"You'll never believe where I went today, George, while you were at the office and Lila was in school," Grace said, smiling shyly. She hesitated, as if she weren't sure how he would react to what she was going to say. "That funny little clam bar in Marpa Heights. Remember that old place?"

  George Fowler froze in the act of topping a cracker with a wedge of Brie. "Remember?" he exclaimed. "How could I forget? You should have waited for me, though," he added. "We could have driven up there together."

  "Well . . ." Grace laughed, waving a perfectly manicured hand. "It wasn't like I was making a pilgrimage or anything. I just happened to be driving by."

  "What clam bar in Marpa Heights?" Lila piped up. "What's so special about it?"

  "Well, Li, if you must know," Mr. Fowler said, winking at Grace, "it was the site of your mother's and my first date."

  A clam bar? How unromantic! Lila wrinkled her nose skeptically. "You took mom to a clam bar for your first date?"

  Mr. Fowler chuckled. "We were just kids—it seemed like a fine place to me at the time."

  "Besides, we'd only just met that very afternoon, about a quarter mile down the beach—it was the closest spot to get a bite to eat," Grace explained. "So maybe it wasn't our first official date."

  "No, that would've been two nights later," Mr. Fowler agreed, "when we drove down to L.A. to hear jazz at that smoky little club. What was the name of that place?"

  Grace tipped her head to one side, her ash-blond hair swinging. "What was its name? It was something that sounded like horses. . . ."

  Mr. Fowler snapped his fingers. "The Bluegrass Lounge!"

  Grace clapped her hands excitedly. "That's it!"

  He laughed. "Remember the singer they had that night? That gorgeous woman in the red sequin dress?"

  "She walked around all the tables with her microphone and she stopped at ours and sang a song to your father," Grace told Lila, her eyes sparkling. "She even sat on his lap for a minute. I've never seen anyone's face turn so red!"

  Lila was speechless, trying to picture the scene. Her mother and father hanging out at a jazz bar in L.A.? Her parents, "just kids"?

  Just kids . . . kids in love.

  "We went back a few weeks later," Mr. Fowler recalled.

  "A month later," Grace said.

  "That's right—it was our one-month anniversary."

  "You gave me a dozen red roses," Grace reminisced, "and you asked the band to play—" She broke off, blushing. "Oh, I don't remember the name of the song," she said carelessly.

  She's scared, Lila guessed. She's not sure if Dad wants to remember all of this.

  But he did. He placed his hand lightly, briefly, on Grace's bare arm, his eyes fixed on her face. "You don't? I do. 'It Had to Be You.'"

  "Of course," Grace murmured, her eyes shining. "I remember now. That was our song."

  Lila's jaw dropped. Now that was romantic—roses and jazz and our song. . . .

  She sat very still and quiet, practically holding her breath. She wanted her parents to forget she was there; she wanted them to go on talking about the days when they were young and falling in love.

  Because I don't know anything about it, Lila realized. She'd never thought about what happened before: what brought her parents together, what caused them to break up, what made her mother leave her marriage and her child and never look back. For the first time, it occurred to Lila that once there had been something other than distance and estrangement between her parents. Long ago, they'd shared something very special—long ago, they'd been in love.

  And now? Lila wondered, studying her parents. Did she see something in their eyes as they looked at each other—a glimmer of interest, a ghost of the old passion?

  If it was there, it came and went in a flash. Mr. Fowler cleared his throat; Grace turned away to pour another drink. "Have you had a chance to look up any old friends, Grace?" he asked her in a detached, casual tone.

  "I spoke with Dyan Sutton this morning." Grace's expression grew somber. "It wasn't the cheeriest conversation. We talked mostly about Elizabeth Wakefield's trial, and that poor boy who was killed in the car accident. What a terrible tragedy. . . ."

  For a moment, the three sat in pensive silence. "It's really horrible," Lila said finally, reaching for a cracker. "The Wakefields are having a really rough time. Supposedly Mrs. Wakefield can't cope at all. I mean, she's like on the verge, you know?" Lila shook her head. "She always seemed so together, balancing career and family, and all that stuff. Who'd have expected her to totally come apart at the seams?"

  Grace frowned. "Where did you get that story?"

  "Straight from the horse's mouth—from Jessica," Lila replied. "She thinks her whole family is going nuts—she's been telling everyone that her dad's acting like a maniac, and her mother's acting like a fruitcake, and she can't relate to her brother at all, and her sister—"

  "It's very important that the Wakefields all stick together at a time like this," Grace cut in with unexpected vehemence. "Jessica should never forget she only has one family, for better or worse. . . ."

  Mrs. Fowler's words trailed off. Lila stared at her mother, startled by the emotion in her voice, confused by the pain in her eyes. It's almost as if she's not just talking about the Wakefields, Lila thought. It's almost as if she's talking about us. . . .

  But Lila was luckier than Jessica. Her own little family had gathered together for the first time in years in a time of trouble, to help her pull through her crisis. And that was a good thing. So why does Mom look so sad?

  As if reading Lila's mind, Grace stretched out her hand toward Lila. Lila took it, holding it tight. "What's wrong, Mom?" she asked quietly. "We're all together now, right?"

  The desperately hopeful question fell into silence, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pond. Mr. Fowler stood up to pour himself a drink, turning his back. Grace just squeezed her daughter's hand, wordlessly.

  A dissatisfied frown on her face, Jessica flipped through the TV channels with the remote control. Nothing was on, or at least nothing she wanted to watch. Jabbing a button viciously, she switched off the power and tossed the remote aside.

  It had been a long, boring Thursday afternoon. All her friends had gone to the beach after school and they'd urged her to join them, but she just hadn't felt like it. Her tan was fading—she'd probably be as pale as Elizabeth soon—but Jessica didn't really care. She didn't care about sunbathing or shopping or any of the things she usually enjoyed.

  What's the matter with me? she wondered, rubbing her eyes wearily.

  Getting to her feet, she shuffled into the kitchen to get something to eat even though she wasn't really hungry. She found a bowl of guacamole in the refrigerator and tore open a bag of tortilla chips. As she scooped up some guacamole with a chip, she thought about how nice it was to have the house to herself for a change. Both her parents had had to work late because they were taking the next day off to go to court again with Elizabeth; Steven was back on campus, to Jessica's relief; and according to the note she'd left on the kitchen counter, Elizabeth had gone over to Enid's.

  Jessica munched a few more chips. Then she made a face. "Ugh, I'm going to get as big as a hippo if I keep eating like this," she said out loud. That wouldn't do at all, especially when Elizabeth was getting thinner by the minute. . . .

  Where's that new issue of Sweet Sixteen that came today? Jessica wondered, sticking the chips back in the cupboard. I better get right to that article about how to slim my thighs and tighten my tummy!

  Wandering to the front of the house, she spotted the magazine in a pile of unopened mail on the hall table. She grabbed it and turned to head up the stairs.

  As she did, something that looked like an envelope on the floor just inside the front door caught her eye. Jessica walked over and picked it up, her curiosity piqued. It didn't have a stamp—someone must have come by and stuck it through the mail slot themselves. But who?

  With a start, Jessica recognized the handwriting on the envelope. Todd's! But the letter wasn't addressed to her. . . . It was for Elizabeth.

  Jessica leaned back against the wall and stared blankly at the letter lying in her palm. After a long moment, she laughed out loud, amazed by Todd's stupidity. "Did he really think I wouldn't see this?" she asked the empty hallway.

  Then her fingers tightened; she clutched the envelope, wrinkling it. She knew what the letter said as well as if she'd written it herself. She'd seen the lack of enthusiasm in Todd's eyes when they were out together the other night. She'd seen the longing . . . for someone else.

  I bet he's begging Elizabeth to take him back. He's ready to throw me aside like an old pair of basketball sneakers. Well, I won't let her take him away from me, Jessica vowed, angrily stuffing the envelope in the back pocket of her jeans. Not after she stole Sam. She won't get away with it again. And neither will he!

  She should have felt triumphant at the thought of intercepting the letter and foiling Todd's attempts to communicate with Elizabeth. Instead, from out of nowhere a wave of weakness suddenly washed over Jessica, and she felt a stabbing pain in her heart—an unbearable, incurable ache. Incurable because suddenly she understood. She didn't really want Todd Wilkins. With all her heart and body and soul, she wanted another boy—a boy she could never see or touch or talk to, never laugh or cuddle with, again. Never, ever again.

  A flood of hot tears gushed from Jessica's eyes. "Oh, Sam," she sobbed as she slid to the floor, her back against the wall. "Oh, Sam, why did you have to leave me?"

  Enid wanted to press her hands against her ears. She couldn't stand to hear Elizabeth recite those words for what seemed like the millionth time. "I don't remember. . . ."

  Maybe I should have skipped court today, Enid reflected. It's not like I can do anything for her here. If I'd gone to school instead, I could have given her the notes from the Friday review session in history class, and maybe gotten back that English paper she wrote for Mr. Collins.

  Enid bit her lip. Who was she kidding? Elizabeth did need her to be there, and Enid knew it. It was just so painful, having to sit there next to Todd and watch helplessly. Sit and watch Elizabeth stumble through another round of the prosecuting attorney's increasingly impatient questions; watch Ned Wakefield struggle to maintain his professional composure, which threatened to crack at any moment; watch Alice Wakefield look completely detached and undisturbed, somehow removed from the action as if she simply didn't believe it was real, as if she couldn't bear for it to be real.

  At least the trial is almost over for the day, Enid thought, glancing at her watch. Two days down, and how many more to go? How much longer could this go on?

  "Elizabeth," Mr. Dilworth said, standing in front of Elizabeth and forcing her to meet his eyes. "What were you wearing the night of the prom?"

  "A . . . a blue dress," Elizabeth answered, seeming puzzled by the question.

  "What kind of flowers were in your corsage?"

  "They were . . ." Elizabeth darted a quick glance in Todd's direction. "White roses."

  "Did you wear any perfume, any jewelry?"

  Elizabeth described the jewelry she'd worn. "No perfume, though," she told the prosecutor.

  "Hmm." Mr. Dilworth folded his arms across his chest. "You have a pretty good recollection of those details," he observed.

  "It—it was a big night."

  "It was a big night," he agreed. "So, tell me." He waved an arm out at the audience. "Tell us all. Why do you remember some things perfectly, but other things not at all. Is it possible, Elizabeth," he boomed, pointing an accusing finger at her, "is it possible you don't remember certain things because you don't want to remember them? Because you can't bring yourself to confront your own guilt in the death of Sam Woodruff?"

  All around the courtroom, there were murmurs and exclamations. "How dare he?" Enid gasped. "How dare he?" And why didn't Mr. Wakefield protest? Why didn't he fight back? Enid stared at Elizabeth's father, waiting for him to jump up and cry, "Objection!" It didn't happen. Ned Wakefield ran a hand over his face, his eyes on the yellow legal pad that lay on the table in front of him. Has he given up? Enid wondered. Was he, too, conceding that this was an open-and-shut case, that his own daughter was guilty?

  Enid looked back at Elizabeth. Even from a distance, she could see the tears brim in her best friend's eyes. But Elizabeth didn't break down. "I . . . don't . . . remember," she repeated with desperate certainty. "Maybe you don't believe me, but it's true."

  The prosecutor stared hard at her for a long moment. "No further questions," he said at last.

  "You may step down," Judge Baird told Elizabeth. Then she struck her gavel and declared, "Court is adjourned until Monday morning."

  The members of the audience rose to their feet, their voices rising with them. Enid stood on her tiptoes, trying to see Elizabeth. Together, she and Todd pushed toward the aisle.

  Flanked by her parents, Elizabeth began walking past them, out of the courtroom. Her pace was slow and measured; she stared straight ahead with wide, unseeing eyes.

  "Liz," Enid said softly, stepping forward and stretching out her hand.

  Elizabeth turned her head slightly. She didn't look at Enid, however; she looked at Todd.

  Beside her, Enid felt Todd stiffen. An intense, hopeful light leapt into his eyes. He seemed to be holding his breath, to be searching for something in Elizabeth's face, waiting for a word or gesture.

  It didn't come. Elizabeth didn't speak; she didn't even blink. Her eyes were like the eyes painted on the face of a china doll, blank and blind. She doesn't really see him, Enid realized. She doesn't see any of us.

  Elizabeth passed on, leaving Todd staring after her, his expression tortured and hopeless. "C'mon, Todd," Enid said softly. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. "Let's go."

  As they started into the aisle, Enid turned to look back toward the judge's bench. Mr. Wakefield said the trial would probably only take three days, Enid reflected. That means on Monday, it may he all over. She shuddered involuntarily as she pictured the scene, imagining the moment when the judge rendered her decision. "I find the defendant . . . guilty." What if that's her verdict?

  Enid shook her head, bringing herself back to the present moment. She refocused on the figure of the bailiff, who'd remained after the judge retired to her chambers. The bailiff was talking to a nervous-looking young man wearing a baseball cap and a college sweatshirt. Enid didn't recognize him, and she didn't even have the mental energy to wonder who he was.

  All she could think about was Monday, and her fear of what was going to happen to her best friend. The evidence was just too incontrovertible. In the end, did it really matter whether Elizabeth remembered anything or not? She had been drunk and she had been driving, Enid thought, feeling more hopeless than she ever had in her entire life. Oh, Elizabeth, what's going to become of you?

  Chapter 8

  Steven strode across the main quadrangle on Friday afternoon, a grouchy expression on his face. He wasn't sure what he was more annoyed about: the fact that he hadn't been able to attend Elizabeth's trial that day because of an economics exam he couldn't reschedule, or the probability that he'd failed the exam regardless because he'd been too distracted to study.

  A voice broke into his dismal reverie. "Hey, Wakefield!" someone called.

  Steven looked up, narrowing his eyes against the bright sun. When he saw who was hurrying toward him, his annoyance increased. Bart Lloyd had been a year ahead of him at Sweet Valley High, and this semester they had a political science class together. Bart tended to be a pompous jerk; he wasn't Steven's favorite person in the best of times, and today Steven really didn't think he could stand to exchange even a few words with him. Plus, he probably just wants to borrow my poli-sci notes, Steven thought cynically.

  "Hi," Steven said briskly.

  He planned to blow right past Bart, but Bart stepped in front of him and put a hand on his arm, giving Steven no choice but to put on the brakes.

  "Wakefield, just wanted to tell you I'm sorry about your sister," Bart said with an irritating mixture of condescension and curiosity.

  Steven really didn't want to talk about Elizabeth with Bart. "Thanks," he muttered, shrugging off the other boy's hand. "She's doing OK. See ya around."

  But Bart wasn't finished. "And I'm sorry about your mom, too," he continued.

  "My mom?" Steven repeated.

  "Yeah. I heard she's really gone over the edge over this—really lost her marbles. Isn't she in the hospital or something?"

  Steven's jaw dropped. Then he clenched his teeth shut, his face red with anger and embarrassment. "No, she's not in the hospital," he snapped. "And she didn't go over the edge."

  Bart lifted his shoulders. "Sorry, man. That's just the story I heard."

  "Well, it's a lie," Steven declared, his voice rising. "Whoever told you, told you wrong."

  "OK, OK. Sorry," Bart repeated. "If I hear anybody else talking, I'll set them straight."

  He gave Steven a friendly slap on the shoulder. "So long, Wakefield," he said, sauntering off across the lawn.

  Steven stared after Bart, breathing hard. "That's just the story I heard. . . ." Who would say a thing like that? Steven wondered. Who would spread such a cruel rumor?

  He had to admit to himself, the worst part was that the exaggerated story had a grain of truth to it. He raked a hand through his hair. But outside of the family, no one knows about Mom, he thought, baffled. No one else knows how bad she really is . . . right?

  "Don't forget the party tonight at Barry's," Amy called to Jessica as they parted after cheerleading practice Friday afternoon. "You'd better be there!"

  "I will be," Jessica lied with false cheerfulness. "See ya."

  Her friends headed for the women's locker room. Jessica left the fitness room through another door that opened into the main gymnasium.