Even if I don't anymore.

Six p.m. and dark already. Sam and Mom are downstairs clinking pots, NPR on full blast. My room smells like fried potatoes.

Ding.

How much longer till I'm sane again? Is the not knowing what makes this particular brand of bad so miserable? If I knew Dakota was, for sure, dead, would I feel any better? Do I need all the gritty particulars to move on? The whodunits? The whys?

The photo I took earlier is stuck to the corkboard above my mirror. I stare at it. I look happy.

Ding.

I grab my crying cell. New text.

Outside, it says. Know you're home. Left my lit binder. Bring out front?

Julian, of course. My heart palpitates. No happiness here.

I grab the binder off my bed, ripping the i'm sorry stuff from the back and shoving it into my book bag. Safer to have.

Now, standing two or three feet away from him, my body is turned toward his car. I can't completely face him. "Here," I say, handing him the binder, my fingers quaking like I've just eaten a whole pile of Ritalin.

"Thanks."

I stand there. Afraid to move. Certain a premature exit might seem super conspicuous.

"I'm sorry," he blurts. "About yesterday. I shouldn't have-I have these feelings and I shouldn't have-"

"Stop it," I say. "Just stop, okay?" Why is he trying to make things right with me? With me? It's not me he has to make things right with.

"I like you, Adrienne. I feel connected to you."

"Please stop?" I plead. "I have Lee." Confess, I think, willing it telepathically.

Crickets.

"Is there something you want to say?" I ask.

"I'm trying."

"No." Not the s.e.x stuff. Forget the s.e.x stuff. "Is there something you need to, like, get off your chest? Like, is there something you need to tell me?"

"I told you, I-" A small shriek leaks from his lips. We stare at each other. "What do you want me to say?" he asks. "Tell me, please. I'll say it."

"I don't . . ."

He looks so eager and earnest. As if he has no clue what I'm getting at.

"You really don't . . . ?" Is he messing with me? Was I wrong? Did I misread the fine print? Was all that binder bulls.h.i.t just meaningless dribble?

"Adrienne, hey." He reaches out.

"Adrienne?" My name again. Only this time it's Sam. "You wanna eat or no?"

"One sec," I shout back. Then, to Julian: "I should . . ."

"Right."

"See you at school?"

He shakes his head, back and forth, like, no no no, only, "Sure" is what he says instead. "See you tomorrow, I guess."

No more new me.

I'm at school early, scrubbed clean and wearing my old clothes: blue tee, Levi's, huaraches, Sam's wooly cardigan. I'm camped out in front of Lee's locker, clutching my Jane essay and dancing around like an overenergized twit. Essay finished, finally, and f.u.c.k, it's bad, but I stayed up all night reading, writing, rewriting, so now I'm wired and spent-all caffeinated, guilty, and hot.

"Primary colors. For a change." Kate's here. Taunting and tugging my damp hair. "No more racc.o.o.n eyes?" Squinting and inspecting me. "Jesus, Knox." Her smile fades. "You okay?"

No. Or, I dunno, maybe. "Why?"

"You look like s.h.i.t. You sleep?"

I shake my head. Four a.m.: I deleted Dakota's voicemail and dumped her dress in the outdoor trash.

"Shower?"

"Yes, f.u.c.k you." I grab at my hair. "This is water, not grease."

I get it now. Really, truly. Dakota Webb? Not coming back. Gone four weeks. There's no magic mystery to unravel and f.u.c.k bulls.h.i.t clues. She's dead and she's wrecking my life.

"You just-you look . . ."

"I know what I look like."

Kate drops her bag on the ground, then starts rummaging through the front compartment. "Here." She pa.s.ses me her makeup tote. "Put on some lipstick."

I pick out a pink tube of gloss and mindlessly rub a smear of it over my dry lips. "Lee here yet?" I need him. Am ready to repent, beg, make amends.

"Don't know."

I'll be who he needs-I swear it, pledge it, promise.

"Gimme that."

I pa.s.s the gloss back. I'm so guilty and sorry I can't see straight. My eyes go all bad and blurry, and before I can blink back tears, I'm bawling.

"Hey, Knox . . ."

"I'm sorry."

"Knox, hey, come'ere." Kate's hand is on my head. We're hugging. "It's okay . . ."

"It's not."

"It is, it's okay." She pulls back.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I'm just-I'm ready for things to go back to how they were. I can be myself again. I can get better grades and be a better friend and I can make stuff right. With Lee."

"Oh, Knox . . ." Her face changes-it's a subtle shift, but I see it.

"What? What's wrong?"

"No, it's just-" She looks sideways, quickly. "Have you talked to him?"

"Why?"

"You should talk to Lee, Knox."

Cue Lee, stage left, coming through the side door with no-b.o.o.bs Alice Reed. They're backlit. It's a movie moment. Plot point two for Lee Dixon-where he dumps his crazy-wh.o.r.e girlfriend and takes up with the sunshiney schoolgirl who's been eyeing him since tenth grade.

"So, what, they're, like, legit?" I ask Kate, the pit in my gut expanding.

"I don't know."

Lee pa.s.ses by, doesn't stop, won't look over.

"It's fine," I say, righting myself, pulling my bag strap over my head. "I know it's my fault," I say, and smile while wiping my wet cheeks.

I spend lunch alone in an empty bio lab, eating a sleeve of saltines. White, salty cardboard-the least challenging thing I can think to eat.

Dingaling.

My f.u.c.king PHONE. That thing only rings with bad business. I grab for it. "h.e.l.lo?" I sound overeager and shrill.

Nothing. No hi back. Just that stupid, old-hat silence. I check the ID screen-blocked, of course. "Who is this?"

There's actual breathing this time. My head goes berserk. My heart does something speedy and rough. It's her. I know it's her. "Dakota?" I whisper, disbelieving, believing, fully freaked out.

"I-" There's a girlish sigh on the other end of the line, followed by, "I'm so sorry."

I'm weeping, instantly. Hopeful, panicked: "Dakota?" I try again. "I-"

"Adrienne," she says, sounding mousy and wrong. "This isn't-this is Alice. Reed." Oh s.h.i.t. "I'm sorry, I-" Oh s.h.i.t, oh s.h.i.t. "I shouldn't have called." The line dies.

Last period, lit. Julian's MIA. I'm zoned out all through Murphy's lecture, still reeling from Alice's call. Obsessing over Dakota and Lee and i'm sorrys and naked boys.

Then later: "You."

"Me." It's after cla.s.s and I'm at Murphy's desk, waving impishly and tearing through my bag for my Jane essay.

"Adrienne . . ." He rubs his head.

"I know, I know . . ." Found it. I pep up, dropping the crumpled packet onto his laptop.

"What's this?"

"It's late, it's super late, and I know there's a chance I won't get credit, just-please read it. I worked really hard."

"Adrienne." His brow is arched. "We had a deal."

"We did. I know we did."

"I can't." He pa.s.ses the paper back. "It's too late."

Stonewalled. I try again: "Please."

"Adrienne." He gets up. "You have to learn."