Part 36 (1/2)

”An ex-friend?” I loathed myself for the way my voice broke over the words and for the tears starting to well behind my eyes. Hadn't I already known that Trista and I weren't really friends?

”It's over, Cara. I have to cut you loose. It was good talking to you about things, though. I really did like it.”

”What if I promise not to say anything bad about you?”

Trista shook her head. ”You could change your mind. And later there might be people who'd believe you. Good luck with the cleaning.”

She had backed me out as she spoke and now shut the door in my face.

Had I just begged her to stay my friend?

I walked to the staircase landing and looked down over the horror of a house. I could see the very beginnings of sunrise through the window. Dad and the Bar Wench were coming back ”in the late afternoon,” which meant I had to start cleaning now, but even then it was doubtful I'd make enough progress. I collapsed into a chair to think about where to begin......and woke up with the sun glaring in on me. What time was it? I picked my way downstairs and into the family room, stepping lightly over strewn bodies that made the house look like the Normandy sh.o.r.e at D-day. I peered at the clock on the mantel: twelve thirty.

Twelve thirty.

No. Nonononononono.

A million sirens screamed in my head. I was still wearing my dress. Could I get away with it? No. I had lain in G.o.d knows what when I fell asleep, and brown goo smeared down one side. I raced to the guest room, yanked off the dress, and pulled on a cute skirt and top from my duffle bag.

I peeked in the bathroom mirror. My curls were matted down on one side from sleeping on them. Luckily I had an elastic, and I pulled together a ponytail. Makeup had smeared my face into a preschool finger painting. I sopped up the worst with a wet washcloth. No time to shower, but I reeked of alcohol. I scoured the vanity for perfume but found only air freshener. It would have to do. I sprayed it all over my body, then raced downstairs.

My phone. Where was my phone? I ran back up, but I couldn't find it with my stuff. I grabbed one of Dad's cordless phones and called my number, running from room to room and listening for the ring.

When I got to the pub room, I saw my cell sitting on the bar. It wasn't ringing. I hadn't charged it and it was dead. It was amazing I'd even found it. I hoped that was a good omen.

I ran back upstairs. If I murdered the speed limit, there was a chance I'd still make it for Dean Jaffe. Yes, it meant leaving Dad with a filthy house full of sleeping strangers-which was incomprehensible-but at that moment the alternative seemed even worse.

I drove no less than eighty miles an hour the whole way and walked into my house at exactly one o'clock. I wasn't early like Karl had wanted, but I was right on time.

”Hi!” I called.

Karl and Mom were sitting in the family room, all dressed up. Mom looked like she had been crying, which made no sense at all. Maybe her allergies were acting up. Dean Jaffe wasn't there yet. I walked in and stood between them. ”Are you guys as excited as I am?”

”Hey, Cara,” Karl said cheerily, ”how come you smell like boozy air freshener and look like a two-bit prost.i.tute after a rough night?”

”What?”

”Dean Jaffe left a half hour ago,” Mom said. ”Lunch was at noon. We asked you to be home at eleven.”

”No! Lunch was one o'clock! I know it was one o'clock!”

”Noon,” Karl said. ”But of course being a Northwestern man, Dean Jaffe was here early, at eleven forty-five. By noon he was concerned that you hadn't arrived. By twelve fifteen he suspected this was your way of showing your uncertainty about Northwestern. By twelve thirty he decided that you weren't mature enough to attend his school. Congratulations, Cara. You've officially ruined your life.”

The phone rang. Neither Mom nor Karl showed any interest in answering it, until Mom noticed the caller ID. She looked at the phone like it was an alien, then reached over and picked it up.

”Lenny?”

Chapter Thirty-Five.

In one of the Elizabeth George mysteries I'd been reading, a vicar dies by hemlock poisoning. The vicar knew he was dying but was powerless to do anything about it as he suffered forceful seizure after seizure. His tongue swelled to several times its size, filling his mouth and cutting off his air. It succeeded in doing this despite the fact that the vicar had nearly managed to chew it off. He had clawed his face in agony, one of his eyeb.a.l.l.s had burst from the pressure of his asphyxiation, and he was tortured to the point where it must have been sheer, blissful pleasure to surrender to death.

My next several hours were a lot like that.

Not surprisingly, Dad had called because he had come back early from the sh.o.r.e to find Hiros.h.i.+ma in his house. Even across our living room, I could hear the Bar Wench screeching, ”My underwear drawer!” in the background.

From the second-hand description I got through my mom, it sounded like the remaining party guests were in no hurry to leave, so the Bar Wench had Dad call the police. That got rid of everyone, though there was still a mess of epic proportions. I of course volunteered to clean it up, but Mom said they were getting a professional cleaning crew. I was no longer welcome anywhere near Dad's house. If I showed up there, the Bar Wench swore she'd get a restraining order. Dad himself wasn't talking about legal action, but he did have Mom tell me that right now, he had no desire to see me ever again.

This was bad enough, but of course the phone call led Mom and Karl to ask a rash of obvious questions. What the h.e.l.l was I doing at my dad's house when I was supposed to be at a party at Trista's, for example. And since when the h.e.l.l was I even talking to my dad at all?

Much as I begged the ground to open up and swallow me whole, it somehow failed to do so, which meant I actually had to stand there and explain everything to them. Every lie, every deception, every intricate, layered ruse.

Mom sobbed. Karl seethed.

And when it was over, they kept sobbing and seething. They didn't scream. They didn't shout. Karl didn't calmly hand down one of his baroque punishments. They just sat there. For ages. Finally Karl turned to Mom and quietly asked, ”How come Lenny's the lucky one who doesn't have to see her again?”

”I wish I knew,” Mom said.

I stood there, waiting for my punishment, my lecture, something-but nothing ever came.

I went up to my room, but I didn't know what to do with myself. There was no one I could call. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I felt too much. I felt guilty and heartbroken. I felt furious at Trista, at Ree-Ree, at Eddie... but mostly at myself. I hated myself. I loathed myself. I desperately wanted to get away from myself, to disconnect, to shut myself off and escape my own brain.

I grabbed the car keys.

I knew Mom and Karl wouldn't stop me. It seemed I was as dead to them as I wanted to be to myself. Remembering Trista's advice, I eschewed Dunkin' Donuts and went straight for the McDonald's drive-through. I didn't get a burger. I got four thirty-two-ounce Chocolate Triple Thick Shakes and five large orders of french fries. I popped the top on one of the shakes immediately and started dipping and munching as I drove home. It felt good. I didn't have to think. I could concentrate on my favorite mix of flavors: the crispy saltiness of the fries and the sweet, smooth richness of the shake.

When I got home, I noticed Karl's car wasn't there. He and mom must have gone out. Good. Better.

I put the top back on the shake, grabbed my tray of drinks and bag of fries, ran up to my room, and shut the door. I tried to eat slowly so I could savor the taste, but that left too much time to think. It was better, far better, if I just stuffed-dipped and ate, dipped and ate, dipped and ate, breaking it up every now and then with a huge swig of shake.

By the time I was halfway through the feast my stomach felt painfully distended, and I didn't even like the taste of fries and shake anymore, but if I stopped, I'd have to go back to feeling, and that wasn't an option. So I kept going. I wanted the dipping, eating, and swigging to go on forever.

Too soon it was over. I'd finished everything, and I was left with nothing but the feeling of all that food-a thick poison slos.h.i.+ng in my belly. I thought I might throw up without even trying.

I crawled into the bathroom and shut the door. I had never asked Trista how she made herself throw up. I just a.s.sumed she stuck her finger down her throat. I lifted the lid of the toilet. The faint scent of disinfectant filled my nose and made me even more nauseous.

Good. Maybe that would help.

I leaned forward, resting my forearm on the edge of the toilet seat and reaching a finger down my throat as far as it could go.

I gagged. I coughed.

I didn't throw up.

I tried it again and again. My fingernails rasped the back of my throat.