"Let go," I say, tugging at them. "Give them to me."

His grip on my books tightens. His knuckles go white. I grit my teeth and make myself look at him because that's what he wants.

"It's not going to work," I say.

He releases the books. I clutch them to my chest and let him be the one who moves on. He passes me, close. I can smell him and for a second I think I'm in his bedroom again and his hand is trailing my cheek, my neck. In his bedroom where he kisses me and I sort of forget everything that came before it and everything that will have to come after. In his bedroom where I enjoy every single clumsy kiss and it surprises me, how I feel about it. Him. By the time we finish, it's not that I'm--I mean, I don't know what I am, so we do it again and later I realize it wasn't that I was happy, it was that I wasn't heavy, that there were these brief moments where the thing I make sure I live with wasn't in every breath in and out. And that scares me because it's not supposed to be that easy. Because that's wrong. I'm supposed to be paying for this for the rest of my life.

Because that's right. "I don't want to see this shrink," I announce. "I won't go."

Dinnertime. Dad's at one end of the table, Mom at the other. My declaration causes Mom to stop sipping her drink and Dad sets his fork down and rests his chin in his hands. Their eyes meet and they have a telepathic conversation about it.

I hear every word and I don't like what they're saying.

She's going to the shrink, right?

Of course she's going to the shrink.

We're good parents.

And then they both look at me like I'm--I don't like the way they look at me.

Dad sighs and picks up his fork again. "You have to see her."

"I see Grey. I see Grey once a week. That's enough."

"She says you're uncooperative," Mom says. "She says you never talk."

"I'm not seeing a shrink. I'm not. I don't--"

"Her name is Georgina Bellamy," Dad interrupts gently. "She's an excellent psychiatrist. She specializes in talking to teenagers who need help."

"I don't need help." They don't say anything. I push my plate away and cross my arms. "I'm not going. I'm not going to say it again."

"We should've done it sooner," Mom says to Dad, like I'm not even in the room. "The first time she got in trouble after--"

"I'll hate you for it," I say over her.

Dad turns to me. "If that's what it takes to get you back--"

"Oh, please. That's so pathetic. This is pathetic. Is this because of... is this because of what I--" Calm down, Parker; calm down. Calm. "Is this about Bailey? Because I didn't want him to die; I just said that--"

It gets really quiet. And then Mom speaks.

"You know, after we buried Bailey, I came in and I thought--I don't even know you anymore. I don't even know my own daughter. You're not the same, Parker." She starts to cry. "You're not the same."

"I'm going to bed," I say, standing. I have had enough.

But Dad stands, too. He stands between me and my only way out of the room.

"You should just give up," I tell him, but it comes out sounding like a plea and he looks so worried from behind his glasses I want to break something.

And then he makes his way over to me and wraps me up into this hug and I feel myself go rigid. I let my arms hang at my sides.

"Don't say that," he says. "Don't even think it."

This is unbelievable. They still have hope for me.

I have done something wrong if they still have hope.

TWENTY-THREE

I open my locker and stare at the bottle of Jack resting on the top shelf.

It feels like it's been there forever, and every time I retrieve my books I'm always a little surprised no one's noticed the attractive, almost demure square bottle full of pale amber liquid, half-hidden by the black label with boastful white lettering I've never read beyond the name. All I need to know is how hard it messes you up, and Jack Daniel's has a tendency to do that like nothing else. I was a vodka girl before, because it was easier to hide in school and didn't make me as sick, but Becky obviously wanted to see me fall on my face when she gave me that paper bag in the chapel.

And today I am going to make her a very happy girl.

I reach for the bottle at the same time a low rumble of sound travels through the hallway the way a ripple crosses a pond before hitting the bank and going back in on itself. I feel this disturbance--this strange interruption of peace--in the pit of my stomach when I think I hear a name.

I forget about the bottle and follow the undercurrent of sound. The people I pass look at me like they know something, but how can they know anything? It's too early in the morning to know anything. An invisible thread leads me down the hall and around the corner where a group of people are clustered around a sobbing girl.

I get closer. It's Becky. She's the one crying. She's consoled by Chris, who stands at her right side, and Jake is at her left, looking out of place and awkward.

And I walk right past them, but Chris calls me back.

"Parker."

I backtrack slowly and face them, not just the three of them, but three plus an audience, because I don't deserve less. I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails in, and wait for one or all of them to speak. Becky stops crying long enough to raise her head from Chris's shoulder, and get ready for it, Parker, because this is it.

The party starts at eight, but I show up early so Chris and I can have sex. We go to his bedroom. He kisses me and I kiss him back and then, I don't know, I kind of seize up.

He flops back on the bed.

"You should loosen the fuck up every once in a while; the world wouldn't stop. No one would die."

We come downstairs looking like two people who've spent the last thirty minutes having sex. Chris gets to work on the tunes and I wind my way through the house and spot Evan in the kitchen kissing Jenny Morse. I clear my throat.

"Parker," Evan says nervously. He runs a hand over his prickly black hair and holds out a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. "Uh--shot?"

Jenny flees from the room. I take the bottle and the glass and move to the kitchen counter, pour a shot and knock it back. Then another.

Evan watches. Hesitates.

"You're not going to tell her, are you?"

I leave him there. When I step into the foyer the music is going proper, really loud. The party has begun.

Fifty minutes later too much vodka is gone.

"There you are!" Chris yells. I turn really slowly and after a second the rest of the room turns with me. "I've been looking for you. Let's go outside."

"Go without me. I'm going to stay... here." He grins. "Come on; the fresh air will make you feel better."

I let him drag me outside. I look up. The sun gets in my eyes.

Everything goes white.

"Oh my God, it's true."

"Go away."

I'm flat on my back. Perfectly manicured blades of grass press into my legs, hands and neck.

"The sooner you make a mistake and learn to live with it, the better. You're not responsible for everything. You can't control the way things end up."

"Evan's cheating on you with Jenny Morse. They're fucking."

All of a sudden I'm being jerked upright. My stomach lurches. I try to tell whomever it is to stop and leave me alone, but I can't move my mouth.

"Parker, sit up. You can't stay on your back because if you get sick--"

"I hope she chokes."

"Nice, Evan. Would you just leave?"

"Not until you talk to me about this."

"If I talk to you about this now, I'll just say something that you really won't like--"

When I wake up, I'm still drunk.

I stumble through the kitchen, head outside and throw up in some bushes until there's nothing left in my stomach to throw up. When it's over, I spot Jessie by the pool, laughing it up with some guy I don't know. He looks older than us and she's in full party mode, probably buzzed, and the way she leans into him is wrong because it's how she leans into a guy when she wants to fuck him.

I blink. I'm on the lawn. I blink again and Jessie is making out with a new mystery guy, different from the last one. I blink again and Evan's screaming at both of them.

I blink again and I'm in front of the drinks table set out on the lawn. I go straight for the bowl of punch, fill a cup with shaking hands, drink it, then another.

Then, a voice behind me:

"Someone spiked that, like, an hour ago."

I drop the cup and moan.

"Where's Jessie?"

"She was crying her eyes out. She said she was going to run away." Becky looks up at me and smiles. "Nice going, Parker."

"Where did she go?"

Becky points in the direction of the woods.

I can't feel my feet, but I soldier on. The farther I get from the house, the louder the music sounds.

Chris's parties are the best except when they're not.

Twenty-five steps into the woods, and my head is barely attached to my neck, but there's something I have to fix, so I keep moving.

A few more steps. I hear something and I stop.

I can make out two shapes in the darkness, on the ground. On a bed of pine needles. My heart sinks. I inch forward and hold my breath.

Jessie's fucking him. Except that's not what it is at all.

I breathe in. The air is stagnant from all the people wandering around the property dancing, drinking, smoking. These dirty scents mingle with the damp summer air and fresh-cut grass and there's Jessie and that guy, this clean-cut frat boy with an ugly mouth and dead eyes, and she's crying and it's not sex; it's a rape. He forces her to her feet and drags her away and I'm alone and then Chris is taking me back inside. And the next night I'm sick and Mrs. Wellington calls and asks us if we've seen Jessie, if she's with us, and I don't say anything and when she becomes a missing person and the police start asking questions I tell them I don't know anything and everyone vouches for me because I was drunk and stupid and when I find her bracelet in the woods two weeks later I think it's there for me because I killed her and I take it and I wear it so I never forget even though I'll never forget and I never say a word to anyone because if I hadn't said anything in the first place none of this would have--