HERE WAS NIKKI DRUMMOND, PERCHED prettily on the blue velour couch in my living room, sitting in a spot where I’d peed as a baby, more than once. She was dressed for summer in Battle Creek, which meant straddling the narrow line between socially acceptable and buck naked, somehow making a strapped cotton shell and sweaty cutoffs look both girl-next-door sexy and living-room-small-talk appropriate. Kid-tested, mother-approved. I was dressed nearly the same, but looked like a homeless person.
“So,” Nikki said.
Lacey had taught me that the best way to unnerve people was to let them marinate in silence. I watched her, waiting, and she watched me, waiting. I broke first.
“What do you want?”
“Are you mad at me or something?”
“Seriously?” It was strange to talk to someone like everything was the same as it had been, like only I was different.
“Come on, what did I ever do to you, Hannah?”
“For one, you ratted me out to my fucking mother.” It felt like forever ago; it felt laughably small, considering. But it was easiest to say out loud.
“That was for your own good.” Her voice, sweet as syrup. Sticky. “She got you to break the law, Hannah. Come on, what kind of friend is that?”
“Dex.”
“What?”
“My name is Dex.”
She laughed. I’d never actually punched anyone—growing up an only child had deprived me of the wrestling and black eyes that came with siblings—but I could imagine it, the bite of nails against my palm, the crunch of knuckles against cartilage, the spatter of blood, the wide-eyed surprise in her eyes, pain and awe, that I had it in me to break something. That she could be broken.
She must have seen it, because she swallowed the giggle.
“Sorry. Dex.”
“Please go.”
“Not yet. I came by to see if you were doing okay, and you’re not even giving me a chance to ask.”
“Lacey’s gone,” I said. It was the first time I’d said it out loud. “So you don’t have to worry about me anymore. No more bad influence.”
“God, Hannah, I don’t give a shit about Lacey, I’m talking about you. How are you? After . . . you know?”
I did know, and I didn’t. Maybe that was why I’d let Nikki Drummond sit on my coach and scuff her flip-flops into my rug. So she could tell me.
“Fine,” I said.
“Yeah, so fine you’ve been playing hermit all summer. You look like an albino.”
I stood up. “You came to the circus, you’ve seen the freak. Now you can go.”
Nikki sighed. “Look, Hannah—”
“Dex.”
“Yeah. Whatever. It was my party, sort of. Okay? So I feel responsible for how it ended up. For you.” She said it like she was expecting credit.
“How it ended up,” I said, slowly. Lacey would say: Show no fear. Lacey would say: She should be afraid. “With me dumped out back like garbage?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Nikki said. “I left way before then, don’t you remember?”
I shrugged.
She leaned forward. “Wait, you don’t remember? Oh my God, you totally blacked out!”
What I did remember: How it felt, to want to touch, to be touched. The heat and prickle of it, the fire.
“It must be killing you,” Nikki said. “Not knowing.”
I said nothing.
“You want my advice?” She said it like she wanted to help, and it was all upside down, Lacey leaving me, Nikki refusing to go away. “Decide nothing happened. Decide you’re fine, and you will be.”
Believing was the hard part, Lacey always said.
“I told you. I am fine.”
“Any of us could have gotten snagged by that rent-a-cop,” Nikki said. “Don’t think we don’t know that. You have more friends than you realize.”
“I have enough friends.”
She snorted. “Come to my place this weekend. My mom’s throwing some god-awful mother-daughter pool party, it’ll be a nightmare. You’ll love it.”
“I would rather jab a hot knife in my eye.”
“Too bad for you, then, because your mom already said yes.”
LACEY
Endless, Nameless
I BLAME JESUS. AND BEFORE YOU get all uptight about sacrilege, remember that it would be just as easy to blame you.
I should have left without you. I could have: I had the car. Shame on me for giving you more time, for assuming the Bastard would calm himself down. For going home.
Call it a failure of the imagination.