“And that means suck his dick in Whore?”

Alex’s head had done a dizzy spin. How did he know? Had the film guy walked right out of that bathroom and just announced it? And even if he had, why was Len angry? She knew what “make him happy” meant. Alex had felt nothing but rage and it was better than any drug, burning doubt from her mind.

“What the fuck did you think I was going to do?” she demanded, surprised at how loud she sounded, how sure. “Impressions? Make him some balloon animals?”

She’d picked up their blender, the one Len used for protein shakes, and smashed it against the refrigerator, and for a moment she’d seen fear in Len’s eyes and she had wanted very badly to keep making him feel afraid. Len had called her crazy, slammed out of the apartment. He had run from her. But once he was gone, the adrenaline had poured out of Alex in a rush that left her feeling limp and lonely. She didn’t feel angry or righteous, just ashamed and so scared that somehow she’d ruined everything, ruined herself, that Len would never want her again. And then where would she go? All she’d wanted was for him to come back.

In the end she apologized and begged him to forgive her and they got high and turned the air-conditioning up and fucked right next to it, the air coming in cooling gusts that masked their panting. But when Len had said she was a good little slut, she hadn’t felt sexy or wild; she’d felt so small. She was afraid she might cry and she was afraid he might like that too. She’d turned her face to the vent and felt the icy breath of the AC unit blow the fine hairs back from her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, and as Len had jackrabbited away behind her, she’d imagined herself on a glacier, naked and alone, the world clean and empty and full of forgiveness.

But Ariel wasn’t a film student looking for some strange. He had a reputation. There were stories that he was only in the States because he was dodging the Israeli police after roughing up two underage girls in Tel Aviv, that he ran a dog-fighting ring, that he liked to dislocate girls’ shoulders as a kind of foreplay, like a boy pulling the wings off a fly.

Len would be furious when he returned home to find the apartment still a mess. He’d be even madder when they didn’t come back to Ground Zero for the party. But they could survive Len’s anger better than Ariel’s attention.

Alex understood that Len had expected some kind of jealousy when he’d brought Hellie home with them that day from Venice Beach. He hadn’t predicted Hellie’s warm laugh, her easy way of looping her arm around Alex, the way she’d pluck a paperback from Alex’s shelf of thrillers and old sci-fi and say, “Read to me.” Hellie had made this life bearable. Alex wasn’t going down the path that led to Ariel and she wasn’t going to let Hellie go either, because somehow she knew they would not come back from him intact. They didn’t have a great life. It wasn’t the kind of life anyone imagined or asked for, but they managed.

They took the bus over the hill, down the 101 to the 405 to Westwood, and walked all the way to UCLA, up the slope to campus and through the sculpture garden. They sat on the steps beneath the pretty arches of Royce Hall and watched the students playing Frisbee and lying in the sun reading. Leisure. These golden people pursued leisure because they had so many things they had to do. Occupations. Goals. Alex had nothing she needed to do. Ever. It made her feel like she was falling.

When it got bad, she liked talking about the Two Year Gameplan. She and Hellie would start community college in the fall or they’d take online classes. They’d both get jobs at the mall and put their money toward a used car so they wouldn’t have to take the bus everywhere.

Usually Hellie liked to play along, but not that day. She’d been sullen, cranky, poking holes in everything. “No one is going to give us enough shifts at the mall to afford a car and rent.”

“Then we’ll be secretaries or something.”

Hellie had cast a long look over Alex’s arms. “Too many tattoos.” Not on Hellie. Lying there on the steps of Royce in her jean shorts, her golden legs crossed, she looked like she belonged. “I like that you think this is really happening. It’s cute.”

“It could happen.”

“We can’t lose the apartment, Alex. I was homeless for a while after my mom kicked me out. I’m not doing that again.”

“You won’t have to. Len’s just talking. Even if he’s not, we’ll figure it out.”

“If you stay in the sun much longer, you’re gonna look all Mexicana.” Hellie rose and dusted off her shorts. “Let’s smoke and go see a movie.”

“We won’t have enough money for the bus back.”

Hellie winked. “We’ll figure it out.”

They’d found a movie theater, the old Fox, where Alex sometimes saw the staff putting up red ropes for premieres. Alex had nestled against Hellie’s shoulder, smelling the sweet coconut scent of her still sun-warm skin, feeling the silk of her blond hair brushing occasionally against her forehead.

Eventually she’d dozed off, and when the theater lights came up, Hellie was gone. Alex had gone out into the lobby, then the bathroom, then texted Hellie, and it was only after the second text that she finally got a reply: It’s ok. I figured it out.

Hellie had gone back for the party. She’d gone back to Len and Ariel. She’d made sure Alex wouldn’t be there in time to stop her.

Alex had no money left, no way to get to home. She tried hitching, but no one wanted to pick up a girl with tears streaming down her face, dressed in a dirty T-shirt and the nubs of black jean shorts. She’d walked up and down Westwood Boulevard, unsure of what to do, until at last she’d sold the last of her pot to a redhead with dreads and a skinny dog.

When she got back to the apartment, her feet were bloody where blisters had formed and burst inside her Converse low-tops. The party was in full swing at Ground Zero, the music filtering outside in thuds and chirps.

She crept inside but didn’t see Hellie or Ariel in the living room. She waited in line for the bathroom, hoping no one would report her presence to Len or that he’d be too wasted to care, washed her feet in the tub, then went to the back bedroom and lay down on the mattress. She texted Hellie again.

Are you here? I’m in the back.

Hellie please.

Please.

She’d fallen asleep but woke to the sound of Hellie lying down beside her. In the dim shine of the security light from the alley, she looked yellow all over. Her eyes were huge and glassy.

“Are you okay?” Alex had asked. “Was it bad?”

“No,” Hellie said, but Alex didn’t know which question Hellie was answering. “No, no, no, no, no.” Hellie wrapped her arms around Alex and drew her close. Her hair was damp. She had showered. She smelled like Dial soap, devoid of the usual sweet coconut Hellie smell. “No no no no no no,” she kept saying. She was giggling, her body shaking in the way it did when she was trying to keep from laughing too loudly, but her hands clutched Alex’s back, the fingers digging in as if she were being pulled out to sea.

Hours later, Alex had woken again. She felt as if she’d never have a real night’s sleep or a real morning, just these short naps broken by half waking. It was three a.m., and the party had died down or moved elsewhere. The apartment was quiet. Hellie was on her side, looking at her. Her eyes still looked wild. She’d vomited on her shirt at some point in the night.

Alex wrinkled her nose at the stink. “Good morning, Smelly Hellie,” she said. Hellie smiled, and there was such sweetness in her face, such sadness. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Alex said. “For good. We’re done with this place.”

Hellie nodded.

“Take that shirt off. You smell like hot lunch,” Alex said, and reached for the hem. Her hand passed straight through it, straight through the place where the firm skin of Hellie’s abdomen should have been.

Hellie blinked once, those eyes so sad, so sad.

She just lay there, still looking at Alex, studying her, Alex realized, for the last time.

Hellie was gone. But she wasn’t. Her body was lying on the mattress, on her back, a foot away, her tight T-shirt splattered with vomit, still and cold. Her skin was blue. How long had her ghost lain there waiting for Alex to wake? There were two Hellies in the room. There were no Hellies in the room.

“Hellie. Hellie. Helen.” Alex was crying, leaning over her body, feeling for a pulse. Something broke inside her. “Come back,” she sobbed, reaching for Hellie’s ghost, her arms passing through her again and again. With each swipe she glimpsed a bright shard of Hellie’s life. Her parents’ sunny house in Carpinteria. Her callused feet on a surfboard. Ariel with his fingers jammed into her mouth. “You didn’t have to do it. You didn’t have to.”