What Happened to Goodbye(9)
Author: Sarah Dessen

I didn’t know what to say to this.

“I loved the Fountain School,” the blonde sighed, taking a swig off her beer.

“You went there?” I asked her.

“We met there,” the guy said, sliding his arm around her waist. She snuggled into him, pulling her parka closer around her skimpy dress. “But then there was this, like, total Big Brother–style shakedown and she got kicked out.”

“All that talk about respecting others and their choices,” the girl said, “and they have the nerve to search my purse for drugs. I mean, what is that?”

“You did pass out in the Trust Circle,” the guy pointed out.

“The Trust Circle,” she said. “Where’s the trust in that?”

I glanced around, thinking it might be time to look for other conversation options. The only other people in the kitchen, though, were two guys taking tequila shots and a girl leaning against the fridge having a weepy, drunk conversation on her cell phone. Unless I wanted to go outside, I was stuck.

The door banged open again behind me, and I felt another burst of cold air. A moment later, the girl in the puffy jacket who’d been responsible for me getting my beer was stepping up beside me, pulling a bottled water out of her pocket, and twisting the top off.

“Hey, Riley,” the girl in the slip dress said to her. She cocked a thum me. “She’s new. Starts Jackson on Monday.”

Riley was thin with blue eyes, her hair pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck, and she had silver rings on almost every finger. She smiled at me sympathetically and said, “It’s not as bad as they’ve told you, I promise.”

“Don’t listen to her, she’s a misguided optimist,” the guy said. To her he added, “Hey, you seen Dave yet?”

She shook her head. “He was having a big sit-down with his parents tonight. I’m thinking they maybe didn’t let him out after.”

“Another sit-down?” the blonde said. “Those people sure can meet, can’t they?”

Riley shrugged, taking a sip of her water. Her lipstick, a bright pink, left a perfect half-moon on the bottleneck. “I think he was hoping they’d decided to loosen up a bit,” she said. “I mean, it’s been two months. The fact that he’s not here, though, doesn’t bode well.”

“His parents are so overprotective,” the blonde explained to me. “It’s crazy.”

“Like the Gulag,” her boyfriend added. “But at home.”

“Seriously. The kid is on the straight and narrow his entire life, and then one night, he’s just unlucky enough to get busted with a beer at a party.” The blonde did a combo cleavage adjustment–eye roll, a move it was clear she’d perfected. “It was one beer! Even the court just gave him community service. But in their eyes, he might as well have killed someone’s grandma or something.”

“Hard-core,” her boyfriend agreed.

I watched as Riley took another sip, then consulted her watch. As she did so, I noticed she had a tattoo on her inner left wrist, a simple black outline of a circle the size of a dime. “Okay,” she said. “It’s nine forty. We leave here at ten thirty at the latest in order to make curfew. No exceptions, no disappearing. Capisce?”

“You are such a mom,” the blonde complained. Riley just looked at her. “Capisce,” she said finally.

“Ten thirty,” the guy said, then saluted her. “Got it.”

Riley gave me a smile, then walked back into the living room, picking her way over to the sofa. There, a dark-haired guy in an army jacket was gesturing wildly, telling a story to a couple of girls gripping plastic cups, who looked to be hanging on his every word. I watched her as she sat down on his other side, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, and listened as well.

When I turned back to Gulag guy and Trust Issues, I found them suddenly—and passionately—making out, his hands sliding under her jacket. I glanced at the girl at the fridge, still weeping, and decided to head outside for some air.

On the side porch, people were smoking and shifting around in an effort to stay warm. It was a cold, crisp night, the stars so bright they seemed close enough to touch. Without even thinking about it, I started looking. One, I thought as I found Cassiopeia. Two was Orion. Three, the Big Dipper. Some people step over cracks, knock on wood, or toss salt over their shoulders. I never let myself look up at the night sky without finding at least three constellations. It just made me feel safer, more centered. Like no matter where I was, I could find somthing I recognized.

It was my mom who had taught me about the stars. She’d been an astronomy minor in college—one of the many surprises about her, actually—and my dad had bought her a telescope for their five-year wedding anniversary. She kept it on the small deck outside their bedroom, and on clear nights we’d huddle around it together, her finding the constellations and then pointing them out to me. “One,” she’d say, and point to the Little Dipper. “Two,” I’d say, and find one of my own. Then we’d both look hard, hard as we could, for another. Whoever found and named it first was the winner. Because of this, whenever I saw the night sky, no matter where I was, I was reminded of my mom. I wondered sometimes if when she looked up, she thought of me, as well.

Whoa, I thought as I felt a lump rise in my throat. Where did that come from? I’d only had about four sips of beer, but clearly, that was enough to threaten entirely too much nostalgia. I was just setting my can down when I saw the blue lights.

“Cops!” a voice yelled from behind me, and suddenly, everyone under the age of twenty-one was in motion. People from inside came bursting out the door, while those on the deck jumped the rails or pounded down the steps, taking off across the lawn into the darkness. I saw a couple of people dart across my porch and around the other side to the driveway, while still others took off down the street, their purses and jackets flapping behind them. One skinny girl with braids, wearing earmuffs, was not so lucky, getting corralled by an officer who was coming up the walk. I watched as he led her by the arm to his car, depositing her in the backseat. There, she slumped against the opposite window, putting her head in her hands.

“You!” A bright light flashed across me, then slid back right into my eyes, making everything invisible beyond it. “Stay right there!”

My heart started pounding, my face suddenly flushed despite the cold. As the light grew brighter, closer, shaking slightly with every step the cop took toward me, I had to make a choice. Mclean, Eliza, Lizbet, and Beth all would have remained still, following orders. But not Liz Sweet. She bolted.