Don’t beat yourself up, Christian says in my head. I sit up and glance at the window, and of course he’s there, sitting in his normal spot.

I messed things up for you too, I remind him.

He shakes his head. No, you didn’t. You just changed things.

I go to the window and open it, step outside into the cool night air. It feels like summer now, a kind of shift in the way the night feels, the way it smells.

“You’ve got to stay out of my head,” I say as I hunker down awkwardly next to Christian. I’m still in my mom’s nice black pumps. My toes hurt. “It can’t be very fun for you, always finding out my deep dark secrets.”

He shrugs. “They’re not so dark.”

I give him a hard look. “My life is a soap opera.”

“A really, really addictive soap opera,” he says. Then he puts his arm around my shoulders and draws me into him. And I let him. I close my eyes.

“Why do you want me, Christian? I’m hopelessly screwed up.”

“We’re all screwed up. And you look so cute while you’re doing it.”

“Stop.”

The back of my neck feels hot where his breath is touching me, stirring the wisps of my hair that managed to escape my braid. “Thank you,” I say. We sit there for a while, not talking. An owl hoots in the distance. And suddenly, miraculously, there are tears in my eyes.

“I miss my mom,” I choke out.

Christian’s arms tighten around me. I lean my head onto his shoulder and cry and cry, my body shuddering with sobs. It’s one of those loud, probably unattractive kind of sobfests, the kind where your nose runs and your eyes get all huge and swollen and your whole face becomes this messy pink swampland, but I don’t care. Christian holds me, and I cry. The ache empties itself out on his T-shirt, leaving me lighter, a good emptiness this time, like if I tried I might be light enough to fly.

Chapter 21

High Countries

At graduation all the girls have to wear white robes and the boys wear black. When the band plays “Pomp and Circumstance” we file two by two into the gym at Jackson Hole High School, which is filled with chattering, cheering, frantic-picture-taking friends and relatives. But it’s hard to look up into the bleachers and not see Mom. Or Jeffrey, even. The police showed up at our house the next day to question him. This time they even brought a warrant. But he wasn’t there. All we found in his room were a bunch of clothes and toiletries missing—and here I’d believed that lie he’d fed me as I watched him pack it up that night—and a single yellow Post-it stuck to his window.

Don’t look for me, it read.

He didn’t even take his truck. We’ve been frantically searching for him for days, but there’s not a trace of where he might have gone. He’s just gone.

I spot Dad in the audience next to Billy. He gives me a thumbs-up. I smile, try to look happy. I am graduating, after all. It’s a big deal.

When someone dies in the movies, there’s always that scene where the main character stands in the dead person’s closet and fingers the sleeve of the favorite shirt, the one she remembers from so many happy moments. That was me, this morning. I went into Mom’s closet for this white eyelet dress she used to love. I thought I’d wear it, under my gown. That way, maybe a part of her would be there. Sentimental, I know.

In the movies, the main character always presses her face in to get a whiff of that last, lingering hint of the person’s smell. And then she cries.

I wish I didn’t know this, how real those scenes are, how unbelievable it was in that moment to stand there looking at all the dead can leave behind. How can the shoes still be here? I thought. How can the clothes survive, when the person did not? I found a hair on the shoulder of a flannel shirt and held it gently between my thumb and forefinger, this hair that was once attached to a person I loved so much. I held it for a long time, unsure of what to do with it, and then I finally let it go. I let it float away.

It hurt.

But right now she’s with me, her vanilla perfume rising off the fabric, and somehow it makes me feel stronger.

This is officially torture, Christian says in my head. How many speeches are there?

I consult my trusty program.

Four.

Mental groan.

But we get to cheer for Angela, I remind him. Angel Club sticks together, right?

Like I said. Torture.

I turn slightly and cast a subtle glance in his direction. He’s sitting a couple rows behind me, right next to Ava Peters. Just down the row from him, Kay Patterson smirks at me.

I know, I know, I think. I’m still looking at him.

He lifts his eyebrows.

Never mind, I tell him.

One speech ends and it’s time for Angela. The principal announces her as the class valedictorian. One of Jackson Hole High’s best and brightest stars. One of the three students who will be attending Stanford University in the fall.

Applause, applause.

Stanford must be lowering its standards, remarks Christian.

I know. Wait, did he say three students?

I think so.

So who’s lucky number three?

No answer.

I turn around to look at him again.

No.

He grins.

Now I get it, I tell him. You’re stalking me.

Quiet now. Angela’s about to talk.

I shift my attention back to the podium, where Angela stands stiffly, a stack of note cards in front of her. She pushes her glasses up on her nose.

When did Angela get glasses? Christian asks.

She’s playing Studious Straight-A Angela today, I answer. The glasses are her costume.

O-kay.

Angela clears her throat lightly. She really is nervous, I can tell. All these eyes on her. All this attention, when she’s usually the one in the corner with the book. She looks at me. I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.

“I know how these speeches typically go,” she begins. “I’m supposed to get up here and talk about the future. How great it will be, how we’ll all pursue our dreams and make something of ourselves. Maybe I should read a children’s book about the places we’ll go, and talk about how bright our futures are, out there, waiting for us. That’s inspirational, right?”

Murmuring from the crowd.

Uh-oh, says Christian.

I know what he means. It sounds like there might be a very good chance that Angela’s going to pull one of those anti-inspirational graduation speeches, the kind that calls the school cheerleader a vapid Barbie doll or a favorite teacher a creepy perv.

Angela glances down at her cards.

Don’t do it, I think.

“I know that when I think about my future, I’m usually overwhelmed, knowing how much will be expected of me. I know the odds are that I’ll fail many of the things I try. And it’s a big deal. What if I figure out what my purpose is, my reason for being on this planet, only to fall short? What if I don’t pass the test?”

She looks at me again. I hold my breath. One corner of her mouth lifts—she’s laughing at me. Then she goes back to serious.

“But then I think about what I’ve learned here in the last year, and I don’t mean in my classes, but what I’ve learned from watching my friends face their futures and search for their purposes. I’ve learned that a storm isn’t always just bad weather, and a fire can be the start of something new. I’ve found out that there are a lot more shades of gray in this world than I ever knew about. I’ve learned that sometimes, when you’re afraid but you keep on moving forward, that’s the biggest kind of courage there is. And finally, I’ve learned that life isn’t really about failure and success. It’s about being present, in the moment when big things happen, when everything changes, including yourself. So I would tell us, no matter how bright we think our futures are, it doesn’t matter. Whether we go off to some fancy university or stay home and work. That doesn’t define us. Our purpose on this earth is not a single event, an accomplishment we can check off a list. There is no test. No passing or failing. There’s only us, each moment shaping who we are, into what we will become. So I say forget about the future. Pay attention to now. This moment right now. Let go of expectations. Just be. Then you are free to become something great.”