PRAISE FOR Saving June

‘With a powerful story, characters that truly come alive, and a romance worth swooning over, Saving June is a fresh, fun, and poignant book that I couldn’t tear myself away from.’ Kody Keplinger, author of The DUFF

‘Hannah Harrington weaves a fast-paced and heartfelt story about first loss and first loves. Readers will adore following a protagonist as real and raw as Harper Scott as she searches for closure after her sister’s tragic suicide in this tender, funny and moving debut. I couldn’t put it down!’

Courtney Summers, author of Cracked Up to Be and Some Girls Are

‘Saving June is an incredible debut. Like the best of songs, it brings tears to your eyes and makes you smile. Like the best road trip stories, it takes you on a vivid journey that you don’t want to end.’ Stephanie Kuehnert, author of Ballads of Suburbia

‘raw, powerful, and absolutely spot-on.’

YA Reads.com

‘definitely one of my top YA reads of the year’ thebookpushers.com

‘Jake would make a good book boyfriend.

He was so raw and real.’

The Book Scoop.com

‘Harper’s voice rings true, and readers looking for a mildly steamy romance … won’t be disappointed.’

Kirkus Reviews

If you love Saving June, find more edgy, brave, young adult fiction at www.miraink.co.uk.

And look out for Speechless, the fantastic new novel from Hannah Harrington coming soon.

If you want to join in the conversation you can also find us on Twitter @MIRAInk.

Saving June

Hannah Harrington

www.miraink.co.uk

For Judith St. King,

my second mother.

acknowledgments

First I need to thank my agent and biggest advocate, Diana Fox, for having enough confidence in me and my writing for the both of us. I couldn’t ask for better. I’d also like to thank my wonderful editor, Natashya Wilson, for falling so in love with my story and wanting to share it with the world. And thank you to everyone else at Harlequin Teen for making that happen.

To my earliest supporters—Lisa Rowe, Joanne Ferlas, Bridget Clark, Nell Gram, Gabrielle Rajerison, Ann Finstad, Erin Whipple, Rebekah Ross, thank you for your general awesomeness and love. Kim Montelibano Heil, you helped give me the push do this. Anna Genoese, you are the coolest and smartest person I know, and I respect your opinion more than anything. Thanks for never telling me I suck, even when I do. Olivia Castellanos, this book would not exist without you, period. Thank you for being the first person to ever read it, thank you for being on the receiving end of so many emails and phone calls throughout this entire process, and thank you even more for never doubting this could happen. Your friendship means the world to me.

My fifth-grade teacher, Eric Schweinzger—thank you for sharing my essays out loud in class, giving me glowing praise on my silly short stories, and basically helping a kid who wasn’t that great at much feel like maybe she could be pretty good at this one thing, if nothing else.

Mom, thank you for raising me on such awesome music, and for everything else. And I do mean everything. Your support is beyond words, and I love you.

chapter one

According to the puppy-of-the-month calendar hanging next to the phone in the kitchen, my sister June died on a Thursday, exactly nine days before her high school graduation. May’s breed is the golden retriever—pictured is a whole litter of them, nestled side by side in a red wagon amid a blooming spring garden. The word Graduation!! is written in red inside the white square, complete with an extra exclamation point. If she’d waited less than two weeks, she would be June who died in June, but I guess she never took that into account.

The only reason I’m in the kitchen in the first place is because somehow, somewhere, someone got the idea in their head that the best way to comfort a mourning family is to present them with plated foods. Everyone has been dropping off stupid casseroles, which is totally useless, because nobody’s eating anything anyway. We already have a refrigerator stocked with not only casseroles, but lasa gnas, jams, homemade breads, cakes and more. Add to that the lemon meringue pie I’m holding and the Scott family could open up a restaurant out of our own kitchen. Or at the very least a well-stocked deli.

I slide the pie on top of a dish of apricot tart, then shut the refrigerator door and lean against it. One moment. All I want is one moment to myself.

“Harper?”

Not that that will be happening anytime soon.

It’s weird to see Tyler in a suit. It’s black, the lines of it clean and sharp, the knot of the silk tie pressed tight to his throat, uncomfortably formal.

“You look … nice,” he says, finally, after what has to be the most awkward silence in all of documented history.

Part of me wants to strangle him with his dumb tie, and at the same time, I feel a little sorry for him. Which is ridiculous, considering the circumstances, but even with a year in age and nearly a foot in height on me, he looks impossibly young. A little boy playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes.

“Can I help you with something?” I say shortly. After a day of constant platitudes, a steady stream of thank-you-for-your-concern and we’re-doing-our-best and it-was-a-shock-to-us-too, my patience is shot. It definitely isn’t going to be extended to the guy who broke my sister’s heart a few months ago.

Tyler fidgets with his tie with both hands. I always did make him nervous. I guess it’s because when your girlfriend’s the homecoming queen, and your girlfriend’s sister is—well, me, it’s hard to find common ground.

“I wanted to give you this,” he says. He steps forward and presses something small and hard into my hand. “Do you know what it is?”

I glance down into my open palm. Of course I know: June’s promise ring. The familiar sapphire stone embedded in white gold gleams under the kitchen light.

The first time June showed it to me, around six months ago, she was at the stove, cooking something spicy smelling in a pan while I grabbed orange juice from the fridge. She was always doing that, cooking elaborate meals, even though I almost never saw her eat any of them.

She extended her hand in a showy gesture as she said, “It belonged to his grandmother. Isn’t it beautiful?” And when she just about swooned, it was all I could do not to roll my eyes so hard they fell out of my head.

“I think it’s stupid,” I told her. “You really want to spend the rest of your life with that jerk-off?”

“Tyler is not a jerk-off. He’s sweet. He wants us to move to California together after we graduate. Maybe rent an apartment by the beach.”

California. June was always talking about California and having a house by the ocean. I didn’t know why she was so obsessed with someplace she’d never even been.

“Seriously, you’re barely eighteen,” I reminded her. “Why would you even think about marriage?”

June gave me a look that made it clear the age difference between us might as well be ten years instead of less than two. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she said. “When you fall in love.”

I rolled my eyes as I drank straight from the jug, then wiped my mouth off with my sleeve. “Yeah, I’m so sure.”

“What, you don’t believe in true love?”

“You’ve met our parents, haven’t you?”

Two months later, June caught her precious Tyler macking on some skanky freshman cheerleader at a car wash fundraiser meant to raise money for the band geeks. The only thing really raised was the bar for most indiscreet and stupidest way to get caught cheating on your girlfriend. Tyler was quite the class act.

A month after that disaster, our parents’ divorce was finalized.

June and I never really talked about either of those things. It wasn’t like when we were kids; we weren’t best friends anymore. Hadn’t been in years.

Now, even looking at the ring makes me want to throw up. I all but fling it at Tyler in my haste to not have it in my possession. “No. I don’t want it. It’s yours.”

“It should’ve been hers,” he insists, snatching my hand to try and force it back. “We would’ve gotten back together. I know we would have. It should’ve been hers. Keep it.”

What is he doing? I want to scream, or kick him in the stomach, or something. Anything to get him away from me.

“I don’t want it.” My voice arches into near hysteria. What makes him think this is appropriate? It is not appropriate. It is so far from appropriate. “Okay? I don’t want it. I don’t.”

Our reverse tug-of-war is interrupted by the approach of a stout, so-gray-it’s-blue-haired woman, who pushes in front of Tyler and tugs me to her chest in a smothering embrace. She has that weird smell all old ladies seem to possess, must and cat litter and pungent perfume, and when she releases me from her death grip, holding me at arm’s length, my eyes focus enough for a better look. Her clown-red lipstick and pink blush contrast sharply with her papery white skin. It’s like a department store makeup counter threw up on her face.

I have no idea who she is, but I’m not surprised. An event like this in a town as small as ours has all kinds of people coming out of the woodwork. This isn’t the first time today I’ve been cornered and accosted by someone I’ve never met acting like we’re old friends.

“It’s such a tragedy,” the woman is saying now. “She was so young.”

“Yes,” I agree. I feel suddenly dizzy, the blood between my temples pounding at a dull roar.

“So gifted!”

“Yes,” I say again.

“She was a lovely girl. You would never think …” As she trails off, the wrinkles around her mouth deepen. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways. My deepest sympathies, sweetheart.”

The edges of my vision go white. “Thank you.”

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest.

“There you are.”

I expect to see another stranger making a beeline for me, but instead it’s my best friend, Laney. She has on a dress I’ve never seen before, black with a severe pencil skirt, paired with skinny heels and a silver necklace that dips low into her cleavage. Her thick blond hair, which usually hangs to the middle of her back, is twisted and pinned to the back of her head. I wonder how she managed to take so much hair and cram it into such a neat bun.

She strides forward, her heels clicking on the linoleum, and only meets my eyes briefly before turning her attention to Tyler.

“Your mom’s looking for you,” she says, her hand on his arm. From the outside it would look like a friendly gesture, unless you knew, like I do, that Laney can’t stand Tyler, that she thinks he’s an insufferable dick.

“She is?” Tyler glances from me to Laney uncertainly, like he’s weighing the odds of whether it’d be a more productive use of time to find his mother or to stay here and see if he can convince me to take the stupid ring as some token of his atonement, or whatever he thinks such an exchange would mean.

“Of course she is,” Laney says glibly, drawing him toward the doorway to the dining room. She’s definitely lying; I can tell by the mannered, lofty tilt in her speech. That’s the voice she uses with her father—one that takes extra care to be as articulate and practiced as possible. It’s completely different from her normal tone.

As soon as Laney and Tyler disappear from sight, the woman, whom I still can’t place, starts up her nattering again with renewed vigor. “Tell me, how is the family coping? Oh, your poor mother—”

And just like that, Laney’s back, sans Tyler. She sets a hand on the woman’s elbow, steers her toward the doorway.

“You should go talk to her,” she suggests with a feigned earnestness most Emmy winners can only dream of.

The woman considers. “Do you think?”

“Absolutely. She’d love to see you. In fact, I’ll come with you.”

This is why I love Laney: she always has my back. We’ve been best friends since we were alphabetically seated next to each other in second grade. Scott and Sterling. She’s the coolest person I know; she wears vintage clothes all the time and can quote lines from old fifties-era screwball romantic comedies and just about any rap song by heart, and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. The best thing about her is that she thinks I’m awesome, too. It’s harder than you think, to find someone who truly believes in your unequivocal, unconditional awesomeness, especially when you’re like me: unspectacular in every way.

As they walk away arm in arm, Laney glances over her shoulder at me, and I shoot her the most grateful look I can manage. She returns it with a strained smile and hurries herself and the woman into the crowded dining room, where I hear muted conversation and the clatter of dinnerware. If I follow, I’ll be mobbed by scores of relatives and acquaintances and total strangers, all pressing to exchange pleasantries and share their condolences. And I’ll have to look them in the eye and say thank you and silently wonder how many of them blame me for not seeing the signs.

“The signs.” It makes it sound like June walked around with the words I Am Going to Kill Myself written over her head in bright buzzing neon. If only. Maybe then—

No. I cut off that train of thought before it can go any further. Another wave of panic rises in my chest, so I lean my hands heavily against the kitchen counter to stop it, press into the edge until it cuts angry red lines into my palms. If I can just get through this hour, this afternoon, this horrible, horrible day, then maybe … maybe I can fall apart then. Later. But not now.

Air. What I need is air. This house, all of these people, they’re suffocating. Before anyone else can come into the kitchen and trap me in another conversation, I slip out the back door leading to the yard and close it behind me as quietly as possible.

I sit down on the porch steps, my black dress tangling around my legs, and drop my head into my hands. I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life, which I suppose isn’t such a shock considering I can’t have slept more than ten hours in the past five days. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then another, and then hold the next one until my chest burns so badly I think it might burst.

When I inhale again, I breathe in the humid early-summer air, dirt and dew and—something else. A hint of smoke. My eyes open, and when I turn my head slightly to my left, I see someone, a boy, standing against the side of the house.

Apparently getting a moment to myself just isn’t in the cards today.

I scratch at my itchy calves as I give him a cool onceover. He’s taller than me by a good half a head, and he looks lean and hard. Compact. His messy, light brown hair sticks out in all directions, like he’s hacked at it on his own with a pair of scissors. In the dark. He’s got a lit cigarette in one hand and the other stuck in the front pocket of his baggy black jeans. Unlike every other male I’ve seen today, he’s not wearing a suit—just the jeans and a button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a crooked tie in a shade of black that doesn’t quite match his shirt.

I notice his eyes, partly because they’re a startling green, and partly because he’s staring at me intently. He seems familiar, like someone I’ve maybe seen around at school. It’s hard to be sure. All of the faces I’ve seen over the past few days have swirled into an unrecognizable blur.

“So you’re the little sister,” he says. It’s more of a sneer than anything else.

“That would be me.” I watch as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “Can I bum one?”

The request must catch him off guard, because for a few seconds he just blinks at me in surprise, but then he digs into his back pocket and shakes a cigarette out of the pack. He slides it into his mouth and lights it before extending it toward me. When I walk over and take it from him by the tip, I hold it between my index finger and middle finger, like a normal person, while the boy pinches his between his index finger and thumb, the way you would hold a joint. Not that I’ve ever smoked a joint, but I’ve seen enough people do it to know how it’s done.

When I first draw the smoke into my lungs, I cough hard as the boy watches me struggle to breathe. I look away, embarrassed, and inhale on the cigarette a few more times until it goes down smoother.

We smoke in silence, the only sound the scraping of his thumb across the edge of the lighter, flicking the flame on and off, on and off. The boy stares at me, and I stare at his shoes. He has on beat-up Chucks. Who wears sneakers to a wake? There’s writing on them, too, across the white toes, but I can’t read it upside down. He also happens to be standing on what had at one point in time been my mother’s garden. She used to plant daisies every spring, but I can’t remember the last time she’s done that. It’s been years, probably. His shoes only crush overgrown weeds that have sprouted up from the ground.

I meet his eyes again. He still stares; it’s a little unnerving. His gaze is like a vacuum. Intense.

“Do you cut your own hair?” I ask.

He tilts his head to the side. “Talk about your non sequitur.”

“Because it looks like you do,” I continue. He looks at me for a long time, and when I realize he isn’t going to say anything, I take another pull off the cigarette and say, “It looks ridiculous, by the way.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing out here?” He sounds a little confused, and a lot annoyed.

I blow out smoke, watching it float away, and shrug. “Not really.”

The boy’s stare has turned unquestionably into a glare. I’m a little surprised, and weirdly … relieved, or something. It’s better than the pity I’ve seen on people’s faces all day. I don’t know what to do with pity. Pissed off, I can handle. At the same time, I don’t want to be around anyone right now. At all.

I should be inside, comforting my mother. The last time I saw her, she was sitting on the couch, halfway through what had to have been her fourth glass of wine in the past hour. If I was a good daughter, I’d be at her side. But I’m not used to being the good one. That was always June’s role. Mine is to be the disappointment, the one who doesn’t try hard enough and gets in too much trouble and could be something if I only applied myself.

Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.

I toe into the garden a little, drop the cigarette butt and scrape dirt over to cover the hole. At this point I have two options: face the throng of people inside, or stay out here. It’s like a no-win coin toss. Option number one won’t be pretty, but I might as well get it over with, since I don’t really want to stand outside being glared at for no reason by some stranger, either. Even if he does share his cigarettes.

“Well, it’s been fun,” I say drlly. “We should do this again sometime. Really.”

I teeter across the uneven yard in my stupid shoes, aware that one misstep will send me sprawling. I’ve got one foot on the porch stairs when he calls out, “Hey,” in a sharp voice.

I turn. The boy steps away from the white siding, out of the garden. He pauses, his mouth open like he’s going to say something more, but then he closes it again like he’s changed his mind and flicks the last inch of his cigarette onto the grass.

“You tore your … leg … thing,” he says.

I bend my leg up to examine it—sure enough, there’s a tear in the tights, running from my ankle to my shin. When I glance back up at him, he’s disappearing around the corner. What the hell? Does he think that makes him, like, an impressive badass or something, having the last word and mysterious exit? Because it doesn’t. It just makes him kind of a jackass.

The back door opens—it’s Laney.

“Harper?” she says, looking confused. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though really, nothing could be further from the truth. I smooth my dress down and carefully make my way up the porch steps. “Thanks for rescuing me earlier. I needed that. I was getting a little—” I stop because I don’t really know what word I’m searching for.

Laney shrugs like it was nothing. “Don’t mention it.” She holds something out to me—a covered dish. Of course. Her face is apologetic. “It’s quiche, courtesy of my dear mother.”

Back in the kitchen, I try to rearrange the refrigerator shelves to make space, but despite my valiant efforts, the quiche won’t fit. Eventually I give up and leave it out on the counter. The whole time Laney watches me cautiously, like she’s afraid at any moment I’ll collapse on the kitchen floor in tears. Everyone has been looking at me that way all day. Maybe because I didn’t cry during the memorial service, even when my mother stood at the podium sobbing and sobbing until my aunt Helen gently led her away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. June was my sister. I should be a mess right now. Inconsolable. Not walking around, dry-eyed, completely hollow.

“I saw your dad out there,” Laney says. “He looks—”

“Uncomfortable?” I supply.

She makes a strangled sound, something close to a laugh. “I see he left the Tart at home. Thank God for that, right?”

The Tart is Laney’s nickname for my father’s girlfriend. Her actual name is Melinda; she’s ten years younger than he is and waitresses for a catering company. That’s how she met my father—the previous April, she’d worked the big party his accounting firm threw every year to celebrate the end of tax season. The party was held on a riverboat, and during her breaks, they stood out on the deck, talking and joking about the salmon filet. Or so the story goes.

Dad maintains to this day nothing happened between them until after the separation. I have my doubts.

The truth is, I don’t actually hold any personal grudge against Melinda. She’s nice enough, even if her button nose seems too small for her face and she has these moist eyes that make it look like she could cry at any moment, and she wears pastels and high heels all of the time, even when she’s doing some mundane chore like cleaning dishes or folding laundry. And sure, she can’t hold a decent conversation to save her life, but it’s not like I blame her for my family being so screwed up. She just happened to be a catalyst, speeding up the inevitable implosion.

“You look really tired,” Laney says. “I mean, no offense.” She winces. “I’m sorry. That was so the wrong thing to say.”

She says it like there’s a right thing to say. There really, really isn’t.

“I’m just ready to be … done.” I rub at my eyes. “I’m sick of talking.”

“Well, then don’t! Talk anymore, I mean,” she says. “You shouldn’t if you don’t want to. Here, come on. Let’s go upstairs and blow off the circus.”

It’s easy to get from the kitchen to the bottom of the staircase with Laney acting as my buffer, diverting the attention of those who approach with skilled ease and whisking me to the haven of the second floor in a matter of seconds. In the upstairs hallway, there are two framed photos on the wall: the first is of June, her senior portrait, and the second is my school picture from earlier this year. Some people say June and I look alike, but I don’t see much resemblance. We both have the same brown hair, but hers is thicker, wavier, while mine falls flat and straight. Where her eyes are a clear blue, mine are a dim gray. Her features are softer and prettier, more delicate; maybe I’m not ugly, but in comparison I’m nothing remarkable.

There used to be a third picture on the wall, an old family portrait. For their tenth wedding anniversary, my parents rented this giant tent, and they hosted a festive dinner with a buffet and music and all of our family and friends. June and I spent the evening running around with plastic cups, screaming with laughter, making poor attempts to capture fireflies, while my parents danced under the stars to their song—Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.”

Toward the end of the night, someone gathered the four of us together and took a snapshot. June and I were giggling, heads bent close together, our parents standing above us in an embrace, gazing at each other instead of the camera. It always struck me in the years after how bizarre it was, how two people could look at one another with such tenderness and complete love, and how quickly that could dissolve into nothing but bitterness.

That photo hung on our wall for years and years, staying the same even as June’s and mine were switched out to reflect our progressing ages. Now it’s gone, just an empty space, and June’s will remain the same forever. Only mine will ever change.

I stare at June’s photo and think: This is it. I’ll never see her face again. I’ll never see the little crinkle in her nose when she was lost in thought, or her eyebrows knitting together as she frowned, or the way she’d press her lips together so hard they’d almost disappear while she tried not to laugh at some vulgar joke I’d made, because she didn’t want to let me know she thought it was funny. All I have left are photos of her with this smile, frozen in time. Bright and blinding and happy. A complete lie.

It hurts to look, but I don’t want to stop. I want to soak in everything about my sister. I want to braid it into my DNA, make it part of me. Maybe then I’ll be able to figure out how this happened. How she could do this. People are looking to me for answers, because I’m the one tied the closest to June, by name and blood and memory, and it’s wrong that I’m as clueless as everyone else. I need to know.

“Come on,” says Laney gently, taking my hand and squeezing it, leading me toward my bedroom.

I drag my feet and shake her off. “No. No, wait.”

I veer off toward June’s room. The door is closed; I place my hand on the brass knob and keep it there for a moment. I haven’t been inside since she died. I try thinking back to the last time I was in there, but racing through my memory, I can’t pinpoint it. It seems unfair, the fact that I can’t remember.

Laney stands next to me, shifting from foot to foot. “Harper …”

I ignore her and push the door open. The room looks exactly the same as it always has. Of course it does—what did I expect? Laney flicks on the light and waits.

“It doesn’t feel real,” she says softly. “Does it feel real to you?”

“No.” Six days. It’s already been six days. It’s only been six days. Time is doing weird things, speeding up and slowing down.

June’s room has always been the opposite of mine—mine is constantly messy, dirty clothes and books littering the floor. Hers is meticulously clean. I can’t tell if that’s supposed to mean something. She’d always been organized, her room spotless in comparison to the disaster area that is mine, but I wonder if she’d cleaned it right before, on purpose. Like she didn’t want to leave behind any messes.

Well, she’d left behind plenty of messes. Just not physical ones.

“Do you know what they’re going to do with—with the ashes?” Laney asks.

The lump that’s been lodged in my throat all day grows bigger. The ashes. I can’t believe that’s how we’re referring to her now. Though I guess what was left was never really June. Just a body.

Thinking about the body makes me think about that morning, six days ago in the garage, and I really don’t want that in my head. I look up at Laney and say, “They’re going to split them once my dad picks out his own urn.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s—”

“I know.”

Screwed up, is what she wanted to say. It makes my stomach turn, like it did when Aunt Helen decorated the mantel above our fireplace, spread out a deep blue silk scarf, and set up two candleholders and two silver-framed black-and-white photos of June on each side, leaving space for the urn in the middle.

“It should be balanced,” she’d said, hands fisted on her hips, head tipped to the side as she studied her arrangement, like she was scrutinizing a new art piece instead of the vase holding the remains of a once living, breathing person. My sister.

Laney hooks her chin over my shoulder, her arm around my stomach. I don’t really want to be touched, my skin is crawling, but I let her anyway. For her sake.

“There wasn’t a note?” she asks, soft and sad. I shake my head. I don’t know why she’s asking. She already knows.

No note. No nothing. Just my sister, curled in the backseat of her car, an empty bottle of pills in her hand, the motor still running.

I know that because I’m the one who found her.

I slip away from Laney’s grasp. She hasn’t asked me for the details of what happened that morning, and I’m pretty sure she knows the last thing I want to do is talk about it, but I don’t want to give her an opening.

Everything has changed and everything is the same. Everything in this room, anyway. The only addition since June’s death is a few plastic bags placed side by side on the desk, filled with all of the valuables salvaged from her car—a creased notepad, a beaded bracelet with a broken clasp, the fuzzy pink dice that had hung around her rearview mirror. The last bag contains a bunch of pens, a tube of lip gloss and a silver disc. I pick it up to examine it when I notice the desk drawer isn’t shut all of the way.

I draw it open and poke around. There are some papers inside, National Honor Society forms and a discarded photo of her and Tyler that she’d taken off the corner of her dresser mirror and stashed away after their breakup. And on top of everything, a blank envelope. I pull out the letter inside and unfold it. It’s her acceptance to Berkeley, taken from the bulky acceptance package and stored away here for some reason I’ll never know. Tucked in the folds is also a postcard, bent at the edges. The front of it shows a golden beach dotted with beachgoers, strolling along the edge of a calm blue-green sea, above them an endless sky with California written in bubbly cursive.

The only time I ever heard my sister raise her voice with Mom was the fight they had when Mom insisted June accept the full scholarship she’d received to State. Mom said we couldn’t afford the costs. It would’ve been different before the divorce, but there was just no way to fund the tuition now, not when Dad had his own rent to pay, and the money that had been set aside was used to pay their lawyers. Besides, she reasoned, June should stay close to home. There was no reason for her to go all the way across the country when she could get a fine, free-ride education right here.

When June was informed of this, she and Mom had screamed at each other, no-holds-barred, for over an hour, until they were too exhausted to argue anymore and June had finally, in defeat, retreated to her room. She didn’t speak to our mother for an entire week, but she accepted the scholarship and admission to State and never mentioned Berkeley to us again.

I turn the postcard over, and it’s like all of the air has been sucked out of the room.

Laney notices, because she lifts her head and says, “Harper? What is it? Harper.”

I’m too busy staring at the back of the card to answer. Written there are the words, California, I’m coming home, in June’s handwriting. Nothing more.

Laney pulls it from my hands and reads it over and over again, her eyes flitting back and forth. She looks at me. “What do you think it means?”

It could mean nothing. But it could mean something. It was at the top of the drawer, after all. Maybe she meant for it to be found.

California was her dream. She wanted out of this town more than anything. She must have been suffocating, too, and we’d drifted so far apart that I never noticed. I never took it seriously. No one did. And now she’s dead.

“It’s not right,” I say.

Laney frowns. “What’s not right?”

“Everything.” I snatch back the postcard and wave it in the air. “This is what she wanted. Not to be stuck in this house, on display like—like some trophy. She hated it here, didn’t she? I mean, isn’t that why she—”

I can’t finish; I throw the postcard and envelope back into the drawer and slam it shut with more force than necessary, causing the desk to rattle. I am so angry I am shaking with it. It’s an abstract kind of anger, directionless but overwhelming.

Laney folds her arms across her chest and bows her head.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “I don’t know.”

“How did things get so bad?” I whisper. Laney doesn’t answer, and I know it’s because she, like me, has no way to make sense of this completely senseless act. Girls like June are not supposed to do this. Girls who have their whole lives ahead of them.

We stand next to each other, my hands still on the drawer handles, when the thought comes to me. It’s just a spark at first, a flicker of a notion.

“We should take her ashes to California.”

I don’t even mean to blurt it out loud, but once it’s out there, it’s out—no taking it back. And as the idea begins to take root in my mind, I decide maybe … maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

“Harper.” Laney’s using that voice again, that controlled voice, and it makes me want to hit her. She’s not supposed to use that voice. Not on me. “Don’t you think that’s kind of a stretch? Just because of a postcard?”

“It’s not just because of a postcard.”

It’s more than that. It’s about what she wanted for herself but didn’t think she’d ever have, for whatever reason. It’s about how there is so much I didn’t know about my sister, and this is as much as I’ll ever have of her. College acceptance letters and postcards. Reminders of her unfulfilled dreams.

“Your mom would totally flip,” Laney points out, but she sounds more entertained by the prospect than worried. “Not to mention your aunt.”

I don’t want to think about Aunt Helen. She’s just like everyone else downstairs, seeing in June only what they wanted to see—a perfect daughter, perfect friend, perfect student, perfect girl. They’re all grieving over artificial memories, some two-dimensional, idealized version of my sister they’ve built up in their heads because it’s too scary to face reality. That June had something in her that was broken.

And if someone like June—so loving, kind, full of goodness and light and promise—could implode that way, what hope is there for the rest of us?

“Who cares about Aunt Helen?” I snap.

Laney hesitates, but I see something in her eyes change, like a car shifting gears. Like she’s realizing how serious I am about this. “How would we even get there?”

“We can drive. You have a car.” Not much of a car, but more than what I have, which is nothing. Laney’s dad is loaded but has this weird selective code of ethics, where he believes strongly in teaching her the lesson of accountability and made her pay half for her own car, and so after some months of bagging groceries, she’d saved up enough to put half down on a beat-up old Gremlin.

“My Gremlin is on its last leg. Wheel. Whatever. There is no way it’d make it from Michigan to California.”

“Yeah, but still—” I’m growing more convinced by the second. “That’s what she wanted, right? California, the ocean?”

Laney just stares at me, and I wonder if this is how it will be from now on, if I am always going to be looked at like that by everyone, even my best friend.

I don’t care. She can stare at me all day and it won’t change my mind. There were so many things I’d done wrong in my relationship with my sister, but this. I could do this. I owe her that much.

“I’m going to do this,” I tell her. “With you or without you. I’d rather it be with.”

I expect Laney to say, “It would be impossible,” or, “I know you don’t mean it,” or, “Don’t you think you should go lie down?”

Instead, she glances down at the postcard, brow furrowed like if she stares hard enough it’ll reveal something more.

When she looks back up, her mouth has edged into a half smile. “So California, huh? That’s gonna be a long drive.”

chapter two

Aunt Helen is the last to leave that night. Laney leaves because her mother forces her, and even then I have to all but shove her out the door.

“I can stay,” she says. She has her arms around me, clinging to me like a life preserver. I’m getting the idea that she needs to give me comfort way more than I need to be receiving it. “For as long you want. I don’t want you to be alone.”

It would be nice to have her here, but I know this is something I’m going to have to handle on my own. Better get used to it now.

I eventually pry her off and try to force a smile, but it’s like my lips have forgotten how. I sigh. “Go home. Seriously, it’s fine. I promise.”

I know she’s not convinced, but she squeezes me once more, kisses my cheek and lets her mother drag her out the door.

Before Laney it was my father, who hadn’t spoken at great length to any of us all day, but as he left, he grabbed me in a stiff-armed hug. In that second I had this feeling, the kind that grabs you by the throat, a desperate desire for him to stay, because he knows Mom so much better than I do, because he might know how to fix this.

When he pulled back, he ruffled my hair the way he did when I was a kid. Except now the gesture felt unnatural, like he was out of practice. And I knew he couldn’t fix anything in our family. Not anymore.

“I’ll be in touch, kiddo,” he promised, but promises from my father never meant anything before, and I don’t expect them to mean anything now.

As always, Aunt Helen can’t leave without making a fuss, telling my mother to get some rest, and that she’ll be over later the next morning, and gushing about how beautiful the service was.

“I know she was looking down on us,” she sniffs, dabbing her eyes with the wrinkled tissue she’s been clutching in her hand for hours. “She would have been so touched.”

It’s pretty much the most clichéd thing anyone could possibly say, not to mention the most untrue, but apparently it’s enough to start her waterworks again, which in turn makes my mother cry. Aunt Helen reaches for me, and I brace myself for another hug, but she stops halfway, her hand awkwardly wound around my shoulder. The way she’s looking at me is the kindest it’s been in days.

We’ve never gotten along. Aunt Helen is really into church and prayer and Jesus; she doesn’t approve of my black hoodies and black nail polish and my admitted penchant for excessive swearing. And ever since I announced in the middle of last Easter’s family brunch that I’m not sure I believe in God at all, she’s treated me like I’m some kind of heathen. Maybe it wasn’t the best timing on my part, but I did get a kick out of the horrified look on her face.

Of course, back then, questions of God and the afterlife weren’t really relevant to my life like they are now. I think Aunt Helen is hoping I’m going to have this moment of revelation where I’ll declare myself a born-again Christian who sees the light of Jesus’s love. But June dying hasn’t given me any spiritual clarity. It’s just made everything even more confusing.

“Take care of your mother, okay?” she says to me now. “She needs you.”

I nod. “I know. I will.”

“I’ll be over tomorrow to help with things. Feel free to call if you need me.” She pauses and sniffles a little before giving my shoulder an awkward squeeze. “I love you, sweetie.”

My eyes snap up to hers in surprise. I can’t remember the last time she said that to me. The confusion must show on my face, because she clears her throat awkwardly and takes her hand off my shoulder.

“All right then.” She nods quickly and hurries to the front door before I can fully react. With her back to me, she says, “Remember—this too shall pass.”

I don’t know if she is saying it to me, or to my mother, or to herself. As the door closes behind her, I figure it doesn’t really matter.

In some ways I admire Aunt Helen’s unwavering certainty in God’s divine plan. It must be comforting, to have faith like that. To believe so concretely that there’s someone—something—out there watching guard, keeping us safe, testing us only with what we can handle. I’ve never believed in anything the way Aunt Helen believes in God.

I don’t really know what’s supposed to happen now that everyone’s gone. I’m pretty sure my mother doesn’t know, either, because we look at each other for a long time in silence.

“Well,” she says after a while. Her mouth hangs open like she’s mid-sentence, but she doesn’t finish whatever thought was on her mind. She just turns and wanders into the living room. I’m pretty sure she’s still a little drunk. The last time she drank this much was right after Dad left. I hope this isn’t going to be a repeat of those days.

I follow her and watch as she drops onto the couch and slides off her heels. Flowers and cards are everywhere. I step over a heart-shaped wreath, scrunch in at the other end of the couch, and turn on the television to some formulaic sitcom. The sudden wave of canned studio laughter is startling to my ears. A few minutes later I turn it back off. Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do you need anything?” I ask. I keep my voice low, like I’ll scare her if I talk too loud.

“No.” She doesn’t move. “Did you eat?”

“A little.” All I’ve had today is an apple from this morning, but I can’t stomach the thought of eating anything more.

“You should eat.”

“I will.” I stand. “You’re sure I can’t get you something?”

After a moment, she shakes her head. I hesitate, wondering if I should press, and then give up and go to the kitchen. Dirty plates and silverware are stacked on the counter, so I rinse them off and stick them in the dishwasher. The methodical process of sponging the dishes off and stacking them is a nice distraction. I like having something to do with my hands, kind of like how it was when I smoked in the garden earlier with that weird boy.

And really, what was that about? What was he even doing here? Did he know June? Probably he was just someone in her grade. Most of the graduating class attended the service, but only her closest friends came to the wake. June was friends with everyone, always had invites on the weekends for movies and shopping and parties, but she didn’t really have one single best friend. Not like how I have Laney, and only Laney.

Still, there was something off about that boy. He wouldn’t have been there if he was just some passing acquaintance. It bothers me, the idea that he might have had some role in her life and I didn’t know about it. I can’t stop thinking about the look on his face. That open display of hostility. All of June’s other friends either kept their distance or wanted to cry on my shoulder. At least this guy didn’t bother hiding his true feelings. It was sort of refreshing, really.

When I’m done with the dishes, I go back to the living room, only to find Mom fast asleep. The sight of her curled up in her dress, eyes closed and lipsticked mouth parted, makes me ache. She’s been falling apart ever since it happened. I have to admit, I’m glad Aunt Helen has been around to help, even if her control-freak ways grate on my nerves. I am so not equipped for this. I’ve never been good at the emotional stuff. Except anger. Anger, I’m good at.

Not too long ago, June told me I had the thickest skin of anyone she knew. “Nothing ever gets to you,” she said, like it was a compliment. “You’re like a rock. An island.”

I told her to shut it with the poetic crap. What I didn’t point out was how completely wrong she was. Things get to me all the time—I just don’t see the point in making a big deal out of it. I learned pretty early on that no one, aside from Laney, is interested in hearing about my stupid teenage angst. Venting to her is enough of an outlet for me.

I never knew what June’s coping methods were, if she had any to begin with; I never even thought about it, really. Her life seemed so perfect from the outside—what could she possibly have to be upset about? Sometimes I’d catch her standing in front of the mirror in her room, just staring, like she was looking for imaginary imperfections. I used to think it was pure vanity, but I slowly came to realize it wasn’t that. It was insecurity.

It didn’t make sense to me. How could she be insecure, when everyone—our parents, her friends, her teachers, Tyler—always told her how perfect she was? It pissed me off, if anything. As soon as I learned, early on in life, that I could never measure up to June, I’d made it a point to be her polar opposite. June was unfailingly polite; I’m brash and don’t go out of my way to be nice to people I don’t like, ever. June spent crazy amounts of time and energy on her appearance, the right clothes and the right hair style; my default look includes hoodies, jeans, a ponytail and excessive eyeliner. June made honor roll every semester; I flirt the line between average and below average, cut class on a regular basis and there’s basically a revolving door to the detention room designed specifically for me.

When I was a little kid and used to get in trouble, Mom always used to say, “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” But I wasn’t interested in being like June, and I definitely didn’t want to live in June’s shadow. Even if mine was less impressive, at least it was my own.

I take an afghan off the ottoman and drape it over my mother, who now has one dead daughter and one delinquent. June’s unmatchable goodness and my unmatchable knack for constantly disappointing my parents used to even each other out, but now the scale is tipped, unbalanced, spotlighting my own failures more than ever. No wonder Mom’s such a mess. I tuck the afghan in around her shoulders and place a pillow under her head. She doesn’t stir at all, just keeps on snoring. She always snores after she’s been drinking.

That night, I lie in bed, miles from sleep. Closing my eyes, I think about how tomorrow will be the first day June is gone, really gone. Life will keep going and everyone will return to their usual routines, and it’ll be the first real day of living without my sister. My life is now divided into two periods: With June and After June. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of it.

Laney’s right; it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.

Sometime between gazing at the ceiling and thinking, I must drift off, because when my eyes open again, it’s not as dark outside anymore. Also, there’s an insistent beeping coming from downstairs. When it doesn’t go away, I sit up and listen harder. It sounds like the smoke detector. I scramble into the hall and down the stairs two at a time.

“Mom?” I call out as I make my way into the kitchen. Okay, I don’t see fire yet, but I can smell acrid smoke. My heart leaps in my chest. “Mom? What’s going on?”

I find her sitting at the wooden table with an open bottle in front of her. At the stove, dark smoke curls up off a flat pan. I rush over and grab the pan handle, shove the whole thing into the sink and turn on the tap. Whatever was cooking has burnt to an indistinguishable black crisp. I drag a chair under the smoke detector and wave a dish towel until the blaring of the alarm silences.

“Mom, are you okay?” I ask. The adrenaline’s still pumping, leaving my mouth completely dry.

Her eyes are glassy and dull, and she doesn’t look at me. “I was making eggs.”

“Oh.” I return the chair to the table and eye the mostly empty wine bottle. “Mom … how long have you been up?”

She shrugs off the question, her slender fingers picking idly at the label. “It’s just us now,” she says. “The two of us.” Finally she drags her gaze off the bottle and looks me in the eye; she looks as tired as I feel.

I know what she wants me to do. She wants me to come over and put my arms around her and tell her it’ll be all right, but I can’t. I can’t because I don’t know if it will. I can’t because the thought of touching anyone right now makes me sick inside. Why is it so hard?

Eventually I say, “Yeah. I guess so.”

Her throat works as she takes a long swallow of wine. When she sets the bottle back down, I wrap my fingers around the neck and gently pry it away from her.

“You should get some sleep,” I say. I walk around the table to help her stand. “Here. Come on, let’s go.”

She doesn’t fight me on it. With my arm around her waist, I lead her to her bedroom, peel back the covers and carefully roll her onto the mattress. She makes a soft sound as I pull the comforter over her, blinking up at me, already half-asleep.

“Harper,” she says, voice slightly slurred. “I’m sorry about the eggs. I wanted you to have something to eat.”

It’s sweet, really, that she almost burned down the house in a drunken stupor for the sake of my appetite. Fucked up, but sweet. I hope this doesn’t become a habit, though. She drank a lot after Dad left. I thought we were done with that.

“Go to sleep, Mom,” I say softly. Her eyes flutter, her gaze vacant again, and a minute later I hear her breathing deep and even, so I know she’s out.

The house is eerily quiet. All this time I thought silence would be a welcome reprieve, but it’s less comforting than I imagined. The house feels so much bigger and colder than it ever has. I consider going downstairs to clean up my mother’s mess, but the thought alone leaves me drained, so I start for my room, only to end up in front of June’s. It’s like I’ve stepped into wet cement; my feet stay rooted in place.

I stand outside the door for a while, until I feel stupid enough for being scared of a freaking door to force myself to open it and go inside.

This time I look for the last signs of life. One of her pillows is askew; a gray sweater is draped over the back of her desk chair. Other than that, nothing. I go to her desk and pick up one of the plastic bags. Again I notice the blank CD. There’s no case for it, just the disc. As I slip it out of the bag, I realize that it must’ve been playing in the car stereo when I found her.

I turn the CD over in my hands. It’s a normal blank disc, silver, with the words Nolite te bastardes carborundorum scratched across the bottom in black marker. I don’t recognize the phrase—Latin, maybe?—or the handwriting. It’s definitely not June’s, which was round and loopy and girlish. I wonder if it’s a mix Tyler had given her, back when they’d dated, but that’s doubtful. Tyler’s not bright enough to quote another language, and promise rings aside, his romantic gestures don’t usually go beyond big talk. His idea of chivalry is coming to the door to pick a girl up for a date rather than honking from the driveway.

I switch on June’s stereo, slide the disc into the tray and flip it to the first track. There are a few seconds of silence, and of all the things I expect to hear from those speakers, it most definitely is not the startling guitar riff that comes blaring out. A backbeat chimes in, an echoing bass, accompanied by a man’s voice—rough around the edges and with a certain swagger to it.

I turn the volume up a few notches and stretch out on the floor, my back on the carpet, and feel the bass thrumming through me, vibrating. You make a grown man cry. This is not June’s music. When we were younger, she plastered posters of manufactured boy bands on her walls, bought the albums of teen pop princesses. As a teen she listened to girls with guitars who didn’t really know how to play, mainstream hip-hop hits, whatever generic pop medley was currently in high rotation on the Top 40 station.

The rock song ends and another by a different band comes on, slower, sort of bluesy. The singer is almost mournful, talking about a girl who had nothing at all.

I stay on the floor and listen to one song blend into the next. Some I can place—after all, everyone knows “Stairway to Heaven,” and Laney had a Billie Holiday phase that lasted long enough for me to recognize her distinctive velvety croon—but most of them I don’t recognize. Each one is different, ranging from amped-up rock to jazz refrains, strung together in a way that feels like it should be schizophrenic, but somehow the transitions work. It’s not jarring. The music rises and falls in the way a conventional story is supposed to, building up and hitting the climax and then easing into the conclusion.

I close my eyes and try to feel whatever my sister had felt in this. Which song was playing when she carefully, purposefully, popped sleeping pill after sleeping pill, those last moments of awareness before she slid into dark, permanent nothingness? More important, who made it in the first place? And what did they mean by it?

Did anything mean anything?

Aunt Helen comes over the next morning, as promised. She and Mom sort through the crazy amount of flowers and cards covering every spare inch of our living room. I stay in my bedroom, listening to June’s CD on the neglected Discman I recovered from the depths of my closet. I can’t stop thinking about it.

This isn’t June’s kind of music, and it’s not my kind, either. My iPod is loaded with recommendations from Laney, all of the underground rap she likes, and some of my favorite indie artists, like the Decemberists and Cat Power and Sufjan Stevens. The songs on this CD sound more like something my parents would’ve listened to when they were my age.

I listen to the music and stare at my walls. They’re covered in pictures I’ve taken ever since I got my Nikon SLR for Christmas and started taking photography more seriously. The only blank wall is the one nearest to my bed. I’ve been saving it for something special, but I don’t know what.

I’m still staring at the empty white space when Aunt Helen comes up to my room with a sandwich and a glass of milk. I take out my headphones and sit up when she enters. She doesn’t knock or anything, of course. Just barges right in and looks at me a little suspiciously. I think she does this because she wants to catch me in the middle of something. She probably thinks I sit up here carving emo poetry into my wrists with a razor blade. It’s like I’m on suicide watch, by mere association.

“I made this for you,” she says, thrusting the plate into my hands. “You should eat something.”

I look down at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I hate jelly. I also hate when people come into my room without knocking.

“Thanks,” I mumble. She stares at me, frowning, until I take a bite. God, with the way everyone’s carrying on, you’d think I’m anorexic or something. I know I’m on the scrawny side, but seriously, this is getting ridiculous.

Satisfied, she takes a step back and surveys my room. Her frown deepens when her eyes land on the Reservoir Dogs film poster tacked up over my dresser. Jesus probably wouldn’t approve, so of course, by proxy, Aunt Helen doesn’t, either.

She tears her gaze away from the poster and looks at me again. “I know this is a difficult time,” she says. “It’s going to be an adjustment for all of us.”

An adjustment. Talk about your understatement. I put down the sandwich and take a drink of milk, waiting to see where she’s going with this.

“Your mother and I are worried about how you’re coping,” she continues. “She says you haven’t … been very emotional.”

It’s true. I can’t deny it. I haven’t cried at all, not once. Even when I try to summon tears, it’s like the well inside of me is bone-dry. There’s just … nothing.

I glance away and shrug. “Maybe my mom should be worried about how she’s coping. I’m not the one getting drunk off my ass, am I?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Aunt Helen snaps. “Your mother is doing her best. She only cares about you.” She sighs, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Listen, Harper. I realize how hard this is for you.”

A flash of anger heats up in my chest. She doesn’t understand. She can’t. If she did, she’d leave me alone instead of trying to force me to talk about this.

“You just have to take comfort in the fact June is with God now,” she tells me.

I stare at her coldly. “Don’t Christians believe people who kill themselves go to hell?” I ask.

Her eyes widen. “I don’t think—”

“Get out. Please.”

“Harper—”

“Just go, okay?”

Once she’s left the room, shutting the door hard behind her, I lie down on my side. I hate Aunt Helen. I hate her stupid your-sister’s-in-a-better-place crap. Like she could somehow know that. The anger bubbles up again, white-hot, and I lash out one closed fist and punch the wall. It doesn’t make me feel any better, just hurts the hell out of my knuckles. My eyes burn like maybe I’m going to cry, but no tears come. Dammit.

Neither Aunt Helen nor Mom bother me for the rest of the night; I don’t know if I should be upset about that or not. Instead of thinking about that, or my weird, inexplicable inability to cry, I choose to focus on the CD and what it might mean.

So June liked classic rock. It should be an inconsequential detail. It’s not like it matters. But part of me feels like if I listen hard enough, I’ll decode some secret message, put together the pieces of a puzzle that will shed light on some aspect of my sister’s life I have no insight into. If I was in the dark about something as simple as her musical taste, what else was she hiding?

Examining that thought keeps me up all night. After hours of obsessing over it, I finally crack. I set the disc player aside and reach for my cell phone on the nightstand. Even in the dark, I can punch in Laney’s number by memory. It rings about six times before she picks up.

“Hrrrmph?” I figure that’s her version of hello at this hour.

“It’s me.” My voice comes out just above a whisper, too tight, and I don’t know why my heart is beating so fast.

“Harper?” she says. There’s a pause and the rustle of bed sheets. “What’s wrong?”

Of course she would think something is wrong. Nobody ever calls in the middle of the night with good news.

“Nothing,” I assure her hastily. “Nothing’s wrong. I … Sorry, were you sleeping?”

“It’s two in the morning. What do you think?” She yawns, and I can hear her shifting around like she’s settling back against the pillows. “So what’s up? You’re sure everything’s okay?”

I tell her about finding June’s CD, how it had been playing in the car when I found her, how I know the handwriting on the disc isn’t June’s, and it isn’t Tyler’s, either. Laney goes quiet for a long time, and I start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep somewhere in the midst of my rambling when she speaks.

“What does it say on the CD?” she asks.

“Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.” I recite it from memory. “I think it’s Latin or something.”

“Huh.”

“You ever heard of it?”

“I don’t think so. But that’s what the internet is for, right?” I can practically hear her grinning on the other end of the line. “I’ll come over tomorrow after school—we need to talk about how the hell we’re going to pull off this California thing anyway, so we can look into it then. Unless you want me to come over right now.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I don’t have to, but I will. If you need me to. Just give me five minutes—”

If I know Laney at all, the muffled noises I’m hearing are probably the sound of her getting dressed and grabbing her car keys. That’s the kind of person she is.

I quickly say, “No. Don’t. If you fail your exams due to sleep deprivation, your parents will never forgive me. It can wait.”

I don’t have to worry about exams this year. Two days after June and the garage and the pills, an emergency phone conference was conducted between my parents, the superintendent, the principal, the assistant principal and the guidance counselor, who all came to the conclusion that it would be best for all involved to allow me to skip the remainder of the school year and leave my grades as is.

As far as silver linings go, this one is really inadequate.

It turns out I was right: Nolite te bastardes carborundorum is, in fact, Latin.

“Well, not exactly,” Laney corrects me. “I guess it’s, like, bastardized Latin? Kind of like a joke. It translates roughly to ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’”

I raise my eyebrows. “All this from the internet?”

“Google is so my bitch.”

We’re in June’s room, on Laney’s insistence that there might be more clues to the identity of the mastermind behind the mix CD. She drapes herself across June’s bed, hanging off the edge upside down, her long wavy hair dangling to the floor. I feel sort of weird about her making herself comfortable on my dead sister’s furniture, but it’s not like everything can stay perfectly preserved in here forever.

I open one of June’s desk drawers and ask, “How were your exams?”

“Precalc can just fuck right off,” she moans, flinging an arm over her eyes.

“It went that bad, huh?” I wince sympathetically, then shoot her a sideways look. “So, um. What’s it like?”

“What’s what like? Precalculus?”

“No. You know. School.”

School is a subject neither of us has broached. Mostly I haven’t even bothered to consider the situation at Grand Lake High since everything went down, but now a sort of morbid curiosity gnaws at me. Laney pulls herself back onto the bed, sits with her knees under her and her hands in her lap, hiding behind a shroud of blond hair.

“It’s … really weird.” She clears her throat and glances at me nervously. “There was this assembly, for the whole school. All these girls crying who didn’t even know her. I swear I wanted to kick them in the face. Oh, and they postponed graduation by a week. The guidance counselors made everyone quote, unquote ‘close to the situation’ have, like, an hour-long debriefing on our feelings. The administration is totally freaked out.”

“Really?”

“I think they’re afraid it’s contagious, and one day they’ll walk in and find the whole school drank cyanide-laced Kool-Aid or something,” she says. She studies me carefully for a moment. “Are you okay? Like, generally speaking? I feel a little weird talking to you about this.”

I look away and shrug. “You shouldn’t. I wanted to know.”

“Yeah, but …” Laney looks ready to say more, but she just sighs again and lets it drop, much to my relief.

I open the next drawer, pawing through the mess of papers there. It’s more of the same—old homework assignments, class notes, a flimsy old binder project now falling apart. Nothing of importance. I wonder what my mother is going to want to do with all of this stuff. Throw it away? Or keep the room intact out of sentimentality, like some kind of shrine dedicated to June’s memory?

Okay, that would be totally creepy.

“Hey,” says Laney. She’s leaning over and digging stuff out from under the bed. “I think I found something.”

She resurfaces with a brown paper bag in hand. I sit on the bed next to her as she dumps its contents out onto the bedspread. Two CD cases tumble out. The first case cover has a painting of a man with a cigarette in his mouth, standing in the night under a neon sign, a woman in a fancy dress to the side gazing straight at him. The second cover has a man’s head in black-and-white, overlapped by a series of squares and diamonds and circles, the lettering done in a light blue.

“Tom Waits,” Laney reads off of the first CD’s front, picking it up to examine it more closely. “Hmm. Never heard of the dude.”

“What about the Kinks?” I question. I pass her the other CD.

“Actually, I’ve heard of them. Do you remember that guy? Colin Spangler?”

“Didn’t you date him a few months ago?”

“Yeah, if by date you mean ‘made out with in the back of his mom’s minivan that one time.’ Anyway, he was really into them. They had this one song about, like, a transvestite or something? I’m pretty sure Colin was super-gay. I mean, I’m not judging. But. Definitely gay.”

Did my sister really listen to this stuff? I keep trying to make it fit with the image I have of her in my head, and it doesn’t make sense.

“Where’d she even get these?” Laney asks, shaking the bag like there will magically be an answer inside. Nothing but a receipt flutters out. She smoothes creases from the bag with her hands, and then stops abruptly. I follow her gaze to the black logo emblazoned on the side.

“The Oleo Strut,” I read aloud. “Where is that place?”

“It’s way off on Kilgore,” she explains. “By Stowey’s Pizza. I drive past it all the time, I just never knew what it was.”

She picks up the receipt as I scan the back of the Tom Waits album.

“A clue!” she shrieks, so loud I nearly topple off the bed, then springs to her feet frantically. “Harper, where’s the CD?”

“It’s on top of the stereo,” I say. I watch as she practically dives to snatch it off the desk. “And what kind of a clue?”

“A handwriting sample!” she exclaims. She jumps back onto the bed and hands me the receipt. “Look on the back. That T is unmistakable.”

“You’ve been watching way too much CSI.” I roll my eyes, but flip the receipt over anyway. There’s a note scribbled on the back in faded blue ink.

J.—

Hope you like my picks. Let me know what you think.

—Your Favorite Person in the Universe

It’s the initial that bothers me most. That single letter. No one has ever shortened June’s name like that. And the tone of the note, the signature—it suggests an inside joke, some kind of casual closeness. I crumple the receipt in my fist and toss the balled-up wad over my shoulder.

“You know what we should do?” Laney springs off the bed again, bouncing on her toes. “We should go to this Oleo place!”

“What for?”

“Uh, hello? To see if they might know who bought these? Don’t you watch television? You always start at the scene of the crime.”

“Last time I checked, buying music is not a crime,” I point out. “Actually, they kind of encourage that, with all the illegal downloading these days—”

“Work with me here, Harper.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, aren’t you curious? This could really lead to something.”

Of course I’m curious. It’s driving me crazy, not knowing. It’s why I called Laney in the first place. I don’t even have to say anything and she can see it, written all over my face.

“Go put on your shoes,” she says, pushing me off the bed, “because we’re totally going, right now.”

Grand Lake is a town split into two sections, with the namesake lake as the epicenter. There’s the east side of Grand Lake, where Laney and I live, primarily consisting of well-kept houses in quiet suburbs, and then there’s the west side, generally considered lower income and populated with more apartment complexes. The east and west sides have two elementary schools and one middle school each, and after that, the kids are shuttled into the town’s sole, centrally located high school.

The whole town centers around the lake. “Grand” is something of a misnomer, since it’s pretty small, and the only stretch of beach is the man-made one behind the iron gates of the Grand Lake Yacht Club, where the town’s upper crust keep sailboats and pontoon boats and have a dining hall for club dinners. The area by the lake was an amusement park in the fifties, with a Ferris wheel and roller coaster and everything, but they tore it down long before I was even born. Now there’s just the park and a few businesses and restaurants, including the waterfront Sterling’s Steakhouse. Laney’s father, Richard Sterling, owns the joint, but we never eat there because Laney doesn’t eat meat, much to her family’s chagrin.

To get to the west side, you have to drive past the lake and through this strip called Windermere Village. Windermere is a shopping area, purposefully kept antiquated with a cobblestone road, the streets lined with gaslights and outdoor sculptures. There’s an old-fashioned ice cream parlor called Duncan’s, a bunch of old family businesses and other little shops. It’s the kind of place where mothers amble with their baby strollers and golden retrievers, and older women wearing fluorescent headbands power walk in pairs.

I don’t usually have much reason to go west past Windermere. As we speed by in Laney’s piece-of-crap car, I watch the newer housing areas give way to dated apartment buildings. She turns down a side road, passing a gas station and a liquor store, and continues down to a two-story building made out of dusty red brick. That’s when I see the sign, lit up in neon-green over the doorway of a store on the bottom level: the Oleo Strut.

A bell above the door chimes as we walk in. There’s a guy behind the counter, looking like he’s in his twenties, sporting Buddy Holly frames and an eyebrow ring. His brown hair is short and spiky. He scrawls something onto a notepad at rapid-fire pace, pausing every so often to fiddle with a calculator—it’s one of those old-fashioned ones, with a ribbon of receipt paper churning out with each button pushed.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks, distracted. He punches a few more numbers into the calculator and scratches the top of his head.

Laney looks at me expectantly, but I’m not sure how to even begin, so she jumps in without missing a beat.

“This is going to sound so weird,” she starts, “but we’re trying to find out the identity of someone who made a purchase from you a few months ago. We know what was bought, but that’s it. Maybe if we gave you the date, you could, like, look back through security tapes or something?”

Now he looks at us, bemused, tapping the pen cap against the countertop. “Yeah, we don’t keep track of that.”

“Well, you look like the type who has an amazing photographic memory.” She pushes herself up against the counter, bending so far over I’m sure her boobs will spill out of her top, and gives her most charming smile. I roll my eyes behind her back. “The Kinks? Tom Waits? Any of that ring a bell?”

“Sorry, kid, my memory is for shit,” he says with a grin, and I’m impressed with the fact he doesn’t even give her chest area so much as a second glance. He jabs the pen in our direction in mock seriousness. “That’s why you should stay away from drugs.”

As he starts to walk toward the back room, Laney throws her hands up in frustration.

“A walking PSA,” she mutters under her breath. “How helpful.”

Suddenly he turns to face us again. “Hey, you know, you might have better luck with my brother. He works the register sometimes and he’s good with faces.”

“And where would he be?” I ask.

He nods his chin in the direction of the back of the store. “Stocking. I think he’s doing vinyl.”

With that, he disappears. Laney and I exchange glances.

I shrug. “Worth a shot.”

The store is so crammed with music that it’s difficult to squeeze through the aisles. Everywhere are carts filled with CDs and cassettes, handwritten signs plastered on the walls categorizing them by genre, and even those have subcategories. The rock section is split into classic rock, garage rock, glam rock, soft rock, psychedelia, alt-rock and indie rock. Punk contains anarcho-punk, garage punk, hardcore and riot grrrl. New Wave has an entire cart to itself.

We’re turning a corner when Laney says, “That must be him.”

I look in the direction where she’s pointing, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. I grab her arm, haul her around the corner and safely out of sight.

It’s the boy. The boy from the wake, who leaned up against my house and smoked cigarettes and glared a lot. The boy who obviously had some connection to my sister, but at the time I’d been too preoccupied to even consider his, like, existence, never mind what that connection could be.

Well. Now I know. Sort of, anyway.

“Hey,” Laney says. Her eyes widen. “I know him!”

“You—you do?”

“I mean, I don’t know him, but I know of him. His name’s Jacob. Jake Tolan.” She frowns. “He looks way different without blue hair.”

“Blue hair?” I sneak a furtive glance around the shelf. He has one of those sticker guns in his hand, is labeling a stack of vinyl records and putting them away in alphabetical order.

I have seen him before. Blue-haired boys stand out at Grand Lake High. And then something clicks—Tolan. I know that name. It was on one of those forms I discovered while rifling through June’s drawers. Her National Honor Society papers, the ones she filled out to log her tutoring hours.

“That’s him,” I realize. “He’s the one who gave June those CDs.”

“Wait, seriously?” Laney peers around behind me, scrambling to get a second look. “How do you know?”

“I’ll explain later.” At her skeptical look, I add, “I promise. Just—go look around or something. I want to talk to him alone for a second.”

She raises her eyebrows, but then she nods and goes to browse the shelves. I step out from around the corner and begin to peruse as nonchalantly as possible. I thumb through the D’s, watching Jake out of the corner of my eye before sliding out a record at random.

“That’s a good pick.”

I jump a little when I realize he’s at my shoulder, still wielding the sticker gun. If he recognizes me, he masks it well.

When I just stare at him blankly, he leans over and taps the cover with one finger. “Miles Davis. Kind of Blue. Circa 1959, I believe. It’s one of the most definitive jazz albums of all time. You listen to a lot of jazz?”

“Yes,” I lie. I pause. “No. I mean. I’m just looking.” Feeling bolder, I say, “Any recommendations?”

He thinks for a moment. “John Coltrane is a must, and you’ve gotta listen to Charlie Parker. Oh, and Thelonious Monk. That man could play the hell out of a piano.”

“When you put it so eloquently …” I pop the Miles Davis back into its rightful place and turn to him again. “What about Tom Waits?”

Jake looks confused. “What about him?”

“I’ve heard he’s good. Any recommendations?”

“Tom Waits isn’t really jazz. I mean, he is, but he isn’t. There is one album—” He stops mid-sentence and stares at me, and I swear I can actually see him working out the connection, how he gave the same one to June. Which means he knows that I know. Abruptly he turns his back on me and returns to the stack of records, stabbing the sticker gun against them with vicious concentration. “I’m busy. You can look for it yourself.”

“Right. Well, take it easy, Jake,” I say. I make sure to pause for effect before adding, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Not the smoothest hint drop ever, but it gets my point across. This time his head snaps around so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t come flying clean off his neck. I know I’ve struck a chord with that one, even if I’m not exactly sure what it means. His mouth opens, but if he says anything, I don’t hear it because I’m already halfway down the aisle.

Jacob Tolan can suck it. He’s not the only one around here who can make a mysterious exit.

chapter three

“That is so weird,” Laney says.

I glance at the column of people ahead of us and nod. “I know.”

“No, I mean, that is so weird,” she stresses. “Like—I cannot even!”

We’re waiting in line at Windermere’s local coffee shop, The Windermere Coffee Co. Creative name, I know. Our repeat business here is not due to customer loyalty but because somehow Grand Lake manages to be so obsolete that even the all-seeing Starbucks corporate machine has skipped over the town entirely.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Laney asks.

“What can I do? He knows I know. I don’t even know what I know, but I’m pretty sure I know something. You know?”

This line of thinking is confusing to follow even for me, but because Laney is my best friend, she nods and says, “Oh, yeah, I so know.”

Laney orders a soy venti latte with, like, five shots of three different flavored syrups, hazelnut and mint and vanilla. It sounds gross. I like to keep it simple: skinny chocolate mocha, extra whip. After the bored-looking girl behind the counter takes my order, I look around the crowded shop, hugging my arms around my middle. It feels weird, being out in the real world again. Around people just living their lives like normal. Their presence is oppressive. The very fact that the world is going on as usual, like nothing ever happened, makes me want to scream. I know it’s irrational to expect everything to grind to a halt because of June, but still. A wave of anxiety builds in my chest, my head pounding so loud it drowns out the noise of people talking and tapping away on their laptops.

The snap of the cashier’s chewing gum brings me back down to reality.

“That’ll be two dollars and ninety-five cents,” she says.

Before I can reach for my wallet, Laney hands over a ten-dollar bill, covering for the both of us. I’m about to insist on buying my own when I catch the eye of two guys, both college age. One is tall, kind of slick looking and gives off major smarminess vibes. The other is pudgy and acne ridden, like one of those guys from the “before” shots in commercials for Proactiv. They’re huddled at a nearby table, whispering and sneaking long looks our way.

“Hey, princess, is that you?” the tall one suddenly calls out.

Laney turns, and the moment she makes eye contact with the guy, all of the color drains from her face. Her eyes dart from him to the door, like she’s going to bolt, but then she smoothes out her expression and walks over to them, fists balled at her sides. I have no idea what is going on. I take the change from the cashier and trail behind her, juggling both of our drinks.

“I love a girl who comes when she’s called.” The tall one leers, and the greasy fatty bumps his fist into the guy’s shoulder and laughs, saying, “Nice,” like that was some display of razor-sharp wit instead of being totally gross.

I expect Laney to punch him in the face, or at the very least tell them off, but she does neither.

“What do you want, Kyle?” she asks stiffly.

Kyle? I glance at her, surprised. She knows this guy?

“What, we can’t share a friendly hello?” The guy—Kyle, apparently—grins, and I notice how bright his teeth are. “Last I knew you had no problem sharing more than that.”

His gaze travels up and down her body lazily and lingers. The whole leering thing is giving me major creeps. Laney’s face scrunches up funny; I wait for her to lay the smack down, the way she always does when some loser hits on her, but she just stands there, speechless. Finally I nudge her elbow and hand her the latte.

“We should go. I’ve got that—thing,” I say lamely.

Acne Guy snickers. “Oh, right. Wouldn’t want to miss that thing.”

Laney spins on her heel and rushes out the door. I’m so shocked that all I can do is level my iciest glare at Acne Guy before hustling out of the store after her, bumping into an entering patron on the way. No time for snappy comebacks when my best friend is making a mad dash.

Outside, Laney’s already inside the car. I can’t run while carrying steaming coffee, and she has the keys in the ignition by the time I manage to climb into the passenger seat. She doesn’t even wait for me to buckle in before peeling out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

“Gah!” I yelp as a bit of hot coffee sloshes over the cup and lands on my hand. “Will you stop for a second? Jesus!”

We pass another block or so before she bothers to slow down. She white-knuckles the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and ignoring me.

“Who was that?” I demand. “Why are you—”

“Just give me a minute, okay? Please.”

I fall silent. I’ve never seen her like this before. So shaken up. It’s really freaking me out.

Laney calms down enough to take a sip of her latte, then hits the turn signal and pulls into an empty parking lot. She shuts the car off, tosses the keys on top of the dashboard and slumps against the seat, head rolling back. I stare at her and wait.

“That was Kyle,” she finally says.

“I gathered that much.” I take a long drink of my mocha, watching her.

“We had sex.”

I almost do a spit-take. Laney looks over at me as I choke and cough, wiping the coffee and whipped cream off my chin.

“You—what?” I’m still sputtering. “When?”

“Almost a week ago. He was behind me in line at the gas station, and we just started talking… .”

“So that’s your prerequisite for sex now? Standing behind you in line at the Gas-N-Go?”

It comes out harsher than I intend, but between the scalding coffee on my tongue and this little revelation, I’m more than a little off my game. Call me a prude, but this whole casual sex thing is so weird to me. I can’t imagine sleeping with some guy I’ve only known for a few hours. I know Laney tends to be … more forward than I am, and it’s not unheard of for her to mess around with guys she hasn’t known that long, but a random hookup like this? Really?

Laney gives me an offended look. “God, Harper, no! It’s more complicated than that.” She sets her coffee down in the cup holder and exhales loudly. “It was right after … after June, and I was really upset, I wasn’t even thinking. We talked a little, and he invited me to this party. And I got, like, seriously wasted. I don’t even know how it happened. Next thing I know …”

I study her for a long moment. “Laney. Did he—”

“No!” she says quickly. She hesitates. “It’s not like he assaulted me, okay? I didn’t exactly say no.”

“But did you say yes?”

“Yeah. I mean. I think so. Maybe. I must’ve, right?” Her eyes glisten wetly. “It was so stupid. I’m so stupid.”

The look on her face guts me. I should’ve been there. I’m the one who watches her back, the same way she watches mine. I wouldn’t have let this happen.

“You’re not stupid,” I tell her. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. This is way too much to absorb in one sitting. “Look. Laney. It’s not your fault that that Kyle guy is a sleaze. You could’ve told me earlier. I would’ve—”

“Would’ve what?” she says sharply. She shrugs and lowers her eyes to her coffee cup. “It happened. Whatever. It’s over now, and it’s not like I’m going to do it again. I thought about telling you. I was going to, but with—well, everything—” She swallows hard. “It seemed kind of unimportant. You have enough to deal with right now.”

Laney’s not the blushing virgin type; she had sex for the first time with short-stint boyfriend Dustin Matthews after sophomore year homecoming and spared me no detail in recounting the event. And from the stories she’s shared, I know it wasn’t her last time hooking up, either. Every time I looked remotely scandalized by her tales, she’d roll her eyes and say, “Sex is, like, not even a big deal, trust me,” which maybe was true for those who were having it—not that I would know—but in my experience was a huge deal for those who weren’t.

By the time we’ve finished our coffee, Laney seems to be feeling more like herself again. She slides on her oversize pink-tinted sunglasses and grabs the keys.

“We should get going,” she says, and goes to start up the Gremlin.

Except it doesn’t start.

The engine revs like a skipping record, then putters out. She curses and twists the keys again. This time the engine barely makes a noise at all. So she tries again.

And again.

“So I think we’re stuck,” she says to me, five minutes later when the engine has failed to start.

“Yeah, looks like.”

She groans. “Today sucks.”

“Do I need to call my mom?” I think about the inebriated state I found her in the other morning. “I think she might be busy… .” Aunt Helen would probably come out, but the last thing I want to do is ask her for a favor.

Laney waves one hand. “No, it’s cool. I’ll call mine. I’m sure she’ll be so pleased to tear herself away from Days of Our Lives in order to help out her only daughter.”

She digs into her purse and whips out her cell phone. First she calls for a tow, and then she calls her mother. The towing guys come out first. We stand next to the curb as they hook the car up to the truck.

“Long live the Gremlin,” Laney says somberly, pouring what little is left of her latte onto the pavement in commemoration as the mechanic’s truck tows her piece of junk out of the lot. She lowers herself onto the curb and I sit down next to her, kicking at a stray pebble.

“Maybe it’s just the battery?” I say hopefully. “Or the water pump. It could be the water pump.”

“Whatever it is, there’s, like, no way I can afford to fix it,” she says. “I can barely manage to keep the tank filled these days. Even if I could swing it, it would wipe out all the money that could get us to California.”

The idea of running away to California is like a silver strand of hope, this tiny, fragile thread tying me to the world, giving me a reason to have been left behind by June. Giving me a purpose. And now that thread is thinning with every passing moment, worn down by the brutal scrape of reality grating away at it, bit by bit. It was probably a stupid idea in the first place. And an increasingly impossible one.

But then I think of June’s postcard, her words, that perfect, idyllic beach, and something in me resurges, clings to that thread even more tightly. I’m not letting this go without a fight.

“Besides,” Laney says, “the repairs will probably cost as much as the stupid piece of crap is worth.”

“Can’t your dad pay for it?” I ask.

“You know how he is—for a guy who makes as much money as he does, he’s a total tightwad.”

“But you get an allowance, right?” I press. “Don’t you have some of it saved?”

Laney looks at me incredulously. “Harper. I’m spending four dollars a day on sugared caffeine. What do you think?” She rolls her eyes. “And willing though my mom may be to update my wardrobe, no way will she help me out with this. Let’s face it. It’s a lost cause.”

I’m not ready to give up yet. “There are other ways of getting to California,” I point out.

“Like what? By plane? I think they’re going to say something when your carry-on is a freaking urn.”

Laney’s uncharacteristically reasoned logic could not come at a worse time. She’s supposed to be the optimist, not me.

“What about a bus?”

“I am so not taking a bus. Have you heard how unsafe those things are? We’d probably get mugged or murdered. Or worse.”

Now, that sounds more like the overly dramatic Laney I know.

I sigh and look down at her feet. She has on black sandals with a cork heel, and her toes are painted dark red—obviously she had them done recently. Her mom’s idea of mother-daughter bonding time is getting pedicures together; a conundrum for Laney, who loves pedicures, but hates spending more time with her mother than strictly necessary.

“I think,” Laney says, “we are at an impose.”

“You mean an impasse?”

“Right, that. If the universe wants us to go to California, things will work out on their own.”

“Don’t say that,” I snap. It always bothers me when Laney starts espousing this particular brand of fatalism. “This isn’t about leaving shit up to fate. This isn’t a game!”

“I wasn’t trying to say that,” she says, confused and a little hurt.

“I have to do this.” My voice rises, almost cracking. I have to make her understand. This isn’t just a joke or something I’m talking about for kicks. This has to happen. “I need your help. Please. I’m not just messing around here. I am so, completely dead serious, you don’t even know. I have to do this. For June. I have to, or—” Or I’ll never be able to live with myself. I can’t bring myself to actually say it. I don’t need to. Laney knows.

“Okay,” she soothes, “okay, we’ll find a way, okay? I promise. Just breathe.”

I look at her and nod. I believe her. Laney never makes promises she can’t keep.

Mrs. Sterling picks us up a few minutes later in her white SUV. During the drive back, she makes a lot of tsk-ing sounds with her tongue and keeps saying, “Laney, your father is not going to be happy about this,” like Laney’s to blame for her junky car breaking down. Her mouth looks weird, like she’s trying to frown, except the Botox makes it impossible, and from the backseat I catch her glancing in the rearview mirror to brush her peroxide-blond hair away from her alarmingly orange fake-baked face.

When she pulls into my driveway, she twists around in her seat, smiles tightly and asks if my mother enjoyed the quiche.

“It was great,” I lie, and open the door. “My mom says thanks.”

“I’ll call you,” Laney says as I climb out. I wave, and she blows a kiss through the window.

The house is empty again. I think about eating, but I’m not really hungry, and besides, after tossing out the gross foods we’d been given, the refrigerator is bare; there’s a bottle of wine on the bottom shelf, mostly empty. I dump what’s left into the sink and tuck the bottle under some trash in the bin.

Someone left the television on in the living room—an infomercial advertising weight supplements flickers on the screen. A now slim woman holds an old picture of herself, thick and round, and tearfully proclaims that the product transformed her life, that her husband now loves to touch her and her children are no longer ashamed to introduce her to their friends, her life is now pretty and shiny and perfect, blah blah blah. How can this woman stand to listen to herself?

I’m flipping through channels when Aunt Helen and my mother come in, carrying brown grocery bags. Mom’s hair is bushy and unbrushed, and she has on zero makeup. She’s like the opposite of Mrs. Sterling. Usually she’s the opposite of Mrs. Sterling in that she looks put-together without being overdone, classy without trying too hard, but now she just looks sad.

Mom withdraws an egg carton from the bag, sets it on the counter and just stares at it until Aunt Helen reaches over and puts it inside the refrigerator.

“Harper,” calls Aunt Helen, “would you come in here for a moment? I need to speak with you.”

This can only be bad. These types of “discussions” never seem to work out in my favor. I mute the television—I’ve landed on some documentary special about Area 51—and obediently trudge into the kitchen. Aunt Helen purses her thin lips as she leans against the refrigerator door, fingering the large bronze cross that always hangs around her neck.

“We’ve been discussing the … current situation,” she says. Current situation. What is with all of these euphemisms? Adjustments. Current situation. No one can just outright say the ugly truth: Your sister is dead, your mother is unraveling at the seams, your father is a regular Houdini who has once again pulled his well-honed disappearing act and you have the emotional capacity of a cinder block. “Your mother feels it would be best—and I agree—for me to come and stay with you both for a short while,” Aunt Helen continues. “Just to look after things.”

The idea of Aunt Helen living here is enough to make my skin crawl. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what she’s doing, especially for my mother, but I also know what I can and can’t handle. Aunt Helen around twenty-four seven, hovering over me, shoving her religious-guidance crap down my throat, falls distinctly into the latter category.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Someone needs to be here for your mother, since you seem to be having no qualms about gallivanting around with your friends and leaving her to fend for herself,” she says reproachfully. “Do you really think that’s what your sister would have wanted?” Her accusatory tone cuts through me like a knife.

My eyes shift from her to my mother, shocked, but Mom won’t even look at me. I can’t believe I’m being ambushed. I mean, I know Aunt Helen’s never liked me. I get it. June was always the golden child while I’m the rotten egg. I never even had to do anything to make myself look bad except be average in comparison to her saintly self. This is nothing new.

June wouldn’t be so selfish. June wouldn’t be so cold. June wouldn’t abandon her daughterly duties. Except that she did, permanently, leaving me to take the reins of a role I cannot possibly fill. But no one wants to think about that.

My sister is dead and I’m still being measured up against her ghost. I’m not even surprised.

So why does it still hurt?

The hurt winds its way through me and curls my fists at my sides. My blood buzzes in my head so loud I can’t think. I’m pretty sure if she says another word I’m going to throw something, possibly at her. So instead of doing something I know I’ll regret, I storm out of the kitchen and don’t stop until I’m up the stairs and in my room. I take the disc out of my Discman and throw it at the wall as hard as I can. It doesn’t make much of a sound, just bounces off and rolls onto the floor, sitting there in one piece, mocking me. After some pacing back and forth, I put the disc back in the player and turn the volume up as loud as it will go.

For the rest of the night, no one comes to knock on my door and apologize, or see if I’m okay, or even to try and coax me down for dinner. It’s so stupid, because all I’ve wanted is space, and now that I have it, there’s this part of me that is just so achingly lonely I could die.

The idea of California tugs at me again. It’s not even a mere wish anymore, it’s just … necessary. I have to find a way to get there. Not just for June’s sake, but for mine. I have to get out of this place before I suffocate. A second after that thought crosses my mind, I’m struck with the realization that maybe this is exactly how June felt, too, all of that time.

I wish she was here so I could ask. I wish she was here at all, sitting on my bed, recounting some stupid argument she had with Tyler, or complaining about how I’ve used up the last of the hair conditioner or sitting out on the roof with me as I sneak one of Mom’s stolen cigarettes. We used to do that, sometimes. The first time June caught me smoking I thought for sure she’d rat me out, but she never did.

I wish she was here, but she isn’t, she never will be, and I have to get used to that.

I wait until I know Aunt Helen and Mom have both gone to bed before I creep into the kitchen, make myself a peanut butter sandwich in the dark and go back upstairs. Sometime after midnight I fall asleep, listening to the CD on a loop. When I wake up, the sheets are caught in a sweaty tangle around my legs, the batteries in my Discman are dead and it’s bright outside. A glance at my alarm informs me it’s past noon.

Aunt Helen and my mom are gone. Again. Apparently I’m the only one expected to be under voluntary house arrest. I check the answering machine—no messages. My father hasn’t called since the wake. Go figure. He’s probably too busy with Melinda, the most important person in his life.

I don’t know why I’m so annoyed; it’s not like I want to talk to him. I almost feel like I wouldn’t care if I never talked to him again. June is gone, and where is he? I don’t care how hard it is for him. I don’t care if he’s uncomfortable in this house. I needed him, and if he couldn’t be there for me over something so important, what good is he at all?

It’s quickly becoming clear that the only person I can lean on at all these days is Laney.

I consider calling her when I remember she’s elbow-deep in an AP English exam and unavailable for another two hours. Nothing good is on daytime television, and really, it makes me anxious to sit in the living room for too long with June’s urn planted on the fireplace mantel, staring me down. There’s nothing to do but roam the deserted house.

Mom started smoking again after she and Dad split. She thinks she’s good at hiding it, like I don’t know she keeps a stash of cigarettes hidden in her jewelry box. Sure enough, there’s a pack of Camel Lights stowed away under a mess of necklaces, along with a plastic lighter. I nab both and retreat back into my own room.

There were times, before the divorce, when our parents would fight. Mostly it was Mom who would yell, while Dad sat silent, a stony wall to her barrage of shouts and accusations. I know she thought he was messing around on the side, during his late nights at the office, and hiding money from her. I have no idea how much of that was actually true—if any of it—but Mom would get so worked up, she must’ve really believed what she said. She’d just go on a total rampage, annihilating everything in her path. The best coping method was total avoidance, and so sometimes during their arguments, June would come to my room, near tears, and we’d climb out my window and onto the roof and just sit. Sometimes I’d smoke, sometimes we’d talk, and sometimes we’d just sit there in mutual silence. During our conversations, we never acknowledged the obvious: our parents’ marriage was vaporizing before our eyes.

Maybe we thought if we didn’t mention it, it would go away on its own. Maybe we just didn’t know how to talk to each other the way we used to, when we were little kids and best friends who shared everything.

Now I wrench the window up and slowly slide my legs outside, climbing out just enough to sit on the ledge with my bare feet flat on the slanted roof, already warmed by the high sun. I shake a single cigarette from the pack at my side and stick it in my mouth. It takes only two tries to strike up a flame, which is quite impressive considering how hard my hands are shaking. I wonder if it’ll always be this hard, to think about June, if I’ll ever be able to separate the good memories from bad, or if they’ll always be intrinsically tied together.

I light the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The air is hot and still, the breeze nonexistent, the sun beating down in an otherwise clear sky. From my perch I can spot some kids a few doors down, skipping rope on the street and chanting in unison. Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, in nineteen hundred and forty-two. The waves got higher, and higher …

If I close my eyes it’s almost like June’s beside me, the way she used to be. I can see her perfectly in my mind—those slim arms wrapped around her knees as she pulls her long legs in close to her chest. She used to sit like that all the time, like she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

Maybe she was always trying to disappear.

I’m sitting there, breathing in the mingled smells of smoke and cut grass and tar from the shingles, trying to remember, when suddenly a voice cuts through my meandering thoughts.

“Hey!” My eyes fly open to see Jacob Tolan, standing on the edge of my front yard, shielding his eyes from the intense sun with one hand and squinting up at me. “Enjoying your moment of faux teenage rebellion?”

The unexpected intrusion nearly sends me plummeting off the roof and to an early death. At the very least, a few broken ribs. Flustered, I quickly right myself and glare down at his figure. The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing a black leather jacket open over a long-sleeved red flannel shirt, even though it’s about a billion degrees outside, and black jeans, again. Possibly the same pair. What is this, the nineties?

“Get off my lawn,” I shout, holding the cigarette away from my face.

“Oooh, tough words from the girl who smokes—let me guess—Virginia Slims?”

Who the hell does he think he is, coming here and accusing me of smoking girly cigarettes?

“Camel Lights, actually, dickwad.” I take another long, harsh drag, just to prove a point. Unfortunately, the effect is diminished when I start coughing up half a lung.

Jake extracts his own pack from his jeans pocket, tilting it up for me to see. “What do you know. Same brand. Got a light?”

I reel my arm back and chuck my lighter at him, hard. My aim is decent enough, but Jake dodges out of the way just in time; the flimsy thing barely clips him in the shoulder, and he shoots me a long, even look as he leans down and fishes it from the grass at his feet.

I keep on glaring as he straightens and lights his cigarette. “What do you want?”

He says, “We need to talk,” and glances around conspicuously. “Preferably in, you know, private.”

“Like … private, private?” I ask. Does he seriously think anyone would bother to listen in on this conversation?

He scowls and does that annoying squinty thing again. “Is there any other kind?”

Part of me wants to tell him to go screw himself; the other part of me is curious to know what possible reason he could have for coming around and wanting to talk. Curiosity wins out in the end. I stub the cigarette out, making sure to roll my eyes and blow out an exaggerated sigh so he won’t think I’m, like, really wanting to know what he’s doing in my front yard.

“Fine, whatever,” I tell him coolly. “Give me a minute.”

I scoot back through the window, carefully wedging it down, and then hurry downstairs. It seems like a good idea to make him wait for a while, just so he doesn’t think I’m dying to hear whatever it is he has to say. Even if I kind of am.

I stand at the front door and count to thirty before I open it. Jake is still standing in the same spot, stomping out his cigarette, and instead of approaching me, he just cocks his head to the side until I march over.

“What do you want?” I huff.

I want to know what’s going on, but if he keeps this up, forget it. I’ve never been the kind of girl to beg. I’m definitely not about to start now.

He grabs my arm and hauls me behind the towering oak tree at the edge of the lawn. “Let’s talk in there,” he says, jerking his chin toward the van parked right on the curb.

I glance around to see if anyone is in earshot. Our old neighbor Mr. Jones is mowing his lawn, and some woman pushes a stroller down the sidewalk. When the woman passes, she gives us a strange look, but then the baby starts wailing and diverts her attention.

I stare at Jake blankly. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“What? Why not?”

“Sketchy black van? Weird stalking of my house? What are you going to do next, offer me some candy?” I scoff. “Sorry, I saw that Dateline special, thank you very much. Besides, anything you need to say to me, you can say be hind this tree.”

He makes this annoyed growling sound in the back of his throat, then takes a deep breath. “Listen. I know what you and Laney are planning on doing.”

Well, that is not what I expected. I look at him closely. He can’t know. Can he?

“Uh, okay,” I say. Best to play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What, like I’d come all the way over here just to bullshit you? Do you think I’m an idiot?” He pauses. “Don’t answer that.”

Not a problem, as I’m sort of at a loss for words at the moment. All I can do is look at him. Up close, I get a better view; there’s no denying the fact he is really, really good-looking, in this rakish, edgy, badass, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-screw-you-I-don’t-need-a-mirror kind of way. He has these piercing, unbelievably green eyes that are as gorgeous and sharp as the rest of him; it’s like they can see straight through me. But I don’t want to be seen. I just want answers.

Realizing his hand is still on my arm, I shake it off. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets and waits.

“How much do you know?” I ask cautiously.

“You, her. June—the urn.” He pauses. “California.”

“How did you—”

“You’re not as discreet as you think,” he says. His grin is so smug I want to punch him in the face.

“You spied on us, didn’t you?” I don’t even try to hide the amount of disgust in my tone. The thought of him listening in on our conversation by the door the whole time like some kind of creepster leaves me feeling horrified and violated and pissed off, all at the same time. I cross my arms over my chest. “Okay, so you know. Congratulations. Would you like a cookie?”

Jake looks me in the eyes intently. “I’m going with you.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he insists. He steps forward, once again violating my personal-space bubble, and lowers his voice. “You take me with you, or I swear I’ll tell your mother. I bet she’d love to hear what you’re planning to do with her dearly departed daughter’s remains. Or I could talk to your lovely aunt, who I had the pleasure of meeting the other day. She seems like the kind of person who’d be really on board with that plan.”

My heart starts racing a little faster. If Mom found out … if Aunt Helen found out … it’d be over, no question. I’d be under permanent house arrest and twenty-four-hour surveillance. And they’d probably call Dad and tell him to speed up the urn selection process, and if they split the ashes before I can figure out how the hell to get to California, that’s it. I’ll have failed before I even started.

Jake has to be bluffing.

But what if he’s not?

“Like she’d believe you,” I say sarcastically, but I’m less sure now, and he can tell.

“Like she’s not paranoid enough right now to listen to me?” He snorts. “I don’t think so.”

Damn. He has me on that one. “So now I’m being blackmailed by a tattletale?”

“Put it however you want,” he says. He heaves a long-suffering sigh, like even having this conversation is a total pain. “Look, I’ve got a van—”

“That—” I wave a hand toward the contraption parked on the curb “—is not a van. That is a death trap.”

“Leave Joplin out of this,” he retorts, and I blink in surprise. His van has a name? Before I can whip up a snarky comment, he plows on. “And I have some money, and no one who’ll even notice I’m gone. You’re talking about two minors traveling across the country. If you take a car, or a bus, you’ll never make it. The cops’ll track you down in a second.”

That—that is actually all really convincing. But I’m not ready to concede to his common sense, not yet. Everything about this is too weird. Too … wrong.

“Why do you even care?” I ask. “So my sister tutored you a few times for padding on her college apps. Big deal. You hardly knew her. Right?”

Jake doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that one. At least five different emotions flicker over his face, none of which I can pinpoint. There’s more to it—to him and June—than he’s letting on. I know it.

“That’s what I thought.” I start heading back to the door.

Good. Now I have the upper hand. Now he’s the one who’ll have to beg.

“‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down,’” he calls out to my receding back. I stop, but I don’t turn around until he breaks into a half jog to catch up to me. “Where did you hear that?”

I ignore him. “You’re hiding something. I want to know why you’re doing this.”

“I have my reasons.”

I shake my head. “That’s not good enough.” I need to know why he’d volunteer for this, why he cares about my sister at all.

“Yeah, well, too bad!” he shouts. “I told you the deal!”

Maybe my strategy isn’t working as well as I thought. I called his bluff, but he doesn’t look ready to budge. He looks me up and down and then abruptly turns away.

As he walks toward his van, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Your move, Scott.”

chapter four

Laney thinks Jake’s offer is fantastic. “It’s fate,” she gushes.

“There is no fate,” I say. “There’s what you do and what you don’t do.”

I don’t want to have this argument again. Though it would make sense, in a twisted way, for Jake’s proposition to be a sign from God. Just more proof that if He indeed exists, He hates my guts.

Laney isn’t having it. “Don’t even,” she chides. “This is nothing short of divine intervention and you know it.”

“Whatever.” I pull the phone away from my ear and double-check that my door is shut all of the way. The last thing I need is Aunt Helen eavesdropping on this particular conversation. “There has to be another way.”

That’s what I said last time, I know. But the idea of driving cross-country in a van with a boy I don’t know is too crazy. Even for me.

“Hang on a second …” Laney pauses, working it out in her head. “You didn’t tell him we’d do it?”

“Of course not. We can’t drive to California with him. We don’t even know him.”

“Are you kidding? This is perfect! This is exactly what we’ve been hoping for! He has everything we need.”

Okay, I’ll admit. Turning it down does feel a little like kicking God in the balls.

I sigh. “It’s too easy.”

“You know I love you, Harper, but seriously? That’s a really lame excuse.”

The worst is that Laney’s right; this is potentially kind of completely perfect. Minus the fact that Jake refused to answer any of my questions, no matter how hard I pushed, and he apparently holds a grudge against me for no reason I can figure out. But what other choice do I have? No good one. And I totally believed him when he threatened to blab to Aunt Helen.

Rock, meet hard place.

“All right, all right. I’ll talk to Jake.” I sigh in defeat. “I guess we need to start planning. Figure out when we should leave.”

“Do you have a target date?”

“As soon as possible. Preferably.”

She laughs. “I hear you. Exams are over, thank God, and Mom and Dad are going on a weekend trip to visit some friends in Pittsburgh—so maybe we should leave then? If it’s okay with Jake.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure it’s okay with him.”

“What are you going to do? Threaten bodily harm?”

“I’ll think of something.” I pause. Outside the door, I can hear the sound of someone coming up the stairs. “Hey, Laney, let me call you back.”

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Mom—it has to be. Aunt Helen doesn’t knock. Clearly she does not understand both the symbolic and literal implications of a closed door. What if she caught me smoking? Or undressing? Or, like, masturbating or something? Not that I really do that, ever—but it’s the principle of the thing. If she caught me doing that, she’d probably have a coronary.

I make a mental note to ask Laney for tips on where to acquire a vibrator. Maybe I can stow it in my nightstand, because I’m pretty sure when I went out for coffee, Aunt Helen searched my room. Imagine if she found something like that. Heads would be rolling.

Ooh, or maybe condoms. Or birth control pills. Now that would really freak her out.

I sit down on the bed and put the phone down. “Come in.”

Mom opens the door, standing with it halfway ajar. She doesn’t make a move to fully enter, just stays there, looking. But I can tell she’s not really seeing me, is lost somewhere in her own mind. We’ve barely spoken over the past few days—we exist parallel to each other.

“Hi,” I say, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them.

“Hi.” Mom hovers in the doorway, her hand on the knob. She leans on it like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Maybe it is. “Helen invited me to her morning church service this Sunday. Not just me—you, too. She thinks it would be good, for the both of us.”

“Helen thinks?” I bristle. “No, thanks.”

“Harper.” She pauses, breathing in and out through her nose a few times, one hand pressed to her temple as if to prevent the onslaught of a migraine. “I don’t appreciate your hostile attitude. She’s trying to help—”

“Well, maybe she’s trying, but she’s not helping.”

“She’s helping me!” she snaps. Her chin quivers with the threat of tears. “I need someone right now. It’s not like your father has been of any help, if you’ve bothered to notice. Helen is the only one who’s here for me. I can’t do this on my own. Do you not understand that? Does that not make any sense to you whatsoever?”

So that’s how my mother sees it? That she’s all alone, save for Aunt Helen? My presence means nothing. I’m invisible, or worse, a burden.

“Helen says I need to surrender,” she continues. “That I need to let God in, let Him take control. And I think it might help you find some peace, too, if you came with me.”

“Let me think about it,” I lie, because I know already that I will never step foot inside that church, know that come Sunday I’ll be long gone from this town.

Why should I stay? Aunt Helen hates me. Mom doesn’t need me. I can’t do anything right. Really, I’m in the way. This just makes my decision all that much easier.

Mom nods once and starts to close the door. For a second, I want nothing more than for her to come back, to cradle me in her arms like when I was a kid and had badly scraped a knee, to smooth her palm across my forehead as if checking for a fever, to do something—anything—to remind me of the days when knowing that she was my mother and that she was there was enough to make the bad things better.

It’s weird because I don’t really want her to comfort me; I just want her to try. But that yearning is only a dull ache in my chest, the kind of phantom pains amputees get where their missing limbs should be. It isn’t anything real.

The next day I take the bus across town to the Oleo Strut. The bus stop is three blocks from the store, and even though I have on a T-shirt, it’s another blistering day, and by the time I arrive in front of the brick building, the thin cotton is stuck to my back with sweat like a second skin. No one notices when I enter. Jake’s brother—I don’t know his name—is behind the counter, arguing with a man in his forties dressed in a skuzzy, spiky leather jacket and a pair of dirty corduroys.

“Punk is not dead,” Jake’s brother is insisting emphatically. “Look at—”

“Who? Green Day? Avril Lavigne?” the other man sneers. “That’s just manufactured pop bullshit. You’ve got all these poser bands out there, cranked out of big-name labels, pretending to be part of the counterculture when they’re just another cash cow for the capitalist, consumerist machine. It’s a gimmick. Kids these days think they can go out and buy punk self-identification through massmarketed band apparel from Hot Topic.”

“Yeah, but there is still good stuff, true punk. It’s out there, it’s just not being played on the radio. Punk isn’t just a look. It’s not even just about attitude. If you have the aesthetics and the posturing, you better back it up with the politics.”

“Bullshit. Johnny Ramone was an NRA-supporting, full-fledged Republican!” the guy protests.

Jake’s brother leans farther over the counter. “Fuck Johnny Ramone. The U.K. had the right idea—look at Joe Strummer. Look at the Sex Pistols, and Crass and—”

“Whatever, man. The culture’s still dead. Nothing like that exists anymore.”

“You just have to know where to find it,” Jake’s brother says. He withdraws a neon-green flyer from underneath the counter. “The Revengers. They’re hardcore, the real thing, and they’re playing a few shows in state later this summer. You gotta check them out—they don’t mess around. If after that you still think punk’s dead, I’ll give you any record in the store, half off. Hand to God.”

He holds up one hand solemnly. The man only grunts in response—but he takes the flyer before he leaves.

“You make a compelling case on behalf of punk rock,” I say as I approach the counter.

“Someone has to do it,” he replies with a grin. “Need help finding something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for the latest Green Day album.”

He laughs, surprised, and eyes me more closely. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You were in here the other day, with the blond girl, right?”

“Yeah, that was me.” I pause and clear my throat. “Is your brother around?”

“Jake?” He rubs his chin. “He’s not working today. But I think he’s at home.”

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