This Song Will Save Your Life

I nodded and swallowed. “Both.”

“So why are you letting your issues get in the way of your talent?”

“Mel,” I said, “I want to.”

I went inside. Char was alone at the DJ booth. I supposed it was too early in the night for Vicky or Pippa to be here, and I was glad for that. This would be easier if it was just between me and Char.

I stood alone in the back of the room for a moment, watching him. It was early, so almost no one was dancing yet. Char’s eyes were focused on his computer, and he brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. I could see his fingers tapping out a beat on the table next to him.

One last time, I thought about what it could be like, twenty-four hours from now, at my party. If I were the one standing up there, tapping out a beat. If Char were the one in the audience, watching me, swaying to my music.

One last time, I said goodbye to that, and I started toward the booth.

One foot in front of the other, until you reach him. Open your mouth and tell him. Just tell him you give up. It’s easy. Fake Elise did it. You can, too.

I was almost at the DJ booth, reaching out for Char, when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I turned around, and the disco ball overhead illuminated the man behind me.

It was my father.

17

“What are you doing here?” I asked my dad.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Then, “We’re going home.”

He propelled me out of Start, past Mel, and into his car. Whether Char noticed that I was there or noticed that I left, I don’t know. I never spoke to him.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

Dad ignored me and pulled out his cell phone. “Danielle,” he said into it. That’s my mom. “I found her.” He paused. “No, she’s fine.” Another pause. “Okay, yes. See you there.”

He hung up and started to drive, his windshield wipers flicking furiously back and forth.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I snuck out. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I’m so…” I started to cry then. “I’m sorry,” I repeated over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

When we pulled up to Dad’s house, Mom was already waiting in her car outside. She jumped out and ran through the rain to meet us at the front door.

Inside, we dumped our umbrellas and wet shoes by the front door and went into the living room. Mom sat in one arm chair, Dad in the other. I sat alone on the couch. I noticed Mom glancing around the room. I didn’t know if she had ever been to Dad’s house before. They almost never saw each other at all, because they didn’t have any reason to. They had both been at my middle school graduation ceremony two years ago. And at the hospital on the first day of the school year. Big events only.

But here we were, the three of us alone, together. Just like a family.

I was still crying, but I shut up when Dad opened up his laptop and showed me the screen. “Does this look familiar to you?”

It was Elise Dembowski’s Super-Secret Diary.

My stomach clenched. “Yes.”

“Around ten o’clock tonight,” Dad said, “I received a panicked phone call from a nice-sounding girl named Amelia Kindl. She said that she didn’t know you very well, but that she had read something online that concerned her. She directed me to a blog, saying she didn’t know if it was serious or not, but she was worried. I thanked her and went to the Web site address she’d given me. This is what I found.” He read aloud. “‘June seventeen. Tonight is the night. I don’t want to do this anymore. I give up. Goodbye. xoxo Elise Dembowski.’”

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“What do you think I did?” Dad asked me.

“You got worried?” I asked.

“Elise, ‘worried’ does not begin to cover what I got. If anything had happened to you, I literally would not be able to go on. I ran upstairs and opened your bedroom door, no idea what I was going to find. I was terrified. And what I found was … nothing. The room was empty. That was when I called your mother. She wasn’t happy about hearing from me so late at night.”

“Only because I didn’t know why you were calling,” Mom objected.

“We didn’t know where you were,” Dad said. “All we knew was that you had left a suicide note online, and then disappeared.”

“I still don’t understand how you didn’t notice her leaving,” Mom said to him.

“She said she was going to bed,” Dad defended himself.

“Didn’t you hear anything? Do you expect me to believe she snuck out of the house absolutely silently?”

“I wasn’t sitting outside of her bedroom all night, preparing to bust in if I heard a single sound other than a snore. I believe kids need a little privacy.”

“She was grounded. How much privacy did she need?”

“So how did you find me?” I interrupted. There’s nothing interesting in my parents’ bickering. I’ve heard it all before.

“This other Web site,” Dad answered. He said the name like it was in quotation marks: “‘Flash Tommy’? You had it open on your computer, and I saw photos of you at a big party. So I headed to the street address given on the site. I didn’t know if you would be there. I was just hoping.”

Thanks a lot, Flash Tommy.

“So you probably want to know what I was doing at that party,” I said dully.

“What we need to know,” Mom said, “is, what is this diary of yours?”

“I didn’t write it,” I told them.

“That’s what I thought,” Dad murmured.

Mom shot him a look.

“What?” he asked. “The girl on this Flash Tommy Web site is not the same girl writing these diary entries. They directly contradict each other. And she’s been at this party a number of times. I saw photos on that site. Sorry to tell you this, Danielle, but your daughter has snuck out of your house before, too. More than once.”

Mom blinked rapidly, but otherwise acted like Dad hadn’t spoken. “So you didn’t set out to kill yourself tonight,” Mom asked me.

“No!”

“And you don’t … hate us?” Mom asked.

I bit my tongue to keep from swearing. “Does that blog say I hate you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

They both nodded.

“No,” I said. “You’re my parents. I don’t hate you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been sneaking out of our houses, Elise,” Mom said. “It’s dangerous. Not to mention incredibly disrespectful. Your father and I set rules, and we expect you to follow them. When I tell you that you’re grounded, I need you to take me seriously.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“How many times have you left the house in the middle of the night?” Mom demanded.

“I … don’t know. A lot, I guess.”

“And were you always going to this…” Mom gestured at Dad’s laptop, at a loss for a word to describe Start. “This event space?” she finally said.

“No.” I’d never put this into words before, to explain it to someone else. I didn’t quite know how to begin. “Sometimes I just wanted to walk. I wasn’t trying to hurt you or disrespect you or anything … It had nothing to do with you. I just really love Start. That’s all.”

“Here’s what I want to know,” Dad said, tapping his finger against his computer. “If you don’t write this blog, then who does? And why?”

“I have no idea,” I answered.

“Then that,” said Dad, “is what we really need to figure out.”

*   *   *

When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, my father was not only awake and reading the newspaper, he was dressed in a suit. The last time I saw my dad in a suit was at his own mother’s funeral.

“Let me guess,” I said, grabbing a banana. “You’re pursuing a new career as a real estate broker.”

He raised his eyes over the paper. “I want your school to take me seriously when I go in there and give them hell. Here.” He slid a carefully cut-out newspaper article across the table to me.

It was a brief piece, more of an event listing than an actual story. It just said there was a new indie, new wave, and soul dance party tonight, from the promoters who brought you Start, and it featured up-and-coming DJ wunderkind Elise Dembowski. Above it was a color photograph, small but unmistakably showing me behind the turntables.