The Fever by Megan Abbott

stresses played themselves out on her body. Everything stayed inside, her body folding in on itself.
    â€œWell,” Deenie said. “You’re home now. That’s good.”
    â€œI guess everyone was talking about it,” Gabby said. “The whole school saw.”
    Deenie didn’t say anything. She was thinking of Gabby on that stage, the way her body jerked like a pull-string toy. Like a body never moves, not a real body of someone you know.
    â€œDeenie,” she said. “Say something.”
    â€œWhat did it feel like?” Deenie blurted, her face feeling hotter on the pillow.
    Gabby paused. Then her voice dropped low, like she was right there beside her. “There was this shadow,” she said. “I could see it from the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t supposed to look at it.”
    Deenie felt her hand go around her own neck.
    â€œIf I turned my head to look,” Gabby continued, “something really scary would happen. And I couldn’t look. I could not look.”
    Deenie pictured it. That smile on Gabby’s face after, when everyone surrounded her on the stage. Like something painted on her face. A red-moon curve.
    â€œI didn’t look, Deenie,” Gabby whispered. “But it happened anyway.”
    I’m okay , she’d said. I really am. I’m fine.
    That smile, not a real thing but something set there, to promise you something, to give you a white lie.
    *  *  *
    He waited until he couldn’t hear the hum of her voice anymore through the floor. Then he knocked on Deenie’s door.
    â€œHey, honey,” he said, poking his head in.
    â€œHey,” Deenie said, cross-legged on her bed.
    As ever, her bed like a towering nest, always at least two or three books tufted in its folds. Deenie never fell asleep without a book or her phone in her hands. Probably both. When Georgia used to make her clean, Deenie would hoist the bedding over her head, shaking all the books, folders, handouts onto the carpet.
    â€œThey told her it might be stress,” Deenie said. “Like you said.”
    Walking toward her, his foot caught on her white Pizza House shirt, ruched in the quilt where it hit the floor.
    â€œWell,” he said, picking up the shirt, sprayed with flour and forever damp, “when things like this happen, they can really knock around your body.”
    â€œI guess,” she said, watching him closely. He wondered if he wasn’t supposed to pick up her things. He tossed the shirt onto the bed lightly.
    â€œWhat about you?” he asked. “What do you think?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “That doesn’t seem like Gabby to me.”
    â€œI know, Deenie,” he said. “We just gotta wait and see.”
    He sat down at the foot of the bed. She looked expectant, like she wanted something from him, but he had no idea what. He’d seen that look a hundred times before, from her and from her mother.
    Then, nodding, she fumbled for her headphones, and he could feel her retreating, her face turning cloudy and inscrutable.
    â€œDad,” she said, sliding the headphones on, “maybe I shouldn’t go to work on Saturday. With everything that’s going on.”
    He looked at her.
    â€œI think maybe I just want to be home.”
    He didn’t know what to say, her eyes big and baffling as ever, so he said yes.
    *  *  *
    The minute her dad left the room, Deenie wanted to jump up and throw the shirt in the laundry basket. She didn’t know why she hadn’t already.
    But she didn’t want to touch it or look at it.
    It reminded her of the car, and Sean Lurie, the shirt wedged beneath her on the seat.
    And then all the other things she didn’t want to think about.
    Lise’s face. The lake. Everything.
    There was too much already, without thinking about that.

9
    Thursday
    Just after six in the morning, Eli stepped into the dark garage, slung his