"Maybe," I said, trying to sound funny.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Am I?"

"My dog. My stuff. Honestly, Laurel, you'd think that I hadn't been such an a.s.shole at that party that night. And you'd think that . . ." David stopped walking. It seemed like his throat was closing around something, and he took a quick little breath. "You'd think that my dad hadn't been the one everyone blames."

It seemed so fitting, suddenly, that David would be the one to say this out loud, this thing that so many people up and down our street and through the neighborhood and across town had thought to themselves, or maybe whispered to the one or two friends they trusted most. The thing I'd jammed into a place deep within me, because I couldn't figure out what to do with it. Not even Suzie had been able to pull it out, and she sure had tried.

"I mean, I don't give a c.r.a.p what they think," he continued, waving his hand. "They can go stick it up their gossip-loving, SUV-driving, Bob-and-Pam-are-meeting-us-at-the-golf-club b.u.t.ts."

He reached out and actually touched my shoulder with two of his fingers. "But you, Laurel . . . You have the right to think the worst, and I have a feeling I know how bad that really is, because I think it too."

I thought back to prom night, and David's reaction when I told him his father was a murderer.

"Yeah, David. I do think the worst. But you told me your dad wasn't drunk. Now you've changed your mind?"

He looked down. "No, I still don't think he was drunk. I . . . I know he wasn't. But even if it was another car that drove him off the road, he was the one driving. He made this whole mess."

Now he glanced up at the trees, gave a tired sigh. He had no idea how it felt like he'd read my mind.

I asked, "When are you going to visit him?"

"Not sure. When I'm done at the house, I guess."

"Can I come with you?"

David reacted with surprise. My question had surprised me, too.

"Why?"

Yeah, Laurel. WHY?

"I don't know. I just thought . . ." I wasn't sure what I thought. Now that David was saying the things I'd been thinking, it seemed like something we both needed to do.

"No," he cut me off. "Not yet, at least. Okay?"

His expression was so pained, and I suddenly got how David struggled, feeling protective of his father while also hating his guts.

"We'll have to find some way for me to pay you back," said David.

"You don't need to pay me back," I said. "You don't owe me anything."

"Oh, come on, Laurel," he said, his voice rising. "Stop being so nice. Give it to me. Give it to me like you did that night after the prom."

Masher started barking. He didn't like people yelling at each other.

"I was drunk," I said softly, "and it was so soon after."

"So now you're not angry anymore?"

"Of course I'm angry," I shot back, but as the words came out of my mouth I wondered if I'd ever said them before. Was there anything I could add that would make me stop sounding like an idiot? "I'm furious, but I don't feel the need to take it out on you."

"Still trying to be the good girl," said David, shaking his head. "Going for that extra credit. You get a certain number of points for the dog, and a certain number for hanging on to his stuff. G.o.d, you still want to be their sweetheart no matter what!"

Now I was angry, but it suddenly occurred to me that he wanted this. He wanted me to get in his face, mean and honest like a tough, loving coach in an old football movie. Maybe this was the whole reason he was here.

I took a deep breath. "I did those things because I wanted to. Because I thought of them and they made sense and they made me feel good. If that makes me somebody's good-girl sweetheart, then okay, that's who I am. I can live with that."

He looked up at me again and blinked away a gla.s.sy layer of tears.

"How can you be so normal?" he asked, a tw.a.n.gy whine in his voice. "I can't-I can't be like that, and you got it worse than me."

"I'm not normal, David. Believe me. People stare at me wherever I go, watching what I'm doing, listening to what I'm saying. They treat me like I'm made of gla.s.s."

David's face softened, and he shook his head. "We're both screwed."

He was silent then, like the subject was closed. I wanted so badly to hear more, to talk more. For the first time in months, I felt like I had had a real conversation with someone. Like someone had cracked me open and everything that was plain and honest had spilled out onto the dry autumn earth.

What else do you know, David? And how do you know it?

I fought back the nervousness I still felt around him and was about to give voice to these things. But just then, Masher started barking again, and we looked up to see him about a hundred yards away, running circles in front of a rocky slope.

"Good boy, Mash!" called David. "I would have walked right by it!"

We walked toward the cave, which was much more overgrown now. No way would I have gone into it back then, if it looked like this. You could barely see the opening because there were so many weeds in front of it, and one tree had filled in so much that its branches hung down like bars.

Masher was already digging his way inside. David called for him to wait up but he disappeared into the cave, so David went after him, swiping at anything that got in his way.

I stood there, knowing I was supposed to follow, but not sure I wanted to. It p.i.s.sed me off that David thought he knew so much about me. I would have turned around and headed home right then, but (a) I wasn't sure how to get there and (b) I wanted to stay.

"Laurel? You coming?" called David, and I headed toward his voice.

It took me a few minutes and several sc.r.a.pes from strange, itchy plants, but I made it to where David crouched in the darkness with his hand outstretched to grab mine. I took it, and it felt cool and hot at the same time. I could feel the creases of his palm, which made my heart race a bit, which then surprised me so much that I nearly fell over.

"Here," was all he said, and I took one last step into the cave. We both had to crouch while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

"This is smaller than I remember," I said.

"Well, we're bigger, Einstein."

"Oh, right. Duh."

"There's a rock right in front of you that you can sit on."

I felt with my hands until I found the rock, and lowered myself onto it. I could now see David sitting across from me on a little shelf inside the cave, and Masher's tail at the far wall, wagging. I couldn't see his head but I could hear him clawing and sniffing at something.

"Don't you think this is peaceful?" asked David.

"Sure, if your idea of a vacation is being locked in a closet somewhere."

"I was wondering if maybe this is what it's like to be in a coma," he said, and I could see him close his eyes. "Like, do you dream, or is everything just dark and empty inside your head?"

I had no answer for him. He wasn't asking me, anyway.

We were quiet for what seemed like several minutes but was probably just a few seconds. Finally, Masher decided he was done digging and started making his way out of the cave.

"After you," said David, tilting his head toward the light. I got up and took a big step onto the wobbly rock, but he didn't offer his hand.

Once we were out, David suggested we walk a bit farther, and I just shrugged okay.

"Do you really think we're screwed?" I asked him after we'd gone a few dozen yards in silence.

He laughed, a little humph. "I don't know. I guess that depends on how much good luck comes our way in life."

"Don't you think that we have something to do with it too? Like we can unscrew ourselves, if we do things a certain way?"

He laughed a little. "Unscrew ourselves. You mean I actually have to do some of the work? It's so much easier to be a victim!"

David said that jokingly, but something about the way he said it struck me. I could almost hear it ping off my forehead. He was right. It was easier to be the victim, but it didn't feel so great.

And I wanted more than that. I'd wanted so much before the accident-all the things most people do when they're sixteen, I guess. Why couldn't I want them now? Why couldn't I have them, still?

"I have to come up with one more essay for my Yale application," I said. "And I'm trying to decide whether or not I should write about the accident."

David raised his eyebrows. "It's probably something they don't see very often."

"I just don't know who to tell, and who not to tell. Mr. Churchwell says that wherever I end up going, he could make sure my roommates and RAs are aware of my *situation.'"

He nodded. "More watching, more tiptoeing, more kid gloves."

"What would you do?"

David stopped walking suddenly, so I stopped too. He stared off at something in the distance, squinting a bit, then shifted his gaze to me.

"What are you more afraid of? That people won't treat you normally once you get there, or that they will?"

Another sudden truth, so clear. David was scary good at throwing these at me and having them stick.

Maybe I'd been kidding myself. I'd been thinking it would be heaven, a world of people not seeing me as a walking tragedy. But now that I saw that, it scared the c.r.a.p out of me. I wouldn't be special anymore. I would have no excuses.

David just smiled, knowing the answer. "You don't need to be afraid of it. That's why I left town, to be anonymous to everyone out there. And I wasn't ready for it. I'm still not. But you, Laurel. You're strong enough. You know who you are."

"I do?" I wanted to add, Then tell me! Who am I?

"I think so," said David. He bent down to pick up a stick. It was a perfect fetching stick for Masher, just the right length and thickness. I was always looking for sticks like that, and I guess David was too. He yelled, "Hey, Mash! Fetch!" and tossed it as far as he could. Masher shot off after it.

When David turned back to me I put my hand on his elbow, and it didn't take him or me by surprise. It just seemed the natural thing to do. "Thanks for the advice," I said.

"Thanks for asking for it."

We smiled at each other, and neither of us clicked our eyes away.

"Laurel," he said, his smile disappearing. But it wasn't the beginning of a sentence. It had no upturn at the end of it. He was just saying my name, and it reminded me that I was here, alive, with two feet connected to the ground and breath filling my lungs. I was me, and apparently I knew who I was.

Then David put one hand gently on the side of my head, his palm pressing lightly on my ear, his fingers pushing my hair back. The p.r.i.c.kly feeling of his skin on mine shot through me and made me a little dizzy. I still wasn't sure what he was doing.

Until he kissed me.

He just leaned in and did it before I knew it was happening-I was distracted by the hand-ear nuclear reaction-and before I could think anything, I was kissing him back.

His lips felt softer than I thought they would. Softer than Joe's. And much more practiced, confident, even while I thought I felt him shaking. He tasted sweet, too, and I remembered he'd had Nana's cookies for breakfast.

Then he pulled away and dropped his hand and stared at me, wide-eyed as if I'd been the one to kiss him. "Okay," was all he said.

I looked at his lips and remembered a moment from last year when I'd seen him hanging out in the senior parking lot, smoking cigarettes with his friends. I'd watched him drag on one and then open his mouth to blow perfect Os of smoke, and I'd been impressed. Now I'd just kissed that mouth.

"Okay," I echoed.

"We should probably get back. I have to go over to the house."

"Right."

We started walking again, and when our hands accidentally brushed, David moved a few steps farther away. It made me ache, but I didn't do anything about it. Would I ever in a jillion years have the courage to tell him I wanted him closer, more touching, more kissing?

Thank G.o.d for Masher. It would have been the longest walk of our lives if he hadn't made us laugh nervously as he nuzzled the leaves and barked at the branches and did a happy little dance every time he found a new tree or rock. His antics carried us back through the woods and away from the cave, and away from our kiss. Masher knew exactly where to go, and all we had to do was let him take us home.

Chapter Twenty-five.

David spent the rest of that Sunday at his house, and I stayed in Toby's room, playing with Lucky and the kittens, who were just starting to crawl around while their mom watched them, tired but vigilant. I couldn't deal with my Yale essay, so I broke out my sketch pad and started drawing some backgrounds for Joe's art project, thinking that maybe if I focused on Joe for a little while, I wouldn't feel like I'd cheated on him somehow.

My cell phone had four unread text messages, and I a.s.sumed they were all from Meg. Twice I started to call her back, to tell her everything that had happened in the woods, but stopped before actually pressing her speed-dial b.u.t.ton. I wasn't ready to share yet. I didn't feel like giving up anything of what I'd collected from the day.

I stayed up late, waiting for David to come back, but at nine o'clock he called the house and told Nana that he'd be awhile, and she arranged to leave a key under the mat for him. I was both relieved and disappointed that I wouldn't see David that night.

When I woke up the next morning, I got dressed and showered and crept to the doorway of the den to see David and Masher asleep on the couch.

"He got back late," said Nana behind me.

"I figured," I said.