. Sitting on her head, Newton whips his tail across her face.
“She's right here.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“She's passed out.”
“What a surprise," he says bitterly.
“Rusty, do you know where Drew is?”
“No.”
“You don't sound worried.”
“I'm not. She pulled this same stunt last summer, when she was here for a weekend. I told her she couldn't live with me, and she was gone the rest of the day. Next morning she finally showed up for breakfast.”
“Did she tell you where she went?”
“No. She just needed to blow off some steam.”
I sympathized. Right now I'd like to blow off both Rusty and Jayne.
“But her bike's at school,” I tell him again, since I'm not sure he's listening. “And her notebook and jean jacket are in the Physics lab at school.”
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