“Darce. Heard about the quarry.” Jake Curtis, my chemistry lab partner from last year, claps my back. “Nice.”
I nod. The librarian’s got her eye on me; she’s pretty strict about your actually doing something like homework or reading while you’re down here. I get up and wander over to the shelves under the windows, tugging out a couple yearbooks like Mags and I do when we’re bored. I sit, leafing through last year’s. Dedicated to Rhiannon, of course. Her picture looks back at me. Strange to think of her the way Kenyon knew her. Depressed. Messed up. Talking suicide if she couldn’t get out of Sasanoa.
I open our sophomore yearbook, which was where I was headed all along. Brad Ellis, Ed Tech, looking perfectly nice in his photo, right next to Mrs. Hanscom, Special Education.
He pops up in some candids, too, kids hugging him, giving him bunny ears, having a tinfoil swordfight with a senior during a rehearsal. Forgot how popular he was. I close my eyes and see his mouth moving, telling me about this girl he knew, and far-reaching consequences. His slim forearms against the table. His hair looking soft and a little out-of-control, making him seem younger than he is, young enough so girls can fall in love with him.
I reach drama and pictures of The Tempest. Nell onstage in a gauzy veil and leotard, her hair pinned up. The spring musical’s next. They did Tommy that year. Nell doesn’t do the musicals, even though she loves to sing; Libby keeps her to one play a year so she doesn’t get behind in her schoolwork. There’s a curtain-call shot, and when I see her, I have to lean so close that my nose touches the page, and even then, I’m still not sure who I’m looking at.
A girl who looks like Rhiannon peers out from between two seniors, half-bleached in light. Easy to miss with all the leads hogging the applause up front. Her hair’s pulled back and it looks like she’s all dressed in black, which is what stage crew wears. I never knew she did drama. She never did when we were friends.
There’s no cast and crew list or anything, but there’s a candid from the cast party of Mr. Ellis getting a bouquet of roses from everybody. He’s smiling.
I sit back slowly, my mouth gone dry. Out in the hallway, some girl shrieks like she’s being tickled. A mumbly teacher voice hushes her.
I could find out if Rhiannon worked on the crew of Tommy pretty easily. I could ask around. I don’t really hang out with anybody who does drama except Nell, but she might know. Maybe she’s known all along.
But she can’t know all of it. Even with how she feels about Brad, I can’t see her keeping quiet about this. I mean, if one plus one really equals two here.
Jesus. Even I can do that kind of math.
I go to lunch in a haze, passing the line for soggy pizza and tater tots.
Shea’s sitting at the first table to the left, legs stretched out to take up a bunch of seats. Don’t see his junior around. He sees me. His gaze goes to my cast, then travels up to my face, and he smirks as the guys around him bullshit and arm-wrestle and pay us no mind. A whole school year with him. Awesome.
“There she is.” Kat climbs off a stool at a crowded table, touching my cast. “Holy shizz, I heard you busted something. Everybody thought you were dead, man. Like straight to the bottom.” She pulls me over to the table, pushing me down onto a stool. “You guys blind? Move over. Chick’s hurt.” She squeezes her bony butt in next to me and pushes a bag of chips my way. “Tell these losers you really did it. You jumped the quarry.”
Everybody’s asking me questions at once. A two-pack of cupcakes lands in my lap. I open the plastic with my teeth, letting them swap half-truths and whole lies, just eating my cupcakes and letting the whole story get bigger than life without even having to say a word. When I finally glance over at Shea, he’s turned back to his buddies.
I’m the only senior riding the bus home. Humiliating. Nell never got on, so I guess Libby must’ve picked her up to make sure she came straight home.
The house is quiet as I dump my backpack on the floor and the mail on the table. No big fat bill from the hospital yet, but it’s coming. Mom’s still at work and Mags is out picking up applications for waitressing jobs. If she was speaking to me, I would’ve asked her to grab some for me, too.
I go upstairs to Mags’s room and sit on her bed, resting the laptop on my knees. I stare at the screen. It’s been so long since I actually wanted to get in touch with Rhiannon. I’ve deleted and unfriended her from every account I have.
Except my sent folder. I never clean that out. I scroll through practically every email I’ve ever sent. About two years back, early October, I hit a big chunk of replies to Rhiannon Foss. I open one and hit reply without looking at the message. I know what we were talking about. Those beautiful senior boys we thought we were in love with.
I sit staring at the blank email. Are you alive? Are you ever going to read this? It feels fake to begin with, “How are you?” For the longest time, I didn’t care. Who knows if she even uses that account anymore; the email will probably bounce right back. Even if she gets it, there’s a good chance she won’t answer me anyway. Guess I’ve got nothing to lose.
I try to put myself in Rhiannon’s shoes for once. Where would she go if she was hurt and messed up and needed to get away? I’d say Camp Mekwi, but a place like that wouldn’t hide some runaway. Maybe her camp friends would, though. If she kept in touch with them. Maybe if one of them is older, has their own place, they might let her crash with them, and keep it a secret. Maybe that was who picked Rhiannon up from the barrens that night, and took her away from Sasanoa.
I type, Did you leave because of him?
The cursor blinks. I hit send.
Supper is painful. Nobody’s talking, and Libby and Nell don’t even come. I get the message, loud and clear. Nell can’t be my friend anymore.
I stab at my food. The faucet drips. Another job for Hunt, but Libby isn’t around to complain. He’s almost done painting the house, only a small section near the roof left bare. I’ll miss having him around. I want to ask Mags which restaurants are hiring, which places seem like you’d get the best tips, but I don’t bother, not with her face looking like it belongs on Mount Rushmore.
Mom’s got another headache. Her color’s bad. She’s eaten maybe three bites of food with her aspirin, coffee, and nicotine. When I get up and start filling the sink to wash dishes as best I can, she says, “Darcy—”
I jerk around. She looks at me for a second, her eyes flicking to my cast, then away. She taps ash into the tray. “Leave it.”
I stand there, then slam the faucet closed and go upstairs, ignoring Dad in his frame, holding that little blond girl I hardly remember being.