Part 10 (1/2)

”s.h.i.+t,” Melanie says. ”Caitlin, do you you have a cigarette?” have a cigarette?”

I a.s.sume that she's already asked everyone else there. I'm her last chance.

”Sorry,” I tell her.

And for some reason, that breaks the ice.

”So, you were, like, best friends with Ingrid Bauer, right?” Metallica Girl asks.

”Yeah.”

Oily-Hair Guy asks, ”Did you know she was gonna do it? Like, did she tell you about it first?”

He says this like it's a completely normal question, like it's fine to ask people you don't know to tell you the details of the worst things that ever happened to them. It catches me off guard. I don't know how to react, so I just answer him.

”No.”

”Too bad for you,” says Metallica Girl.

The guy says, ”I heard she slashed her wrists, right? That's awesome. It's not like just offing yourself with a gun or like carbon monoxide or something. Cutting yourself that f.u.c.king deep takes b.a.l.l.s, you know?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

One of the cardplayers, still looking down at his cards, says, ”My cousin's boyfriend threw himself off the Golden Gate Bridge, which is pretty sick, but I agree: it's easier than wrist slas.h.i.+ng. You have to cut all the way through the tendon, you know. Most people get weak and pa.s.s out while they're doing it.”

”What makes you such an expert?” Metallica Girl snaps.

”I was seriously considering doing it,” the boy says, pus.h.i.+ng up his gla.s.ses. ”In eighth grade. I did a little research.”

”You f.u.c.king loser,” says the other cardplayer. ”You f.u.c.king s.h.i.+thead loser. No one does research research.”

I have no idea who these people are. I look at Melanie. She's digging through Oily-Hair Boy's backpack now.

”Stop it,” he whines.

The baseball field stretches in front of us-perfectly mowed lawn, neat brown mounds of dirt at the bases. I imagine myself walking to the middle of it and collapsing there. I see a scene play out like in those movies where they speed up time; where you see a plant sprout through dirt, bloom, and die in less than a minute. Except this time it moves backward. I fall asleep on the field; the blue sky turns gray then purple then black. The stars come out. The moon goes down. The sun rises. A year undoes itself. I move a little. I'm wearing different clothes, last year's clothes. The warning bell rings. I stand, reach for my backpack. It's lighter. I walk to first period, sit down next to Ingrid.

Melanie jumps to her feet, shattering my fantasy. She yells, ”I need a cigarette!” ”I need a cigarette!” And I have no idea what pa.s.sed between us that day at the mall, because I don't feel anything now. And I have no idea what pa.s.sed between us that day at the mall, because I don't feel anything now.

I don't want to hear another word that any of them say, so I lift my heavy backpack to my shoulders and start down the bleachers.

”See you later,” I mumble, and manage to get through the fence without snagging anything. It isn't much of a victory, but at this moment it feels close.

3.

Dylan isn't in cla.s.s yet when I walk into English. I sit in my usual seat, get out the anthology, and force myself not to look up when people enter the room. They walk right past me, and I still keep my head down. Then I hear footsteps, and I know they're hers. She pauses right by my desk, probably waiting for me to look up. When I don't move, she sits behind me where she usually does.

”Hey,” she says. ”Where were you?”

She doesn't sound angry, and I realize that it isn't too late to turn back-I could think of some convincing excuse. I could say I'm sorry.

But I stay concentrated on the page. I don't even know what I'm looking at. Some poem. My eyes are so tired they won't focus on the words.

”I ran into some people,” I say, and with that sentence, the damage is done.

”Who?” Dylan asks, now sounding p.i.s.sed off.

”Just some people.”

She doesn't say anything. I know that I should turn around and face her, but I don't.

Finally, I hear her mutter, ”Whatever.” The metal creaks as she leans back, hard, in her chair.

Soon Mr. Robertson comes in and starts lecturing. All through cla.s.s Dylan swings her foot back and forth, kicking the leg of her desk with her boot, and even though I can hardly feel it, I want to flinch each time she makes contact.

The period pa.s.ses agonizingly. As soon as the bell rings, Dylan grabs her stuff and storms out without looking back. I take my time getting to my locker, and by the time I make it to the science building, Dylan is gone.

4.

Vista High School has tons of money, way more money than it could ever need. Because all the parents in Los Cerros are so rich, they're always writing checks to the school to fund the musicals, or the dances, or the smart kids' trips to Europe, where they tour museums by day and get drunk and go dancing at night. On one hand, it's pretty nice that we can have basically everything we want, but on the other, it makes me kind of uncomfortable. Amanda, Davey's fiancee, teaches history in the city and the books they use are so old that the covers have fallen off.

Sometimes, I feel a little guilty about all the stuff we have-our brand-new textbooks, the indoor swimming pool, the never-ending supply of photo paper and film. But at this moment I'm feeling pretty good about it all, because I'm hiding out in a s.h.i.+ny new bathroom that no one seems to know about yet. It seems completely unnecessary. It's between the math hall and the science hall, both of which also have bathrooms. But I'm not complaining. I'm sitting in an impossibly clean stall with the door shut, just in case someone comes in. Lunch is half over, and I'm a few pages into my treehouse book. It says that I'm going to need bolts, because nails and screws aren't strong enough.

On a piece of binder paper, I've sketched a plan. It's a view from the top of the tree, looking down. The trunk is in the middle, and around it is the floor-a hexagon. I'm not sure yet how long each side will be, or how wide, but I want it to be pretty big, not the kind of treehouse you feel like you have to get down and crawl around in. I want to be able to walk from side to side, to have an armchair in one corner, and a table with two more chairs against a wall. I know I want it to have lots of openings so daylight and air can come in. I'll have to think of a way to close the openings, though, in case it rains.

When the bell rings, and lunch is over, I decide to come back here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I tell myself it really isn't that bad.

5.

Taylor and I sit on the soccer field, looking through one of the huge mathematician books he checked out from the library.

”This guy looks kind of cool,” he says. ”He was obsessed with clocks.”

I'm trying to pay attention to what he's saying, but whenever I glance at the book I end up noticing how his eyelashes turn white at the tips. I keep forcing myself to resist touching them.

”Oh, crazy! This one guy went to prison for fraud!”

I reach over to grab one of the books and my knee presses against his. He doesn't pull away, doesn't even seem to notice. I feel my face getting hot. I open the book and try to focus. All I can do is wonder if Taylor knows that our knees are touching. I move mine away, just the tiniest bit.