The more she made fun of him, the worse I started to feel. Don’t think I’m just saying that now, in retrospect. I really felt bad when she showed me the photo of his daughter, a dimpled, eager little girl. One of those Kmart Portrait Studio photos, the girl in pink posed against the background of a painted rainbow.

Dirk probably had the 4 × 6 on his mantelpiece. Sent the 3 × 3 to his mother.

On the back of the photo was written: Ashley, aged 6.

Good thing I’m getting out of here, China said. I heard about this one chick who rolled some family man and he ended up coming after her with brass knuckles. Fuck, man. You never know, right?

Yeah, sure. You never know, I thought.

Fucking Dirk Wallace, man. I don’t give a shit about that guy. I don’t feel guilty at all. Only thing I regret, man, is that I forgot my Motörhead tape. She licked powder from inside the pages of the Go Ask Alice paperback. I had never finished that book because I just knew she died at the end, and besides, I’d heard it was written by her dad. But even if it wasn’t, why did girls have to always die at the end?

I opened the book to the last page, just to make sure.

Epilogue: The subject of this book died three weeks after her decision not to keep another diary. Was it an accidental overdose? A premeditated overdose? No one knows, and in some ways that question isn’t important.

Wasn’t important? Fuck off. How could they say that? The question was more important than anything.

China lay on my mother’s coat and started to sing The Ace of Spades in this triumphant way, as if she was giving the fans her favorite farewell encore.

I walked over to the edge of the roof.

The suburbs were buried in darkness; so were the mountains and the wharf. You could see only the rain on the streets, lit up with streetlamps, and the now-and-then headlights blurred and red.

I decided right then that I wouldn’t ask China about Justine again. I couldn’t really tell you why. Ming, Ming, oh Ming. China was hard and careless, and she had her reasons, but Justine was different. She was careful and delicate in the way she stole and the way she sang. Justine would never sing Motörhead.

What’s your problem? China said when I’d returned to her side. Why do you look so freaked out? Come on, man, you just pulled off a scam!

I didn’t answer.

Do you think Justine’s working? I asked suddenly.

Working? Justine doesn’t work, man. She’s too punk to work. Besides, I don’t think she’s even kissed a guy yet. Hey, what is wrong? I’d be dead without you. Think of that before you get all quiet on me.