It still happened and it was horrible. But it’s worthless.

I am so empty.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Got any Percocet? Or just Adderall?”

“I’ve got everything.” He takes another swig from the bottle and stares at me. I stare back at him expectantly. “Are you serious?” he says. “You want Percocet?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll really fuck you up. It’s not like you take them every day—”

“One night, Josh. If you’re sorry, you’ll give it to me.”

How can he refuse? He takes another drink, grabs my hand, and leads me around the edge of the house, unseen. We go upstairs, to his room. He digs into his sock drawer, and a second later I have the pills. Plural. He must feel really bad.

He must think they’ll help.

“On the house,” he says. “Unless you want to pay me.”

“No.”

“Peace offering?”

“Sure.” Like hell.

“Regina, I’m really sorry—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say tiredly.

I leave him in his bedroom and head to the bathroom, where I sit on the edge of the tub and stare at the Percocet. Is this what it was like for Liz? Trying to find a decent ending for herself in a bunch of pills? But I don’t want to die.

I just don’t want to be here. I never wanted to be here.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been here.

There’s something automatic and familiar about the Percocet. I didn’t do pills at parties before. I just drank. Because it made it easier to be here, but—

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes and my face is pale and the corners of my mouth are edging down of their own accord. The pills feel heavy in my palm, as heavy as Donnie’s keys in my palm. But that was different.

I curl my fingers around the pills and close my eyes. I want them. One. That’s how I do these things. Coward. Liz is right. Coward. I want to be better than that someday. If it’s possible. Is it possible. I hope….

I open my hand. I flush them down the toilet.

I stay in the bathroom for an hour and then I decide I’m leaving and I’m not driving anyone home.

I’m making my way out of the house when some sophomore corners me and tells me Bruce is looking for me because he needs a ride. I groan and modify my plans, because I don’t want him to get in a car if he’s totally plastered. I have to make him someone else’s problem. I leave the house and make my way to the backyard, to the bonfire. Henry’s lounging in a chair.

“Is Josh here?” I ask him.

Henry shrugs. “He was.”

My eyes travel to an empty bottle of vodka lying on the ground. “Henry,” I say.

“He’s inside,” he says, closing his eyes. And then a warning: “Anna’s probably close.”

I go back inside and climb up the stairs. Maybe he’s in his bedroom, but I hope not. If he’s there, Anna’s with him. I don’t want to see them fucking.

Josh’s bedroom door is open. No one’s inside. I make my way back down the stairs, and a sliver of light filtering across the floor from inside the den catches my eye.

My last memories of the den aren’t good.

But Donnie’s not there.

I push the door open. Josh is sprawled on the couch, his right leg dangling off the side, his arm thrown haphazardly across his eyes. I cross the room and stand over him, and his glassy eyes take me in.

As soon as he registers my face, he struggles into a sitting position and pats the space next to him. I sit down.

He rubs his eyes. “Is Anna back?”

“Where did she go?”

“She drove Jeanette home because she couldn’t find you. She’s very, very mad about that….”

Good. “I’m going home. Tell Anna I went.” Josh brings his hand up to my face. I brush it away. “Don’t touch me.”

His face falls, devastated, like it’s some leftover from what happened with Donnie, even though it’s more that I still hate Josh. He edges closer to me and says pathetically, “I’m really sorry, Regina.”

“Josh, don’t—”

It doesn’t stop him. He wraps his arms around me, like that’s sorry. Like it makes everything right, even though it’s so far from ever being right again. He tightens his grip on me, like he’s trying to get his apology into my bones, but it’ll never work. And then he pulls away a little and holds my face in his hand and brings his mouth really close to mine. At first, I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He keeps his mouth close so he can apologize into mine. I can smell the booze on his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “I’m so sorry….”

“What’s going on?”

Josh lowers his hands. I turn slowly. Kara’s voice is soft and interested.

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m going home.”

She looks me over. “What? Goddammit, you’re the fucking designated driver, Regina. Who’s going to drive Bruce home?” I shrug. “You look pretty sober to me.” And then she starts spluttering and I go home.

The plan: Get to school before everyone else and hide out in the library, because I’m not looking forward to Anna today. She’ll give me hell for bailing.

I leave the house while my parents are still asleep. The air is crisp. Each breath in stings a little, but it’s sort of invigorating. A miniscule nice moment in a sea of feeling bad. I try to figure out a way I can hold on to that. I’m holding on to it until Anna’s Benz pulls up beside me, and then my moment goes away.

“Kara totally said you’d try to get there before us,” Anna says, leaning over Kara, who is in the passenger’s side. Marta and Jeanette are in the back. “Get in.”

“I’ll walk.”

“Regina, it’s too early in the morning to threaten you with blackmail. Get in.”

I sigh. Marta gets out of the car and waits for me to crawl in. As soon as we’re all wedged side by side in the back, Anna U-turns. We’re headed away from the school.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Breakfast. I’m not going in this early.”

I pop an antacid and rest my head against the seat, and they get fast food from the local strip. The car fills with that fatty, greasy smell and I try to tune out the chewing and talking, but it’s impossible. I keep waiting for Anna to bitch me out for failing my duties last night, but it never happens, so I let myself relax a little and watch the road disappear under the space of windshield visible between her and Kara.

“So good,” Jeanette says, popping the last of a greasy breakfast muffin into her mouth. “I’m so fucking hungover. I thought I was going to die last night.”

“I told you to pace yourself.” Anna turns on the radio, settling on a station that will please her and none of us. “That reminds me. Thanks for fucking us over, Regina.”

There it is. “You didn’t really think I’d stay, did you?”

She doesn’t say anything. I reach into my pocket for another antacid. Houses blur past the window. Anna drives aimlessly and turns the car onto a deserted stretch of road. I check the clock. We’re going to be late.

“We’ll be late if you don’t turn around now,” I tell her.

“Who cares? It’s Friday. Besides, I know you can’t stand being around us, so I’m just prolonging your torture,” Anna says. “That’s worth being late for.”

I close my eyes and they start blathering—going over the finer points of the party like they’re worth going over—while I focus on the radio. I don’t even notice the car roll onto the shoulder until the keys jangle out of the ignition and kill the song that’s playing.

We’ve stopped.

All four doors open. I open my eyes. Jeanette and Marta get out of the car first, followed by Kara and Anna. I’m in the backseat totally alone.

Okay.

“Get out.” Kara. “Get out of the car, Regina.”

The words come out honey-slow, oozing off her lips and into my ears. All at once, I understand what’s happening. Drop and ditch. Bruce planted it into Anna’s head when she was brainstorming ways to make Liz miserable, and I somehow managed to convince her it wasn’t “cerebral” enough. She really wanted to do it, though.

And now she can.

I leave the car slowly, all too aware of how cold it is now that I know I’m going to be stuck out here. I gauge the distance. Hallowell is a long walk back.

“I didn’t see this coming,” I admit.

“That was the idea,” Anna replies, standing behind Kara and looking strangely second in command. “Give Kara your shoes.”

Jeanette and Marta stand behind me like stone walls. Kara grins and holds out her hands, looking like she’s got all the time in the world. In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t that bad. It’s not the WHORE spray-painted on my locker or another YourSpace page, and it’s not being locked in a closet with Donnie Henderson. It’s not losing Michael again. It’s a long walk in sock feet when it’s cold outside. It’s a long walk in sock feet when it’s cold outside without them.

So that’s practically a vacation.

I crouch down, fumble with my shoes, take them off, and hand them over. My socks are thin and the ground is colder than the air. My toes curl in. Kara throws my shoes into the back of the car, yanks my book bag out, and tosses it onto the road.

“Okay,” she says.

Marta and Jeanette grab my arms and force them behind my back. I try to jerk away before I really understand it, but they hold tight.

“What—?”

“You really fucked up this time, Regina,” Kara sings.

“Jesus, are you kidding me? Because I decided I didn’t want to drive you guys home?”