“Although it happened on her fourteenth birthday, I’d like to point out to the board that she was born on July nineteenth at eight-thirty in the evening. So in fact, when he raped her, technically, she wasn’t even fourteen. She was thirteen. And he stole her virginity on a desk in a dirty garage. He robbed her of her innocence and she’ll never be able to get that back.”

Brenda was crying by the end. So was I. I didn’t care what Brenda said, but I loved Wavy and I’d lost her, and I wasn’t even allowed to say that. When the parole board head asked, “Mr. Barfoot, would you like to answer Mrs. Newling?” I couldn’t even say, “I lost the best thing that ever happened to me.” Wasn’t that punishment enough?

I said, “I’m really sorry for what I did. I know that doesn’t change it, but I really am sorry. I wish I could take it back.”

Some days I was sorry. Other days I was only sorry Liam got himself killed. Another few days and Wavy woulda been my wife. Before my parole hearing the two things were about equal, the same number of days feeling each way, but when the door never opened and Wavy never walked in, the scale tipped. If she wouldn’t come see me on the one day she could have, I’d done a terrible thing.

PART FIVE

1

RENEE

September 1987

When I walked into my dorm room sophomore year, there was a kid standing on one of the desks, sticking glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Her hair was in a spiky pixie cut and she wore 20-Eye Doc Martens. She looked about twelve or thirteen.

“Are you Wavy?” I said, thinking please no please no.

She nodded.

“I’m Renee.”

She waved at me and put another star on the ceiling. Not in random patterns, but actual constellations. Had student housing really stuck me with a child prodigy roommate?

I went to complain to the RA, who said, “What kid?”

It turned out Wavy Quinn was eighteen. She wasn’t a child; she was just really small.

And quiet. Oh my god was she quiet.

I talk a lot, so I admit it was several days before I realized Wavy hadn’t spoken to me. Not one word. I only noticed because by the end of the first week she still hadn’t asked me about Jill Carmody.

It’s pathetic, but that was why I’d been looking forward to getting a new roommate. I was waiting for the moment she would ask about the memorial picture of Jill on my bulletin board.

“So, are you mad at me or something?” I said. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

Wavy was sitting at her desk studying. Four days into the semester and she was studying. She shook her head, without even looking up.

“I’m just missing my best friend. Next week is the anniversary of her death.” For a second, I thought even that had failed, but Wavy closed her book, and looked over at my shrine to Jill.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I did my spiel. Jill was my best friend. Smart, pretty, All-State volleyball champion. Killed by a drunk driver our senior year. I cried. I’m ashamed when I look back at how I played that game, because I barely knew Jill. I once had a history class with her. When I went to college I made up this story about my best friend dying, because it made me more interesting.

My freshman roommate and I stayed up all night hashing it out, me crying, her comforting me. All Wavy did was give me a sympathetic look and say, “That’s sad.”

It made me feel like a poseur. I mean, I was a poseur, but I’d never felt like one before.

After Parents Weekend, I felt like even more of a fake. By then I was used to what I thought of as Wavy’s weirdness. I never saw her eat, and in two months I’d heard her speak about a hundred words, mostly things like yes, no, laundry, library, and shut up, I’m sleeping. The Friday of Parents Weekend, I came back to our room after class and the door was open. I heard someone mutter, “You son of a bitch.”

Wow. Another five words out of Wavy, one of them an expletive. Except it wasn’t her. It was a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, shoving something back into Wavy’s desk drawer.

“Hi. Are you Mrs. Quinn?” I said.

All the color drained out of her face as she closed the desk drawer.

“You must be Renee. I’m Brenda Newling. I’m Wavy’s aunt.”

“Oh, she’s told me all about you … That’s a joke. You know, because she doesn’t talk much?”

Mrs. Newling didn’t crack a smile.

“How is she? Really?”

“She’s fine,” I said. “I wish I could stick to a diet the way she does. Was there anything in particular you were looking for in her desk?”

“No. I just worry about her.”

I put down my backpack, wondering what Wavy’s aunt was looking for. Condoms? Drugs? Alcohol? Like we wouldn’t have the sense to ditch that stuff before our parents visited. With my mom and dad coming on Saturday, there wasn’t even aspirin in my desk drawer. I’d even tacked up the campus chapel schedule on my bulletin board.

“Wavy studies a lot,” I said.

“She always has. Is she making friends?”

“Friends?” It came out sounding bitchy, but was this woman for real? Mrs. Newling sat on the edge of Wavy’s bed with a pleading look on her face. Oh no. I was not doing the mother-roommate confidant routine, so I said, “She’s friends with me. Does that count?”

Before Mrs. Newling could answer, Wavy came back to the room with her cousin Amy in tow. After the three of them left, I got down to some overdue snooping of my own. In the back of Wavy’s desk drawer was a brass picture frame. I may be self-centered, but I’m not oblivious. I’d asked about the photo Wavy kept on her bulletin board: her little brother, grinning with his two front teeth out. I would have asked about this picture, too, but I’d never seen it.