“Thanks,” I say. But I don’t leave. “Why are you up here reading? I mean, it’s your party.”

Daren smiles slightly. “I guess I like thinking about throwing a party more than I actually like having people over. Lesson learned.”

“Why don’t you tell everyone to go home?”

“Because they’re enjoying themselves, I think. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because I’m feeling antisocial. I needed to leave, so I allowed myself to leave.”

I nod to the book. “First time?”

“Nah. More like my twelfth.”

I remember when I read it—Justin and I were in the same English class last year, and we read it together one Sunday afternoon, lying in his bed. It was a race to see who would finish first, but I slowed myself down because I loved the feeling of us turning the pages at the same time, being in the same part of the story. When we were done, he said how he was blown away by the line “Nothing gold can stay”—he really felt it was true. Then he smiled and said, “So I guess we’ll have to be silver,” and he called me Silver for days after.

“Do you think gold can stay?” I ask Daren now.

His smile is different from Justin’s—a little more knowing, a little less eager. “I don’t think anything can stay,” he tells me. “Good or bad. So I think the important part is to not get caught up in worrying about whether something will stay, and instead enjoy it for the time it’s here.”

A door opens in the hallway and a guy calls out, “Daren! Where are you hiding?” He sounds like a construction foreman calling workers back from lunch.

Daren doesn’t move. “For the record,” he says to me, “I’m not hiding.”

“DARRRRRREN!” the voice bellows. Then the door to the bedroom opens wider and James Dean walks in. I had imagined his voice would be…sexier.

“There you are!”

“Here I am,” Daren admits.

“Come party!”

“I will when I’m finished with this book. I only have a hundred pages left.”

James makes a move to manhandle Daren up. Then another voice calls, “Charles! Where are you, Charles?”

“It was so much more enjoyable when people used telegraphs,” Daren says with a sigh.

“I guess Dirk wants me,” Charles/James says. “I’ll see you when your book is done.” Then he turns to the door and hollers, “COMING!”

Daren hasn’t put down the book.

“You see, Rhiannon,” he says after Charles has left. “Nothing dumb can stay.”

After using the bathroom (which Charles has left surprisingly tidy, even putting down both seat and cover), I return to the kitchen. When I walk in, I find Kara’s disappeared and only Lindsay is with Justin now. He looks drunk and she looks determined. As if she can sense me coming, she reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, then moves it down to his chest. His reaction is so fast you could almost call it instinct—in one smooth move, he’s removed her hand and pushed her away. There’s no way for her to save face, the rejection is so complete. And the best part is I know he hasn’t seen me yet. He didn’t do it because I was watching.

He did it because he’s true to me.

I let a minute pass, and let Lindsay slither off. Then I make my presence known. Justin doesn’t exactly light up to see me, but he doesn’t dim, either.

I tell him how I found Daren reading The Outsiders upstairs.

“I love that book!” Justin says.

“Remember when we read it?” I ask.

He’s probably had too many shots to know what I’m talking about. Or at least that’s what I figure. Then he calls out, “Heigh-ho, Silver!”

Not quite as romantic as its origin. But I’m happy he remembers.

He steps away from the kitchen counter. “Let’s see what’s going on,” he says.

I follow. We find our friends, we shoot the shit, and I no longer feel like the hidden girl in the visible body. Now I am Justin’s version of me—that’s who I am, and that’s who people see. And it’s okay. It helps me navigate the party. It helps me know what to do. It helps me see who to be.

I stop looking for A. I turn back to these people, because they’re my life.

Chapter Nineteen

On Sunday, I give in and write to A. I’m worried that I haven’t heard anything.

A,

Just another weekend here. Went to a party. Talked to some people, but none of them were you. Got in trouble with my mom, but survived. Did some homework. Slept a lot this morning, then saw a better movie this afternoon with Rebecca than I saw on Friday night. (Warning: VAST is boring.)

Where/who/how have you been?

R

I hit send even though it doesn’t sound right, because I can’t imagine how to make it sound better. He doesn’t want to hear the details about Justin, and I don’t want to tell them. So I’ve flattened my weekend before mailing it to him. I haven’t given him any reason to be interested.

Which is maybe for the best.

The next morning I wake up and feel off. At first I think it’s because I fell asleep in my clothes. That doesn’t happen very often, so it’s weird to see my T-shirt, my jeans. But that’s not the only thing. It’s like I’ve woken up in an unfamiliar bed, even though this is my bed, in my room. I expect to look at my clock and find it’s four in the morning, to explain the disorientation. But it’s the normal time to wake up. My alarm is going off.

It must be because it’s Monday, I think.

But then I correct myself.

No, it’s Tuesday.

When I go to hit off the alarm, I find a folded piece of paper on top of it. Even before I open it, I have a vague idea it’s a letter I wrote. But I don’t remember what it says.

Dear Rhiannon,

Before I say anything, or explain anything, I want you to stop reading and try to remember everything you did yesterday.

It’s my handwriting—but I know immediately that I didn’t write this.

I know immediately.

A.

Here.

A.

Me.

I start to shiver uncontrollably. I want to yell out, but I’m afraid my parents will hear.

I cannot believe this.

But I can believe this.

I know I will only have one chance to remember what happened before whatever is written on this piece of paper colors my memories or fills in the blanks. So I put the letter down. I sit back in bed.