Mrs. Burke is shoving her notes into her briefcase when I stop by her desk. She doesn’t glance up.

“Mrs. Burke?”

“Yes, Alix.” Still no eye contact.

“May I have my phone back?”

“At the end of the day. I’ll be in the English Department office.” She heads out the door.

It’s my phone. She has no right.

As I’m entering the cafeteria, I pass Joss speeding toward the exit. Probably to smoke a joint or six.

I hurry to catch her. “Joss, hey.” I put a hand on her shoulder and she wrenches away. “I’m sorry about the anniversary.” She doesn’t turn around to face me. I’m back at that moment when the RIPs on Swanee’s Facebook wall dwindled to zero and I felt livid about what short memories people had of her. “We should’ve taken a moment of silence or something,” I say softly to Joss. “Even if it was just the two of us.”

Joss inhales a stuttered breath and her shoulders begin to shake.

“Maybe we can get together and talk—”

“Alix, there you are.” Mrs. Burke bustles toward me. “My husband’s sick and I have to leave, but I wanted you to have your phone back.”

That was nice. I feel bad about assuming she was out to get me personally.

Mrs. Burke says to Joss, “You’re going to be late for class.”

Joss whirls and I see that black mascara is streaming down her face. “Fuck off,” she says to Mrs. Burke.

I cringe.

Mrs. Burke snarls, “That’s two hours in detention, young lady.”

Fortunately Mrs. Burke pivots and hurries off before she hears the string of curses under Joss’s breath. Joss goes out the back while I check my phone.

There are ten texts and a voice mail. I key in my password to listen to the message.

Liana says, “Hi. It’s me. Are you okay?”

Immediately, I call her back.

She answers on the first ring.

“My cell got confiscated in class,” I tell her.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I know the rules.”

“So do I. I shouldn’t be texting you during the day.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“It’s weird, but I feel better talking to you. More hopeful that life goes on. I hope you don’t mind,” she says.

“I don’t mind. I feel the same way.” Which is true.

“Where are you now?” she asks. The halls are filling and ears are everywhere, so I slip into the restroom and lock myself in a stall.

“In the bathroom.”

“Before class or after?”

“Between. English and lunch.”

Liana says, “English. Lunch,” like she’s writing it down. “I sent a request to friend me again on Facebook. But if you want me to go away and leave you alone, just deny it. I’ll understand.”

Someone comes in and takes the stall next to me. I have to face the wall and muffle our conversation, which creates a time lapse.

“Okay,” Liana says. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“No.” I lower my voice. “I don’t want you to leave me alone. It’s just…” I whisper, “Somebody’s in here.”

“With you? Are you wearing the merry widow?”

I smile to myself. “I wear it every day. Hoping to get lucky, you know?”

She laughs. “Anyway, if you want to talk, I’ll need your schedule so I’ll know when it’s safe to call. And vice versa.”

Two things strike me instantly: 1. She plans to call again. 2. Swanee never could remember my schedule, no matter how many times I told her or wrote it down. I knew where she was every second of every day. Or at least I thought I did.

I ask Liana, “Where are you?”

“In the locker room, getting ready for a pep rally.”

“Why the locker room?”

“So I can pick up my poms and run a brush through my hair. Gotta be glam, you know.”

I love her hair. It’s thick and curly. I’d give anything to have hair like hers instead of my flyaway mop, which won’t even hold a braid.

“Where’s your game?” I ask.

“Berthoud.”

Before I can verbalize my thought, she preempts it by saying, “Don’t come. You’ve seen us play.”

She knows I wouldn’t be going to watch their team.

“I’m on in two minutes,” she says. “By the way, I took my ring back for a refund? Since I had it sized, they wouldn’t give me the total amount, which bites, but I did find out something interesting.”

“What?”

“Liana, the band started,” I hear in the background.

“I’ll tell you later,” she says. “You’ll die. Sort of the way I did.”

Chapter 16

As I veer up the sidewalk, I see that Joss is waiting for me on my front porch. She skipped out on detention, which will only prolong her sentence.

Every time I see her now, I feel guilty that Liana blames her for the texts. She looks like she wants, or needs, to talk. “Would you like to come in? I have Double Stufs.”

That was the exact wrong thing to say.

She brushes past me and clomps off down the walk.

I notice she’s gone from goth to slut. She’s wearing the shortest jean skirt I’ve ever seen over holey fishnets with this skimpy, low-cut shirt that shows every bulge. I always think girls who dress like that are crying out, Notice me!

I have this sudden urge to run after her, to hold her, to tell her it’s okay to cry, to be angry, to grieve, to scream and curse the world for taking her sister and best friend from her.

Even though I don’t know Joss that well, Swanee would want me to help her through this. I dump my backpack on the porch and dash after Joss.

She’s gone. Disappeared. I call out her name and get no response, so I turn back toward my house. Inside, I find Dad in his office with Ethan, rocking him to sleep. Peeking in, I say, “Okay if I borrow the car for a while?”

“Just be back by dinnertime.”

I drive in the direction Joss headed, but it’s like she vaporized into thin air. I could talk to Jewell, share my concern about Joss needing someone to talk to about Swanee’s death. Yeah, right.

As I wonder what to do about Joss, my brain automatically sets Dad’s GPS to Berthoud. An hour. Yikes. Being back by dinnertime may be a problem, so I chisel a mental memo to call my parents when I get there so they won’t worry.

Liana’s right. The final score is fifteen to one, Berthoud. And I only glanced at the scoreboard to make it less obvious how focused I was on Liana during the game. After it’s over, as she’s slugging down her Gatorade, I come up behind her and go, “Boo.”

She jumps and drops her bottle. We both crouch down to retrieve it. She says, “What are you doing here?”

“It was on the way.”

“To what?”

“Um, Wyoming?”

We laugh in unison. She says, “We have a better track team. Come to those meets.” Her face freezes. “If you can.”

We stand there for a minute, not saying anything. My heart starts crashing against my ribs.

“Liana, the bus is leaving in, like, a minute,” a cheerleader with brilliant aqua hair says, breaking the spell. “I could use your help with the cooler.” She closes the lid.

“You said you found out something when you returned the ring,” I say to Liana.

She holds my eyes, and then looks away.

I should’ve listened and not come. Now I feel I’m being presumptuous.

She swallows hard and her voice goes hollow when she says, “Can we talk about it later?”

She’s gone before I can answer.

Shit, shit, shit. I don’t get home until after seven, and Mom and Dad are thoroughly pissed. Naturally, I forgot to call. They don’t ask where I was, which is a relief, but it also makes me feel like they don’t give a damn anymore.

Mom says, “I phoned Jewell to ask if she’d bring over your T-shirt.”

“Mom, you had no right!”

“I had every right. I’m your mother. Jewell said she thought you’d already gotten everything you wanted out of Swanee’s room.” She finishes loading the dishwasher and starts the wash cycle.

I slide into my chair at the table. “I’m sorry. I do have everything. I also figured out they’re the most dysfunctional family in the world.”

Mom doesn’t reply. I think she and Dad figured that out a month ago.

Mom says, “I left you a bratwurst and some sauerkraut in the fridge to warm up.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I say. “I’m really sorry again about being late and not calling. If you want to take the keys away—”

“Don’t give us ideas.”

I sit alone at the table with my nuked dinner and think about Liana, whether she lured me to Berthoud with the ring story.

No, that would be more of a Swanee ploy. Liana is nothing like her.

I can’t keep placing blame on everyone else. It was my fault for not listening to Liana, my fault for not calling home. We choose our own actions, like Liana said.

Thoughts of my poor choices conjure up the image of Joss. As much as I want to distance myself from the Durbins, I can’t seem to erase Joss. Her image, her unresolved grief, my guilt surrounding her.

As if Swanee’s taunting me, that night I see the glow of her cell in my bag. I know I should get rid of it. So why can’t I? I should give it to Joss, but then she’d know I am the thief and the liar.

I don’t know why I’m not ready to relinquish that stupid cell. It’s been more than a month, and no doubt the phone is dead or the service canceled. Having it only reminds me of what I’ve lost.

I can’t sleep. I go downstairs to make some hot cocoa and as I pass Dad’s office, I see the light on. Mom’s in there, working on his computer. She must sense me behind her because she says, “Yes, Alix?”

That sixth sense freaks me out. Maybe I need to change deodorants.

I enter and sit in Dad’s “thinking” chair. It’s actually where he naps when he thinks no one’s looking. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Mom stops typing and wheels around.

“What would you do if you knew someone was in trouble and you didn’t know how to help them?” I ask her.

She says, “Let me guess. Joss?”

Make that a seventh sense.

“Yeah.”

Mom says, “Is she on drugs? Because if she is, I think Jewell should know.”

What good would that do? Jewell wouldn’t care.

“I think she’s ha**g s*x with a guy who’s, like, twice her age. But that’s not the problem.”

“That’s not the problem?”

“Mom, please. Okay, it’s a problem. But it’s not the worst problem.”

“What could be worse?”

“No one’s talked to her about Swanee’s death.”

Mom says, “I’m sure Jewell and Asher have.”

I’m sure they haven’t. “I think she needs professional help. Like, grief counseling.”

Mom holds my eyes for a long time, and then picks up the phone. She must know a slew of psychologists and counselors. When the call is answered, she says, “Is this Joss?”

Oh my God.

Mom asks, “Is either of your parents home? This is Dr. Van Pelt. Alix’s mom?” She listens a minute. “Will you leave a message for Jewell to call me—” Mom holds the phone away from her ear. Slowly, she hangs up. “Does she always talk to people that way?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ll keep trying to get hold of Jewell or Asher. You did the right thing in telling me. That girl needs serious help.” Mom reaches over and pats my knee.

“What are you going to say to them?”

“I’m going to tell them exactly what you told me.”

“Leave out the sex part. And don’t tell them it came from me.”

Mom says, “I’m not leaving out anything.”

“Mom, I don’t have any proof she’s sleeping with that guy. I’m more concerned about how she’s dealing. Or not dealing. And keeping me out of it when you talk to Jewell. Which I know sounds selfish…”

Why did I even start this conversation?

Mom nods. “I’ll do my best.”

My brain says get up and go, but my body doesn’t respond. Mom starts typing again. She stops and glances over her shoulder. “Is there something else?” She sounds busy and I know I should leave so she can work.

“How do you do it?” I ask.

“Do what?”

“Deal with sick babies. Watch them die knowing there’s nothing you can do to save them.”

Mom swivels around in the chair again. Her face softens. “Did I ever tell you why I wanted to become an obstetrician?”

I shake my head.

“I was in college, changing from one major to another. The ten-year plan, you know?” She smiles a little. “I just didn’t feel passionate about anything. Then I took this urban studies class, and half our grade was doing community service. There was a list of places where we could volunteer and I chose a safe house for women and children. This one young woman, about my age, showed up on my first day of work. Yasmin. She was eight months pregnant. She also had twin boys who were three or four. We got to be good friends. She was funny and smart and ambitious. Unfortunately, her boyfriend was your typical abuser. Jealous and full of rage. He had to monitor and control Yasmin’s every move. And when he drank or did drugs…” Mom shakes her head.