Andy nods. “Everyone was fucked up. I knew I should have done something when you left. I knew you were upset. But I just wanted to get home. I just wanted to get the fuck out. Not to get away from you, but them. The whole scene over there at Senna’s.” He paused, dropped his head into his hands, and looked up. He had tears in his eyes. “Jonas doing that shit with Alex makes me sick. I think my parents know something is up, too, because Jonas is never home, and when he is he seems pretty high. Anyway, if they find out about the girls—even if Jonas just does the tech stuff for Alex, my parents will literally die. Or they’ll kill him.” He took a breath, drank some coffee, and went on. “My dad is a freaking engineer. He keeps asking Jonas about the app, and Jonas tells him it’s a game in real time, but nothing else.”
We stare at each other for a minute without speaking; I guess because we’re too scared to say anything more. I reach for my book bag. “I have to get to class,” I say softly. I wrap my bagel in my napkin, and stand up. “I knew since September,” I say. “Hannah told me what they were doing and I didn’t try to stop her.”
Andy scoffs. “There isn’t any way of stopping any of them. Unless maybe Hannah found one.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I really don’t know,” Andy says. “But if she did run away, maybe she knew what she was doing.”
Andy stands, grabs his own book bag, and leads us toward the exit.
When we get outside he turns to me. “Are you going to be at Michiko’s again tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Around six.”
“I can meet you there?” he says. He tilts his head and half smiles. I feel myself blush. “But I don’t want to get you in trouble,” he adds. “We could hang out. I could help you with whatever you’re doing.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll ride my old street bike over. No one will know. Michiko never gets home before eight.”
We head in silence toward the main building. Andy walks close to me, but we never actually touch. Then Andy puts his arm around me and gives me a half hug. My face burns. I turn toward the A building and the glass-enclosed hallway of the language classrooms, then glance back, catch Andy’s eye, and wave. Time seems slowed down. My heart feels strangely light, but I can feel a darkness creep over me as I walk away. I still have the entire day to get through, and know nothing more about Hannah.
There’s a dog park up past Senna’s house, near the elementary school. Sometimes, Hannah likes to walk there. But there’s the beach, too, a place down by the Sound, filled with cattails and long, wild grasses. There are the trails near the public pool in White Plains, where I once went swimming with my dad and my uncle. There are woods all around our town. In almost every neighborhood, there’s some trail that leads somewhere else; back behind the houses, between the streets, there are trees and little streams, and giant moss-covered boulders, and tall, tall grasses. Her phone must have been in one of these out-of-the-way places, someplace Elise called strange.
What the fuck, Hannah? I think. Where the fuck are you?
Fourteen
“LOOK WHO’S GOING our way, Chuck. My faithful friend Marcelle.” Senna and Chuck suddenly appear on either side of me as I pass through the heavy metal doors out of the main building on my way across the leaf-strewn courtyard to French.
The three of us walk in an uncomfortable silence in the general direction of the C building, until Senna suddenly slows, leans toward me, and hisses, “Now’d be the time, Marcelle.”
I tug on the end of my braid. I can feel my throat constrict. Like everyone else, Senna thinks I know more than I do. I decide the best tactic, the most effective way to get him off my back, is to tell him what I do know.
“Hannah’s mom came over last night,” I begin, and then I start doing the fast-talking thing I do whenever I’m really nervous. “I got the third degree from her and my parents. There was one text from Hannah, that’s all, on Sunday. The cops told Elise Scott there’s not enough evidence for a full-on search. They say it looks too much like Hannah ran away. They don’t do search parties for runaways—there are too many places to go, too many fucked-up kids out there. They’re telling Elise to contact everyone Hannah knows, including people she’s in contact with on social media.” I shoot Senna a look. My head hurts. I need to get to French. I’m blabbering. I’m not really even sure how much of what I’m saying is true. I can’t actually remember what Elise Scott said about the cops. Then I remember about her dad’s. “It’s possible she’s hiding out at her dad’s for some reason. He’s out of the country. I think Elise is checking his place, too.” I pause. I wonder how much of what I’m saying Senna already knows.
Chuck looks at his phone, but I feel like he, like Senna, is hanging on my every word. I have to remind myself repeatedly to breathe.
“So what did you say, Marcelle? Did you spill your guts to Mom and Dad? Or to your little rehab buddies? Because now might be the time to tell me. Or do you want all of us busted?” Senna stops and turns toward me. Chuck stops too, still looking at his phone, but leaning in so close our elbows almost touch. “I know she told you about Alex,” Senna says. “I told her not to, but she likes to show off.” He shakes his head. “I would have thought she’d want to keep that quiet. But she’s too fucking crazy to keep her mouth shut about anything.”
My throat is so dry I almost can’t speak. “I haven’t said anything,” I say. “Why would I? I’m guessing she’ll turn up in a day or two.” I’m not making sense, exactly, but this is all I can think to say. Senna looks off into the distance. Kids stream by us in both directions—jocks in game-day jerseys, skinny freshman boys, a tall, long-haired girl from my gym class who nods hello. I’m nervous about being late to French. Ms. Lawrence can be a hard-ass and might give me after-school study hall if I’m late, which I can’t attend because of Group.
“I don’t know, Marce,” Senna says. “This sucks, though. Fucking sucks the bitch can’t send one text to let me know where the fuck she went.”
I look at Senna, incredulous. The edges of his mouth are pulled downward in a contortion of grief or fear. It’s not what I thought. Senna looks scared, hurt, like a guy whose girlfriend took off without a word, and who really just wants her to come back.
If this is an act, it’s flawless.
“I know, Rob,” I say, using the name I haven’t called him in years. “I swear I’ll tell you if I hear anything. Okay?” I pat Senna on the shoulder, and he feels stiff. I start to walk away, and when I turn back to look at them, Chuck and Senna are still just standing there, Senna with his thumbs looped in the straps of his book bag, staring at nothing. Chuck is still looking at his phone, but standing close to Senna, like he’s about to show him something on his screen.
I make it to the second floor of the C building as the bell rings, and half run down the hallway and around the corner to class just late enough to draw attention to my entrance. Everyone looks up when I walk in, but I duck and make my way to my seat in the back. Ms. Lawrence shoots me a look, but it’s more like concern than annoyance. I give her a small apologetic smile, open my iPad, and start tapping away like I have a clue what I’m supposed to be doing.
My head pounds. I’m so confused, I pull out my math textbook instead of my French book and the girl next to me points at it and laughs. I lean down to switch books but then stop halfway.
The reality of what’s happening hits me all at once: the police may not be organizing a search party for Hannah yet, but they are investigating her disappearance. Her text to me on Sunday is a clue. Her phone was found in some isolated place everyone is keeping secret.
Whoever knows where her phone was found could be some sort of suspect. I have no idea what Senna or any of the guys know, and except for the stuff I’ve told them, including Andy, they don’t know what I know.
Whatever else is going on, I am now part of an investigation. I scan the classroom, surprised that no one seems to be looking at me. It’s amazing how the world can go on aroun
d you, when in your own mind you know nothing can ever be the same.
Fifteen
THAT AFTERNOON, I stand in front of the glass doors, sweating. They say it’s almost seventy, which seems wrong for this time of year. I’m wearing my flannel to conceal the pit stains on my gray tank.
When I get in the car, Mom hands me a bag with a bunch of apple slices and cubes of cheese in it, like I’m a toddler. I stuff the bag in my backpack without saying thanks, but at least I don’t say anything nasty about the baby snacks.
I pull down the sun visor and examine my face in the mirror behind it, looking for visible evidence of my fucked-up state of mind, but I look surprisingly normal. My eyes are clear, since I’m not hungover. My scar is less rough-looking, the pink line beginning to blend with my complexion. I’m looking good, for me. But I stare at my reflection a second too long and catch a glimpse of the fear in my own eyes.
I try to picture her: Hannah at her dad’s, curled up on the leather couch, her jacket and boots on, hair matted to her head, looking disheveled but safe. I realize this is an actual memory from the time we stayed at her dad’s after the Brick concert at Man-Ray’s in Jersey City. I try to conjure her somewhere else.
But no, nothing.
I shudder. In study hall, Mr. White hadn’t said anything about Hannah’s absence, but you could tell he was more relaxed than usual. Hannah wasn’t there to suck the oxygen out of the room by kicking off her silver flats and walking around the room barefoot, like that singer, Delia somebody, with her tangled hair hanging in front of her face, her bracelet pushed way up on her thin arm—everyone captivated, everyone getting the silent, spontaneous joke.
“Did you hear anything from Elise?” I ask Mom. I think of Elise at our house last night, her wide eyes, her Hannah-like frown. It’s odd that they aren’t closer, since they’re so much alike.
Mom nods. “Elise says there was no activity on Hannah’s phone after that text to you, Marcelle. Not one text, no posts, nothing.” My heart skips a beat. I’m still, as far as anyone knows, the last person to have had contact with Hannah. “Elise is a wreck. I’m sure Beverly is as well. I think Elise’s sister is coming to stay with them tonight.” I hadn’t thought about Beverly, Hannah’s thirteen-year-old sister, or how she might be taking all of this. Hannah has a weird protective side to her when it comes to Bev. Any time we partied at Hannah’s she made sure she locked her bedroom door so Beverly wouldn’t barge in on us. It was like Hannah wanted Beverly to be completely innocent—to be her opposite in every way.
We pull into the Center parking lot, and I start to sweat again. My back and underarms are damp, and my upper lip is moist. I haven’t had time yet today to focus on this place, these people, on James and Cyndi and Kevin, or who I’m supposed to be when I come here. I know that I need to be sober, and I know coming to the Center is something I have to do. But I still wish I could have another chance at normal. More than anything, I wish Hannah and I both could go back in time. But I know it’s useless to think this way. I am the girl who crashed on the Death Wish path. I can’t be any other girl.
Looking at the entrance to the Center, I feel dizzy, like the minute I step out of the car I’ll fall, not down to the pavement, but to some distant place, like the way little kids think they can dig all the way to China—I feel like I could fall and fall and fall.
“Marcelle.” Mom looks at me, her mouth a tense line, her eyes a piercing blue. She hates that I’ve brought her to this place. “If you have any more information, you have to tell someone. You can tell me. You can tell your dad. You can tell Kevin,” she adds, gesturing toward the low brick building in front of us. “But you cannot, you absolutely cannot keep any information to yourself. Do you understand?” She fixes me again with a cold, hard stare. “You might think you’re protecting Hannah. Or someone else. But if you’re withholding facts, you could be endangering Hannah. The police are searching the area where Hannah’s phone was found. Marcelle, she hasn’t used her bank card, either. This is just so upsetting.” Mom reaches over and pushes a stray hair from my forehead. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “This seems really serious now.”
I look down at my own hands, and see they are clenched into tight fists.
I could tell about Alex, and the room in his apartment with its blacked-out window—Alex’s screens, his cameras and lights. I could talk about the sordid scheme Hannah and Senna had to get more money, and more coke. But if I point the way—say something about Senna or Jonas, even Andy might get into trouble. Andy knew what was happening too. He introduced Senna to Jonas, and was basically how everyone got to Alex in the first place. He knew and didn’t tell his parents about Jonas. We’re all connected. I can’t tell a story about just one person.
I grab my bag. My arms feel heavy and clumsy. “Mom,” I say, “I think I need to go inside.” My voice is just above a whisper.
I get out of the car, and halfway across the parking lot I turn back. Mom hasn’t moved. I wonder if she’s on her phone, or if she’s just sitting there watching me walk away. A part of me wants to run back, and another part of me wants to run away. But I trudge toward the entrance of the building, almost numb, almost forgetting why I am even here.
Sixteen
I KNOCK LIGHTLY on the first door in the row of therapy offices. Kevin shouts for me to come in, and I step in tentatively, without speaking, and sit perched on the edge of the small, red-backed, school-type chair next to his desk.
Kevin is hunched over his iPad, tapping his notes with two chubby fingers. He has bushy dark brown hair that seems tall rather than long. His round belly hangs over his worn leather belt—he’s a big guy all around, which is one of the few things I like about him.
“So?” Kevin leans back in his chair, and peers at me from under insane eyebrows. I look down. “Is the Personal Responsibility Plan supposed to be written?” I ask. “Or can I just say it?” Kevin stares at me. “Goes in the journal,” he says. I was so preoccupied the night before, I was lucky to get my regular work done, never mind my stuff for the Center. My journal is in my backpack in the cubby down the hall, but it doesn’t matter because the PRP isn’t in it, because I haven’t written it yet. Kevin doesn’t miss a beat. He hands me a pen out of the pen holder on his desk. He hands me a yellow pad from a drawer. “You’re good to go,” he says. “No excuses.”
Failure isn’t really allowed at the Center, which is what Kevin means when he says “no excuses.” You can screw up. But you can’t not have a plan, or if you don’t have a plan, someone here will have one for you, at least until you can go it alone.
Failure means someone has your back. Like everything people say at the Center, this seems like a deliberate mind-fuck: they won’t let me fail, but I’ll be a burden to everyone whenever I don’t do the exact right thing.
“Write your Present Three,” Kevin says, pointing at the paper, as if I have no idea what the paper is for. The Present Three are my goals for the week or month, however long it takes to make progress. Then I’m supposed to have a plan for meeting these goals each day. That’s what a Personal Responsibility Plan is. That’s what Kevin and I are supposed to go over during our meetings, until I get on the next phase of the program.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say. “My friend Hannah . . .” I begin. But Kevin stares at my yellow pad, waiting for me to start. “Don’t you even want to know what’s going on?” My voice breaks. I’m angry suddenly. I have something serious to tell him—Hannah is missing. Hannah’s phone has been found. This means something, but I’m afraid of what. Kevin shakes his head slowly. This isn’t therapy where you say what’s on your mind. This is therapy where you do what you’re told.
“There is always a distraction,” Kevin says. “We all have good reasons to use substances to get through the day. Grandma is sick. My dog died. My boyfriend is a dick. My friend ran away.” He uses a funny, whiny voice when he says these things. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. He knows about Hannah, most likely from James, bu
t he’s saying it doesn’t matter—it shouldn’t be a distraction to me that my best friend is missing.
“Maybe that pisses you off?” he asks, eyes wide, ready for my reaction. I nod, holding back tears of fury. None of this is fair. “Maybe you want to drink and have a pity party every time someone you care about gets hurt, or fucks themselves up? That’s how you help out your friends—you drink away their pain?” He pauses. He can see that I’m upset, and I think for a second he’ll stop this rant, but then he goes on. “You’re a liar if you say it helps. You know it, too. You’re a smart one, Marcellena.”
“I didn’t do anything!” I say. “My best friend is missing and I didn’t do anything.” I’m crying for real now. “Everyone is waiting for me to spill my guts, but I can’t! I can’t help. And no, I didn’t get drunk.”
After a few seconds, Kevin smiles.
“I’m sorry about your friend, Marcelle. I really am. But addicts are liars and cheats. Addicts are cowards. Your addict friends will break your heart, not once, but as many times as you let them. Right now, you are one of them. You are an addict. You are breaking people’s hearts and scaring the shit out of people, just like your missing friend. An addict can’t care. Your brain is wired wrong. Your brain is about shit and getting over. Somewhere in there you have a good mind. But your addict brain has hijacked it. You’re starting to fight back, I can see that. But your addict mind is going to try every trick in the book to get back into the driver’s seat. Self-pity is a pretty good trick. Works more often than it fails. They can call it ‘self-medicating.’ But that’s bullshit. Total, fucking self-delusional crap. Medicine is for cancer. Or gonorrhea. Or the bloody runs. Maybe, for some, in the case of major depression. But your teenaged insecurities don’t need medicine.”
Kevin leans toward me, and I can smell his rancid coffee breath. I want to spit in his face, and tell him he doesn’t know anything about me, but I just sit there, crying and feeling weirdly detached. I’m angry and scared, but also sort of frozen.
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