“Sorry,” I say, half to her, half to Nick, because this sweatshirt is her favorite. Then I unzip and wriggle my arms free, one after the other, as the cop stumbles backward with a short cry of surprise and I run, limping, bare-armed, into the heavy wet darkness of the trees.

FEBRUARY 11

Dara’s Diary Entry

Today in Remedial Science—wait, sorry, Science Exploration, since we can’t use the word remedial anymore—Ms. Barnes was droning on and on about the forces that keep all the planets circling around the sun and the moons circling around Saturn and all the different orbits carved out like railroad tracks in the middle of a great big piece of nothing, keeping everything from smashing together and imploding. And she said it was one of the greatest miracles: that everything, every bit of matter in the universe, could stay in its little circle, imprisoned in its own individual orbit.

But I don’t think it’s a miracle. I think it’s sad.

My family’s like that. Everyone’s just locked up in a spiraling circle, spinning past everyone else. It makes me want to scream. It makes me hope for a collision.

Lick Me told me last week that he thinks my family has trouble dealing with conflict. He said it with this really serious look on his face, like he was in the process of farting out some really important wisdom. Did he have to get a degree in psychology just to say really obvious shit?

My name is Dr. Lichme, PhDuh.

For example: I caught Nick in my room today. She acted like she was just looking for her blue cashmere sweater, the one that used to belong to Mamu. As if I would believe that. She knows I’d rather wear chain link than pastels, and she knows I know she knows it and was just trying for an excuse. I bet Mom sent her to spy on me and root around to make sure I’m not getting into any trouble.

Just in case it happens again: HI, NICK!!! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM AND STOP READING MY DIARY!!

And to save you time—the weed’s stashed in the flower pot and my cigarettes are in the underwear drawer. Oh, and Ariana has a friend who works at Baton Rouge, and he says he knows someone who can get us Molly this weekend.

Don’t tell Mom and Dad, or I’ll tell them that their little angel isn’t such an angel after all. I heard what you and Aaron did in the boiler room during the Founders’ Day Ball. Naughty, naughty. Is that why you’ve been carrying around condoms in your bag?

That’s right, N. Two can play at this game.

Love,

Lil Sis

JULY 21

Nick

It’s day two of my FanLand career and I’m already running late. I’m in the kitchen, slugging Mom’s coffee, which tastes alarmingly like something you’d use to clean drain pipes, when the knocking starts.

“I’ll get it!” I shout, partly because I’m on my way out and partly because Mom’s still in the bathroom, doing whatever she does in the morning, creams and lotions and layers of makeup and a slow transformation from pouchy and puckered to put-together.

I grab my bag from the window seat and jog down the hall, noticing that the unfamiliar gardening boots are still lying in the middle of the hall, as they have been for the whole five days I’ve been home. Suddenly annoyed—Mom always used to bug us about picking up after ourselves, and now she can’t be bothered?—I pick them up and chuck them in the coat closet. A fine layer of dirt flakes from the thick rubber soles.

I’m unprepared for the cop standing on the front porch, and for a moment my whole chest seizes and time stills or leaps backward and I think, Dara. Something happened to Dara.

Then I remember that Dara came home last night. I heard her, clomping around upstairs and playing snippets of weird Scandinavian dance tech, as though deliberately trying to annoy me.

The cop, a woman, is holding my favorite field hockey sweatshirt.

“Are you Nicole Warren?” She pronounces my name as if it’s a dirty word, reading off the old camp label still stitched to the inside of the collar.

“Nick,” I say automatically.

“What’s going on?”

Mom has come halfway down the stairs, her face only half made up. Foundation lightens her face, makes her pale lashes and eyebrows nearly disappear, giving her whole face the look of a blank mask. She’s wearing her bathrobe over work pants.

“I don’t know,” I say.

At the same time, the cop says, “There was a party by the construction site at the Saskawatchee River last night.” The cop holds the sweatshirt a little higher. “We took this off your daughter.”

“Nick?” Mom now comes all the way downstairs, cinching her belt tighter. “Is that true?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I mean—” I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t there.”

The cop ticks her eyes from me to the sweatshirt and then back to me. “This belong to you?”

“Obviously,” I say, starting to get annoyed. Dara. Always goddamn Dara. Despite the accident, despite what happened, she just can’t help but get into trouble. It’s like it feeds her somehow, like she draws energy from chaos. “My name’s in it. But I wasn’t there. I stayed in last night.”

“I doubt the sweatshirt walked over to the Drink on its own,” the cop says, smirking like she made a joke. It bothers me that she calls it the Drink. That’s our name for it, a nonsense nickname that stuck, and it feels wrong that she knows—like a doctor probing your mouth with his fingers.

“Well, then, it’s a mystery,” I say, grabbing the sweatshirt back from her. “You’re a cop. You figure it out.”