As much as I don't want to, I understand why Nina didn't know who I was when I called her. My paranoid brain can make up all the possible stories it wants to: She knew who you were, but didn't want to deal with you; she knew who you were, but she hates you for leaving her; she knew who you were, but she had done such a good job of trying to forget you that she didn't want to remember. It's all bullshit. She didn't know who I was. I've been erased.

They erased Hillary, too. When I spoke with Lucien, I mentioned Hillary, and he couldn't remember who she was. He kept referring to me as "the first girl" and "the one that left so early on." And that's bullshit. Hillary was the first girl. Hillary was the first to leave. I remember Hillary.

It's my job to remember her. We all had these unspoken-but-understood jobs, you know. And we just did them, automatically filled whatever niche needed filling. There was no voting process, no prescreening interview. Carl was the informant. Harold was the dork. Lucien was the pesky little brother. I was the keeper of the memouries. I was the one that straddled the fence, with one foot shakily planted in reality, and that means I'm the one that has to do the remembering.

And, no, I don't have to do all the remembering for everyone. Obviously, Lucien knew who I was (though I did have to remind him once, at the very start of our conversation). Steve only vaguely remembered me. Jared needed a small hint, too. Nina is the only one — so far — for whom I must carry an entire set of gage memories.

Of course, my lost and found recollections department is brimming with all of their Hillary memouries. I have to remember for Carl that he had a crush on her. I have to remember for Harold that she covered for him that day. I have to remember for Lucien that she... Tagged, inventoried, stuffed in a box. When the hell are they going to come claim their shit so I can free up these brain cells?

The weekend after our first Supplemental Session was Easter. It started raining Friday night, and by Saturday afternoon, the yard was a flat lake of mud. It was icy rain, the kind that keeps you indoors, cuddled on the couch with a nice blanket and a book, the sniffles nagging at you but never quite managing a full-blown cold.

Hillary didn't come down to brunch Sunday morning. That was when I first realised she was missing. She and I had gone into the dorm together the night before. That morning, when I got up, her bed was already made and she wasn't around. I figured she'd gotten up early and was in the library or downstairs helping with the holiday fare. As we took our places at the tables in the dining room, though, and I didn't see her, I knew something was wrong.

I mouthed "Where's Hill?" at Lucien. He shrugged at me. Not that I expected him, or any of them, to make a fuss, really. Discussing a missing kid was borderline unacceptable conversation. You just didn't talk about things like that.

That night, I slept alone in the girls' dorm for the first time. I marveled at my new privacy. I left the light on and read til well past 11, without anyone there to remind me that "The Rules say..." or threaten to tattle on me if I didn't comply. I awoke to an empty dorm the next morning, and danced to the shower, knowing there would be plenty of hot water. I took as much time as I liked choosing my clothes, drying my hair. I fancied myself an adult, living in some fine apartment outside the city. No-one watching my every move, no-one to answer to. The little vacation was exactly what I needed after having endured Supplemental 1. Even before the Supplemental, I'd known I need a break. Hillary's little disappearing act had provided me with just that.

I was sure Hillary would show up sometime that morning. And I was prepared for her return. A night's respite was enough for me. As much as I'd enjoyed my time alone, I knew the immense space of a dorm built to house eight girls would resemble not an uptown apartment, but a miserable isolation cell after several days without another body to share it with. Yet, Hillary's seat was vacant at breakfast. She wasn't in English class. Miss Harriet marked her unexcused in Science. By lunchtime, the vague concern that had nagged at the edges of my consciousness had swelled into a shrieking alarm.

I flew out the door and down the steps the instant Miss Harriet dismissed us. Straight to the girls' dorm I ran. I rounded the corner and skittered to a stop at the closed door. I left this door open when I went to breakfast. Though I lacked the permission I knew I needed to enter the dorm during off hours, I pushed the door open and stepped inside anyway.

Five boxes sat at the foot of Hillary's bed. Her mattress had been stripped and rolled up; her night table lay on its side bracing it. There was a ring in the dust on the windowsill where her bust of Mozart had been. I held my breath and tiptoed to the dressing room, dreading what I knew I would see: Her closet, doors ajar, empty. On the floor a few feet from her closet lay an abandoned wire hanger.

After lunch, Marni called us in for a special Group session. She said that Hillary wasn't coming back, and that if any of us had unresolved issues with her, now was the time to deal with them. She role-played Hillary's part as the boys took turns purging the last of their Hillary problems. I had nothing to say. Marni reminded me that this was my last chance. She said that hereafter, any talk of Hillary was totally off-limits and unacceptable. She asked if I was sure. I nodded on autopilot.

Several weeks later, Barry arrived. One afternoon, the boys and I sat with Barry in the den, looking through the photo album and pointing out various people and places to the New Kid. The pictures of Hillary were gone.