“I honestly didn’t hear him.”
“I’d better tell him that. He looked hurt, and I want you guys to get along. You’re my two closest friends. It’s no fun if you’re fighting.”
“We’re not fighting! Seriously. I want us to be friends too.”
“Well, then maybe you should try not to ignore him,” she says. “You could join the conversation now and then too, you know. You were pretty spacy at lunch.”
“Sorry.” I’m too tired to argue or defend myself—?and it all seems so ridiculously petty that I don’t want to, anyway.
I text David when I get home. I can’t wait any longer. any news?
My phone vibrates a minute later.
no
Shit
And there the conversation ends.
My mom calls from the car on her way back from picking up Ivy. “You hear anything about Ethan?”
“Just that there’s no news.”
“Oh, God. I hope he’s okay.”
She’s on Bluetooth, so I can hear Ivy say, “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Mom just sighs and tells me they’ll be home soon.
When she puts dinner on the table, I’m not hungry. I just want to lie on my bed and try to distract myself with videos. I tell Mom I’m skipping dinner, and Ron starts to object, but Mom actually shushes him for once and lets me escape.
Ivy comes up to our room when they’re done eating.
“Are you sick?” she asks.
“I don’t feel great.”
“We had chicken Marsala. I didn’t like the mushrooms, so Mom said I could scrape them off. It was okay then, but I don’t want her to make it again. The mashed potatoes were good, though. It was all from Trader Joe’s. I like their macaroni and cheese better.”
“Yeah, it’s good stuff,” I say dully.
Nothing from David all evening long. I’m so tired by this point that I fall asleep on my bed fully dressed. I wake up a couple of hours later and wiggle out of my jeans, but I can’t get back to sleep.
Fears for Ethan and fears for Ivy circle around my mind, chasing each other, tormenting me.
I’m brushing my teeth the next morning when my phone vibrates. I snatch at it eagerly.
He’s home
I’m so relieved I lean over the sink and close my eyes for a second. Then I drop my toothbrush and punch out a text: is he okay? who found him? where was he?
And David texts back . . . nothing.
I get to English early, hoping David will be there and I’ll have a chance to talk to him, but he doesn’t show up until Camp has already started the class. She nods at him as he slips through the door—?she’s not the kind of teacher to give a kid a rough time for being a couple of minutes late—?and keeps talking.
I try to catch his eye, but he just opens his laptop and stares at the screen. His face is pale except for dark-purple bruise-like circles under his eyes.
Class ends, and I’m on my feet and in front of his desk before he’s even closed his computer. He looks up at me, expressionless.
“What happened?” I say. “Is he okay? Where did they find him?”
“I don’t really feel like talking about it now.” He closes his computer and slips it and his schoolbooks under his arm as he stands up.
“When, then?”
He shrugs and walks away from me.
I follow him out into the hallway and grab his arm. People are turning to look at us. Maybe I should care, but I don’t—?I just want to know about Ethan. “Please! Just tell me what happened, and I’ll leave you alone. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I need to know.”
He turns to me, lowers his voice. “Fine. The police got a call from someone who found Ethan stumbling around on the beach in Santa Monica in the middle of the night. He was soaked from head to toe, and his shoes and shirt were missing, and he was shaking. He said he had been hanging out with people on the beach, but no one was there. It sounds like maybe some kids dared him to go swimming or actually threw him in the ocean or something, but he can’t seem to explain it clearly. He said they were all fooling around together and that they were friends, but he also seems scared of them and said he didn’t want them to come back.” David’s voice is a monotone, but it’s the monotone of someone who’s fighting to stay in control of his emotions. “Because the police brought him in, he keeps asking if he’s going to go to jail and doesn’t believe us when we say no. He screams and tries to hide when he hears loud noises. I wanted to stay home with him today, but my father said I wasn’t allowed to miss another day of school. So I’m here.”
“Oh, God, David, I’m so sorry. But at least he’s home now.”
“Not for long.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re going to send him away to some kind of institution. Just like Margot’s always wanted.”
“Oh, no. They can’t.”
“Can’t they?”
“This is all my fault. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes scan my face for a moment, like he’s thinking about that.
I’m hoping he’ll say no, it’s not my fault. But he doesn’t.
“I’ve got to get to my next class.” He walks away, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down.
I watch him go. Kids are swirling and talking and laughing all around me, busily leaving one class and heading to the next, but all I see is David’s retreating back. And I have the strangest feeling about that back—?as slumped over and defeated and round-shouldered as it is. Like it’s something precious to me. Of all the backs in this school, this is the only one that I want to go walking up to and put my arms around. I want to console him, and I want him to console me.