because I feel too sad to talk. Even when she isnât here, Xander dominates his thoughts. Usually I like how she draws the attention to herself because I hate being noticed. But tonight, wearing this dress, with my arms around Adam, I want to be the one who glows.
âDo you think it would help if I talked to her?â Adam says.
âOh, come on,â I say, annoyance laced through my voice. I feel like the answer to this question is so obvious that he probably already knows it. And that makes me wonder why heâs brought up Xander at all. Just to have something to talk to me about, because sheâs the one thing we have in common? Or is he trying to distance himself from me? Or is it that he canât stop thinking about her, even now?
âI mean, the other day with the train . . .â he stutters.
âWhen she flashed the engineer?â
âYeah. That was . . .â
âYou liked it. Donât pretend you didnât.â
That shuts him up. He readjusts his hands on my back.
âItâs not that I liked it. Itâs just . . .â His shoulders stiffen under my arms, and I glance at his face to see that itâs gone blank, as though all his muscles have tightened. âZen, Iâm afraid sheâs going to get hurt.â He pulls away to look at me, his mouth tight. Heâs scared. âI think she
wants
to get hurt, Zen.â
We sway slowly under the prism of lights while I think about what heâs said.
Xander has always been careless. When we were kids she used to rollerblade down the biggest hill in our town, screaming the whole way. Iâd go down it too, but Iâd put on the brakes every so often. Not Xander. She pointed her toes straight downhill and coasted as fast as she could go. When Mom got on her case about it, sheâd pout, muttering that itâs too hard to have any fun if youâre scared all the time. I always secretly agreed with her. But now it doesnât really seem like Xanderâs having that much fun.
I glance at Adam, and I see heâs watching me, his eyes troubled. Suddenly heâs Widdle Adam from across the street again, and Iâm Zen Vogel with the skinny legs and the innocent face. What heâs said makes me worry even more, because now that the idea has entered my mind, I think he might be right.
Xanderâs Bar
W E LEAVE THE PROM kind of early, trailing out with some kids who are headed to an after party in a hotel room somewhere. One of the girls, a senior, screams out her car window, âPremarital sex!â and laughs maniacally.
Adam shakes his head; I roll my eyes, but I feel strangely empty. Prom night is when lots of girls lose their virginity, and I know thatâs not going to happen tonight, and definitely never with Adam. I didnât come to the prom hoping to have sex with anyone, but for the first time, I wonder why Iâm the only teenage girl in America who isnât chasing after boys. Maybe Xanderâs right. Maybe something is wrong with me. Mom always said itâs just that Iâm too cerebral, but I canât help wondering if I really
am
frigid like Xander says.
Adam drives in silence to the bar where Xander and Margot are supposed to be. I donât really want tonight to be about Xander, but when I told Adam about her fake ID he got really worried and insisted on checking out the place. âI just want to make sure sheâs safe,â he said.
She. No thought for Margot.
I study his profile, the way heâs peering into the dark street as he drives, licking his lips, his brow tense. Everything about him seems strained. I wonder if I were at a bar, would he come looking for me? Would he be this worried?
âThat must be the place,â he says, and slows down to park.
The bar shares a parking lot with a liquor store and a check-cashing place. Across the road is a strip joint.
âThis street reminds me of every Tarantino movie
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