Then You Were Gone by Lauren Strasnick Read Free Book Online

forum with pages of speculation about her disappearance. Suicide, murder, kidnappings, claims of scientology involvement, conspiracy theories, a handful of kids from Langley reminiscingabout the last time they saw her alive (at a Smell show, at Grauman’s Chinese, at a deli on third, snorting things in public restrooms).
    Knock, knock.
    I jump, startled shitless, smooshing my cigarette tip into a plate and fanning the air. “Who’s there?”
    “It’s me,” comes a drunk, familiar boy voice.
    I undo the door a crack. “What’re you doing here, Lee? It’s late.”
    His face is splotchy from drinking. “You left the party and didn’t say good-bye. Door was open . . .” He pushes in, grabbing my cheeks and kissing me. “ Fuck ,” he whines, shoving me lightly. “Fuck, Adrienne —” He’s laughing now. “What’s with the cigarettes all of a sudden?”
    “What’s the big deal?” I squeal, sounding psychotically defensive. “Why do you care? It’s not your body.”
    “It kind of is . . .” Lee says, clutching my hips. “And anyways, I’m the one who has to kiss you.”
    I turn away, embarrassed. “It’s just a thing, okay? I’ll stop soon.”
    He wraps his arms around my waist. His nose grazes my neck. “Where’d you go tonight?”
    My body kick-starts—a low buzzing that starts in my knees and moves upward. “Nowhere,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”
    He kisses me. This time, I kiss back. One of his hands is clamped around the back of my head, the other is lifting mydress up. “I like this,” he says, backing me into my blue bedroom wall. “This black thing. It’s sexy.”
    Something angry and hot slips down my spine. I’m not dressed like me. “It’s not,” I say, my voice sounding sharp.
    “It is,” he insists, undoing the clasp at my breastbone. Then, “Adrienne, hey, look at me.” I glance up. His eyes are pink and glassy. “You’re beautiful,” he says, plainly. And inexplicably— so quick —Lee slides out of place in my heart.

20.
    Kate passes me a big bag of wasabi chips. “Want some?”
    I take two and chew, feeling mildly high while the spiciness eats at my sinuses. “Where’re we going?”
    “Don’t know. Sandwiches? Or we could get takeout from that vegan place on La Cienega? You liked their lentil salad. ’Member?”
    I nod. We’re weaving through the student lot, headed for Kate’s car.
    “Get that, will you?” She’s searching her bag for her keys. Something’s tacked to the grimy windshield. I stretch across the hood and pry the paper loose from under the wiper.
    Dark Star performs a Dakota Webb tribute show.
    Thursday night, 8 p.m., the Smell
    My balance seesaws. It’s a black-and-white Xeroxed photo of Dakota in her room. She’s laughing and looking sideways. Who took this? Julian?
    “What is it?” Kate calls from inside the car.
    “Nothing,” I say, pocketing the flyer and getting in. “Trash.”

21.
    I’m wearing beat-to-shit booties and kicking around outside the Smell. There’s a loud, smoky pack of girls huddled together by the club entrance looking ratty and elfin and chic. I dig my phone from my purse and shakily dial Dakota. Straight to voicemail, of course. I flip my phone shut.
    Inside it’s all brick walls and cement flooring. A gazillion Langley kids hold candles and lighters. Girls with Kool-Aid-colored hair sip things encased in brown baggies. Is this what I’ve been missing? Dank rooms and cuckoo crowds?
    Dark Star is midway through their set, playing an instrumental version of my favorite—“Art School Sluts with Razored Haircuts.” I’m used to the scratchy acoustic version they have up on their website. Without Dakota, the song’s spoiled.
    I box through the swaying masses and end up near the front by the stage. This blond girl from my civics class iswhispering lyrics. Julian’s up onstage pounding the shit out of a monster drum set. There’s an empty mic stand where Dakota used to be.
    Then: show’s