She saw quickly that her hunch had been correct. Todd had been absent from school that day—he'd gone to the trial, obviously—but he'd gotten out in time for basketball practice.

  Jessica took a seat in the bleachers, picking a spot where she had a good view of Todd . . . and he had an equally good view of her. He noticed her in the middle of a drill that involved pivoting around a defensive guard at midcourt and then shooting. He glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye just as the basketball left his fingertips; as it swished through the net, he did a double take.

  With my hair in a ponytail I look even more like Elizabeth, Jessica thought sourly. She flashed Todd a sugar-sweet smile, though, and gave him a perky wave. Todd jerked his chin up, acknowledging her . . . just barely.

  For half an hour, Jessica watched Todd sweat out every drill as if he were trying out for the Olympics. Part of her looked on in a detached, objective fashion—she appreciated his speed and skill as she would any other talented athlete's. Sure, he was good-looking, but so were some of the other guys on the team. Another part of her, though, looked at Todd with a need, a hunger, that grew more urgent with every passing minute. She wanted to run her fingers through his damp hair; she wanted to pull him close, to crush herself against his broad chest. She needed Todd—she needed his strength. Without it, Jessica knew that she simply might not have the will to go on acting out her life.

  And if I don't keep pressing, she thought desperately, he's going to slip through my fingers. He'll go crawling back to her. . . .

  A whistle blew and Todd and his teammates jogged over to the sidelines to hear the coach's wrap-up. Practice was over.

  Jessica got to her feet. As the rest of the team streamed toward the locker room, Todd grabbed a towel and headed back in her direction.

  "Great practice," Jessica greeted him.

  Todd gave her a halfhearted smile. "I only shot sixty percent from the foul line," he said. "Pretty lame."

  "Still, you deserve a reward," she said playfully. "How about a sunset picnic at the beach? I know a cove down at Moon Beach where nobody ever goes. . . ."

  Todd shook his head. "I don't think so, Jess," he mumbled into the towel as he wiped his forehead.

  "We could go to a movie if you'd rather," she offered. "Get a pizza first, of course. I'm ravenous, aren't you?"

  "No . . . not really."

  He glanced over his shoulder, clearly poised for flight. You don't have to he a genius to read his body language, Jessica thought, tears of anger and frustration jumping into her eyes.

  "Fine," she said, trying to sound casual, ready to flounce out of the gym. "If you're so busy—"

  "Jess, wait." Todd grabbed her arm. He looked down at her tear-streaked face, a mix of emotions battling in his dark eyes. Compassion won out. "It's just. . . not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe."

  "OK," Jessica said, mollified. "Tomorrow."

  He squeezed her arm and then let his hand drop back to his side. But instead of leaving he lingered, gazing intently at her, as if there were something else he wanted to say.

  Jessica stepped closer to him, her spirits lifting. He does want to go out with me, she thought. He's coming to his senses—he's realizing he'd be crazy to blow me off.

  Then, in a flash of intuition, Jessica guessed the truth. He wasn't even thinking about her. The letter. He wants to know if Elizabeth got his letter. He's trying to come up with a way to find out without actually asking me outright.

  Jessica's heart contracted with a knifelike pain. She wanted to slap Todd across the face with all her might—she wanted to hurt him back. But she resisted the urge.

  "You know, Todd," she said, her voice steady, "if you're worried about Liz, you shouldn't be. She doesn't deserve your sympathy—she doesn't need it. She doesn't need any of us. She won't take phone calls anymore, even from Enid." Jessica didn't even hesitate over this lie. It sounded right—it fit the picture she wanted to paint of Elizabeth as a lost cause, completely unredeemable. "And yesterday . . . yesterday she got a letter from someone, I don't know who."

  Todd's eyes lit up with hopeful expectation. "Well, she read it," Jessica continued, shaking her head sadly, "and then she ripped it up and threw it away. You wouldn't know her anymore, Todd. She's like a rock these days—cold and hard."

  She watched with satisfaction as the light faded from Todd's eyes. "She's like a rock," Jessica repeated, gently but firmly tapping the last nail into the coffin of Todd and Elizabeth's love. "It doesn't look like anyone's ever going to get through to her again."

  Bruce double-faulted for the second time in a row, throwing yet another game to Chad. "Get your act together, Patman," he grumbled to himself as he and Chad switched sides on the tennis court. Usually he made short work of Chad when they were paired up during practice—after all, he was the team's top seed and Chad was only seeded eighth. But this afternoon, for some reason, he simply couldn't keep his mind on the game or his eye on the ball.

  For some reason . . . Bruce knew what the reason was, only too well. Just a few courts away, the girls' tennis team was holding practice. And today, somebody new was trying out for the team.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce watched Pamela run for a backhand. She returned it, low and hard. Wendy Gibson lobbed it back to her, and Pamela put it away with an overhead smash that would have done credit to a Wimbledon winner.

  Meanwhile, Chad served, acing Bruce on his first try. Chad raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Hey, I didn't know I was that good!" he called out cheerfully.

  "Yeah, well, you're not," Bruce muttered under his breath.

  Chad served again and Bruce slammed a monster forehand, pushing Chad way back past the baseline. Chad's return went into the net. "Hmph," Bruce grunted with satisfaction. Take that, you squirt.

  He couldn't maintain his concentration, though. Chad matched him, point for point. The game went to deuce. Bruce had the advantage, but lost it. It was advantage Ticknor—game point for Chad—which meant Bruce couldn't afford to be distracted even for a millisecond. But he was the pawn of emotional forces beyond his control; he couldn't help being more aware of Pamela, two courts away, than he was of his own opponent right across the net.

  She's better than any of the girls already on the team, he observed, feeling an absurd, inappropriate rush of pride. On the tennis court, Pamela really had it all: skill, power, and strategy. And her every move was suffused with beauty and grace—she was poetry in motion.

  Bruce remembered the day he tracked Pamela down at Big Mesa High. He'd found her practicing with the tennis team, and even though he'd never really talked to her, he'd fallen in love just watching her play. Then and there, he'd known she was the one.

  Bruce fought back to deuce, regaining the advantage. So, you "knew," eh? he said to himself. You didn't know diddly.

  He swung recklessly at the ball, missing an easy shot. He tried to focus on Chad's next serve, but it was impossible when his thoughts were a whirl of longing, confusion, and anger, spinning as fast as the tennis ball. How could she appear to be one thing, Bruce wondered, as sweet and beautiful as an angel, and turn out to be the exact opposite? He took a sloppy swing, swatting the ball into the net. And if I'm through with her, why can't I stop thinking about her?

  "Advantage Ticknor," Chad announced.

  Bruce gritted his teeth. All right, enough of this fooling around, he lectured himself. Let's get serious.

  Chad tossed the ball in the air and smashed it across the net at Bruce. Bruce returned the serve, then rushed to the net. He was ready for Chad's next shot, and when it came, he slammed it into the corner of the court for the point. Back in command, Bruce won the next point, and the game, and the set.

  Practice over, he zipped his racket into its case, meanwhile stealing a glance at Pamela at the other end of the courts. The girls were done with practice, too, and she was helping the rest of the team gather up loose tennis balls. Quickly, Bruce calculated the odds that he'd bump into her on his way in or out of the gym. I'll skip the locker room today, he decided. I can shower at home.

  Grabbing his warm-up jacket, Bruce headed down the sidewalk toward the student parking lot. He reached one corner of the lot at the same moment that a slender, dark-haired girl in a tennis dress entered at another corner, having taken a shortcut from the courts through a grove of trees.

  Bruce caught his breath. Was Pamela thinking along the same lines he was and hurrying to the parking lot in order to avoid him? Or was she trying to intercept him? He supposed the motive didn't matter. He realized her car was parked just a few spaces away from his Porsche—they were on a collision course.

  When she recognized Bruce, Pamela checked her stride momentarily. As they drew nearer to each other, he could see that her face was turning bright pink. She certainly didn't look as if she'd been expecting to run into him.

  A few more steps, and they were face-to-face. Bruce had to pass Pamela to get to his car; she had to pass him to get to her car. Bruce bowed in an ironic fashion, ushering her by with a sweeping gesture. "After you," he said snidely.

  Their eyes met and Pamela's blush deepened. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut and hurried on toward her car.

  Bruce turned on his heel, staring after her. He was almost disappointed that she hadn't talked back to him. Who could blame her, though, when I've been acting so obnoxious? he thought with a twinge of guilt.

  Why was that, anyway? When Pamela was so clearly shy and vulnerable around him, why did he feel compelled to hurt her? Was it because he knew otherwise it would be too easy to relent, to meet her halfway?

  Clenching his teeth, Bruce fought down his guilt—and his secret, pathetic, wimpy, inexcusable desire to make up with her. She's not the injured one, he reminded himself. You're wasting your time feeling sorry for her—she's not as sweet and helpless as she looks.

  "Heading home already, Pamela?" he heard himself call after her. "Why not stick around school a little longer? You could catch the tail end of football practice, or do you like basketball players better?" Pamela turned back toward him, her eyes stricken. For some reason, her pain only egged Bruce on. "No, let me guess," he drawled. "You'd rather sit in on a faculty meeting—you're ready for some older men."

  Laughing at his own wit, Bruce climbed into the Porsche and started the engine. He didn't give Pamela another glance—that was part of her punishment—but as he backed out of the parking space, he couldn't help glimpsing her in the side mirror. In the instant before he roared off, leaving her standing in a cloud of dust, he could see the tears streaming down her face.

  Billie was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when Steven stormed into the apartment on Friday evening. He slammed the door behind him; he was furious and he didn't care who knew it. In fact, he wanted Billie to know it—he fully intended that she should hear all about it. Because he was furious with her.

  She glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows. "What's wrong?" she asked, a worried note in her voice.

  Steven smiled humorlessly. "I'll tell you what's wrong," he replied. "I bumped into Bart Lloyd a while ago, and do you know what he said?"

  Billie shook her head. "Why don't you sit down and tell me?" she suggested, patting the chair next to her.

  Steven walked over to the table and yanked out another chair directly across from her. He dropped into it, glaring at Billie. "Bart asked me how my mother was doing," he began in a barely controlled voice. "According to him, everyone on campus is talking about how she's cracked up completely. Now where do you think he could have gotten a story like that?"

  Steven didn't even try to keep the note of accusation out of his tone. Billie stared at him, confused. Then it registered. Her eyes widened, and she reached out, touching Steven's hand. "Steven, you don't think I told him?"

  Steven snatched his hand away. "That's exactly what I do think," he declared, his voice hoarse. The pain and anger surged up in him as he relived the moment when he'd figured it out. After his encounter with Bart, he'd puzzled over who might have revealed Mrs. Wakefield's problems, and suddenly he'd remembered one person outside of the family who knew—Billie. Just as suddenly, it had dawned on him that he knew next to nothing about his new roommate. He'd trusted her with all his secrets, leaned on her during this trying time . . . and, yes, allowed himself to develop a crush on her. What a mistake!

  She couldn't care less about me, Steven thought, his throat tightening with tears. She was just pretending, just using me, buttering me up because she had a good thing living here. Why on earth did I trust her?

  "You told Bart or someone else. What does it matter now?" Steven felt his face about to crumple, but he willed himself to hold on to his self-control. He would not cry in front of her. "You betrayed me."

  Billie shook her head slowly. "No, Steven," she whispered, her own eyes bright with tears. "It's you who've betrayed me."

  Steven didn't respond. He didn't have the strength to argue with her, and he didn't trust himself—he was afraid that if he opened his mouth again, he might scream or, worse, sob.

  I just wish she would go away, he thought hopelessly.

  As if she'd read his mind, Billie rose to her feet. "OK," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'll leave in the morning."

  Steven looked up quickly, all at once feeling panicked. Maybe he didn't want her to go away; maybe he didn't want to be left alone. "Wait . . ." he began.

  But Billie had made up her mind. Setting her lips in a firm line, she turned on her heel and marched to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a bang.

  The sound pierced Steven's heart like a bullet. A wave of loneliness and desolation washed over him and he slumped in his chair, the strength draining from his body. He felt like a drowning man sinking into deep water, his life ring having just slipped from his fingers. "Oh, Billie," Steven whispered, dropping his head heavily onto his folded arms.

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth stepped off the bus at a stop just a few blocks from the Sweet Valley town beach. It felt a little funny, taking public transportation, but these days, with her driver's license suspended indefinitely, the bus was her only option.

  Still, she would have walked if she'd had to. As she neared the grassy dunes, Elizabeth paused to take a deep breath of the fresh, salty air. She felt better instantly, just the way she knew she would. She felt cleansed.

  It was a Sunday afternoon and the beach was fairly crowded, so she headed up the shore, away from the volleyball games, the children building sand castles, the picnickers, the wave riders. She walked briskly, her feet digging deeply into the soft, sun-warmed sand. I could walk forever, Elizabeth thought dreamily, her eyes on the distant cliffs. Suddenly, something occurred to her. I could walk forever—literally. I could just leave. I could run away from home—run away from everything!

  With an odd, rueful smile, Elizabeth sat down on a piece of driftwood facing the ocean. She knew she wouldn't do it. As crazy and horrible as her world had become, as miserable and confused as she was, she could never run away. She had to take responsibility for her actions—she had to face the music. Wasn't that what suffering through the trial was all about?

  Besides, I couldn't really run away, Elizabeth thought, tossing a pebble into the waves. I couldn't run away from myself. I'd still be me. I'd carry what I did, what I did to Sam, with me wherever I went.

  For a long time she sat, motionless and quiet, watching the waves roll in. It was incredibly soothing, almost hypnotic. A wave would crash in a shower of white foam and then it would be sucked back into the sea—to be followed by another and another and another, endlessly. . . .

  The ocean never changes. It never ends, Elizabeth reflected. Suddenly, she was reminded of a night not too long ago—the night a gang of kids from Big Mesa High raided a Sweet Valley High beach party. It had been a pivotal occasion in more ways than one: the beginning of a heated rivalry between Sweet Valley and Big Mesa, and the start of new tensions between Elizabeth and Jessica, too. At one point during the party, Bruce had dared Jessica to swim out to a buoy and back again, in the dark. Elizabeth had begged Jessica not to do it, afraid that Jessica would swim out into the night and never return.

  Now Elizabeth found herself wondering how Jessica had felt as she stroked blindly through the dark, cold water. Was she scared, or just exhilarated?

  Standing up, Elizabeth kicked off her sneakers and walked toward the water. She waded in, up to her calves, up to her knees. What would it be like? she wondered, curious. What's out there? What is it like, Sam?

  Tears sprang to Elizabeth's eyes. She shook her head, hard. "I'm the lucky one," she choked out. "No matter what I'm going through, no matter what's in store for me after tomorrow, I'm the lucky one. I'm alive."

  Elizabeth turned and walked out of the sea. Retrieving her shoes, she headed back down the shore toward the parking lot and the bus stop . . . and home.

  Jessica turned up the volume on her stereo Sunday night, blasting the music in an attempt to drown out the noise in her brain. It didn't work. She couldn't stop thinking about what was going on downstairs.

  With a disgruntled sigh, she switched the stereo off altogether. Maybe I'll just go down and take a quick peek, she decided. She'd satisfy her curiosity, and then she could forget about Elizabeth and the trial. It really was of no concern to her, after all.

  On soundless bare feet, Jessica padded down the hall to the staircase. Already, she could hear the voices.

  She could hear the voices . . . and the stress, the frustration, the fear. Dad and Steven are trying one last time to get some information from Liz, Jessica guessed. And it's still not working.

  She sat down on the bottom step in the shadowy front hallway, where she could see the scene in the living room without being noticed herself. Elizabeth was sitting on the couch next to Steven, a blank, surreal expression on her face. Mr. Wakefield stood in front of her, a pencil behind his ear and a legal pad in his hand. And Mrs. Wakefield . . .