Part 4 (2/2)

”Hey, Mom,” I say casually as I climb into the pa.s.senger seat.

”Where's Rachel?” she asks.

”She's staying,” I tell her, my voice wavering.

”Well, how was it, honey?” my mother asks, quickly putting the car in drive.

She looks so tired. I'd bet all of my best drawing pencils that I look the same.

”It was fine,” I reply.

Except everything isn't fine. I sit on my bed, staring across the room at the map pinned to the wall. Nothing is fine at all, actually. I am mad. Mad at Rachel for being different from how she's always been and for being obsessed with ”everyone who's anyone” and for wanting to be accepted by the Nasties when they won't even open their circle to her. How could she ditch me at the bonfire, leaving me by myself to talk to Damian? How could she make me walk out of that field alone? I'm mad at her for her stupid valley girl voice and her tight miniskirt and her green eye shadow and her dumb crush on Josh. Jos.h.!.+ Whom she's never spoken to, who probably doesn't remember

44.

her name, who probably has never read a book in his whole stupid life.

”Auggghhh!” I cry and pound my fists against the comforter, ”I hate her!” And I burst into tears. Fat, hot, angry tears that course down my cheeks in a very satisfying way, while snot leaks from my nose. I sob like this until I can't catch my breath and can only gasp.

I cry like this a lot. It's like someone has hooked up my tear ducts to the county water line. Ever since the funeral.

Funeral.

Damian was at the funeral, in a dark gray suit. His eyes were dark, dull as lead. Dead. But not dead like Nate's. I remember my mother had walked up to Damian after the service and asked him to leave. She had sounded so cold. So furious and hateful. And Damian had looked as though he'd been struck. Stunned, he'd blinked and stared back at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before he turned and left the cemetery.

It's so easy to blame Damian for that night -- for Nate getting so angry over Julie breaking up with him that he jumped in his car, picked up Damian, then flew off into the darkness without his headlights like a demon. It's so easy to think that Damian should have made Nate stop, turn on the headlights, hand over the keys.

I wish I could stop thinking about this, thinking about

45.

Nate. It's constant, and it leaves me feeling dead myself. Or dying. Yet in these moments of silence and loneliness, it's as though I've stuck my toe in the cold, cold ocean. And I get caught, turned upside down in a riptide as my mind skips over to him all of its own volition. Then comes the instant when I lose my breath and feel the freezing water tumbling, battering, covering me, and it's the most painful tug of my heart, an aching hollowness that never stops, as I remember over and over, like the never-ending waves of the ocean, that I won't ever see him again. He's gone.

But Damian ... this is something different. Somehow, at the bonfire, he seemed thoughtful, subdued. He looked so serious, so different from the laughing, easygoing guy I remember, the delinquent bad boy who had been my brother's partner in crime, in detention and suspension.

More than that, though, tonight, in all his earnestness -- well, he looked kind of cute. Really cute, actually. Intense. I get a s.h.i.+ver as I recall his face and those haunting, haunted gray eyes.

This is ridiculous. He is nothing but trouble, and that is all there is to it.

The tears have dried, and I've finally stopped gasping and croaking like an asthmatic bullfrog, so I reach over and turn off the night table light. I try to will myself to sleep before any more absurd notions can creep into my brain.

46.

Now that the first couple of weeks of school have pa.s.sed, the days begin to feel routine, and I find I don't have to double-check the schedule I taped to the inside of my locker anymore. I think I can even almost forget about the funny looks from other kids in the hallways and cla.s.srooms, the hesitant, awkward intonations of my teacher's voices when they address me, when I imagine they see Nate's face instead of my own.

The linoleum and cinder-block gloom of the place is the perfect backdrop to the callous shouts and raucous laughter that seem to perpetually fill the halls, muting everything. It suits my mood very well.

As I jog into homeroom one sunny late September morning, a second ahead of the late bell, I see Rachel bent over her desk, her shoulders shaking and her knees drawn up to her chest. Carolyn Wright, Callie Rountree, and Susan Meredith are sitting at their desks, glancing at her, and laughing softly, covering their mouths as though they don't want her to see they are laughing at her, I don't know if Rachel is laughing or crying. So I race over to her and throw my bag down on the ground, my arm around her shoulder, and a glare at these girls who used to be my friends. B.T.A.

”What's wrong? Rach, are you okay?” I ask.

Rachel looks up and then I can see that she has been laughing. Small drops of moisture leak from the corners of her eyes. She is shaking helplessly. The other girls are laughing out loud, too, now.

47.

”What is it?” I begin to smile in that I don't know what's going on but you all look pretty freaking funny and I'll laugh because you are way. Rachel is trying -- and failing miserably -- to gain control. She just keeps giggling. ”Oh my gosh, tell me! What happened?”

”Oh --” Rachel gasps, and hugs her knees tighter.

”Seriously! Tell me!” I can feel my chest getting tight with the giggles, too. ”What!”

Rachel just shakes her head and points to her feet, which are tucked up on her chair. I bend down and look at her feet. ”So?” I ask, confused.

”Look!” Rachel pushes her chair back and holds her legs straight out. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the tops of her toes. Ah. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the toes, and they are two different colors. She has on a navy shoe on the left foot and a black one on the right. In the light, the difference is plain to see.

Callie, Carolyn, Susan, Rachel, and I launch into fresh gales of laughter.

”Oh, you're such a dork! How did you do that?” I ask, trying to s.n.a.t.c.h a breath.

”I-It was dark when I got dressed,” Rachel manages to explain. ”What am I going to do?” she howls. ”I can't walk around like this all day! I'll never live it down!” She lets out a loud guffaw.

”I can't believe you own the same pair of shoes in two colors!” Callie says.

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