Then You Were Gone (17 page)

“Oh, hey! This is me. I’m up here, on the left,” she said, “the green one with the tree.” There was a porta potty parked on her front lawn next to a tall stack of aluminum siding. “We’re expanding the kitchen. And adding a half-bath.”

I turned up her steep driveway and stopped ten feet short of the garage. She kissed Nils on the mouth.
Smooch, smooch.

“Thanks again, Holly.” And then, to Nils, “Call me.”

“Will do.”

She was gone.

I kicked the car into reverse and started backing up. “Okay, get up here. I am not your chauffeur.” Nils
scooched from back to front, contorting to get through the tiny space between seats. We were side by side now. Neither one of us talking. I drove quickly back down Nora’s twisty street and out onto the main road, where we passed my favorite rock. White and long and crater-faced; like a slice of the moon.

“Okay. What the hell, Nils,
Nora Bittenbender
?”

“So cute.”

“Of course.
Cute.
What beats cute?” I snipped.

“Boobs.”

“Right . . . of course.
Boobs
beats cute.” I glared at him sideways. He had his head turned and tilted back, his hand hanging languidly out the window.

“You don’t even know the girl, Holly.”

This thing with Nils and girls started junior year with Keri Blumenthal, a pool party, and a stupid green bikini. Then before I could blink, my friend was gone and in his place was this dumb dude who
loved
Keri Blumenthal and lame bikinis and even though I’m
loath
to admit it, this is when things really changed for us. Keri Blumenthal wedged a wall between us. Fourteen days they lasted and still, when they went bust, that dumb wall stayed intact. “She talks like a baby,” I said.

“Holly.”

“And why does she wear those clothes?”

“Comfort . . . social conventions . . .”

“Not
any
clothes, pervert. Those
particular
clothes.”

“Holly. Come on.”

“Seriously, what’s the deal with her and Epstein? Is that for reals, or no?”

“I dunno . . .”

“I just don’t understand why you like her. You’re better than—”

“Holly.” He sat up really quick and grabbed my hand. “Stop it. Okay?” He tightened his grip and creepy tingles rolled up my arm. “I’m not gonna marry the girl.”

I looked back at the road, mimicking Nora’s babyish lilt. “You’re not?”

Nils dropped my hand. “You’re a weirdo, Holly.”

I pursed my lips. “At least I’m not a baby with . . . big boobies.”

“Weirdo.”

I slapped him hard on the arm and turned up my driveway. We both laughed.

•    •    •

I parted ways with Nils and beelined for the fridge. Harry was at my heels begging for food, so I unwrapped a single slice of American-flavored soy cheese, rolled half into a little ball, and dropped the other half on the floor. He inhaled the thing in two seconds flat, not even stopping to chew.

I walked to my bedroom, simultaneously nibbling on my little ball of fake cheese and taking off my clothes, item by
item. I slipped on my running shorts and a tank, grabbed Harry’s leash, and poked my head into Jeff and Mom’s room on my way to the back door. She’d been gone six months and somehow, the entire place still smelled like her: rose oil and castile soap. I don’t know how that happens, someone dies and their scent stays behind. Jeff hadn’t changed a thing. All her clothes were still on their racks in the closet, her perfume on the vanity, her face creams and make up in the little bathroom off their bedroom. Most days it was easy to pretend she was still around. Out at the store. On a walk. In the garden. Out with Jeff.

So I took the dog out running. Up the canyon, past Ms. Penn’s place with that wicker chair she has tied to a rope so it hangs from her tree like a swing; up Pawnee Lane, past Nora Bittenbender’s, past Red Rock Road, and out into town. I bought a ginger ale at the Nature Mart and walked back most of the way, trying to keep twigs and rocks out of Harry’s mouth.

Later that night, around seven, Jeff came home.

“Hi, Dollface.” He kissed my forehead and took a bottle of seltzer out of the fridge. He held it to his neck, then took a long swig, settling into his favorite wooden chair. “What’s for dinner?”

“Tacos, maybe? I was thinking I’d drive down to Pepe’s. Another night of pasta, I just might hurl.”

Jeff laughed his sad little Jeff laugh and kicked off his
loafers. “’Kay, sounds good to me, whatever you want.” Then he handed me a twenty. I put Harry in the car because he loves hanging his head out the window at night while I drive, and we sped down the hill, to the beach, to Pepe’s, where I bought eight tacos: four potato, two fried fish, two chicken. I kept the warm white bag in my lap on the drive back, away from Harry, and thought about Mom for a second or two. Specifically, her hair: long and thick and dark, like mine. I sang along to a song on the radio I didn’t really know the words to, and when my cell rang, I checked the caller ID but I didn’t pick up. I didn’t recognize the number.

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.

T
URN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT

L
AUREN
S
TRASNICK’S

HER AND ME AND YOU

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.

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 couch 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.”