But then again, I never really believed I’d have to relive one day forever, either. It’s no crazier than what’s already happened to me. Maybe the whole point is I have to prove that I’m a good person. Maybe I have to prove that I deserve to move on.
Maybe Juliet Sykes is the only thing between me and an eternity of chocolate fountains and perfect love and guys who always call when they say they will and banana sundaes that actually help you burn calories.
Maybe she’s my ticket out.
UNFASHIONABLY LATE
I don’t even bother pulling into Kent’s driveway. I’m not planning on being here long, and I don’t want to get blocked in. Besides, something about tramping through the woods in the rain appeals to me. It’s a trial, another way I can sacrifice myself. And from my very limited memories of Sunday school (my mom gave up the fight after I threw a tremendous tantrum when I was seven and threatened to convert to voodoo, even though I wasn’t sure exactly what that was), I know that that’s how it works: you have to sacrifice something.
I pull over onto the shoulder of Route 9, grabbing Izzy’s sweatshirt again, which is now soaking wet. Still, it’s better than nothing. I drape it over my head and get out of the car, pausing for just a second. The road is empty, stretches of black interspersed with weak pools of yellow light from the streetlamps. I try to locate the exact spot where Lindsay’s car went spiraling off the road that first night, but it all looks the same. It could have been anywhere. I reach back once more for some memory of life beyond the collision, beyond the blackness, but I get nothing.
I grab a flashlight from the trunk and set off through the woods.
It’s a longer walk than I would have thought, and the ground alternates between a thin coat of hard ice and slurpy gloop that sucks at my purple New Balances like quicksand. After a few minutes I can hear the faint throb of music from the party, pulsing through the darkness like it belongs there, like its rhythm is part of the night. It’s another ten minutes before I see the faint twinkle of lights flashing sporadically beyond the trees—thank God, since I was beginning to think I was walking in circles—and another five before the woods thin out and I can see the house, a big pile of ice-cream cake sitting on that lawn, shimmering in and out as the rain bends and splits the lights from the porch. I’m totally freezing, and 100 percent regretting my decision to come on foot. That’s the whole problem with sacrifice. It’s a pain, literally.
As soon as I walk through the door, two girls giggle and a whole group of juniors goes totally gape-jawed. I don’t blame them. I know I must look like shit. Before leaving the house, I didn’t even bother to change out of my lounge pants—a pair of way oversized velour sweats my mom gave me back when they were still in.
I don’t waste any time on the juniors, though. I’m already worried I may have arrived too late.
Tara is coming down the stairs as I’m pushing my way up, and I grab her, leaning into her ear. “Juliet Sykes!” I have to yell it.
“What?” she yells back, smiling.
“Juliet Sykes! Is she here?”
Tara taps her ear to show she can’t hear me. “You’re looking for Lindsay?”
Courtney is behind Tara and leans forward, flopping her chin on Tara’s shoulder. “We found the secret stash—rum and stuff. Tara broke a vase.” She giggles. “You want some?”
I shake my head. I’ve never been this sober around people this wasted, and I say a brief prayer that I’m not half as annoying as they are when I’m drunk. I continue up the stairs as Tara yells, “Lindsay’s in the back.”
Before I’m totally out of earshot I hear Courtney shriek, “Did you see what she’s wearing?”
I take a deep breath and tell myself it doesn’t matter. What matters is finding Juliet. I can at least do that one thing.
But with every step I’m losing hope. The upstairs hallway is totally packed, and unless she hasn’t come to the party at all—which seems like too much to hope—it seems unlikely that she hasn’t already left.
Still, I push on, finally making it to the very back room. Lindsay catapults on me as soon as I get into the room—she actually leaps over five people—and for a second I’m so grateful to see her, happy and drunk and my best friend, and to get treated to one of her famous super-squish hugs, that I forget why I’m here.
“Bad girl.” She slaps my hand as she pulls away. “You cut school but come out to party? Naughty, naughty.”
“I’m looking for someone,” I say. I scan the room: Juliet’s not here. Not that I expected her to be, I don’t know, sitting on the couch and chatting it up with Jake Somers, but it’s instinct—and wishful thinking—to look.