NO ONE KNOWS. PLEASE DON'T TELL.

Don't tell? That's what she's worried about? My eyes sting and my cheeks burn.

YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME. I HAD.

THE RIGHT TO KNOW. b.i.t.c.h. I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND. Then I remember.

The Sykes family doesn't keep friends.

But they do keep secrets. I'M SORRY. MY MOM WOULD HAVE WRECKED ME IF I TOLD YOU.

Probably literally. Doesn't make it right, though. One last question. WHY DID HE DO IT?

We go into a tunnel. On the other side, Elko comes into view, along with Cara's last message: WHO KNOWS?.

Elko Is A Mining Town And while the surrounding countryside is stunning, the town itself has seen better days. Parts of it are pretty. Others are shabby. Run-down. Battered by time and circ.u.mstance. Sort of like how I feel right now. We were up before dawn to hit the highway, but this soul-drooping weariness comes from some absurd sense of guilt. I didn't make Conner pick up that gun. But was there anything I might have done to stop him? Why didn't I see warning signs? Was any of his hopelessness because of me? Ridiculous, I know. He broke up with me. But I still don't know why.

Mom pulls into the Thunderbird Motel.

Checks us into a this-will-do kind of room.

"Why do we always stay here?

The Holiday Inn isn't too far away."

She's busy hanging my dresses in a tiny closet. I don't know. Memories, I guess.

"Memories of what?" Pretty sure Patrick has never been here with her. "Daddy?"

Mom pulls her head out of the dank cubicle. Weird, huh? We stayed here not too long after we met. Spent long days hiking Lamoille Canyon. Gorgeous up there... She loses herself in some recollection. Comes back again. Anyway, I'm starving. Let's get some lunch.

We've got a couple of hours to kill.

Lunch? Don't think so. "I'm more tired than hungry. Think I'll take a nap. You go."

Her Eyes Say The Words Her mouth refuses to-I'm worried about you. Why don't you eat? What she does say is, Are you sure? You have to be hungry. You didn't eat breakfast.

I never eat breakfast. But all that does is prove her unspoken point. "I'm sure.

If I don't get some sleep, I'll look awful tonight." To make her happy, I ask her to bring back a salad. Off she goes. I lie down on the plywood-and-cotton-lumps mattress.

Oh, Conner. How could you try to die?

And why didn't you? You hardly ever fail to get the things you really want. Did a switch flip inside your brain? If it did, I think what flipped it was that little boy who suddenly grew tired of being scared.

I've Only Known One other person who ended up in Aspen Springs. Tiffany took dance with me for three or four years. Rumor had it her stepdad liked her a little too much. She coped with his "bad, bad touch" by binge-and-puking.

Bulimia is nasty. Hanging your head in the toilet after every meal? Sticking your fingers down your throat? All that stomach acid, carving holes in your esophagus? And even after all that, still wearing a size eight? Talk about a waste of energy. Real control is not putting in more than you can work off.

Knowing the exact count and keeping track.

Shaving off every extra caloric unit you can without pa.s.sing out. And the most important thing of all-keeping everyone else in the dark.

Sean

Everyone Else Seems to stumble through life. Fall. Get up. Go stumbling on again.

If they happen into a really good place, do they then make plans how to stay there?

I.

don't understand how people manage without a well-drawn game plan.

Don't they want some promise of success? Every good novel requires a considered plot.

Should a biography not demand as much? How do you function without structure?

I fail to comprehend.

Plotting Is important to me. How do I manage to reach Point B if I kick off from Point A? Logic, that's what it takes. I hate the illogical. And really despise when it actually pays off for somebody.

You know, right place, right time, whoopee, you win, without putting in one d.a.m.n lick of effort?

Bugs the s.h.i.t out of me.

Especially considering my life has been mostly about wrong place, wrong time, too d.a.m.n bad for you. Lost my mom that way. Lost my dad that way.

Not going to lose Cara, too.

Which is why I've got a game plan. One I'm sticking to. When you've only got one little shimmer of sunshine, you capture it best you can. I will marry that girl one day. Not that I've asked her yet.

That page of our memoir isn't ready to be written.

Right now I'm working on the chapter that sends us to college together.

First things first, and I always prefer to write in chronological order.

Mostly because it's [chrono]

logical. I keep hearing that love isn't a logical emotion.

Should I worry about that?

It Does Worry Me Some Which is probably why, until Cara, I refused to give my heart away. I mean, I've never had to work to get a girlfriend. I have sampled more than a few yummy female delicacies. But they've all been appetizers.

Cara is a main course.

I'd call her comfort food.

Just not to her face. Don't think she'd appreciate the metaphor. Truth is, I've got nothing but respect for that girl. I love her more than anything, and I know this love is real because, unlike my other relationships, it's not all about s.e.x.

So Far, In Fact It isn't about s.e.x at all. Lots of kissing. A stolen second base or fifty, plus a definite leadoff toward third a time or two. But the only home runs I've hit lately have been at baseball practice. I think if love is real, and headed toward the altar, the s.e.x part can-within reason-wait.

My big brother thinks I'm crazy. Dude, he told me, if you're really thinking forever, you'd better take a test-drive.

What if she sucks in bed?

I've test-driven four or five.

And the thing is, there wasn't a h.e.l.luva lot of difference in the way they handled. Tune 'em up, hit the freeway. Fly.

One of My Former High-Horsepower Rides Happens to be texting Cara right now. Kendra and I had a short, sweet, ten thousand RPM fling before she and Conner hooked up. Kind of incestuous, I guess. Wonder what's going on. Not like she and Cara are tight or anything. Lukewarm buddies at best. "What does she want?" Hope that didn't sound as impatient as it felt.

Nothing important. If that's true, why do they keep going back and forth for so long?

She's on her way to Elko.

"Another brainless beauty contest?" Right up her alley.

She's got it all in the looks department. Intellect-wise, however, she's no Cara.

Probably. I'm not sure.

Now she's sounding kind of short. In between texts, she stares out the window, contemplating each answer, it seems. Finally she sighs, thumbs one last message, hits send, and puts her cell away. "You want to tell me what that was all about?"

Not especially. That's it.

Not exactly what I'd call communication. Sometimes Cara reminds me of her mother.

I'll keep that to myself.

I've Talked To Her Parents A few times. Her dad is cool.

Meaning chilled. I think it probably takes a lot to get the dude excited. He isn't friendly. But he's cordial.

That probably has a lot to do with being a lobbyist.

Totally outstanding b.u.t.t kissers, especially those who lobby for insurance.

They might have a s.h.i.tload of "buddies," but I bet they don't have a lot of friends, unless you count the ones in high places and back pockets.

Anyway, considering who he's married to, the guy deserves credit for being even tepid. Especially when holed up at home.

Because Cara's Mom Reminds me of crystal- all sparkly and beautiful distraction while it carves you clear to the bone. She is a don't-turn-your-back- on-her kind of woman.

Our first encounter was a lot like a job interview.

We are careful about who our daughter is allowed to date, she declared, before basically third-degreeing me as to my qualifications. She's a high-society high roller who steamrolled right over me.

It was almost enough to make me rethink things with Cara.

Except she's just so d.a.m.n perfect. Well, other than when it comes to communication.

We'll Have To Work On That But, hey, we've got plenty of time. Forever takes a while.

Meanwhile, I'm practicing how to get my way without her noticing. Subtlety is not my best thing, but control and Cara are not easily juxtaposed. It's a challenge, but one I'm equal to. Not that I'd say so out loud.

Staying (subtly) in control requires current information.

"So have you heard from Stanford yet?" She pretty much aced her SATs. Grades are outstanding. Community service likewise. Not yet. Dad says it will probably be a few weeks still. I did hear from Loyola, though. They want me.

"Loyola? I didn't know you applied there." Not in the game plan. Suddenly my gut feels scrambled.

"You're not even Catholic."

We don't go to church often, and when we do, it's usually to Holy Cross Lutheran. Mom isn't into the whole Pope thing.

But Dad was raised Catholic.

"So, he really believes in all that 'wine into blood' bulls.h.i.t?"

I bet the real reason they go Lutheran is so he doesn't have to confess. Too much time, trading Hail Marys for penance.

I'm not sure. My grandmother did, and my grandfather still does, at least when his Alzheimer's lets him. He doesn't remember a whole lot most of the time. Which is why they invented special care retirement communities. If I get that way, please shoot me.

She shudders at the last two words, and I'm guessing she's thinking about Conner.

"How's your brother doing, anyway? All healed up yet?"

Not really, and what the h.e.l.l is up with everyone today?

Is it Dig Up Information on Conner Day? Because I don't have anything new to tell you.

Jeez. What was that about?

"Hey, I'm not trying to dig up anything, new or old.

Just trying to communicate."

Will that always be a problem?