Before I Fall(90)

“Rob’s downstairs.” Lindsay steps back and holds up her hand, framing me in the angle between her thumb and forefinger. “You look like the homeless man who stole Wal-Mart. Are you trying not to get laid or something?”

Irritation flares up again. Lindsay, who always has something to say.

“Have you seen Juliet Sykes?” I ask.

Lindsay stares at me for a split second and then bursts out laughing. “Are you serious?”

A feeling of enormous relief washes over me. Maybe she never showed. Maybe she had car trouble, or lost her nerve, or“She called me a bitch.” In that moment Lindsay shatters me. She did come. “Can you believe it?” Lindsay’s still cracking up. She loops one arm around my shoulder and calls out, “Elody! Ally! Sammy’s here! And she’s looking for her best friend, Juliet!”

Elody doesn’t even turn around; she’s too busy with Steve Dough. But Ally swings in my direction, smiles, yells, “Hi, sweetie!” and then holds up the empty bottle of vodka.

“If you see Juliet,” she calls out, “ask her what she did with the rest of my drink!” She and Lindsay think this is hilarious, and Lindsay calls back, “Psychotini!”

I am too late. The realization makes me feel sick, and my anger at Lindsay comes rushing back.

“My best friend?” I repeat. “That’s funny. I thought you were the one who was buddy-buddy with Juliet.”

“What are you talking about?” Lindsay’s face gets serious.

“Childhood friends. Best friends. Rug rats. Sand bunnies.” Lindsay looks like she’s about to say something again, but I cut her off. “I saw the pictures. So what happened? Did she catch you farting or something? See you blow a snot rocket? Discover that the famous Lindsay Edgecombe isn’t perfect after all? What did she do that was so bad?”

Lindsay opens her mouth and then closes it. “She’s a freak,” she whispers fiercely, but I see something in her eyes I’ve never seen before, an expression I can’t quite identify.

“Whatever.” I have to find Juliet Sykes.

I fight my way back downstairs, ignoring the people calling my name, tapping my shoulder, and whispering about the fact that I’ve shown up in public looking like I’m about to go to sleep—which is, of course, exactly what happened. I figure if I’m quick enough I can catch Juliet on the way out. She must have parked somewhere. She’s probably blocked in. It will take an hour to get people to move their cars (if she can even convince anybody to help at all, which is doubtful) and even longer if she decides to hoof it home.

Thankfully I make it downstairs without a run-in with Rob. The last thing I need is to explain myself to him. There’s a group of sophomores standing near the entryway, looking terrified and more or less sober, so I take my shot with them.

“Have you seen Juliet Sykes?”

They stare at me blankly.

I sigh, swallowing my frustration. “Blond hair, blue eyes, tall.” They’re still looking at me vacantly, and I realize I’m not exactly sure how to describe her. Loser, I almost say—I would have said three days ago. But now I can’t get it out. “Pretty,” I say, testing the word. When that doesn’t work I squeeze my fists into my palms. “Probably soaking wet.”

Finally the girls’ faces light up with recognition. “Bathroom,” one of them says, pointing to a little alcove just before the kitchen. There’s a line of people gathered in front of a closed door. One of them is crossing her legs and hopping up and down. One of them keeps rapping on the door. One of them points to her watch and says something I can’t hear, but she looks pissed.

“She’s been in there for, like, twenty minutes,” a sophomore says. My stomach drops to my feet and I almost get sick right there.

Bathrooms have pills. Bathrooms have razors. People lock themselves in bathrooms when they want to do bad things, like have sex or throw up. Or kill themselves.

It’s not supposed to go this way. I’m supposed to save you. I elbow over to the bathroom, shoving through the line of people crowded there.

“Move,” I say to Joanne Polerno, and she drops her hand immediately and steps aside.

I press my ear to the door, listening for sounds of crying or retching or anything. Nothing. My stomach does another dip. Then again, it’s almost impossible to hear, with the music pounding so loudly.

I knock softly and call out, “Juliet? Are you okay?”

“Maybe she’s sleeping,” Chrissy Walker says. I shoot her a look that I hope will communicate how stupidly unhelpful that comment is.

I knock again, mashing my face against the door. It’s hard to tell whether I hear a faint moan from inside—at that second the music shrieks even louder, drowning out everything else. But I can imagine her there, fading, just beyond the door, wrists hacked up and blood everywhere….