At the same time she says it, I say it with her. "I'm a b.i.t.c.h."

She stares at me.

"Listen, Juliet"-I rake my hands through my hair-"I know we haven't always been nice to you or whatever. And I really feel bad about it-I do." I try to gauge what she's thinking, but it's like something has shut down behind her eyes, a b.u.t.ton switching off, and she just stands there staring at me dully. I rush on, "The thing is, we never really meant anything by it, you know? I don't think I-we-really thought about it. It's just the kind of thing that happens. People used to make fun of me all the time." She's making me nervous, just staring like that, and I lick my lips. "All the time. And, like, I don't think it's really because people are mean or bad or whatever. I just think...I just think..." I'm fighting to find the words. Memories are colliding in my head: the sound of people singing as I walked down the hall, the smell of ice cream on Lindsay's breath the day we threw Beth's tampons out the window, riding a horse through a blur of trees. "I just think that people the time. And, like, I don't think it's really because people are mean or bad or whatever. I just think...I just think..." I'm fighting to find the words. Memories are colliding in my head: the sound of people singing as I walked down the hall, the smell of ice cream on Lindsay's breath the day we threw Beth's tampons out the window, riding a horse through a blur of trees. "I just think that people don't don't think. They don't know. We- think. They don't know. We-I-didn't know."

I feel pretty proud of myself for getting all of that out. But Juliet hasn't moved or smiled or even freaked out. She's so still she could be carved out of stone. Finally a little tremor goes through her, a personal earthquake, and her eyes seem to focus on me.

"You haven't always been that nice to me?" she says dully, and my stomach sinks. She didn't hear a word I said.

"I-yeah. And I'm sorry about that."

Her eyelids flutter. "In seventh grade you and Lindsay stole all my clothes from the locker room so I had to walk around in my sweaty gym clothes for the rest of the day. Then you called me Stinky Sykes."

"I-I'm sorry. I don't remember that." The way she's staring at me is awful, like she's seeing in and through and beyond me to some void.

"That was before you came up with Psycho, of course." Juliet's voice has lost its musical quality. It's completely toneless. She raises her arm and mimes slashing a knife through the air, emitting a series of high-pitched shrieks that send chills up and down my arms, and for a moment I think maybe she is is crazy. Then she drops her arm. "Real funny. crazy. Then she drops her arm. "Real funny. Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est. Catchy."

"People used to tell this really dumb joke about me. Kind of sing it when I walked by. What's red and white and weird all over..." I'm hoping to make her laugh or twitch or something, but she just keeps staring at me with that dumb, animal look on her face, a blank.

"I never sang it," she says, and then, like she's forced to keep reciting everything we ever did, continues. "You took pictures of me when I was showering."

"That was Lindsay," I say automatically, getting more and more uncomfortable. If she would get angry, it would be one thing-but it's like she's not even seeing me, like she's just reading off a list she's looked at a million times.

"You posted the pictures all over the school. Where teachers teachers could see." could see."

"We took them down in, like, an hour." I'm ashamed as soon as I say the words. As though the fact that we took them down makes it better.

"You hacked into my Yahoo account. You published my-my private emails."

"That wasn't us," I say quickly, feeling a rush of relief that this, at least, was not our fault. To this day I'm not sure who did hack her account, and circulate email exchanges between Juliet and some guy named Path2Pain118 she'd obviously met in a chat room. There were dozens of emails, all of them long rants about how much high school sucked and how awful everybody was. The hacker had forwarded the emails to almost everyone in school after giving them a new subject line: Future School Shooters of America. Future School Shooters of America. I shiver, thinking about how easy it is to be totally wrong about people-to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole, to see the cause and think it's the effect or vice versa. And though I've now been at Kent's house five times in six days I feel disoriented, confused by the bright bathroom light and Juliet's impa.s.sive face and the sounds of the party coming through the door. I shiver, thinking about how easy it is to be totally wrong about people-to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole, to see the cause and think it's the effect or vice versa. And though I've now been at Kent's house five times in six days I feel disoriented, confused by the bright bathroom light and Juliet's impa.s.sive face and the sounds of the party coming through the door.

Juliet keeps going on like I didn't even speak. "You started the rumor that I lost my virginity for a pack of cigarettes."

Ally. That was Ally. I can't say it. It doesn't matter, anyway. It was us. It was all of us. Everyone who repeated the story and whispered "s.l.u.t" and made a smoker's hacking cough whenever she walked by.

"I don't even smoke." She says this with a smile, like this is the funniest thing in the world. Like this, her whole life, is one big joke.

"Juliet-"

"My sister heard that rumor. She told my parents. I-" Finally she loses it a little, balling her hands into fists and squeezing them against her thighs. "I've never even kissed anyone." This comes out as a fierce whisper-a confession-and the intensity of it, the sadness and regret, makes a black well of anger break somewhere inside of me.

"I know, okay? I know we did horrible things. I know we've been s.h.i.tty and things are bad and-" I break off, the words getting tangled in my throat. I'm on the verge of tears, full of blind fury that hits me like a cloud, blots out everything but a single burning point of frustration: I can't make her see, can't make her see that I'm trying to make things right. I feel like I'm watching both of our lives swirl down the drain, mine and hers, wrapped around each other. "What I'm saying is, I want to make it up to you. I'm trying to apologize apologize. Things-things are going to get better."

She presses her lips together, staring at me mute and white-faced, and I have to tense every muscle in my arms to keep from reaching out and grabbing her shoulders, shaking her.

"I mean..." I'm going on blindly now, groping, grabbing at words and ideas as they come buzzing up to me through my anger, trying to get through to her. "You got those roses today, right? Like a whole bunch of them?"

An enormous shudder goes through her. And now a light snaps on in her eyes again, but instead of grat.i.tude, there's hatred burning there.

"I knew it. I knew it was you." Her voice is so full of rage and pain I rear back like she's. .h.i.t me. "What was that? Another one of your little jokes?"

Her reaction is so unexpected it takes me a few seconds to think of a response. "What? No No. That wasn't-"

"Poor little Psycho." Juliet narrows her eyes, almost hissing at me. "No friends. No roses. Let's screw with her one one more time." more time."

"I didn't want to screw with you." I have no idea what's happening or how things have gone so badly wrong. "It was supposed to be nice."

I don't know that she even hears me. She leans closer. "So what was the plan? What were you going to do with that 'secret admirer' c.r.a.p? Bribe one of your friends so he'd pretend to like me? Ask me out? Maybe even to go to prom? And then-what? On the night that we're supposed to go, he just won't show up? And it will be so G.o.dd.a.m.ned funny so G.o.dd.a.m.ned funny if I freak out, if I go crazy, if I cry or break down in the hallways when I see him in school." She jerks away. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're repeating yourselves. Been there, done that. Eighth grade. Spring Fling. Andrew Roberts." if I freak out, if I go crazy, if I cry or break down in the hallways when I see him in school." She jerks away. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're repeating yourselves. Been there, done that. Eighth grade. Spring Fling. Andrew Roberts."

She slumps forward as though her speech has exhausted her, the anger and the burning light disappearing simultaneously, all the expression going out of her face, her hands uncurling.

"Or maybe you didn't have a plan," she says, this time quietly, almost sweetly. "Maybe there was no point to it at all. Maybe you just wanted to remind me that I have n.o.body, no friends, no secret admirers. 'Maybe next year, but probably not,' right?" She smiles at me again, and it's much worse than her anger.

By this point I'm so frustrated and bewildered I have to fight back tears. "I swear, Juliet, that wasn't the point. I just-I thought it would be nice. I thought it would make you feel better."

"Make me feel better?" She repeats the words as though she's never heard them before, and now her eyes have a dreamy, faraway look. Every trace of anger and emotion is gone. She looks peaceful, even, and I'm struck by how beautiful she is-up close, just like a supermodel, with that ghostly pale skin and those huge blue eyes, the color of the sky very early in the morning.

"You don't know me," she says in little more than a whisper. "You never knew me. And you can't make me better. n.o.body can make me better."

This reminds me of what I said to Kent only two days ago-I don't think I can be fixed-but now I know I was wrong. Everyone Everyone can be fixed; it has to be that way, it's the only thing that makes sense. I'm trying to figure out a way to tell Juliet this, to convince her of it, but very calmly, and with that floating grace she's always had, she puts her hand on one of my arms and moves me gently but firmly out of the way, and I find myself stepping aside and letting her reach for the door handle. The tears are pushing at the back of my throat, and I'm still struggling for words, and the whole time it's like her face is growing paler and paler, glowing almost, like the sheer white point of a flame; and I have this idea that I'm already seeing her sputter out, her life flickering in front of me, a TV on static. can be fixed; it has to be that way, it's the only thing that makes sense. I'm trying to figure out a way to tell Juliet this, to convince her of it, but very calmly, and with that floating grace she's always had, she puts her hand on one of my arms and moves me gently but firmly out of the way, and I find myself stepping aside and letting her reach for the door handle. The tears are pushing at the back of my throat, and I'm still struggling for words, and the whole time it's like her face is growing paler and paler, glowing almost, like the sheer white point of a flame; and I have this idea that I'm already seeing her sputter out, her life flickering in front of me, a TV on static.

She pauses with her hand on the door, staring directly in front of her.

"You know, I used to be friends with Lindsay." She's still speaking in that horrible, calm voice, as though she's talking from a distance of miles and miles. "When we were younger we did everything together. I still have a friendship necklace she gave me, one of those hearts split down the middle. When you put them together the necklace spelled 'Best Friends Forever.'"

I want to ask what happened, why they stopped being friends, but the words are stuck behind the lump in my throat. And I'm scared of interrupting. As long as Juliet's talking to me, she's safe.

"That was right before her parents got divorced." Juliet shoots a quick glance in my direction, but her eyes seem to go directly over my face without actually registering it. "She was so sad all the time. I used to go to her house for sleepovers, and her parents would be arguing so badly we'd have to hide under her bed and stuff pillows everywhere to m.u.f.fle the sound. She called it 'building a fort.' She was always like that, you know, always trying to make the best of things. But when she thought I was asleep, she would cry and cry and cry. She started having nightmares, too. Really bad ones. She'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night."

Juliet's staring at the door again, smiling a little. I wish I could walk back into her memories and see what she's seeing, fix whatever is broken there. "She started to wet her bed again, you know? Because everything was so bad with her mom and dad. She was humiliated, of course. She swore me to secrecy-said she'd never speak to me again if I told anybody. We used to wake up in the morning and some of the pillows in the fort would be damp. I would pretend not to notice. One morning I came into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and she was sitting in the tub, scrubbing a pillow with so much bleach it made my eyes sting. She must have been scrubbing for half an hour. The pillow was all white-splotched and ruined, and her fingers were raw and red. They were burned, almost. But it's like she couldn't even see it. She just wanted it to be clean clean."

I close my eyes, feeling the floor sway underneath me, remembering coming into the bathroom of Rosalita's and seeing Lindsay on her knees, the chunks of food in the toilet. The mixture of shame and anger and defiance on her face.

"One time the fighting got so bad we even ran away from her house. We were only seven or eight, but we walked all the way to my house. It was March and pretty cold. The plan was for Lindsay to move into my room. I wasn't going to tell anyone, just keep her safe and bring her food. Mostly she wanted gummy bears and Snickers bars. She loved chocolate then, and candy. Anything sweet, really."

Without meaning to, I let out a little, strangled sound. I don't know if I can listen anymore. I have the feeling that this is it: this bathroom, this story. That this is the root and bud of it all, the beginning and the end.

But Juliet keeps going in that strange, measured tone, as though we have all the time in the world. "Of course it didn't work. We got upstairs and into the bedroom, but then we started arguing about who should sleep in the little trundle bed and who should get the big one, and my mom heard us. She was horrified that we'd walked all that way. She was screaming and crying that we could have been kidnapped or killed or whatever. I remember being really embarra.s.sed." Juliet turns her hands upward, stares at her palms. "It was nothing compared to Lindsay's freak-out, though, when my mom said she had to go home. I've never heard anyone scream that loudly."

She's silent for so long I think she's done. Her words keep buzzing in my head, flitting around and arranging themselves like clues in a crossword puzzle. She was always like that, you know, always trying to make the best of things.... She must have been scrubbing for half an hour.... Her fingers were raw and red. She was always like that, you know, always trying to make the best of things.... She must have been scrubbing for half an hour.... Her fingers were raw and red. I feel like I'm on the verge of understanding something I'm not sure I want to know. The room feels tiny and stifling. There's a crushing weight on my chest. I'm tempted to make a run for it, push past her into the party and go get a beer and forget about Juliet, forget about everything. But I'm rooted where I am. I I feel like I'm on the verge of understanding something I'm not sure I want to know. The room feels tiny and stifling. There's a crushing weight on my chest. I'm tempted to make a run for it, push past her into the party and go get a beer and forget about Juliet, forget about everything. But I'm rooted where I am. I can't can't move. I keep seeing the endless darkness of my dream rising in front of me. I can't go back to it. move. I keep seeing the endless darkness of my dream rising in front of me. I can't go back to it.

"It's funny when you think about it," Juliet says. "We did everything together, Lindsay and me. We even joined Girl Scouts together. It was her idea. I didn't want to do all that-cookies and campfires and stuff. We went away on a camping trip at the beginning of fifth grade. We slept in the same tent, of course."

I watch Juliet's hands. They're trembling ever so slightly but so quickly you can barely see it, like the wings of a hummingbird. Out of the corner of her eye Juliet catches me looking, and she brings her hands down to her thighs, gracefully but with finality.

"You remember the name they gave me in fifth grade, right? The name Lindsay gave me? Mellow Yellow?" She shakes her head. "I used to dream dream that name, I heard it so often. Sometimes I forgot what my real name was." that name, I heard it so often. Sometimes I forgot what my real name was."

She turns to me and her face is radiant, almost glowing, gorgeous. "The funny thing is, it wasn't even me. Lindsay was the one who wet her sleeping bag. In the morning the whole tent smelled. But when Ms. Bridges came in and asked what had happened Lindsay just pointed her finger at me and screamed, She did it She did it. I'll never forget her face when she screamed it-She did it! Terrified. Like I was a wild dog and I was going to bite her." Terrified. Like I was a wild dog and I was going to bite her."

I press back against the door, grateful for something to lean on. It makes perfect sense, of course. It all all makes perfect sense now: Lindsay's anger, the way she always held up her fingers in the shape of a cross to ward Juliet Sykes off. She doesn't makes perfect sense now: Lindsay's anger, the way she always held up her fingers in the shape of a cross to ward Juliet Sykes off. She doesn't hate hate her. She's afraid of her. Juliet Sykes, the keeper of Lindsay's oldest, maybe her worst, secret. her. She's afraid of her. Juliet Sykes, the keeper of Lindsay's oldest, maybe her worst, secret.

And it all seems absurd now, the chance and randomness of it. One person shoots up and the other spirals downward-random and meaningless. As simple as being in the right place, or the wrong place, or however you want to look at it. As simple as getting a craving for Diet Pepsi one day at a pool party, and getting swept away; as simple as not saying no.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. My voice comes out hoa.r.s.e from the effort of swallowing back tears.

Juliet shrugs. "She was my best friend, you know? She was always so sad back then." Juliet makes a noise that could be a laugh or a whimper. "Besides," she says more quietly, "I thought it would pa.s.s."

"Juliet-" I start to say.

She shakes her shoulders like she's brushing off the weight of everything, the conversation, the past. "It doesn't matter now," she says quickly, and just like that she snaps the door open and slips out.

"Juliet!"

There's a huge clot of people standing by the door, and when I come out I'm pressed backward momentarily as two juniors scuffle for the bathroom, both of them yelling, drunk. "I was here first!" "No, I was!" "You just got here!" A few people give me dirty looks, and then Bridget McGuire charges past all of them, face red and blotchy and tear-streaked. When she sees me she sobs out, "You-" but she doesn't finish her sentence, just swoops around the juniors and locks herself in the bathroom.

"Jesus Christ, not again," someone yells.

"I'm going to pee my pants," one of the juniors moans, crossing her legs and hopping up and down.

Alex Liment is right behind Bridget. He pushes up to the bathroom door and begins rapping on it, calling for her to come out. I still haven't moved. I'm pressed up against the wall, penned in by people, paralyzed by how wrong everything is. I remember a story I once heard about drowning: that when you fall into cold water it's not that you drown right away but that the cold disorients you and makes you think that down is up and up is down, so you may be swimming, swimming, swimming for your life in the wrong direction, all the way toward the bottom until you sink. That's how I feel, as though everything has been turned around.

"You're really unbelievable."

I'm suddenly aware that Alex is talking to me. His lips are curled back, showing all his teeth.

"You know what you are?" He puts one hand on either side of my head so he's blocking me in. I can see sweat on his forehead and smell weed and beer on his breath. "You, Samantha Kingston, are a b.i.t.c.h."

Hearing that jolts me, wakes me up. I have to focus. Juliet is off somewhere in the woods, in the cold. She's probably making for the road. I can still find her, talk to her, get her to see see.

I put both hands on Alex's chest and shove him. He stumbles backward.

"I've heard it before," I say. "Trust me."

I force my way through the hallway and am halfway down the stairs when someone calls my name. I stop dead so that the people behind me b.u.mp each other like dominoes and start cursing at me.

"Jesus Christ, what what?" I whirl around and see Kent, who leapfrogs over the banister and swings down onto the stairs, nearly taking out Hanna Gordon.

"You came." He lands two stairs above me, a little out of breath. His eyes are bright and happy. His hair is falling over his forehead, picking up light from the Christmas bulbs strung everywhere, bits of it the color of chocolate and some of it caramel. I have an almost uncontrollable urge to reach over and push it back behind his ears.

"I said I would, didn't I?" There's a dull pain unfurling in my stomach. All I wanted all night-all day-was to be standing this close to him. And now I have no time. "Listen, Kent-"

"I mean, I thought you were probably here when I saw Lindsay, et al. You guys usually travel in packs, you know? But then I was looking for you-" He stops himself, blushes. "I mean, not actively actively looking. Really just kind of perusing the crowd, you know, as I was walking around socializing. That's what you're supposed to do when you host. Socialize. So I was just keeping an eye out-" looking. Really just kind of perusing the crowd, you know, as I was walking around socializing. That's what you're supposed to do when you host. Socialize. So I was just keeping an eye out-"

"Kent." My voice comes out sharp, mean, and I close my eyes just for a second, imagining what it felt like to lie with him in total darkness, imagining the touch of his hand on mine. It suddenly occurs to me how impossible all of this is-with me and him. When I open my eyes he's just standing there, waiting, a little crease in his forehead: so adorable and normal, the kind of guy who deserves the kind of girl who wears cashmere sweaters and is really good at crossword puzzles, or plays the violin, or volunteers at soup kitchens. Someone nice and normal and honest. The pain in my stomach intensifies, as though something's caught in there, snapping away at my insides. I could never be good enough for him. Even if I lived the same day into infinity, I could never be good enough.

"I'm sorry," I force myself to say. "I-I can't talk to you right now."

"But-" He tucks his hands into the cuffs of his shirt, looking uncertain.

"I'm sorry." It's better, I almost say, but I figure there's no point. I don't look back, either, even though I can feel him watching me.

Outside I pull on my fleece, zipping it all the way up to my chin. The rain drives down my neck and spots my leggings immediately. At least tonight I'm wearing flats. I stick to the driveway. The pavement is icy and I have to reach out and brace myself against the cars as I pa.s.s. The cold tears at my lungs, and it's so strange, but in the middle of all this I have the stupidest, simplest thought-I should really jog more-and as soon as I think it I almost come undone, torn with the dual desire to laugh and to cry. But the thought of Juliet crouching by Route 9, watching the cars whiz past, waiting for Lindsay, keeps me going.

Eventually the sounds of the party drop away, and then it's silent except for the driving rain, like thousands of tiny shards of gla.s.s falling on the pavement, and my footsteps ringing out. It's dark, too, and I have to slow down, moving from one car to the next with my hands, the metal so cold under my fingers it feels hot. When I find the Tank, hulking above all the others, I fish through my bag until my fingers close around cold metal and a rhinestone-encrusted key chain that reads BAD GIRL BAD GIRL. Lindsay's car keys. I blow air out of my cheeks. This, at least, is a good thing. There's no way Lindsay can leave without me. Her car won't be on the road tonight, no matter how long Juliet waits. Still, I lock and double-lock the doors.

Then the cars drop away, too, and I shuffle forward at a crawl, mentally cursing myself for not bringing a flashlight, cursing February 12, cursing Juliet Sykes. I see now that the roses were a stupid idea, an insult, even. I think of Juliet and Lindsay all those years ago in a tent, when Lindsay raised a finger and pointed, terrified, humiliated, and it all began. And for years Juliet kept Lindsay's secret. I thought it would pa.s.s I thought it would pa.s.s.

At the same time the more I think about it-the rain beating furiously-the angrier I get. This is my life life: the whole big, sprawling mess of my life in all its possibilities-first kisses and last kisses and college and apartments and marriage and fights and apologies and happiness happiness-brought to a point, a second, an edge of a second, razored off in that final moment by Juliet's last act: her revenge against us, against me. The farther I get from the party, the more I think, No No. It can't happen this way. No matter what we did, it can't happen this way. It can't happen this way. No matter what we did, it can't happen this way.

Then the driveway opens up suddenly, and Route 9 is there, shining ahead of me like a river, liquid silver lit up by pools of light. I don't even realize I've been holding my breath until I exhale and I'm gasping, grateful for the light.

I wipe the rain out of my eyes and turn left, scanning the edge of the woods for Juliet. A little part of me is hoping that talking to me did make her feel better-maybe she went home, after all, maybe it meant something. At the same time, the way that she spoke in that low, flat voice comes back to me, and I know that wherever she was in that bathroom, it wasn't with me. She was lost somewhere, trapped in a fog, maybe of memories, maybe of all the things that could have happened differently.

A car roars behind me, making me jump. On the landing I lose my footing and go on hands and knees to the ice as the car speeds by, followed closely by a second car, its engine as loud as thunder. Then honking, waves of sound rolling toward me, getting louder and louder. I look up and see the headlights of a car bearing down on me. I try to move and can't. I try to scream and can't. I'm frozen, the headlights growing as big as moons, floating there. At the last second the car swerves a little, pa.s.sing so close to me I can feel the heat of the engine and smell the exhaust and hear a line of music pumping from the radio. Light it, blaze it, tear it up Light it, blaze it, tear it up. Then it's gone, still honking, pa.s.sing away into the night as the ba.s.s from the speakers grows dimmer and dimmer, a distant pulse.

My palms are cut up from the pavement, and my heart is pounding so quickly I'm pretty sure it's going to leap out of my chest. Slowly, shaking, I stand up. Another car pa.s.ses on the other side of the road, this one at a crawl, water from its tires pinwheeling in both directions.

And then, fifty feet ahead of me, I see a figure in white emerge from the woods, unfolding from a crouch like a long, pale flower. Juliet. I start going toward her, slowly now, trying to avoid the slick patches of dark ice. She stands there, perfectly still, like she doesn't even feel the rain. At a certain point she even lifts up her arms, parallel to the ground, as though preparing to take a dive off the high board. There's something beautiful and terrifying about seeing her in that position. It reminds me of when I was little and we would go to church on Christmas and Easter, and I was always afraid to look at the pulpit, where there was a wooden statue of Jesus mounted on the cross.

"Juliet!"

She doesn't respond; I'm not sure if she doesn't hear or is just ignoring me. I'm fifteen feet away, then ten. There's a low rumbling behind me. I turn and see a big truck bearing down through the darkness. Again I have a random thought-he should totally have his license suspended, he's going way too fast-and when I turn around again I see that Juliet is staring up the road, tensed, arms at her thighs, and she reminds me of something, but it takes me a second to realize what it is, just like it takes me a second to realize what's going on-she looks like a dog about to go after a bird-and then everything clicks together, and as she begins to move, a white blur, I'm moving too, running as fast as I can and closing the distance between us as she's sprinting out across the nearest lane. The truck blasts its horn, a sound so large it seems to fill the air with vibration, and then I slam into her with all my weight, and we roll, tumbling, backward into the woods. I'm screaming and she's screaming and pain blooms in my shoulder. I roll over onto my back, the black branches overhead a thick net.

"What are you doing doing?" Juliet's yelling, and when I sit up her face has finally lost its composure and is twisted with anger. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"What am I I doing?" My anger flares up too. "What are doing?" My anger flares up too. "What are you you doing? Jumping in front of random trucks-I thought the whole doing? Jumping in front of random trucks-I thought the whole point point was to wait for Lindsay-" was to wait for Lindsay-"

"Lindsay? Lindsay Edgecombe?" Juliet's anger drops away and she looks completely confused. She brings her hands up to her head, squeezing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I'm suddenly uncertain. "I-I thought. You know, like this was your big revenge-"

Juliet laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Revenge?" She shakes her head, and again that veil seems to drop over her face. "Sorry, Sam. For once this isn't about you." She stands up, not bothering to wipe off the thick tracks of mud and leaves that are clinging to her. "Now please leave me alone."

My head is spinning and I'm having trouble focusing on her, like we're separated by miles instead of a few feet. The rain is coming down harder now, jagged pellets of it. Little s.n.a.t.c.hes of things are whirling around in my head: Lindsay patting the hood of the Tank proudly, saying, "I could go head-to-head with an eighteen-wheeler and never feel it" the owner of Dunkin' Donuts calling out, "That's not a car, it's a truck" the randomness of things, the way everything can change in a second; the right place at the right time, or at the wrong time; time; that enormous truck coming at us, its big metal grill shining like teeth, the impression of lights and hugeness. The only thing you can see: headlights, size, a sense of power. Not revenge. Chance. Stupid, dumb, blind chance. Just a part of the strange mechanism of the world, with its fits and coughs and starts and random collisions.

"But why...?" I struggle to my feet. "Why did you come here? What was the point?"

She doesn't look at me, but she shrugs slightly. "There was no point, really. I just wanted to say it. I was always afraid to say it before-what I really thought of you. I'm not afraid anymore. Of you, of anybody, of anything. I'm not even afraid of-" She breaks off, but I know what she was going to say. Not even afraid of dying. Not even afraid of dying.

But I know what she's saying isn't totally true. Her decision to come to the party was more than that. Things are clicking into place, making a horrible kind of sense: she needed us here, needed that final push. I close my eyes against the memory of a wet and stumbling Juliet being shoved from person to person like a pinball. And tonight, I guess, she just needed to tell her story-needed to remember how bad things have been. I wonder if the day when we all slept over at Lindsay's-the day that things ended differently for her, the day that they ended alone, with a gun-it took her longer to work up the courage. If she came to the party, unnoticed, ignored, and found she didn't have the strength to go through with it. If later that night she sat and stared at the gun in her lap, and conjured up the faces of all the people who'd tormented her over the years.

Vicky Hallinan's face hovers in the darkness suddenly, twisted into a grimace, and I snap my eyes open. Maybe before you die it's your ghosts that you see.

"This isn't the way," I say weakly, feeling like the rain has seeped into my brain and made it soggy and useless. I can't remember anything I was planning to say to her. I repeat it a little louder. "This isn't the way."

"Please," Juliet says quietly. "I just want to be alone."

"What about your family?" I say, my voice rising hysterically as I realize I'm losing her again, losing my chance. "What about your sister?"