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….
“Get Kent,” I say, sucking in a long breath.
“Who?” Joanne says.
“I have to pee,” Rachel says, hopping up and down.
“Kent McFuller. Now. Do it,” I bark at Joanne, and she looks startled but scurries off into the hallway. Every second feels like an eternity. It’s the first time I really understand what Einstein said about relativity, how time bends around and stretches out like a gummy bear.
“What do you care, anyway?” Rachel says, grumbling just loud enough so I can hear.
I don’t answer. The truth is I have no answer, really. I have to save Juliet—I feel that. It’s my good thing. I have to save myself.
I’m suddenly not sure if that makes me better or worse than someone who does nothing, so I push the thought out of my mind.
Joanne comes back with Kent in tow. He looks worried, his forehead crinkly underneath the shaggy brown hair that’s falling down over his eyes. My stomach does a flip. Yesterday we were in a dark room no more than two inches apart, so close I could feel the amazing heat of his skin.
“Sam,” he says, and leans forward to grab my wrist, staring deep in my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I’m so surprised by the sudden touch I pull away just a fraction, and Kent takes back his hand. I don’t know how to explain the way this makes my insides go hollow.
“I’m fine,” I say, totally aware in that moment of how ridiculous I must look to him: the messed up hair, the sweatpants. He, by comparison, looks actually kind of put together. There’s something scruffy-cute about his checkered sneakers and loose, low-belted khakis, and the sleeves of his oxford are rolled up, showing off a tan he got God-knows-where. Certainly not in Ridgeview in the past six months.
He looks confused. “Joanne said you needed me.”
“I do need you.” It comes out weird and intense-sounding, and I feel a furious fit of blushing coming on. “I mean, I don’t need you. I just need—” I take a deep breath. I think I see a momentary spark in Kent’s eyes and it distracts me. “I’m worried Juliet Sykes is locked in the bathroom.” Just after I say it, I wince. I sound ridiculous. He’ll probably tell me I’m being insane. After all, he doesn’t know what I know.
The spark dies and his face gets serious. He steps beyond me and tries the door, then he pauses for a second, thinking. He doesn’t tell me I’m crazy or paranoid or anything. He simply says, “There’s no key. I could try to pick the lock. We can always break it open if we have to.”
“I’m going to pee upstairs,” Rachel announces, then turns on her heel and wobbles off.
Kent reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a handful of safety pins. “Don’t ask,” he says when I raise my eyebrows. I hold up my hands and don’t push the issue. I’m grateful he’s taking charge without asking questions.
He squats down, bends the safety pin backward, and uses it to jimmy the lock. He’s keeping his ear pressed to the door like he’s listening for a click. Finally my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Do you have an after-school job robbing banks or something?”
He grimaces, tries the door, slips the safety pin back in his pocket, and selects a credit card from his wallet. “Hardly.” He wedges the credit card in the crevice between the frame and the door and wiggles. “My mom used to keep the junk food locked behind our pantry door.”