Where are you?

I miss you.

My nightmares are full of your face.

I wasn't there.

I'm sorry.

I'd kill myself to take your place.

As the words came out of Ms. Martin's mouth, snickers sounded around the room—not the response the woman really had wanted; she jerked her head around, looking for the snorters, probably wishing now she hadn't read it aloud. Ada hardly remembered writing those words; it'd been one of those moments where she was kind of zoning out and begun writing randomness down the side of her paper.

She'd been thinking about Zach again. Why couldn't she just let him go? She needed Dr. Alder. Right now.

Ms. Martin was saying something. Her face looked all concerned, which was worse than if she'd laughed or grimaced. Concern was not what Ada wanted at all. The woman walked down the row of desks as if she just wanted to get rid of Ada because she was making her uncomfortable. "Honey, I think you maybe need to see the counselor."

Widening her eyes and shaking her head, Ada agreed. "Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever." She got up from her seat—just wanted to get out of the room. Everyone was staring at her (not that she really cared what they thought). Going to the counselor sounded like going to Heaven if it got her out of that stupid room with all those stupid faces goggling at her. And maybe they had reason to stare . . . whatever she'd written had been kind of twisted. But sometimes her mind wandered to weird things that she couldn't control, which was what Dr. Alder was trying to put a stop to. Weird things like, mostly, Zach's disappearance. But also the night of that cast party, when he'd tried to tell her what he really thought about her.

That had been the night of the 30th—right before Zach disappeared—when she'd stood him up for Nate—sort of what she'd been pondering last night when she'd scrawled that randomness out on paper.

Five minutes later, Ada was in the counselor's office, staring at a poster on the wall that screamed Believe in yourself! and trying to avoid eye contact with Ms. Jacobs as the woman began to discuss suicidal tendencies.

Ada wasn't suicidal. She was fairly certain of that. Oh, she hated her life enough, now that Zach was gone and she felt responsible for it, now that Nate had screwed her up so much, now that no one would talk to her, including her younger brother. She hated her life enough that she'd contemplated whether it would matter if she was gone. She'd fantasized about the ways people would react if she killed herself. But she was a coward at heart, and she knew there was no way she could put herself through something like suicide without being in pain. The pain, probably, wasn't worth it. It was what held her back. Zach had once said to her that pain was weakness leaving the body—he'd heard it somewhere and embraced it. Loved it. Said it too much for a while. Ada hadn't really known why. Now, though, she felt a little more like she could understand the phrase.

She'd never known how Zach had felt about things. Why had he waited so long to say something? And why, when he had actually said something, had she refused to listen? It was like he'd said—she'd been too wrapped up in herself. Now, he was gone. She couldn't tell him that she agreed with everything he'd said. There was another saying—something about how being unable to see someone made you need them more. Maybe that was what was going on with her.

" . . . call your mother, honey. If you won't talk to me, I think you need to see your doctor." Ms. Jacobs's mouth had been moving a long time, but Ada only zoned in on what she said right before picking up the phone.

A quick call home and Ada was being told to head to her locker and gather her things. Before she slipped out the door, though, Ms. Jacobs caught onto her arm, made her stop. Forced her to look right in her eyes.

"Whatever happens, Ada," she said, "you need to move on. You won't help anything by blaming yourself. When they find the boy's body, you'll feel better."

Ada jerked her arm out of the woman's grasp. Darkness flamed in her eyes. Ms. Jacobs looked startled. Ada couldn't even think of what to say in response; the comment hung bitter in her head. Holding her anger back, she turned away and left the room.

Everyone assumed he was dead. Everyone was waiting for a body. Wanting to see a body. A kid disappearing wasn't excitement enough for everyone—they needed a dead body, too.

Ada didn't know whether she was angry because she knew they were wrong or because, secretly, she was afraid they were right.

Multiply numbers by twelve. Multiply numbers by twelve.

Dr. Alder didn't have a lot to say. They discussed the usual—how the family stuff was going (Owen still wasn't talking to her and her mother was talking too much). How she was sleeping at night. How she was doing at school, at which point, the note she'd written came up. Dr. Alder was ok. Ada felt comfortable talking to her. She wasn't like that idiot Ms. Jacobs or anyone else at school; she was totally removed from everything else in Ada's life, which was good. That was why she felt safe to talk to. And she didn't judge—at least, not that Ada could tell. Dr. Alder always seemed to listen without looking concerned. Just listened. No shocked expressions at anything Ada ever said, no reprimands or telling her what to do. At first, Ada had been totally against seeing a therapist, but the more she talked with Dr. Alder, the more she was glad she had her. There was no one else to talk to, now.

At home that night, her mother didn't say anything about the note, which Ada was grateful for. Owen looked at her weird during dinner, though, so she took her small plate of food up to her room and shut herself in to finish eating. Turning up some music, Ada sat on the floor and tried to think about nothing.

Her phone chimed suddenly, and her eyes went to the table by her bed, where the thing lay charging. A message. Someone had just texted her. Something made her stomach uneasy, but she stretched out her arm and picked up the phone anyway, flipped it open, pulled up the message.

I need to see you.

Her breathing turned loud as she struggled to keep her frustration down. Why couldn't the phone company block that number? Why did he still say stuff to her? He knew she never wanted to see him again.

The image of throwing the stupid phone hard against the window, smashing the glass with it, flashed through Ada's mind. She'd love to do the same to him. But she couldn't. Right now, the best she could do was ignore him. The only problem was, she found her thoughts straying to him more than she liked.