Sloth

  A round of applause snapped Beth back to the present, and she realized it was time to step up to the mic and wrap things up. “Welcome to senior spring,” she announced, her voice nearly lost amid the cheers. “Let s get ready for the best time of our lives!”

  “Is everything okay?” Miranda asked again.

  Harper nodded, shifting her position on the narrow metal bench. The bleachers couldn’t be very comfortable for her, Miranda suddenly realized, feeling like an idiot. Her leg was still healing, and with a sore neck and back ...

  “Do you want to take off?” Miranda asked. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t—”

  “I’m fine,” Harper said quietly. She stared straight ahead, as if mesmerized by Beth’s ridiculous speech. A few months ago, the two of them would have been soaking up every absurd word, adding ammunition to their anti-Beth arsenal. Later Miranda would have them both cracking up over her Beth impersonation, complete with bright smile and frequent hair toss.

  Or more likely, they would have skipped the rally altogether, snuck off campus to gossip and complain, then drunk a toast to their high school days drawing to a party-filled close.

  Instead, Harper had insisted on attending. It was her first day back, and maybe she’d been looking forward to the crowds and excitement, or maybe she’d just wanted to get it over with; Miranda didn’t know. She hadn’t asked.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked instead. “I could get us something to drink, or—”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Miranda, I’m fine” Harper snapped. “Can you give it a rest?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Harper shifted in her seat again, rubbing her lower back. Miranda successfully resisted the urge to comment. “Really.” Harper smiled—and maybe someone who hadn’t been her best friend for almost a decade would have bought it. “I’m just... can we talk about something else? Please.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

  No problem; Miranda was used to talking about something else. It’s all they’d been doing since that first day, when Harper had finally agreed to visitors. Miranda had been on her best behavior; and she’d stayed that way.

  Among the questions she knew better than to ask:

  How do you feel?

  What’s it like?

  Do you miss her?

  What were you on, and why, when you humiliated yourself in front of the whole school?

  Why did you get into the car? Where were you going? What really happened?

  It had been a long month of unspoken rules, and Miranda was almost grateful for them, as if they were bright flags dotting a minefield, warning her where not to step.

  They never spoke Kaia’s name.

  They never talked about the fight, the betrayal that Miranda had forgiven the moment her phone rang with the news.

  It made things easier. Like now—Miranda knew better than to mention the last time she’d been in this auditorium, shivering in an upper row of the bleachers while student after student somberly spoke of Kaia’s grace and fortitude. Her beauty, her wit, her style—they never mentioned her cruelty or her penchant for causing misery, the way she thrived on other people’s pain. They never mentioned the rumors swirling around her relationship with a certain former French teacher, lying in a hospital bed of his own, Kaia’s fingerprints found at the scene of the apparent crime.

  A wreath of flowers had lain at the center of the court, right where the Haven High mascot was currently doing cartwheels to rally the crowd. An enormous photograph of Kaia, bundled up in cashmere with windblown hair and rosy cheeks, had stood behind the podium, where Beth now raised her hands and clasped them in triumph. Kaia’s father had already left town, maybe for good; Harper was still in the hospital. Miranda had sat alone, trying to force her mind to appreciate the tragedy of wasted youth, to force herself to weep or shake like all those girls who’d never even spoken to Kaia, who knew her only as the newish girl with the Marc Jacobs bag—unlike Miranda, who’d shared drinks with Kaia, shared a limo with Kaia, shared a best friend with Kaia.

  Kaia, who was now dead.

  That should mean something. It should be a turning point, one of those moments that make you see the world in a new way.

  But everything had seemed pretty much the same to Miranda, except that now the second-tier girls had a new strategy for sneaking onto the A-list; they’d been unable to befriend Kaia in life, but now there was nothing to stop them. It was still the same game, and it didn’t interest her.

  She’d thought instead about Harper, who, she’d been told, was in stable condition and recovering well. No visitors allowed, patient’s orders.

  She’d thought about how strange it was to see her math teacher cry.

  She’d thought about whether her chem test that day would be cancelled.

  And that was about it.

  “So I’ve decided I hate all my clothes,” Miranda said now, plucking at her pale blue T-shirt that had been washed so many times, she could no longer tell when it was inside out. “We’re talking serious fashion emergency—and you know what that means. ...”

  Harper didn’t say anything.

  “Shopping spree,” Miranda chirped. “You, me, Grace’s finest clothing stores, and, of course”—she patted her purse—”mom’s gold card.”

  A faint smile crept across Harpers face. “I could use some new . . .”

  “Everything?” Miranda prompted.

  “You know it.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that anything in this town would be worth buying—you know Grace.”

  “It s a total fashion—” Miranda cut herself off just in time. Train wreck, she’d been about to say. “Wreck” was too close to “collision.” Accident. And that was another thing on the list of what they couldn’t discuss. “Wasteland,” she said instead. “I guess if you want, we could drive down Route 53 and pick up some swank duds at Wal-Mart. . . .”

  Harper laughed, and it actually sounded real. “I’ll pass, thanks. Hopefully Classic Rags will have some good stuff, and we can check out—oh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing.” Harper glanced off to the side. “It s just, I’m supposed to go to physical therapy this afternoon . . . but it’s totally stupid. I can just blow it off.”

  “No!”

  Harper’s eyes widened, and Miranda softened her tone. “I just mean, no, you should go. We can shop anytime. You have to take care of yourself.”

  “It’s really no big deal,” Harper argued. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bleacher seat.

  “But you really should—”

  “I guess, maybe. . . .”

  “Unless there’s some reason you actually want to—”

  “Forget it.” Harper stood up, wincing a bit as she put weight on her left leg. “You’re right, we can shop another time. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Where are you going?” Miranda jumped up from her seat. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’ve got some stuff to do,” Harper said, already walking away. “You should stick around here.”

  Once again, it wasn’t a request. It was an order.

  “Where are you taking me?” the redhead giggled as Kane Geary led her, blindfolded, down the empty hallway.

  “That’s for me to know”—he kissed the back of her neck, then ran his fingers lightly down her spine, relishing the burst of shivers it caused—”and you to find out. Come on”—Sarah? Stella? Susan?—”babe. Time to make your dreams come true.”

  He pulled her along faster, but she tugged back, slowing them down. “I can’t see anything,” she reminded him, squeezing his hand. “I’m going to trip.”

  “I’d never let you fall,” he assured her. “Don’t you trust me?”

  She laughed. “I’m not that stupid.”

  Kane begged to differ. But not out loud.

  “How about you take off the blindfold and just tell me where you’re taking me?” r />
  “Where’s the fun in that?” Kane shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea.” He hoisted her over his shoulder. Once she stopped wriggling and giggling, she lay pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her lips nuzzling the small of his back.

  “All the blood’s rushing to my head, Kane,” she complained, “so you’d better hurry.”

  But he stopped.

  A month ago, Kaia’s locker had been transformed into a makeshift shrine, with a rainbow of cards and angel pictures adorning the front, above an ever-growing pile of flowers and teddy bears. There were notes, bracelets, magazine cutouts, candles—an endless supply of sentimental crap—but no photos. None of the mourners had any pictures of Kaia; none of them even knew her.

  Even Kane had no pictures. Back in the fall, he, Kaia, and Harper had staged an illicit photo shoot, a faux hookup between Harper and Kane captured on film—and later doctored to make it appear that Beth was the one in his arms. Kane still had the original images stored away for a rainy day; but Kaia had stayed behind the lens. And Kane’s mental picture was blurry. He remembered the way she’d felt, the one night they spent together—he remembered her lips, her skin, her sighs. But the room had been dark, and she’d been gone by morning.

  For the first few days, there had been a strange zone of silence around her locker—you dropped your voice when you passed by, or you avoided it altogether. But then it faded into the background, just one of those things you barely noticed as you hurried down the hall.

  Even Kane, who noticed everything, had successfully blocked it out after a few days of cringing and sneering. He’d almost forgotten it was there.

  And now it really wasn’t.

  The collage of cards and pictures had disappeared, with only a few stray, peeling strips of tape to remember them by. The pile of junk was gone—only a single teddy bear and a couple of votive candles remained, and as Kane watched, they too were swept up by the janitor, deposited in a large bin, and wheeled away

  Now it was just any other locker. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

  “Kane, what is it?” the redhead asked, tickling his side. “Are we here? Wherever we are?”

  “No, we’re not here,” he said, still staring at the locker. “We’re nowhere.”

  It’s just a locker, he told himself. She doesn’t need it anymore.

  He put the redhead back on her feet, tipped her blindfolded head toward his, and gave her a long kiss. Then he put his arm around her shoulder and guided her away from the locker, down the hall, toward the empty boiler room, where he’d prepared his standard romantic spread.

  “We’re two of a kind,” Kaia had once told him. Meaning: icy, detached, heartless. Winners, who didn’t need anyone else’s approval to be happy, who sought out what they wanted and took it. Who didn’t look back.

  Wouldn’t it be a fitting tribute to prove her right?

  chapter

  _______________

  2

  Adam was waiting on his front stoop when the car pulled into the driveway.

  At first, he didn’t move, just watched as Mrs. Grace climbed out of the rusty Volvo, then scurried around to the passenger’s side to help her daughter.

  Harper shrugged her off.

  If you didn’t know her, she would have looked perfectly normal, Adam mused. Aside from a few fading scratches on her face and neck, and a long scar on her left arm, she looked totally fine. The same. And from a distance, you couldn’t even see that much; he’d only noticed the scar this afternoon at the rally, sitting behind her, close enough to see the thin white line arcing across her unusually pale skin, close enough for her to see him—and turn away.

  From this distance, all he could see was her wild hair curling around her face, and the syncopated rhythm of her walk—not the familiar stride of superiority, as if she were a wealthy landowner touring her property, but a more tentative, irregular gait, small nervous steps that favored her right leg.

  He called out; she didn’t stop. But she was moving slowly enough that he could catch her.

  “Adam, what a pleasant surprise,” Amanda Grace said, favoring him with her unintentionally condescending smile—at least, he’d always assumed it was unintentional. Amanda Grace had always been nothing but kind to the boy next door, and probably had no idea how obvious her disdain for his mother or his circumstances truly was.

  By any objective standard, her family was worse off than his—after all, his mother was the top Realtor in town, while the Graces ran a dry cleaners that even in good years barely broke even. But Adam and his trailer park refugee mother had poor white trash written all over them—and his mother’s not-so-circumspect bed-hopping didn’t help matters—while the Graces had their name.

  It was pretty much all they had, aside from the stately but dilapidated home left over from boom times, but in the town of Grace, California, surrounded by Grace Library, Grace Hospital, Grace Retirement Village, their name was enough.

  “Would you like to come inside, Adam?” she asked, putting a hand on Harpers shoulder; Harper squirmed away. “I’m sure you could use a home-cooked meal.”

  “I’m sure he’s got other plans,” Harper said, her glare making it clear to Adam that if he didn’t, he’d better make some.

  “In that case, I’ll give you two a chance to talk. Don’t stay out too long, hon,” she cautioned Harper as she stepped inside the house. “You need your rest.”

  “I’m fine, Mother.”

  Adam tasted victory. He was sure Harper had been about to duck inside as well—but now that her mother had cautioned her, Adam knew she’d stay out as long as possible. Even if it meant talking to him.

  “What do you want?” she asked, and again, if you didn’t know her, you’d think her voice perfectly pleasant. But Adam knew her—had grown up with her, briefly dated her, been betrayed by her, was finished with her—or so he’d thought, until he realized what “finished” could mean.

  “Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said. “You haven’t been returning my phone calls, and this afternoon we . . . didn’t get a chance to talk.” Because she’d kept her back to him the whole time and had left as quickly as she could.

  “How sweet,” she said coolly. “Thank you for asking. I’m fine, as you can see. So . . . ?”

  “So?” he repeated hopefully, after a long pause.

  “So is there anything else?”

  “Oh.” Adam looked down at his scuffed sneakers. “I thought we could hang out,” he suggested. “We could go get some coffee, or just, you know, go out back. On the rock.”

  On our rock, he wanted to say, the large, flat bed of granite that separated their two backyards, where they’d played G.I. Joes, shared their secrets, kissed under the moonlight.

  “I’m not really in the rock-sitting mood,” she told him.

  “Then let’s go out,” he pressed. “There’s some band playing at the Lost and Found, and—”

  “What band?”

  Was that honest curiosity in her voice?

  “Something like Blind Rabbits. Or maybe Blind Apes? I don’t know—it’s just some guys from school, and I’m sure they suck, but—”

  “What do you want from me, Adam?” The curiosity— and all other emotion—was gone from her face. And in its blankness, it looked familiar. It looked like Kaia.

  “Nothing. Just—I thought we could have some fun together. I want . . .” Screw the casual act, he decided. Nothing between them had ever been casual, and she couldn’t change that just by pretending they were strangers. “I want to be there for you, Gracie.” She flinched at the sound of her old nickname, but her face stayed blank. “I want to be your friend.”

  “You can’t always get what you want,” she half said, half sang, in a tuneless rendition of the Rolling Stones lyric. “And I’m not granting wishes these days. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  He has never seen her look so small, or so pale. She is swaddled in white sheets, her bandaged arms expo
sed and lying flat at her sides. He tries to ignore the tubes and wires, the intimidating machines with their flashing lights and insistent beeping.

  Her eyes are closed. She’s only sleeping, he tells himself.

  But it’s difficult to believe that when she’s so pale and still.

  The last time he spoke to her, he told her she was worthless— that he would be better off without her in his life. Everyone would be better off, he’d suggested. She told him she loved him. And he told her it wasn’t love—it couldn’t be, because she didn’t have that in her. He’d sent her away.

  And then she’d appeared onstage, drugged out and miserable, begging him to take her back in front of the whole school.

  He’d been humiliated. Enraged. Until he got the phone call.

  He sits down on the small plastic folding chair next to her bed and cradles her hand in his, careful not to move her arm. He doesn’t want to hurt her. She doesn’t wake up.

  The room is empty. Her parents are in the cafeteria. The nurse just left. Adam is alone, and he can say what he needs to say. Even if she can’t hear him.

  “Please be okay,” he begs her. “I need you.”

  He wishes she would open her eyes. Or squeeze his hand.

  Talk to her, they’d told him. It can help.

  “Remember when we were in fourth grade and I forgot my permission slip for that trip to the amusement park?” he asks. He feels stupid, even though there’s no one to hear. But he keeps going. “And I started crying in front of everyone when Mrs. Webber told me I couldn’t go? You tore your permission slip in half so you’d have to stay there with me. You missed out on your first roller coaster—” He stops and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to remember. “Just for me,” he whispers. He wants to lay his head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat, confirm that it’s steady and strong. But there are too many bandages and wires, and he’s afraid he could hurt her. Even more.

  He leans down, his face close to hers, and for a moment he is tempted to kiss her, convinced that, like Sleeping Beauty, the touch of his lips might bring her back. Instead, he rests his head on the pillow next to hers and whispers. He asks her to wake up. He tells her, again, that he needs her.