Lost In Us (Lost 1)

Jess is listening to music when I enter our apartment. Very loudly.

"Jess, the neighbors will call the police," I cry. To no avail. She's standing in front of the oven, her back turned to me. With one hand, she's propping herself on her crutch, with the other, she's holding a pan. Her black shorts bear traces of white powder. I instantly recognize the sweet smell floating in the air, filling the entire apartment. Pancakes with caramel topping. Her hair is up in a loose ponytail that looks like it might come down any second now. I walk over to her iPod and turn the volume down a bit.

"Serena," Jess exclaims, jumping so violently that her pancake lands on the floor, spreading grease and powder on our immaculate tiles. "I didn't hear you come in."

"No wonder," I bend and clean the mess, then wash my hands. "Can I taste one?" I point to the stack of heart-shaped pancakes on the counter.

"Sure, I'll just finish cooking these two. You can eat them all; I was starving and ate three while cooking."

"Excellent," I say. Even after four scoops of ice cream, I can't turn down Jess's pancakes. I make a promise to myself that I won't eat all eight of them though. Last time I did, I was sick.

"Did you receive my message about the job?" I ask through a mouthful.

"Of course," she says, turning down the heat on the stove and throwing the pan in the sink. Then she turns around, flashing a wide smile. I breathe, relieved. She hasn't smiled so sincerely since her accident. This is miles better than anything she could have texted back. "But I was too busy organizing things to answer you. Come on, eat up."

I frown, taking another mouthful. "Organizing what?"

Her eyes widen in surprise as she pours caramel syrup on the last pancake. "Celebrations. Duh."

"But—" I splutter, gesturing at her leg.

"This, my friend, is no reason not to celebrate." She grins. "It's just the perfect excuse so professors aren't that strict with my attendance.”

I must admit I never thought she'd get away with this for so long. She's at least half an hour late every day for her classes, but so far, so good. Then again, Jess never needed much besides her smile and maybe a low-cut neckline to talk her way out of anything. A bandaged leg really is the supreme weapon for a skilled persuader like her.

"Besides, I've got reasons to celebrate as well. My doctor said he can take the cast off a full week earlier than he initially thought." She grins. "I'll call the museum in London on Monday to tell them, in case they want to interview me earlier."

"This is wonderful news, Jess."

I'm about to grab another pancake when Jess says, "Can you please bring me another hair band?" She points at her loose ponytail. "This one's about to break and I don't want my hair all over the kitchen."

"Sure."

I pinch my nose when I enter her room. Jess has been smoking inside here more than usual. I find a gray hair band on her desk, and am about to go back in the kitchen, when something on her desk catches my attention. Her vision board lies

on the desk—a collection of photographs glued on a cardboard depicting her goals. I recognize the Tower of London in one of the photos. I still remember the day she came to me holding a pink paper with the title, What I want to do with my life. I flipped the idea away, not only because I thought it was a childish endeavor, but also because I had no idea what to fill the darn paper with. But Jess did know what to fill her pink paper with. It always amazes me how she seems to know exactly what she wants. And I… I still don't know what I want, or whether working in investment banking really is for me after all. But since I don't know what I want to do, I'd better do what I have to do: get a job. My bank account can't afford waiting for me to discover myself, as Jess calls it. It's fun watching her puzzlement at my inability to know what I want, when she doesn’t have a problem with that. Most impressively, she seems to also know exactly how to get what she wants. I have no doubt she will get the job at the museum in London. It pains me to think I will lose my best friend so soon. It pains me even more to know she'll move to London, of all places. A city I know I won't be visiting too eagerly. Perhaps not at all.

"I laid out an outfit for you on the bed," she says when I get back.

"Oh crap. Please tell me it's not the black strip costume you ordered online last week," I joke.

She scowls. "That was a dress. Though I admit it's at least two palms shorter than I thought. I found an old dress of yours. It's really nice. I don't know why you never wore it."

I walk to my room and open the door hesitantly, almost afraid to look on the bed. If it's something I've never worn, I bet it's one of Jess's presents that I stuffed in the back of my closet in the hope it would never see the light of day. I gasp when I see it. I remember this dress. And also why I never wore it. It does not belong to me. I remember perfectly the day I first saw it. Kate had taken me out for ice cream, and we were having a contest to see who could eat more scoops in the shortest time (I was winning). The dress was in the window of the shop on the other side of the street. We both admired it while eating ourselves sick, and when we got up Kate said she wanted to try it on. She looked beautiful in it. Stunning, really. The dark green silk on her pale skin gave her something of a royal air. The dress had a black ribbon around the waist, and long sleeves—the only type of sleeves Kate was wearing, to cover her veins. In the days she cared about anyone seeing them, anyway. I thought Kate wanted to mess around. We used to do that a lot, since we couldn't afford shopping very often. So when she went to the cash register with the dress, I expected her to return it. Instead, she got a stack of money out of her purse. I was gob-smacked. It was more money than I'd ever seen Mum or Dad carry around. When I asked her about it she said she'd gotten a job, but I shouldn't tell Mum and Dad yet. She was radiant when we left the store. So was I. It was the first time in months I felt hopeful. Surely, if she'd gotten a job, that meant she was going to get better. It was only after the police told us she'd been shot during a drug deal that I realized what her job was. My parents wouldn't believe it. I hid the dress right after we arrived home, knowing that Mum would go through Kate's things in no time—and finding a dress that cost more than her monthly paycheck would have confirmed her worst fears. That Kate was a drug dealer. I wanted to throw it away, but couldn't bring myself to, so I just took it with me when I moved to San Francisco, and then to Stanford.

"I can find another dress," Jess says, and I snap my head in her direction. She avoids looking at me. "Looks kind of old-fashioned anyway."

"Another dress sounds like a good idea," I say quietly. I raise my hand to my forehead and discover a thick sheet of cold sweat has formed on it.

Jess limps to the bed, and in a matter of seconds the dress is gone.

"Ah, this is perfect." She reemerges from my closet with a short, light-pink dress with embroidered white sleeves. "I know exactly what kind of makeup goes with it."

"I'm all yours," I say.

It takes her forty-five minutes to complete both our makeups and get dressed, during which any desire I had to go out evaporates.

"So where exactly are we going to celebrate?" I ask, eying my Swiss chocolate box. Staying indoors with chocolate and a good movie never sounded more appealing.