Saving Zoë

  clean up. You know, payback for cutting out early."

  I close my eyes and sigh in relief, glad that Abby's still unaware of at least some of my secrets. "Okay, listen, I

  should go," I tell her. "It's getting late, and I haven't even showered yet." I gaze into the mirror and scowl at my limp,

  boring hair.

  "No, you can't go until you answer my question. Should I give Jax a second chance or not?"

  I drop back onto my bed, grab two pillows, and prop them under my head. "I don't know, Ab. I mean, do you

  want to give him another shot?"

  'That's why I called you, to help me sort that out."

  "Well, what does Jenay say?"

  "Jenay? Forget Jenay. I mean, I love her, we all love her, but between you and me, Jenay is now a pep club

  member. She also believes in pixie dust, pots of gold, unicorns, four-leaf clovers, guardian angels, and leprechauns.

  She thinks Mickey Mouse is a real person. That's why I called you. Because you're my only levelheaded friend."

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. "Then forget it," I tell her. "It's either there or it's not. And it shouldn't

  take GPS to locate it."

  She sighs. "That's exactly what I was thinking." And then before she hangs up she goes, "Oh hey, what's that

  song you were humming under your breath?"

  I sit up suddenly, my knuckles going white as my fingers grip the phone.

  "You know, the one that's all da da dee, do da, da la la la? What is that? It's so haunting."

  I listen to her rendition of the song I fell asleep to last night, totally unaware that I'd been humming it that whole

  time. "Urn, I don't even know the name. I think I heard it somewhere on the radio, or maybe I dreamt it or something,"

  I say, laughing nervously, hoping she'll believe me.

  "Okay, well, gotta run," she says. "But I'm serious about avoiding Teresa's. If I were you I'd stay away."

  Twenty-three

  By the time I get to Teresa's, I know I'm too late. And it's not like it took me all that long to shower and dress, it was

  more the pacing, the hand wringing, and the pro-and-con-list making that ate up all my free time.

  There's an old beat-up motorcycle leaning precariously on its kickstand, and one of those jacked-up,

  overaccessorized, overcompensating, fully loaded trucks parked right beside it. But no blue Camaro. And since

  neither of those vehicles looks remotely like anything Teresa or her parents would be willing to drive, I'm feeling more

  than a little anxious.

  I hesitate at the door, thinking I should just forget about knocking, cut my losses, and head home. And just as I

  turn to do exactly that, the front door swings open as Teresa smiles and says, "I saw you from the living room

  window." Then she wiggles her fingers, motioning me inside.

  She leads me past the formal dining room, which looks no worse for the wear, and through the ultramodern

  kitchen that's shiny, clean, and pristine. And even though the house is showing absolutely no sings of a wild night of

  out-of-control teenage debauchery, Teresa's tight ripped jeans and tiny black tube top are giving off a whole other

  vibe.

  So by the time we get to the den and I see those two overage delinquents sprawled across the couch, let's just

  say I'm not the least bit surprised.

  "You remember Tom and Jason?" she says, nodding at the losers I'd met that day in the park.

  I just look at them, wondering why she lured me here, but determined not to show any fear.

  "Beer?" she asks, raising a sweaty bottle in offering. Martha Stewart, look out.

  But I just shake my head and drop onto an overstuffed chair, doing my best to ignore asshole Tom who, once

  again, seems dead set on staring at me.

  "So, did you go to her little high school soiree?17 Tom asks, tilting his head back as he guzzles his beer, his

  eyes still fixed on mine.

  But before I can answer Teresa smiles and goes, "She stopped by, but she didn't stay long."

  "Hot date?" he asks, lighting up a cigarette that Jason immediately grabs and breaks in half.

  "No smoking in the palace, asshole," Jason says, taking the broken pieces and shoving them into his beer

  before chucking Tom hard on the back of his head.

  I watch as Tom makes a face but still cowers away, and I feel like I'm in one of those weird art-school films.

  The kind filled with rain, symbolism, and dream sequences that you can't understand. I mean, on the surface,

  Teresa's probably one of the luckiest people I know. It's like she's living the teenage dream. She's got two parents

  who are still together, she lives in a beautiful, huge home, she has a walk in-closet that's jammed full of super-cute,

  designer-label clothes, she's pretty, she's popular, she gets good grades, and she's had the same boyfriend since

  the end of eighth grade who everyone unanimously agrees is totally hot. Heck, she even has real-deal Hollywood

  credentials, having starred in a baby-food commercial back when she was two, followed by some small, mostly

  nonspeaking roles over the last few years. Which also makes her one of the few people who can actually list on her

  Web page "model, singer, actress," and only the singer part is a lie.

  So I don't get it. I mean, why would someone who has all of that want to hang out with a cheesy, creepy drug

  dealer and his mentally challenged sidekick? It just doesn't make any sense.

  When I look up, Tom is still staring at me, which totally gives me the creeps, so I pretend I have to go to the

  bathroom, since it's the only place where I can be alone, clear my head, and hopefully figure out what to do next.

  I'm standing in front of the sink, watching the water run down the drain, when Teresa barges in without even

  knocking. "He just got here," she says, standing in the doorway, looking at me. "I just let him in; I thought you should

  know. You know, so you don't stay in here all day, wasting water." She smiles, but it's not at all normal. In fact, it's not

  even kind.

  "What's going on?" I ask. "Why'd you invite me here?"

  "From what I saw in the park, it seems like you and Marc are really hitting it off," she says, looking right at me.

  "So I thought you might want to hang in a more private place, with people you can trust."

  I just stand there, not saying a word. I mean, I can't exactly deny what she saw. But still, I know better than to

  trust her.

  "I know what you're thinking," she says, nodding her head. "But you've got it all wrong. I'm actually a much

  better friend than you think. Like last night? After you left? Parker got all hammered and started hitting on someone's

  girlfriend. They almost got in a fight. But I just calmed everyone down, then I took him aside for a little chat. And you

  know what he asked? He wanted to know if you were into someone else. He said whenever you guys were alone

  together, it was like you were never really there."

  I look at her, holding my breath.

  "But I just told him to go home, sober up, and sleep it off." She shrugs. "So you see, we're not so different, you

  and me. We both look one way on the outside, but inside, we're something else. We've got secrets." She smiles.

  "Why me?" I ask. "I mean, out of all the people you know, why do you share this stuff with me?"

  "Because you're smart, and you're different, and you're one of the few people who get how nothing's ever what

  it seems."

  We just stand there, looking at each other, and I wonder if it's really that simple, if even part of that is true.

  Then she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. "Let's go," she says. "Marc doesn't even
know you're here."

  I follow her out of the bathroom and into the den, where Marc is sitting on a chair, clutching a beer and looking

  uneasy.

  "Look who's here," Teresa says, motioning to me like a game-show model presenting a shiny, new,

  energy-efficient appliance.

  I slip onto a chair and try to act casual, like I hang out with drug dealers and dropouts all the time.

  Marc glances at me then over at Jason. Then he sets down his beer and goes, "Listen, can we make this

  quick? I need to get out of here."

  But Jason's taking it easy and refuses to be rushed. "Relax," he says. "Just chill and finish your drink."

  I glance at Marc's bottle, seeing how it's still completely full, and remember how he rarely drinks, probably

  because of his mom's bad habit. "Sorry bro, but I really need to split," he says, like he's speaking a foreign language

  now, Jason's language.

  But Jason just glares, his eyes becoming angry, narrow slits. "Apparently you didn't hear me. I'm. Finishing. My.

  Beer," he says, his voice firm and controlled, punctuating each separate word.

  So we all just sit there. Avoiding each other's gaze while listening to Jason slurp and sip, until he finally finishes

  it off with one long, loud, disgusting belch. Then he sets his bottle hard on the table and says, "Me and my boy will be

  right back." He points at all of us, his index finger outstretched, his thumb arched up high, like a gun about to go off.

  When he pulls the trigger he laughs, as he ushers Marc out of the room.

  It feels like forever. Seriously, from the time they leave 'til the moment they come back, it feels like my whole, entire

  life has passed.

  And when Marc finally comes back into the den, he takes one look at me and goes, "Need a ride?"

  And I grab my purse and head for the door, without once looking back.

  Twenty-four

  The second we get in the car, Marc shakes his head and says, "What the hell were you doing in there? Are those

  people your friends?"

  "You know they're not my friends," I say, folding my arms across my chest and staring out the window. I mean, I

  don't like the tone of his voice. And I don't like the way he's acting. Like I'm some little baby that needs to be

  protected. Okay, yeah, maybe I didn't love being in there, and maybe I'm glad he's whisking me away now. But still,

  even if he hadn't shown, I totally would've made it out of there. Eventually.

  "What were you even doing there in the first place?" he asks, his eyes shielded from me as he stares at the

  road.

  "Teresa invited me." I shrug, deciding to leave it at that. I mean, the fact that I went there for him is clearly none

  of his business.

  "Well, that's just great." He glances over at me and shakes his head again. "Do you and Teresa even know

  who those guys are? Do you even know what you're getting yourselves into?"

  "Well, you seem to be all filled in, so why don't you tell me?" I say, turning toward him.

  But he just stares straight ahead, clenching his jaw as he drives. And when he stops at a light, he goes, "Look,

  I'm sorry. I'm not trying to sound like your dad or anything. It's just those guys are really bad news and you shouldn't

  be hanging around them. You shouldn't be anywhere near them."

  "You were hanging around them."

  "That's different," he mumbles, speeding again now that the light's turned green.

  "Yeah? How? Exactly how is it different?"

  He looks at me for a moment, then he shakes his head and stares back at the road. "It just is, okay?"

  "Why?" I say, unwilling to let it go.

  "Echo, Christ, just trust me on this one." He rolls his eyes and checks his side mirror.

  I turn in my seat, my eyes traveling over him until coming to rest on his jacket. "I want to see what's in your

  pocket," I say.

  "What?" He looks at me, his eyes wide.

  "Show me what's in your pocket. And then 111 decide if I'll trust you."

  He takes a deep breath and looks away, but his expression is worried.

  "Before you left the room with Jason your pocket was flat and empty. And now it's not. Now it's all bulky like

  you've got something in it. And I want to know what it is."

  "No."

  I stare at him, my breath caught in my throat since I wasn't expecting to hear that. I mean, I admit at first I was

  partly just fooling around, but now that I know he's hiding something, I'm determined to know what it is. "Show me," I

  say, reaching toward him.

  But he takes his hand off the wheel and holds me back against my seat, all the while refusing to look at me.

  I stare at him in shock, wondering what he could possibly be hiding. 'Then just take me home," I finally say, my

  voice sounding high pitched and fragile.

  "Echo, please." He sighs.

  "Now. Take me home right now!" I glare at him, my stomach jumping all around, doing the panic dance.

  He looks at me and shakes his head, then he pulls an illegal U-turn and heads toward my home.

  But by the time he gets to the end of my street I've changed my mind. I mean, maybe he is only trying to help

  me, and protect me, and save me in the way he couldn't with Zoë. And acting like this, so ridiculous and immature,

  only proves how much I need that. Besides, I think it's pretty obvious that there's no need for me to fear him. He's

  never done anything to hurt me, and he never hurt my sister, and whatever he's got in his pocket is clearly none of

  my business. "I'm sorry," I say, reaching toward him, hoping he won't push me away like before.

  "Forget it," he says, smoothing his long fingers back and forth over the steering wheel while staring straight

  ahead.

  "I guess I was just mad because—"

  "No need to explain," he says, still not looking at me.

  "I just, I don't like it when you treat me like that. Like I'm some stupid little girl. I mean, I'm all grown up now and

  you won't even see it." I peek at him, taking in the line of his nose, the strength of his chin, the sweep of his lashes,

  before looking away.

  He takes a deep breath and turns. "Believe me, Echo, I've noticed," he says, his voice sounding thick and

  resigned.

  And without even thinking, I grab his sleeve, pull him close, and kiss him. Softly at first, then harder, more

  urgent, trying to seal this moment in time, determined to leave an impression.

  And after awhile, when he pulls away, he looks into my eyes, cradles my face between the palms of his hands,

  and says, "Promise me."

  I nod, holding my breath, waiting.

  "Promise me you'll stay away from Jason."

  After dinner, and well after my parents have gone to sleep, I climb out of bed, creep down the hall, and sneak into

  Zoë's room.

  I haven't been in here for over a year. Not since the day the cops showed up with empty hands and hopeless

  faces. But everything looks exactly the same as it did back then—her blue duvet is still haphazard, having been

  tossed aside in her usual, early morning rush, and there's a lone white sock still lying on the floor, right next to the

  rug, where she'd dropped it over a year before.

  My mom's the only one who comes in here now, the only one who brushes away cobwebs and handpicks lint

  from the yellowing sheets. I guess because she couldn't save her daughter in the most important way, she's decided

  to save her like this. With this freeze-dried room, undisturbed, suspended in time. The perfect contrast to our lives

  now, which are so completely and irreversibly changed.

  I
go over to Zoë's dresser and lift her brush, my fingers gliding along the tangle of long dark hairs wrapped

  tightly around the bristles. Then I reach for her perfume, its cap long ago lost, and bring it to my nose, surprised to

  find still the faintest hint of scent.

  This is where I'd waited while the cops sat downstairs. On the floor, in the middle of her room, right in the

  center of her creme-colored flokati rug. My eyes shut tight, my body rocking back and forth as my mind sped in

  reverse, remembering our lives before, refusing to believe how they were about to become.

  But when my parents came home, and I heard my mother's long, painful cry, I picked myself up and headed

  downstairs, knowing it was time to stop pretending.

  I move toward Zoë's bed, sit gently on her mattress, and run my hand along her soft, worn sheets. Then I

  spread my body across the top of her crumpled duvet, molding her soft abandoned pillow against my cheek as I

  close my eyes, yearning to tell her how much I miss her, wanting to explain about Marc and me. How living her life

  and sharing her experiences makes me feel closer, like she never really left.

  I lay like this for a while, my eyes shut tight, calling her to me.

  But when she doesn't come, I turn off the light and creep back to my room. Knowing I've stolen enough for one

  day.

  Twenty-five

  July 19

  Okay, I'm totally short on time, but I just really need to write about how completely psyched I am that I'm going

  to Marc's tonight!! Yay! It's finally happening! In fact he's picking me up any second, and I really hope my outfit's okay.

  I mean, I've seen pictures of his mom and she always looks so polished and expensive. And I just really really want

  her to like me.

  Anyway, it almost didn't happen since my parents were insisting that I stay home to watch Echo—which is so

  freaking ridiculous I can't even tell you. I mean, hello? Has anyone noticed she's 13 now? I mean, jeez, enough with

  the overprotective BS, she's a teenager now for G's sake!

  But luckily Echo was pretty pissed too, so she told them they were making her feel like a needy little baby. Then

  after proving she knew how to dial 911 and perform the Heimlich maneuver on herself in case she choked on an Oreo