The back door opens, and two people walk outside. I scoot further behind the shed, obstructing my view so that all I can see are feet. They’re walking towards the side of the house.
Shrill laughter pierces the dense air. The voice is girlish and unsteady.
“Be quiet,” says another female voice.
Is it Zoey’s voice? I think so. Then again, I’m not sure. I want it to be her. I want to catch her doing something bad so I can finally proclaim I am right. Deliver the precious proof.
“No one can hear us,” the girl’s voice replies. They’re walking to the side of the house.
“Let’s keep it that way.” This time I’m certain the voice is Zoey’s.
I listen as feet pat against the wet grass and debris from fallen branches. Then there’s silence again. I’m certain no one went back inside. Someone is in the dark with me, but I can no longer see or hear them.
Who is out here? I think of Darcy, how the police found her outdoors on a night not unlike this. Does she have any idea Zoey, the new girl posing as her friend, is the one who hurt her? Has Zoey lured another girl outside with the intent to hurt her? Do more than cut her leg?
I take a deep breath. I tighten my fists inside my pockets and skate to the side of the house. As I get closer, the sounds of breathing and movement become louder. Finally, I see something. No, someone. Two someones. In the darkness, I can’t decipher faces. I pull out my phone and turn on the light.
“What the hell?” says a voice. I know that voice. It’s Devon, and she’s with Zoey. She raises a hand to block my light, not recognizing me. They’ve both changed out of their formal attire. I smell marijuana and realize the girls must be hiding their stash from the people inside. And yet Devon looks out of it. She isn’t just high. She’s disoriented. Has Zoey drugged her, too? Lured her out here with the promise of pot, so she can get her alone?
Zoey steps forward. Unlike Devon, she recognizes me. I lower my phone and run. I dart past the shed and sprint toward the road. My feet crunch atop gravel as I run down the driveway. I move further away from voices and music. As I reach the fields, I hear footsteps behind me. Someone else running. It must be Zoey.
I pick up speed, looking back to try and identify who is chasing me. It’s too dark, but I can clearly see the shadowy silhouette of someone behind me on the road. I look forward, raise my arms and pump harder in the direction of my car. I stay focused, making deliberate strides. Whoever is running behind me is fast. I can hear their steps moving closer. I look back again, can see the person has made considerable gains in my direction. I still can’t see a face; it’s too dark. Behind them, I see faint flashes of blue and red. Police? Did they decide to break up the party after all? Whoever is chasing me doesn’t take notice. They’re still running.
The moon bounces off my windshield, bringing the outline of my car into view. It’s nearby. I can’t quite touch it. But within a minute, I will. I look back one more time. The shadow is still chasing me, and I see the police vehicles have stopped at the entrance of Zoey’s driveway. Maybe the person following me will see and turn around.
As I face forward, my foot slips on something slick and I fall. My shoulder breaks my landing, and I howl in pain. Whoever is behind me now has a considerable advantage. I listen as their footsteps pound closer. Stop right by my body. I feel a sharp pain on my head.
Forty-Three
Spring 2006
I waited for Mom to come downstairs. I’d been dreading our conversation.
“Della,” she said, her voice weighed down with anger more than surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at the theater by now?”
“I need to tell you something,” I told her. I’d spent all night preparing, and yet I still wasn’t ready. She’d find out eventually, but she deserved to hear it from me.
“Oh no.” Mom collapsed in a chair and leaned over the table. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
“What?” I was temporarily distracted by the absurdity of the question. There was no way I could be pregnant. I was still a virgin. I felt immediately guilty. Never in my life had I so badly wanted to be pregnant. Or arrested. Or suspended. Because anything—any tragic circumstance a parent could imagine—would be easier to digest than what I was about to tell her. “No, Mom. I’m not pregnant.”
“Thank God,” Mom said, letting out a deep breath. “Well, it better be important if it’s worth skipping work.”
I looked down and immediately started crying. I’d worn a brave face all weekend, and I just couldn’t anymore. I knew how destroyed Mom would be when I told her what I had to say. Here she was going through a laundry list of my possible failures, all the while clueless about the horrible truth.
“Della,” Mom said, shaking the back of my chair. My sudden burst of emotion scared her. “Are you worked up over this Amber mess? Honey, I’m sure it’s nothing. She might already be back.”
But I knew Amber wasn’t back. I’d stayed up half the night calling her, receiving no reply. This morning, while Mom was soaking up the last of her sleeping pills, I walked across the street and asked Karen if Amber had returned. She hadn’t. She hadn’t responded
