Sloth

Chapter 2

Adam was waiting on his front stoop when the car pulled into the driveway.

At first, he didn’t move, just watched as Mrs. Grace climbed out of the rusty Volvo, then scurried around to the passenger’s side to help her daughter.

Harper shrugged her off.

If you didn’t know her, she would have looked perfectly normal, Adam mused. Aside from a few fading scratches on her face and neck, and a long scar on her left arm, she looked totally fine. The same. And from a distance, you couldn’t even see that much; he’d only noticed the scar this afternoon at the rally, sitting behind her, close enough to see the thin white line arcing across her unusually pale skin, close enough for her to see him-and turn away.

From this distance, all he could see was her wild hair curling around her face, and the syncopated rhythm of her walk-not the familiar stride of superiority, as if she were a wealthy landowner touring her property, but a more tentative, irregular gait, small nervous steps that favored her right leg.

He called out; she didn’t stop. But she was moving slowly enough that he could catch her.

“Adam, what a pleasant surprise,” Amanda Grace said, favoring him with her unintentionally condescending smile-at least, he’d always assumed it was unintentional. Amanda Grace had always been nothing but kind to the boy next door, and probably had no idea how obvious her disdain for his mother or his circumstances truly was.

By any objective standard, her family was worse off than his-after all, his mother was the top Realtor in town, while the Graces ran a dry cleaners that even in good years barely broke even. But Adam and his trailer park refugee mother had poor white trash written all over them-and his mother’s not-so-circumspect bed-hopping didn’t help matters-while the Graces had their name.

It was pretty much all they had, aside from the stately but dilapidated home left over from boom times, but in the town of Grace, California, surrounded by Grace Library, Grace Hospital, Grace Retirement Village, their name was enough.

“Would you like to come inside, Adam?” she asked, putting a hand on Harpers shoulder; Harper squirmed away. “I’m sure you could use a home-cooked meal.”

“I’m sure he’s got other plans,” Harper said, her glare making it clear to Adam that if he didn’t, he’d better make some.

“In that case, I’ll give you two a chance to talk. Don’t stay out too long, hon,” she cautioned Harper as she stepped inside the house. “You need your rest.”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

Adam tasted victory. He was sure Harper had been about to duck inside as well-but now that her mother had cautioned her, Adam knew she’d stay out as long as possible. Even if it meant talking to him.

“What do you want?” she asked, and again, if you didn’t know her, you’d think her voice perfectly pleasant. But Adam knew her-had grown up with her, briefly dated her, been betrayed by her, was finished with her-or so he’d thought, until he realized what “finished” could mean.

“Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said. “You haven’t been returning my phone calls, and this afternoon we… didn’t get a chance to talk.” Because she’d kept her back to him the whole time and had left as quickly as she could.

“How sweet,” she said coolly. “Thank you for asking. I’m fine, as you can see. So…?”

“So?” he repeated hopefully, after a long pause.

“So is there anything else?”

“Oh.” Adam looked down at his scuffed sneakers. “I thought we could hang out,” he suggested. “We could go get some coffee, or just, you know, go out back. On the rock.”

On our rock, he wanted to say, the large, flat bed of granite that separated their two backyards, where they’d played G.I. Joes, shared their secrets, kissed under the moonlight.

“I’m not really in the rock-sitting mood,” she told him.

“Then let’s go out,” he pressed. “There’s some band playing at the Lost and Found, and-”

“What band?”

Was that honest curiosity in her voice?

“Something like Blind Rabbits. Or maybe Blind Apes? I don’t know-it’s just some guys from school, and I’m sure they suck, but-”

“What do you want from me, Adam?” The curiosity- and all other emotion-was gone from her face. And in its blankness, it looked familiar. It looked like Kaia.

“Nothing. Just-I thought we could have some fun together. I want…” Screw the casual act, he decided. Nothing between them had ever been casual, and she couldn’t change that just by pretending they were strangers. “I want to be there for you, Gracie.” She flinched at the sound of her old nickname, but her face stayed blank. “I want to be your friend.”

“You can’t always get what you want,” she half said, half sang, in a tuneless rendition of the Rolling Stones lyric. “And I’m not granting wishes these days. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

He has never seen her look so small, or so pale. She is swaddled in white sheets, her bandaged arms exposed and lying flat at her sides. He tries to ignore the tubes and wires, the intimidating machines with their flashing lights and insistent beeping.

Her eyes are closed. She’s only sleeping, he tells himself.

But it’s difficult to believe that when she’s so pale and still.

The last time he spoke to her, he told her she was worthless- that he would be better off without her in his life. Everyone would be better off, he’d suggested. She told him she loved him. And he told her it wasn’t love-it couldn’t be, because she didn’t have that in her. He’d sent her away.

And then she’d appeared onstage, drugged out and miserable, begging him to take her back in front of the whole school.

He’d been humiliated. Enraged. Until he got the phone call.

He sits down on the small plastic folding chair next to her bed and cradles her hand in his, careful not to move her arm. He doesn’t want to hurt her. She doesn’t wake up.

The room is empty. Her parents are in the cafeteria. The nurse just left. Adam is alone, and he can say what he needs to say. Even if she can’t hear him.

“Please be okay,” he begs her. “I need you.”

He wishes she would open her eyes. Or squeeze his hand.

Talk to her, they’d told him. It can help.

“Remember when we were in fourth grade and I forgot my permission slip for that trip to the amusement park?” he asks. He feels stupid, even though there’s no one to hear. But he keeps going. “And I started crying in front of everyone when Mrs. Webber told me I couldn’t go? You tore your permission slip in half so you’d have to stay there with me. You missed out on your first roller coaster-” He stops and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to remember. “Just for me,” he whispers. He wants to lay his head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat, confirm that it’s steady and strong. But there are too many bandages and wires, and he’s afraid he could hurt her. Even more.

He leans down, his face close to hers, and for a moment he is tempted to kiss her, convinced that, like Sleeping Beauty, the touch of his lips might bring her back. Instead, he rests his head on the pillow next to hers and whispers. He asks her to wake up. He tells her, again, that he needs her.

Still, she sleeps.

Adam lies motionless for a moment, watching her breathe, soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of the white sheets. Then he sits up, stands, and says good-bye.

“I’ve got to go,” he says. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be back tomorrow. ”

If he had forgiven her sooner, and she hadn’t made that speech…

If he had caught her before she had run out of the building…

If he had followed her to the parking lot, stopped her from getting into the car…

He knows she can’t hear him, but he says it again. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Harper said, and the artificially casual tone was back in her voice. “I’ve got all the friends I need right now, and like I say, I’m fine, so you can forget that whole guilty conscience thing.”

“That’s not-”

“Better get inside now,” she said, staring at a point over his shoulder. “Or my mother will send the dogs out for me. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Harper, if we could just-”

“See you around.” She turned her back on him and walked inside the house.

Adam wasn’t ready to go home. No one was waiting for him there. So he circled around the back of his house and hoisted himself up onto their rock. He could see Harper’s bedroom window; the shades were drawn. He lay back against the cool granite, staring up at the hazy sky, tinged with a grayish purple.

He thought he should be angry, or sorry, or hopeless. But he was just tired. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep.

“Dude, get up!”

“Whuh…?” Reed Sawyer propped himself up and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. A thick fog hung over his brain, courtesy of a mid-afternoon toke and nap session. But gradually, the blur of noise and color resolved itself into comprehensible details, and the world clicked back into place.

The cold, hard metal beneath him-the hood of his bandmate’s car.

The loud voice harshing his buzz, the heavy hand shaking him awake-said bandmate.

The big emergency-a gig, their first in weeks. Tonight. Now.

Reed nodded to himself as the facts crawled back into his brain. He lay back against the hood and pulled out another joint. His fingers fumbled with the lighter, but it lit up, and a moment later, so did he.

He sucked in and grinned. That first lungful was his favorite part, the sweet familiar burn spreading through his body. Peace.

“What s with you-get the hell up!” The hand was shaking him again. His eyes had slipped closed without him noticing. Things were easier in the dark.

“Chill, Fish,” he groaned. “I’m up.”

“The gear’s packed up, we’ve got to go,” Fish complained. “What’s with you, man? Do you want to be late?”

Did he want to be late? Reed didn’t want… anything. To want, you had to think about the future, you had to think outside the moment. Reed drew in another lungful of smoke. Thinking about the future only led you to the past; it was safer to stay in the present.

“I’m coming,” he said, digging into the pocket of his jeans to make sure he had his lucky guitar pick. “In a minute.”

“Right.” Fish grabbed his arm and dragged him up. “Get your ass off my car. You’re coming now.” He rolled his eyes and, with a laugh, grabbed the joint out of Reed’s hand. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to share?”

As they ambled toward the van, Fish babbled about the gig, about possibilities, new songs, recording, making it big. Pointless dreams, Reed realized that now. But he kept his mouth shut.

The band didn’t seem to matter much to him these days. Nothing did. Not since-

Before it happened, he’d almost gotten himself kicked out of school. He’d refused to apologize for something he hadn’t done. It had seemed so important then: upholding his honor. Telling the truth.

At the thought of it, Reed almost laughed. What the hell was the difference? That’s what he’d figured out, after the accident. It didn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. If life wanted to kick you in the ass, no one could stop it. If the universe wanted to take away the one thing that mattered…

So he’d given in. He confessed, he took the suspension, went back to school. It was what everyone wanted, and that made it easy. He hadn’t stopped to think about what he wanted. Because he didn’t want anything. Not anymore.

“We got a surprise for you.” Fish ran a hand through his greasy blond hair-he’d decided the tousled, windblown look would get him more girls. Stuck at the back of the stage, behind the drums, only his head was visible, he always pointed out. He couldn’t do anything about his face, but the hair was a constant work in progress.

“Uh-huh.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No.”

“You don’t want a surprise?” Fish asked, sounding put out.

“Do I get a choice?”

Fish shrugged. “Good point.” They’d reached the van, and Reed headed toward the driver’s seat, as always. But Fish pushed him toward the back. “Not today. I’m driving, Hale has shotgun. You’re in back.”

Reed shook his head and slung himself into the van- nearly landing in the lap of a tall, skinny brunette who was sprawled along the length of the backseat. Her legs were nearly bare, along with the rest of her.

“Uh… Fish?”

“Surprise!” Hale chuckled and twisted around to face the backseat. “Reed, meet Sandra. We thought she could cheer you up. She’s a big fan.” Hale’s hands flickered briefly at his chest, universal code for bigness of a certain shape and form. Reed didn’t need the tip. Sandra was bulging out of a tight leather halter top, her breasts seeming ready to escape at any moment.

“The boys told me I could ride along with you,” Sandra said, in a soft, flighty voice. “Hope you don’t mind.”

He didn’t want to touch her; but she was lying across his seat and showed no sign of moving. He nudged her gently and squeezed himself in. She grabbed his hand. “I love guitarists,” she said, massaging his fingers. “Such a strong grip, all that flexibility-”

“Let’s get going,” Reed said. He leaned against the dirty window and stared out at the dull scenery. He tried to ignore the pressure of Sandra’s body leaning against his, and the way her fingers were playing up and down his thigh. The bar was close. They’d be there soon.

“Whatcha thinking about?” she asked, after a few minutes of silence.

“Nothing.”

He wished it were true. But every time he tried to wipe his mind, the words came back. Her voice. It was his own fault-he’d listened to the voice mail, the last voice mail, so often that he’d memorized it. And even now, wishing he could forget it, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice.

Reed, I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I need to tell you that I’m sorry. I was wrong, about everything.

Then there was a pause, and a loud, deep breath.

I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me, but-

Her voice shook on the word.

I need to talk to you, to explain. Just call me back. Please. Because I-

Another pause. And this one was the worst, because he would never know what Kaia was about to say. And because he knew the last two words would be the last, and she would never know if he accepted them.

I’m sorry.

The joint was burned out, and he lit another one.

“The strong, silent type,” Sandra said, winding her finger through one of his curls. “I like.” She edged closer.

He inhaled deeply, blew out a puff of smoke, and waited for the calm to settle over him again. There was no other escape.

The timing was suspicious. An hour after the Adam encounter and Miranda called, suggesting-quel coincidence!-a night out at the Lost and Found to see the Blind Monkeys. Harper may have taken a hiatus from scheming, but she recognized the signs; so Miranda and Adam were teaming up to drag her out of the house and back to “normal” life? So be it. She had her own reasons for wanting to suffer through a Blind Monkeys performance; and if she ran into Adam, at least she’d be ready.

She just wasn’t ready to face the rest of the senior class, Miranda having neglected to mention that the band was playing the official opening event for Senior Spirit Week. That meant crowds, noise, gossip, a night of public posturing… and no alcohol to dull the pain. At the request of Haven High, the Lost and Found had gone dry for the night, and Harper was left with few options. She and Miranda pulled two chairs up to a tiny, filthy table and set down their Cokes.

“This sucks,” she complained, trying to make herself heard over the noise passing as music that was blasting out of a nearby speaker.

“What?” Miranda mouthed.

“This sucks!” Harper shouted. Miranda just shook her head, miming frustration. It was too loud for anything else. “I shouldn’t have come,” Harper said at normal volume, relishing the strange sensation of knowing no one would hear. “I hate-” She stopped, as the lyrics became clear.

Get out of my dreams.

Get out of my head.

Will I have to stick around this hell,

When I’m the one who’s dead?

It was a shit song, but she knew who’d written it, and why. She’d wanted to see him-not speak to him, of course, but just watch him. Reed Sawyer, Kaia’s… whatever. He was hunched over the mic, dark, shaggy hair falling across his glassy eyes, his voice coarse and throaty, scraping across the so-called melody.

She’d seen this band play once before, she suddenly realized. Months before, she’d come here with Adam, desperately hoping he would finally make his move, ending their friendship and starting something new. She’d come with Adam-but she’d left alone. And Adam had left with Kaia. Harper had cried and raged, while Kaia had whisked Adam away to an abandoned motel, laid him back on a sunken mattress, and fulfilled his fantasies.

Harper could still picture them together, in a dark recess of the bar, Kaia’s hands in his hair, Kaia’s tongue in his mouth. And the Blind Monkeys blasting in the background, shaking the floor as Harper stood perfectly still, trying not to scream.

That bitch, Harper thought, before she could stop herself. Then she felt sick. I never should have come back here.

“I have to get out of here,” she told Miranda. But Miranda only looked at her quizzically and took another sip of her soda. “I HAVE TO GO!”

Miranda nodded and, totally misunderstanding, pointed off to the left, toward the bathrooms.

Harper already knew where they were. It’s where Adam had gone that night. He’d stood up from their table, headed for the bathrooms-and had never come back.

Maybe he’d had the right idea.

She made it outside before realizing she had nowhere to go. Miranda had the car keys, and it was too far to walk-especially when everything already felt so sore. Maybe it would be enough to stand outside, breathe some of that fresh air everyone always claimed was so helpful. She could wait it out. Maybe, eventually, she’d be able to go back inside.

Maybe not.

Harper leaned against the dank brick wall of the bar, not caring about the gunk that would surely rub off on her gauzy white shirt. Her leg hurt, her head hurt, and she needed some support. The wall would have to do.

“Who let you back out on the streets?” Kane smirked and leaned an arm against the wall, giving Harper a sardonic grin.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just need to know who I should complain to,” he teased. She rolled her eyes and turned away-he was sure it was to hide a smile. “Good to see you up and out, Grace.”

“Miss me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t say that-but you know I’ve got a low tolerance for boredom. And you definitely make things interesting.”

“Gosh, I’m overwhelmed by your kindness and affection. Is this the part where you hug me and ask me how I’m doing?” Her tone was mocking, but Kane could tell she expected exactly that-and dreaded it.

Instead, he laughed. “You have been away for a long time,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would I want to know how you’re doing? I just want to know if you’ve got a cigarette.”

That earned him his first real smile. And a pack of Camel Reds. He pulled one out, tossed the pack back to her, and took his time lighting up. “So…,” he finally said. “Are we going in, or what?”

She waved lazily toward the entrance. “You go. Say hi to the pep squad for me. And enjoy your ginger ale.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’d rather bash my head into this wall than go back inside,” she said bitterly. “But hey, be my guest.”

“Better idea.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and cocked his head toward the parking lot. Translation: Let’s get out of here and get into some trouble. “ You in?”

“Let me just text Miranda,” she said, whipping out her cell phone, “and then”-she did some rapid-fire number punching and flicked it shut again-”we’re out of here.”

She stumbled on the way to the car, and he caught her before she fell; but he resisted the urge to help her inside the silver Camaro. She was back on two feet again-she could do it herself. Or at least, he concluded, she thought she could. He slammed the door shut, started the car, slipped in his favorite CD and turned the pulsing rock beat up to top volume, and they were off.

Grace was a dead-end town whose residents led dead-end lives-meaning there were plenty of dark, dingy spots where you could drown your sorrows. And none of them carded.

They ended up nestled in a booth in the back of the Tavern, a nondescript bar and grill for the over-forty set, complete with a washed-out seventies decor and surly, middle-aged waitresses who’d been working there since the decorations were new.

Privacy guaranteed, or your money back.

Harper, after downing half a gin and tonic-her first in weeks-was already slurring her words. Kane, more on half-formed instinct than out of any reason or desire, had opted for root beer.

“When did you join AA?” Harper joked, flopping forward in her chair and propping her head in her hands. “Gonna leave me all alone to drown my sorrows?”

“Someone’s got to drive you home,” he pointed out as she downed the rest of her drink and waved the waitress over for another one.

“S’okay I’m used to alone,” she slurred, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I mean, they’re always there, everyone’s always there, staring at me. Alone is good. They should all go away.”

“You want me to stop staring at you?”

She let out a sharp bark of laughter, then slapped her hand over his. “Not you. You’re the only one. You…” She stopped talking, distracted by the prospect of fishing the slice of lime out of the bottom of her glass.

“I…?” he prodded.

“What? Oh. You don’t give me that ‘How are you doing’ shit or ‘Isn’t it terrible aren’t you traumatized what can I do’ blah blah blah.” She made a fake vomiting noise. “You don’t care about what I do, you don’t care about anyone but yourself. Thank God.”

“Uh, thank you?” he asked sardonically. He leaned forward. This was the moment, he realized. Kane hated nothing more than not having the answers, and ever since that day in the hospital, he’d had nothing but questions. Her guard was down. She would answer. “Where’d you get the drugs, Grace?”

“Huh?”

“That day. The speech. What were you high on? And why?”

She shook her head furiously. “Not you, too!” But after a flicker of anger, she sighed loudly and slumped down in her chair. “Nothing,” she said. “I told you. I told them. Nothing.”

“Come on, Grace,” he pushed. “They found them in your system. Everyone saw you up onstage-I heard what a head-case you were.” And I saw the way you pulled out of the parking lot. I saw the car skid out, I saw you drive away. “ You were on something.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Believe me. Don’t believe me. Who cares. And what’s the difference? It’s over now.”

“Yeah, I guess. What’s the difference?”

He is sitting in the waiting room, breathing shallowly. The scent of citrus-scented air freshener is overwhelming-but not enough to mask the smells beneath it. Old age, decay, vomit, blood, death. He hates hospitals. He hasn’t been in one since he was a kid, sitting by his mother’s bed, pretending not to know his father was crying out in the hall.

It’s too soon, too fast, and no one knows everything, but as always, Kane knows enough. He has his sources.

One crash. Two girls, both thrown from the car. One with traces of psychotropic drugs in her bloodstream. One dead.

“Mr. Geary.”

The cop sits down across from him. It’s a woman, which he’s not expecting. She’s short and stocky in a dark gray blazer, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Right out of central casting, he thinks. Not a coincidence-she probably takes her cues from Law & Order.

The thought depresses him.

“I’m told that you have some information that can be of assistance to us, Mr. Geary.

“She has a sexy voice.

He shrugs. “I saw them leave the school,” he says.

“Can you describe what you saw?” She doesn’t ask what he was doing loitering on the back steps when the rest of the school was stuffed into the auditorium for a mandatory assembly.

“Harper ran out of the school.”

“How did she appear?”

“What do you mean?” He knows. But he’s not in the mood to help.

“Did she seem upset? Disoriented? Ineb-”

“She seemed in a hurry. She didn’t stop to talk. She ran down to the parking lot. Kaia was standing there, by her car.”

“What was she doing?”

The question hadn’t occurred to Kane before. He didn’t know the answer. He never would. “Standing. Staring. They talked for a while. Then they got into the car and drove away. ”

“Who was driving?”

It is the question he has been waiting for. She asks it casually, as if uninterested in the answer. He responds the same way, without pause, without hesitation, without thinking of Harper grabbing the keys, jumping inside, and tearing out of the lot.

“Kaia” he says with certainty. “It was her father’s Beamer. She always drove. ”

They believe him. The evidence has all burned away. There’s only his word. And when Harper wakes up, groggy and confused, she believes him too.

“I can’t remember,” she says, her voice soft but angry. These days, she is always angry. “Nothing. Just school, that morning, then… here. I can’t remember. “ She closes her eyes and knits her brow. She can’t rub her forehead-her arms are caught in a web of wires and tubes. He surprises himself pressing his palm to her head, brushing her hair off her face.

“There’s nothing to remember,” he tells her. “You two got into the car. And Kaia drove away.”

It’s the last time he sees her. Soon she’s done with visitors, except Miranda. But he knows she believes him.

They all do.

Some days, he even believes himself.

He drove Harper home, stopping only once for her to hop out and throw up in some bushes.

“Sorry,” she said weakly, climbing back into the car.

“We’ve all been there,” he assured her. “Just as long as you don’t hurl in my car.” He patted the dashboard fondly. “Then I dump you out on the side of the road and you can find your own way home.”

She chuckled-then moaned and leaned forward, cradling her head in her arms as if the laughter made her brain hurt. He knew the feeling. “That’s what I love about you,” she said in a muffled voice. “There’s no confusion about where your loyalties lie. You look out for your car-”

“Of course.”

“You look out for yourself-”

“Naturally.”

“And the rest of us can find our own way home.”

“You know me too well, Grace.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “You always have.”

chapter

____________________

3

“Can I carry your books for you?”

“Can I get you a soda?”

“Could I stand in line and get you some lunch?”

“She said I could stand in line!”

“But you got to drop her stuff at her locker-”

“Girls!” Harper massaged her temples as the two girls abruptly stopped their bickering.

“What is it?”

“What do you need?”

She sighed. She’d been waiting for this moment for three years, ever since she’d spent one eternal day sophomore year traipsing around after a bitchy blond senior with an undeserved superiority complex. King and Queen for a Day was a senior tradition-on paper, it meant that each underclassmen showered his or her designated senior with affection and treats. In reality, it meant spending the day being primped and pampered by your own personal servant-or, in Harper’s case, two.

Who knew being waited on hand and foot could be so exhausting?

Of course, perhaps she could have enjoyed the novelty of the experience a bit more had the two underclassmen in question not spent the better part of the year following her around and imitating her every move. A theme song from one of those old Nick at Nite shows floated into her head: “They laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike-you can lose your mind… ”

That sounded about right. And now Mini-Me and her best friend Mini-She were stuck to her like glue, jockeying for the right to clean off her cafeteria seat. The best time of my life? Harper thought dryly. Starting when?

“Why don’t you go get me something from the vending machine,” she suggested to Mini-She, then turned to Mini-Me. “And you can go buy me some lunch.”

“Coke? Diet Coke? Sprite? Vitamin Water? Gatorade? Snapple?”

“Salad? Meat loaf? Meat loaf and salad? And what kind of dressing? And what if there are fries? Or some kind of vegetable? Or-?”

“Vitamin water. Salad, make sure it’s not just lettuce, Italian dressing. And-” It was going to be a long day; she deserved a treat. “Plenty of fries.”

They were gone, and she was left with a blessed silence, so sweet that she was disinclined to scope out the cafeteria and find herself an appropriately high-powered table; better just to stand to the side for a moment and try to gather her strength. She’d been working on her icy, expressionless face, and she deployed it now. You never knew who was watching.

She didn’t notice him at first-people like that flew below her radar; and even when she registered his presence, dimly, all she noticed were the ripped jeans and the scuffed sneakers, the long hair and the grease-stained fingers, and she expected him to pass her by.

It wasn’t until he spoke that she looked at his face.

“Hey.” He slouched against a wall and tilted his head down, looking up at her briefly, then looking away again, as if stealing glances at the sun.

“Hey.” No stolen glances here; she stared, unabashedly, trying to figure out what Kaia had seen in him. There must have been something, but it was well disguised. True, his black T-shirt hugged some impressive arm muscles, and he did have that whole dark, sullen man of mystery thing going for him. But judging from the smell, the only mystery was how he’d managed to afford so much pot.

Probably grew his own, Harper decided. That’s what they always did on TV.

She knew she should say something caustic and send him away; he wasn’t the type she should be seen talking to, especially not now, with her reputation on the bubble. But she was too curious to hear what he was going to say-and how she was going to respond.

“I’m Reed,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Kaia and me, we-”

“Yeah, I know that, too.” She didn’t, not really. Kaia had never talked much about her life. But she’d dropped enough hints, and Harper had witnessed one kiss steamy enough to confirm that something was going on.

“I want to ask… I need to know…”

She felt a fist tighten around her heart. She’d been waiting for this, she realized. He would want to know all about it, what happened, every detail. Did she suffer? Did she scream? Did she know?

I don’t remember! Harper wanted to shout. I know what you know. Leave me alone. But she stayed silent and kept her placid, patient smile fixed on her face. Maybe she wanted him to ask. At the very least, she could understand why he wanted to know: She did, too.

“Were you two, like, friends?”

“What?” It was so far from what she’d been expecting that it took her a moment to process.

“I don’t know, I just thought-how are you, uh, doing?”

Harper let out a ragged breath, a precursor to a laugh or a sob-she wasn’t sure which. What did he want, some kind of partner in crime for his adventures in grieving? As if the two of them would walk off hand in hand somewhere and cry on each other s shoulders? As if she could ever open up to someone like him?

If not him, then who?

“Uh, anyway, if you ever need, like, to talk-” He put a hand on her shoulder. A wave of emotion washed through her, and it wasn’t the annoyance or revulsion she would have expected. It was comfort-and gratitude. You too, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t force the words out.

”Excuse me?” Mini-She slammed three bottles of soda down on the table and advanced toward Reed, hands on hips. “What are you doing here?”

“Am I hallucinating, or are you, like, touching her?” Mini-Me chimed in, sliding a heaping lunch tray next to the drinks and joining her co-clone.

“You must be hallucinating,” Mini-She pointed out, “because no way would someone like him be bothering someone like us.”

“Don’t you have, like, an engine to build?” Mini-Me asked. “Or some fires to set?”

“He’s probably just begging for funds for his next pot buy,” Mini-She suggested. She waved disdainfully. “Sorry, but charity hour’s over for the day. Better luck next time.”

Harper wanted to stop them, but if she did that, and took a stand, it would surely mean something-and she didn’t have the energy to find out what.

“Yeah…,” Reed mumbled. “This was a mistake. Later.”

“Try never!” Mini-Me called as he ambled away. Then she burst into giggles. “God, Harper, were you actually talking to that waste of space?”

“You’re such an airhead,” Mini-She taunted her friend. “She’s Queen for a Day, remember? She was just waiting around for us to get rid of him for her.”

“Which, by the way, you’re welcome.” Mini-Me did an exaggerated curtsy. “We’re at your service, as always.”

“Great job,” Harper said weakly She slumped into a chair at the nearest table. The giggle twins bounced down beside her.

“They didn’t have Vitamin Water,” Mini-She explained, pushing a handful of bottles across the table. “So I got you some Sprite, and Diet Coke, and some Poland Spring, and I can go back if you want something else…”

“And the salad looked kind of dingy,” Mini-Me added, setting a tray in front of Harper. It was piled high with a lump of brownish slime, surrounded by heaps of creamy beige sludge. “So I got you the… well, I’m not sure what it is, but there’s plenty of protein. And then I got the mashed potatoes instead of the fries, you know, so there’d still be something healthy…”

They gazed at her from across the table, identical expressions of nervous excitement trembling on their faces.

Harper felt sick at the thought of eating anything, especially the steaming heap sitting before her. She felt even sicker at the thought of sending the idiots away with a bitchy comment or two-much as she longed for some alone time, their words to Reed still hung in the air. They’d just been imitating her; she couldn’t bring herself to repay the favor.

“This is great, guys,” she said instead. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.” She grabbed the Sprite and took a fake sip. Ten minutes, she promised herself, and then she’d be up and out.

“You okay, Harper? You look kind of pale.”

“Yeah, and no offense, but you’re a little, like, sweaty. You sure you’re okay?”

The more times she had to say it, the bigger the lie. But it’s not like she had any other option.

“No worries,” she assured them. “I’m fine.”

“Beth, we still need a head for this article,” the copy editor called out.

“And we’re missing a photo for the Valentine’s Day piece,” the features editor called from the other side of the room.

Beth typed faster, trying to load in the changes to the front-page layout so she could deal with the hundred other things on her to-do list. It was times like this, rushing back and forth across the newsroom, slurping coffee, cutting and pasting, slapping on headlines, tweaking leads, and refereeing the occasional game of Nerf basketball, that she felt like a real editor in chief, the nerve center of a well-oiled fact-finding machine.

Then she remembered that, despite her best efforts, the paper rarely came out more than once a month-and when it did appear, its heartfelt missives on Homecoming Day hairdos and the debate team s latest victory ended up littering the floor of the cafeteria, crumpled and tossed aside before anyone had bothered to read them.

They weren’t a complete failure, she reminded herself. They’d managed to get a special Kaia memorial supplement out a couple weeks ago, filling it-despite the short notice and lack of sources-with photos, poems, and the occasional testimonial from someone who professed to have known and loved “that dear, departed soul.” Several of Beth’s teachers had complimented her on the fine tribute. It wasn’t the kind of compliment from which you could draw much joy-especially when you were still swimming in guilt.

Now things were back to normal, if you could call it normal when your front page featured an article about the sordid criminal past of the paper’s former sponsor. Beth should have been pleased: It was just the kind of hard news she’d always imagined importing to the Haven Gazette when she finally took the reigns. Along with all her other big plans, that dream had fallen by the wayside back in the fall, after her encounter with Mr. Powell.

Perhaps it was only fitting that, courtesy of Mr. Powell and his misdeeds, the Gazette was finally reporting something that mattered.

Beth had long dreamed of covering a story like this, rich with tantalizing details and actual import. But not this story. She hadn’t rushed an issue into print, hadn’t assigned anyone to pester the cops or the administration for details. Instead, she’d just picked up the story that had run in the Grace Herald earlier that month. It would be reprinted verbatim. And it would have to do.

Student-Teacher Scandal Rocks Haven High

Police uncover secret identity as French teach skips town

By Milton Jeffries

Staff writer, Grace Herald

Massachusetts state police are pursuing Jack Powell, aka Julian Payne, for questioning in regard to two statutory rape cases allegedly involving the former Haven High School French teacher. Grace police are similarly eager to question him regarding his relationship with Kaia Sellers, a Haven High senior who was killed in a hit-and-run the same week Powell fled town. Police have ruled the incident an accident and concluded it was unconnected.

Powell joined the Haven High faculty in the fall, professing several years of teaching experience and proffering impeccable- and apparently forged-references. The first indication that anything was amiss came in late January, when an anonymous tip led paramedics to discover Powell unconscious in his apartment. Kaia Sellers’s fingerprints were found at the scene, but she was killed the next day, before she could be questioned. Powell’s fingerprints, when run through a national database, revealed him to be Julian Payne, a British citizen who had disappeared from Stonehill, Massachusetts, six months earlier when allegations were made against him by two unnamed teenage girls.

Authorities at Stonehill Academy say that both girls are well-behaved, honor roll students who are to be commended for speaking out against their teacher. “We’re all grateful that they had the courage [to turn Payne in] and prevent this from happening again,” said Stonehill principal Patrick Darnton.

In Grace, area parents have expressed deep concern that a teacher with his background could have been employed by the high school; district officials say they had no sign Powell was not what he seemed.

Powell left the hospital, against medical advice, before Grace police were able to detain him. He has not been seen since.

She doesn’t know why she came.

Hospitals have always seemed dirty to her, grimy, as if the grayish tinge to the walls and the floor were just germs made visible, layers of illness, fluids, and death that had built up over the years.

Still, she comes here often, forces herself to suffer through the candy striping, pediatric parties, holiday gift distributions. She knows where the bedpans are stored and which nurses ignore the call light. And she knows where all the exits are; from the moment she steps inside, she is always planning her escape.

She has come to see Harper, but she doesn’t know why, and she doesn’t have the nerve to go through with it. She steps off the elevator and starts down the hallway, but there is Adam, hovering outside the room next to the Graces, whom she recognizes because, in a small town, there is no one you don’t know. She stops. She has nothing to say to any of these people. She has nothing to apologize for.

She has everything to apologize for.

Before she knows what she’s doing, she turns around, is back at the elevators, pressing the button, waiting. It has been like this all week. Doing things without knowing why. Making decisions without even noticing She wonders if she is in shock. Not over Kaia’s death-none of that seems real yet; it all has the feel of a bad movie she wandered into that will surely end soon. No, if she is in shock, it is over what she has done, which is all too real and tangible, like the empty box on the edge of her nightstand that used to contain two yellow pills. She should throw it out, now that it’s not just a box-now that it’s evidence-but she can’t bring herself to do so.

The elevator doors open and she steps on blindly, just as she does everything, which is why she doesn’t see him until the doors close and it’s too late.

”Now this is a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the soft British accent she still hears in her nightmares. “And here I thought I’d have to leave without saying good-bye.”

She ignores him. There is a vent in the ceiling of the elevator, and from a certain angle she can see through the slits and watch the walls of the shaft sliding by. There is a fan in the vent, its sharp blades spinning fast enough that they would slice off a finger if she were tall enough to reach.

”I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he says. Unable to help herself, she glances toward him. There is a large white bandage on his forehead. His skin is pale. “Just a concussion, nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t ” she says sharply.

He smiles at her, and then his face goes flaccid, his eyes flutter, and he stumbles backward, slamming into the console of buttons, catching himself just before he slumps to the floor. The elevator jerks to a stop. Beth says nothing, does nothing. He breathes deeply once, twice, as if willing the color back into his face and the strength back into his body. His head lolls to one side, and he grasps the railing on the wall for support. There is nothing Beth can do to help; she need not feel guilty for doing nothing.

She feels guilty for being glad about it.

More deep breaths, and soon, his face is no longer white, and the smile is back. And the elevator is not moving.

”I’m fine now,” Powell says, touching his forehead gently. “Happens sometimes. ”

She doesn’t say anything.

He steps away from the wall to look at the console. “I must have hit the emergency stop button. Not to worry, I’ll have us moving again. Momentarily. ”

”You just need to flip the lever,” Beth says, hating to acknowledge him but needing to escape. “It’ll start up again. ”

Instead, he turns his back on the console and steps toward her. She jerks away, but of course, there is nowhere to go. Beth, who knows all the exits, knows that better than anyone.

”You’re never sorry?” he asks, and he sounds almost plaintive.

”For what?”

”You misjudge me, you know.” His voice is soft, and his eyes kind, as they were at the beginning, when the two of them worked long hours in the tiny newsroom, bent over layouts, their heads together. She’d called him Jack, cried on his shoulder, imagined what it might be like were she ten years older. She was no longer fooled. “We understood each other, or we could have. I could have taught you a lot. I could have been a friend. Things might have been…” He looks off to the side and sighs. “Different. ”

”Flip the lever,” she says through gritted teeth. “Now.”

”Scared?” He takes two rapid steps toward her and, before she can move, he’s planted his arms on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. She is trembling. “You’re a smart girl.” His face is inches from hers, his breath sour. She knows she should do something. Spit. Scream. But she’s frozen. “I could do anything.” He leans closer, his eyes locked with hers. When their lips are about to touch, he stops. “But I won’t.”

His arms drop to his sides, and he steps backward again. “Disappointed?”

”Go to hell.”

He shakes his head. “There’s a part of you, Beth, that wants it. I knew it the moment we kissed-”

“When you kissed me, “she snaps.

”When we kissed, I could tell. You want a lot of things you’re not allowing yourself to want. You don’t let yourself do anything about it, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

”You don’t know anything about me,” she whispers. Her throat is tight, as if she’s having one of those dreams where she wants to scream but can’t make a sound.

”I know girls,” he says, nodding. A lock of brown hair flops over his eyes, and he brushes it away. The gesture reminds her of an old Hugh Grant movie. Adorable British charmer fumbles through life and gets the girl. She’d wanted a romantic-comedy life, maybe. But she hadn’t wanted him, she insisted to herself, not really. She hadn’t wanted this. “And I know you. You may be fooling everyone else with that good-girl act, Beth, but you can’t fool me. I’m just sorry you felt you had to try. ”

He flips the lever, and the elevator jerks into motion.

As the doors open, he gives her a cheery salute. “Until we meet again… and something tells me we will.”

She doesn’t say good-bye.

Anyone with information about the whereabouts of Jack Powell or knowledge of his relationship with the late Kaia Sellers should contact the Grace Township Police Department, 555-4523.

“Beth, are we set with that article? We’ve got to lock the front page,” the deputy editor reminded her.

She had an hour left before the paper went in for final proofing, then she had a history presentation to give, and afterward would rush off for yet another job interview, then home, where she could divide the rest of her night between studying for her math test, babysitting her little brothers, and working the phones to finalize logistics for Spirit Day and the senior auction.

She didn’t have time to linger over Powell anymore. She clicks a button on the mouse and locks the article. “This one’s set,” she told her deputy. “Let’s move on.”

Miranda heard the chorus of blondes before she saw them, and their voices-high, flirtatious, infused with a permanent giggle and inevitably ending on a question mark- told her everything she needed to know. As she rounded the corner and approached the lockers, one look confirmed her suspicions. A harem of sophomores, outfitted in standard uniform: high boots, short skirt, midriff-baring shirt, and enough makeup to paint a house.

And there was Kane, towering above them, intense brown eyes sparkling under his chiseled brow, and his smile… that smile was going to destroy her, Miranda often thought. It filled her daydreams-all her dreams, in fact- and rendered her powerless.

She was no better than any of these girls, except that she kept her simpering to herself. And look where it got her: They fluttered around the flame, and she lurked in the shadows, just passing through, nothing to see here but dull, drab Miranda.

She would just keep her head down, she told herself. Walk quickly and quietly down the hall and slip into study hall without anyone noticing her.

“Yo, Stevens! What’s the hurry?”

She turned toward the syrupy smooth voice and at the sight of his familiar smirk was helpless not to favor him with one of her own.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full at the moment,” she told him, flicking a hand toward the girls.

“Beauties fit for a king, don’t you think?” He gave them a magnanimous wave. “Ladies, you can take your leave for the moment-”

“But Kane, we’re here to serve you,” one of the blondes reminded him in a throaty voice.

“What if there’s something you need?” another asked.

“And we can provide anything you need,” the first reminded him.

“I’m sure Stevens here will take good care of me while you’re gone.”

The pom-pom posse looked her up and down. “Doubtful,” one of them grouched. But they knew their role in this little drama: They followed orders and disappeared.

“That,” Miranda began, shaking her head, “may be the most disgusting display I have ever seen.”

Kane shrugged. “Give them a break-they’re young, impressionable, and hey, it’s hard not to go weak in the knees when you’re in the presence of greatness.”

“I’m not talking about them, your highness,” Miranda snorted. “I’m talking about you. Could you be any more of a pig?

He curled an arm around her shoulders and tugged her toward him. “You know you love it.”

“How do you fit that huge ego into that tiny car of yours?” she teased.

“How do you fit that huge chip on your shoulder into that teeny tiny T-shirt?” he retorted.

Miranda blushed, pretending not to notice that he’d noticed her unusually snug shirt-though, of course, why else had she worn it?

“Don’t give me that modest act,” he chided her. “You know you look good.” His hand glided down her back and Miranda caught her breath. “Sure you don’t want to…

God, did she want to. “We talked about this,” she reminded him. She patted him on the shoulder and shook her head sympathetically “It’s so sad-no impulse control. Good thing I’m around to remind you of the rules.”

“Rules are made to be-”

“Followed,” she cut in. “Otherwise, why make them?”

And she was the one who’d made them, of course, much as she hated them. It was funny: She’d spent years hoping that Kane would notice that she’d grown past the tomboy phase and had actually sprouted a chest (sort of) and a healthy sex drive (at least when he was around). And now that he had finally noticed her-finally kissed her- she spent half her time fighting him off.

Okay, not so funny-more like tragic. But his brilliant friends-with-benefits plan had a few holes. One gaping hole, actually-the one that would appear after Miranda’s heart shriveled up and disappeared, as it surely would after a few weeks, when Kane got bored of his no-strings-attached foreplay and moved on to his next conquest. She wanted more than that-she deserved more than that, she told herself, though she wasn’t quite sure she believed it. She’d like to think she was pushing him away to preserve her dignity, but really, it was just self-protection.

So when he’d made a move, she’d made a rule:

No kissing.

Also: No fondling, flirting, or foreplay. No stroking, no tickling, no grabbing.

No fun, he’d pointed out. But then he’d shrugged and laughed. Your game, your rules, he’d said.

Since then, they’d gone back to their default mode of snarky banter-with a twist. Now half the time the banter was tinged with sexual innuendo, and occasionally, when bored, Kane seemed to enjoy testing their new boundaries. “Does this count as a kiss?” he’d ask, playfully whispering in her ear with his lips against her skin. “Is this stroking, or just heavy petting?” he’d tease, smoothing down her long, reddish hair.

Sometimes, she suspected that knowing she was off limits actually made him want her more; sometimes she suspected that had been her plan all along.

In the meantime, she pretended it was all a game, one whose outcome didn’t faze her one way or the other. She pretended that, like him, she was putting aside lust for the good of their growing friendship; hoping he’d never suspect the true four-letter L word that lay behind it all. It was torture, but the sting was sweet and sharp, like when you bit your tongue and then couldn’t stop worrying the tender spot against your teeth, half enjoying the taste of pain.

“When are you going to loosen up, Stevens?” he asked, heaving a sigh that she knew was all for show.

“As soon as you grow up, Geary”

“Never!” He leaped back with a look of horror, then whipped out a pen and posed, brandishing it as if it were a sword. “Just call me Peter Pan.”

Miranda grinned despite herself. “My very own lost boy. Aren’t I lucky?”

“And you, lovely lady, can be my Wendy… or perhaps you’d prefer Tinkerbell?”

“Tinkerbell? Give me a break.” Miranda winked; then, in a single, lightning-quick gesture, snatched the pen out of his hand while circling behind him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and pressed the edge of the pen against his neck as if it were a blade. “More like Captain Hook.”

“Mr. Morgan,” the secretary said, eyeing him suspiciously, “she’ll see you now. Go right in.”

Adam sighed and stuffed his iPod back into his backpack. Secretaries used to love him-but then, that was back when he only got called down to the administrative wing to pick up his latest trophy or talk to some local reporter about breaking an all-school record. He was even trotted out at the occasional school board meeting, an example for the community of Haven High’s “exceptional athletic organization.” But ever since starting an on-court brawl and getting suspended for a week, Adam had noticed a definite chill in his relationship with the administration, including the secretaries.

That’s all behind me now, Adam reminded himself. He’d been angry- too angry-for a long time. After everything had happened, he’d resolved to get some control over himself. Forgive, forget, chill out. Get his act together. And it was working… so far.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and stood up, trudging slowly toward the guidance counselor’s door. Of all the doors in all the offices in all Haven High, this was his least favorite. Ms. Campbell didn’t care if he’d broken the butterfly relay record or led the basketball team to its first regional championship in a decade. All she ever wanted to talk about was his classes, his work, his SATs- and all she ever wanted to know was how he could accept being so subpar. She wouldn’t accept it, she always promised him. What she didn’t get was that he didn’t accept it, either. But he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

“Come in, Adam. Sit down.” She waved him in, offering him a decrepit hard candy from the overflowing china dish at the edge of her desk. He waved it away. An elderly, overweight woman whose gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave her an unfortunate resemblance to Ben Franklin, Ms. Campbell served as a part-time health teacher, part-time English teacher, part-time PTA liaison, and full-time busybody. She’d been the Haven High guidance counselor for thirty years-which made a fair number of students question her guidance-giving credentials. Not to mention her sanity. Three decades in Haven s hallowed halls wouldn’t represent a bright future; it sounded more like a prison sentence.

Ms. Campbell pushed a mound of clutter across her desk-Adam caught a snow globe moments before it crashed to the ground-making room for his permanent file. She flipped it open and peered at him over the rims of her glasses.

“How are things going, Adam?” she asked, frowning. “Anything happening in your life? Any concerns you’d like to express?”

Was anything happening? Aside from his two best friends teaming up to ruin his life? Aside from breaking up with one girl, falling in love with another, then breaking up again, all in the space of a month? Aside from one of those girls almost dying in a car crash and then refusing to speak to him?

And, oh yeah, aside from the fact that the girl to whom he’d lost his virginity had ended up dead, and he was still having dreams about the night he’d spent with her- dreams that turned into nightmares as her flesh burned away in his arms?

Aside from that?

“Nothing much.” Adam shrugged. “Just, you know, the usual.”

“Well, I have some concerns,” she said. “Maybe we can talk about that.” She began flipping through the file. “Your grades have never been… let’s just say you’ve never worked up to your full potential.”

Guidance counselors loved that kind of talk. Potential. Aspirations. Opportunity. None of it meant anything to Adam. It was all just a bunch of abstract bullshit designed to make you play along with their game and do whatever they said. He didn’t need the stress; he was happy just hanging with his friends and playing ball, and the rest would take care of itself.

“But this year, your teachers have alerted me to a distinct dip in your grades,” Ms. Campbell said. She looked up from the file and fixed him with a sharp gaze. “Are you aware that you’re failing most of your classes?”

“Uh… no.” He began to tense up, realizing this wasn’t going to be some generic meeting he could just ignore. He’d never had the best grades-but he’d never failed before, either. Of course, in the past, he’d had Beth by his side, forcing him to get the work done, and to do it right. Now he was on his own.

“What are your plans for the future, Adam?”

“The future?” Another one of those words guidance counselors liked to toss around, as if the future was really something you could plan for. If he’d learned anything this year, he’d learned that was a joke.

“Next year. We’ve only got a few months until graduation. Have you thought at all about what you’re going to do?”

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He preferred not to think about graduation, and the gray space that lay beyond it. He’d ignored the whole college applications thing. There was always community college, down the road in Ludlow, or the state school in Borrega. More school just seemed like a waste of time. He liked being outside. He liked playing ball. He liked working with his hands. College wasn’t going to help much with any of that.

“There’s plenty of time,” he muttered.

“Too many people your age don’t consider the future,” she lectured. “You’re just aimless wanderers, stuck in the moment, as if nothing’s ever going to change, as if you’ll never have any responsibilities. These days it’s all about instant gratification, what can I have right now. And what with all the drugs, alcohol, sex…”

After an uncomfortably long pause, Adam wondered whether she was waiting for him to respond.

“Uh… Ms. Campbell?” She nodded expectantly. “I guess, I’m, uh, not sure where you’re going with this?”

She snapped the file shut and stood up. “Where I’m going is this,” she said in an unusually firm voice. “Your grades are atrocious, and you’re in danger of failing the year. I’m assigning you a tutor, and with some hard work, I hope you’ll be able to dig yourself out of this hole.”

“A tutor?” He was aware of the whiny note that had crept into his voice, but couldn’t help himself. How lame could you get? “Do I have to?”

“You don’t have to do anything, Adam.”

He smiled in relief.

“But without a tutor, your grades won’t improve. And if your grades don’t improve, soon, you can stop worrying about your future. Because you’re not going to graduate.”

Miranda was about to open the stall door when she heard their voices. Mini-She’s was a bit higher than Mini-Me’s, but otherwise, they were interchangeable. Just like the rest of them.

“She’s such a bitch.”

“Totally.”

“Do you think she even knows what people are saying about her?”

A sigh. “It’s tragic.”

“Totally.”

“I mean, she was the shit.”

“Definitely.”

“But all that crazy stuff last month?”

“Total meltdown.”

“And poor Kaia…”

“She probably went crazy and ran them both off the road.”

A moment of silence.

“That was all really sad.”

“Yeah.”

“That was kind of a hot skirt she was wearing today, though. Think it would look good on me?”

“Totally And I was thinking I might pick up one of those tank tops-”

“You bitch! I was all over that.”

“No prob, I’ll go green, you stick with the blue.”

Giggles.

“I feel kind of bad for her, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, me too, of course.”

“That’s why I’m totally going to stick by her.”

“Oh, yeah, me too, of course.”

“It’s like a community service project or something.”

“God, that’s sad.”

“Tragic.”

“Good thing she’s got friends like us.”

“Totally.”

The door banged shut, and then there was silence.

Miranda held her breath and opened the door of the stall. The girls’ room was empty. She squirted some soap into her hands, ran them under the hot water, and waited.

She’d just reached for a paper towel when a second stall door opened, and Harper finally emerged.

Harper washed her hands in silence. Miranda could tell she was nibbling on the inside of her left cheek, a nervous habit. She bent down, and then flipped her head up again, her hair flying back down to her shoulders. She ran a hand through, fluffing up the sides and smoothing it down at the roots. “I’m thinking of getting it cut,” Harper said finally. “Nothing too dramatic, though.”

“Sounds good,” Miranda said, waiting for some kind of explosion.

Harper pulled out a tube of cherry-colored lipstick.

“Nice color,” Miranda told her. “New?”

“Yeah. Want to try?”

“I don’t know.” She looked in the mirror, giving her limp hair a disdainful flip. Cherry and orange didn’t seem like a match made in heaven. “Think it would look good on me?”

Harper tossed over the tube, then raised her eyebrows and gave Miranda a weak half smile. “Totally.”