Ashes to Ashes

PEOPLE HAVE BEEN LEAVING FLOWERS IN RENNIE’S locker, poking them through the vents. I’m careful when I open the door, so the flowers don’t fall onto the floor. The inside of her locker door has pictures of the cheerleading squad, her and Ash, her and Reeve. None of us. The one of us down by the beach is gone. It was the summer after ninth grade, and we were wearing sherbet-colored bikini tops and making silly faces into the camera. I wonder if she ripped it up or if she just threw it away. I haven’t gone through any of our photo albums yet. I can’t. It hurts too bad.

Methodically I start separating her personal things from the textbooks I have to return to Mr. Randolph. I throw away a package of doughnuts, a spiral notebook with only one page of notes inside, half a pack of old gum, and a fuzzy black hair tie. I falter when I get to her favorite lip gloss and her black compact mirror—would Paige want to keep this stuff? Probably not, but maybe just in case? I put that stuff into the cardboard box Mr. Randolph gave me, along with a long cardigan, a scarf, and a few binders.

“I was starting to think maybe you died too.”

I turn around. It’s Kat, with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is piled on her head in a greasy bun, and strands are coming out the back, and she has dark circles under her eyes. She looks terrible.

“Sorry, bad joke,” she says with a grimace.

“Hey,” I say. “Kat, I’m so sorry I—”

Kat waves her hand, like Forget it, and I’m relieved. She hitches her bag up on shoulder. “Yo, have you seen Mary today?”

I shake my head.

“I went by her locker to put a note inside, and it was cleaned out.” Kat chews on her fingernail. “Did you ever tell her what happened with you and Reeve?’

Biting my lip, I say, “I’ve been meaning to, but things have been so crazy . . .”

“Maybe she found out somehow and that’s why she’s been MIA.” Kat shoves her hands into her pockets. “What’s going on with you and Tabatsky now? Are you a couple?”

The derision in her voice makes me want to curl up and die. “No! We are definitely not a couple. We aren’t anything.”

“I’m not accusing you, Lil. I mean . . . it is what it is. I just want us to be real with each other.”

I look around before I take a breath and start over. “That stuff with Reeve, it’s over. It was just that one night and it hasn’t happened again. And I’m not purposefully avoiding you guys either. I’ve been at Paige’s every day with Ash and everybody, trying to get her to eat. She’s a mess. All she does is sleep and cry. It’s been really hard.”

“Well, at least you’ve got people around you. I mean, who the eff am I supposed to cry with? Pat? My dad? They don’t get it. I mean, sure, they feel sad about what happened to her. But nobody knew Ren the way we did.” Kat’s voice cracks on Rennie’s name.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Kat wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “It’s fine. Whatever. I just needed to say my piece.” She grits her teeth and forces a smile, and it looks terrible. In a deadpan voice she says, “I feel better already.”

I reach out and give her shoulder a squeeze. I’m going to have to face Mary eventually. I owe her that. I close Rennie’s locker door and hoist up the box of her things. “Let’s go over to Mary’s.”

We take my car. As we get closer, Kat says, “Here’s what I’m thinking. If Mary’s home and it doesn’t seem like she knows about you and Reeve and what happened on New Year’s Eve . . . maybe you don’t tell her.”

I draw in my breath. “I can’t not tell her.” Can I?

“But like you said, it’s over, and it would only hurt her. So there’s no point, right?”

“I guess so.” I don’t want to hurt Mary. That’s the last thing I want. And this thing with Reeve really is over. Maybe Kat’s right.

I park in Mary’s driveway, right behind her aunt’s Volvo. It doesn’t look like anyone’s shoveled the snow; it’s melting in patches. When I get out of the car, the bottoms of my boots crunch on broken glass. Kat and I look at each other, uneasy.

We go up to the front door and ring the bell, but no one answers. I have this weird feeling, like someone is watching us. It’s the prickly-back-of-the-neck feeling I get late at night when the whole house is asleep and I go downstairs to get a glass of water. I always run back to my room fast.

Kat starts knocking on the door, hard.

“This is creepy,” I whisper.

Kat keeps knocking until her knuckles turn red. “Shit.” She presses up close to the window. “It looks like a tornado blew through there.”

I press my nose up against the glass. Oh my God. The dining room chairs are knocked over; the entryway table is on its side. “Kat, Mary could be in serious trouble. We have to call the police!”

“The police?” Kat repeats. She’s craning her neck, trying to see up the stairs. “Why don’t we just break in ourselves and see what’s what?”

“Because there could be an intruder in there! Who knows what we’d be walking into!” I grab her by the arm and drag her back to the car, where I take out my cell and dial 911.