The Night She Disappeared
and pulls in next to the curb. “Are they going to be mad that I’m driving your car?”
    “No,” I say, although I have no idea. They’ve never met Drew. They’ve never really met any of my friends. Not that I have that many.
    “Maybe I should just take off.” He looks out at the street.
    “No. Come in with me. I need to talk to you about something.”
    He presses the key into my hand. We get out, pick up our stuff, and start walking up the flagstone walkway. Drew stays a half step back.
    My mom looks up and smiles. “Hey, Gabie—who’s your friend?”

The Sixth Day
     
    Drew
     
    I KNOW WHAT Mrs. Klug sees when she looks at me. A loser. A skinny kid in torn jeans, hair that’s too long, and Vans that were black and white checked before they got worn a couple of hundred times. She probably thinks there’s a pack of cigarettes in my backpack. Which there is. But they’re not mine. I took them from my mom when we were arguing about how much she smokes. Plus there’s the longboard under my arm.
    Or maybe because she’s a surgeon, Gabie’s mom sees the longboard and no helmet and thinks “donor.”
    She’s slender and really pretty for a mom, dressed in green scrubs. Her hair is blond, but a brighter blond than Gabie’s, so maybe she dyes it. Gabie’s mom looks important, like five minutes ago she was making life-or-death decisions and yelling “stat!” and talking about femoral arteries and stuff like that.
    “Hi, Mom. This is Drew. We work together at Pete’s.” I wait for her to say why I was driving the car, but she doesn’t. Do Gabie’s parents even know about her plan? “Drew, this is my mom.”
    I shift my longboard and reach out to shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you—um—should I say Mrs. Klug or Dr. Klug?”
    Although her skin is soft, her grip is firm. “Call me Gail. Dr. Klug is for the hospital, and Mrs. Klug is Steve’s mom.” I figure Steve must be the other Dr. Klug.
    “Okay. Gail.” I nod.
    “We’re going upstairs to study,” Gabie says, hefting her backpack like a prop. We don’t have a single class together. Her mom doesn’t say anything, just smiles again. I follow Gabie inside.
    If the twin BMWs weren’t bad enough, my first sight of the inside of her house convinces me that I will never, ever let Gabie see the inside of our apartment. Her house is big and perfect. It’s not like a real house where people live. Everything is in the right place; there’s nothing left out—no candy wrappers, no newspapers, no mail, no empty glasses, no magazines, no shoes kicked off. It looks like how I imagine a really expensive hotel would look.
    “I’d offer you a snack,” Gabie says, “but unless you like baby carrots, you’re out of luck. My parents have zero tolerance for junk food.”
    Just then a man in dark blue scrubs walks out of a hallway that leads off the living room. His eyes are on a BlackBerry, and he’s talking while he types. “We just want you to be healthy, Gabie.” Then he looks up, sees me, and stops.
    “Dad, this is my friend Drew from work.”
    I step forward and shake his hand, too. The same soft / firm combo as his wife, although his is a little firmer, as if to remind me that it’s his daughter I’m with. “Hello, Dr. Klug.” He’s a little less than six feet tall and not as thin as you might think, given his feelings about junk food.
    He just says hello back. No “Call me Steve.”
    “We’re going upstairs to my room,” Gabie says. Now there’s not even a mention of homework.
    He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he just nods. I follow Gabie up the stairs, past a series of what I guess must be family photos. The first one shows Gabie and her parents standing outside this house. At least I think it’s Gabie. She looks about six, and they’re dressed like they’re getting ready to go to church. The one above that is just of her parents, I think, but looking a lot younger. The farther they are up the

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