Girls with Bright Futures

by Tracy Dobmeier

  And by the way, I thought you said you were going to take care of the parent community? Just so you know, there’s no shortage of speculation about who might be capable of doing this to Winnie. I’m forwarding all the texts and emails I’ve received from “concerned parents” to Detective Davis.

  Maren

  * * *

  From: Maren Pressley, Sunday, 7:30 p.m.

  To: Bryan Stone

  Subject: SST Meeting/Snowcoming

  Hey, Bryan,

  Thanks for filling in tomorrow at the SST meeting so I can stay home with Winnie. The main agenda item is Snowcoming, which is sort of like a winter prom for seniors. Don’t ask me why they need a prom for every season. It’s scheduled to take place Saturday, December 5. The committee is counting on Alicia to secure a celebrity to announce the surprise location and theme for the dance. Alicia already knows about this, but I don’t think she’s gotten to it yet. But maybe don’t tell them that, especially if Ms. Richards (you may hear the women refer to her as Double Ass behind her back) is at the meeting—just say it’s in progress.

  Anyway, thanks again and please let me know what action items get assigned to me and/or Alicia at the meeting so I can follow up.

  Maren

  * * *

  From: Bryan Stone, Sunday, 7:35 p.m.

  To: Maren Pressley

  Re: SST Meeting/Snowcoming

  Thanks for the info. Think I can handle Double Ass, but I’d rather handle yours.

  * * *

  From: Maren Pressley, Sunday, 7:37 p.m.

  To: Bryan Stone

  Re: SST Meeting/Snowcoming

  Please don’t do that. It’s unprofessional, immature, and never gonna happen.

  * * *

  Maren pushed Send on her brush-off email to Bryan and then opened the refrigerator to check on the tray of jiggling raspberry Jell-O beans she’d made at six that morning before going to the hospital. It had been a crazy day, but Maren had achieved her goal of getting Winnie discharged a day early. Probably by being a gigantic pain in the ass. And also by confessing to anyone who came within ten feet of Winnie’s room that they didn’t have health insurance. That seemed to do the trick. By the time the orderly wheeled her aching daughter to the car, the discharge nurses had speed-talked Maren through fifteen pages of instructions covering her post-op care and a host of possible complications. But at the end of it all, Winnie was home, and Maren was grateful for that.

  The Jell-O beans had set. Maren transferred them to a bowl to take to Winnie in bed. She hoped they might perk her up the way they had when she was a little girl. With little money to spare in Winnie’s elementary school years, Maren had been perpetually on the lookout for inexpensive treats to break up the monotony of their lives. She smiled, recalling the day she had spotted that red plastic Jell-O bean mold at the specialty baking equipment store while searching for a Little Mermaid cake mold for the birthday cake Maren was charged with ghost-baking on behalf of Alicia for Brooke’s party. Of course, that party had taken place long before Alicia’s PR team remade her into a vanguard feminist business leader. God forbid anyone should learn today that Alicia had once served a party full of eight-year-old girls such an unwoke dessert. Although if that fact ever did come to light, Maren had no doubt she’d finally receive the baking credit she deserved.

  But the Jell-O bean mold—that was Maren’s real reward. The joy Winnie had derived from it over the years more than made up for Alicia’s pathological need to take credit for Maren’s work. Snatched up at the discounted price of $1.99, it was the gift that kept on giving, making an appearance for every cold, flu, and skinned knee visited upon Winnie.

  With all the bruising around Winnie’s skull, face, and jaw, eating was painful, and the nurses had advised a soft-food diet for the next several days. Maren tiptoed into Winnie’s bedroom with the bowl of jiggly red and blue beans and set it on Winnie’s nightstand. Standing beside the bed, she stared at Winnie in a fitful sleep and thought about all the times she’d made her this same treat. She’d miss that when Winnie went to college, but for now, she was just relieved to have Winnie asleep in her own bed.

  “What day is it?” Winnie murmured, opening her eyes. “How long have I been home?”

  Maren perched on the side of the bed. “It’s Sunday night, honey. You slept all afternoon after we got home from the hospital. Are you hungry? Do you want a Jell-O bean?”

  Winnie shook her head and then blinked hard. “Am I too late for Brown? Or wait—am I applying to UW? I can’t remember anything.” Her eyes were glassy with confusion.

  “Winnie,” Maren said firmly, “you need to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Maren interrupted. She gently placed a hand on Winnie’s leg. “You need to close your eyes now and trust me on college. OK?”

  Winnie didn’t respond. She was already asleep.

  * * *

  After scooping up Winnie’s backpack off the floor of her bedroom, Maren sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out Winnie’s laptop. She logged in, determined to live up to her promise to her daughter. She located Winnie’s Common Application account and dug around the site. True to form, all the pieces of Winnie’s early admission applications for both Brown and Stanford were totally complete and ready to go. As far as Winnie knew, Brown was their final decision. It would be so easy to hit Submit on the Brown application and put this horrible chapter behind them once and for all. She’d miss Winnie terribly for those four years, but there was no denying it was a great school. Maren’s hand hovered over the button. But she couldn’t do it. From the day Winnie had been conceived, their life together had never been easy or even particularly safe. Why should she make the safe choice now? Winnie wanted Stanford. Winnie had always wanted Stanford. Fuck it. She clicked over to the Stanford tab and pushed the Submit button before she lost her nerve.

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, which really annoyed Maren. Yes, it was Halloween, but she’d taped a sign to the door begging for no trick-or-treaters. She jumped up, eager to prevent the bell from ringing a second time and waking Winnie. She opened the door prepared to shoo away a costumed candy grubber, so she was shocked to find Brooke standing there with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream and red, puffy eyes. Maren was instantly flooded with memories of the girls lying together on the floor in Brooke’s room, giggling maniacally while watching Hannah Montana reruns with two spoons deep in one carton of ice cream. She took a step backward and silently gestured for Brooke to come in.

  Brooke hadn’t set foot in their bungalow since Winnie had joined her at EBA for high school. Neither Maren nor Winnie was ever able to ascertain what had transpired to turn Brooke away from her long-term friendship with Winnie. After months of confusion and hurt feelings, they eventually gave up trying to figure it out and chalked it up to Brooke feeling threatened by Winnie’s academic prowess, which probably made Brooke’s inability to live up to her mom’s high standards that much more painful. Brooke’s icy distance even extended to Maren. Whenever Maren was at the Stones’ house, Brooke primarily stayed in her room and communicated her requests to Maren by text. Maren hated herself for even thinking it, but as Brooke stepped through the doorway and looked around, it occurred to her that Alicia might have sent her daughter on a fact-finding mission. It didn’t help that Maren felt like she’d been caught with her hands in the cookie jar, having impersonated Winnie to apply to Stanford a mere ten minutes earlier.

  “My goodness, Brooke. You haven’t been over here in forever. I’m guessing you heard about Winnie?”

  Brooke nodded.

  “Did you bring that ice cream for Winnie?”

  Brooke nodded again and handed her the carton.

  Maren was trying not to crinkle her eyebrows in concern, but Brooke still hadn’t uttered a word. “Are you OK?”

 
; Brooke let out a ragged sob and practically launched herself into Maren’s arms. Apparently, the answer was no. She was shaking like she used to as a little girl, the wracking cries that only came from Alicia’s disapproval all those years before, and suddenly Brooke was ten years old again, a pseudo daughter and sister to the Pressley girls. Maren led her to the couch.

  Finally, Brooke spoke. “Is Winnie going to be OK? I’ve been the worst friend ever. I’m so sorry, Maren. You’ve never been anything but amazing to me, and I’m just the biggest asshole. Please tell me she’s going to be OK?”

  “She was pretty badly injured, but I think she’s going to be all right eventually.” Maren hesitated but had to ask. “Brooke, do you know anything about who might have done this to her? If you know anything at all, I beg you, please tell me so I can keep her safe.”

  Brooke shook her head and wiped her eyes with her sleeve before looking at Maren. “I really have no idea at all, Maren. I swear to God.” She bit her cuticle, an old habit they’d worked on breaking for years at Alicia’s behest. “But my mom is totally losing her shit over Stanford. I hate to even say this out loud. I mean, she is still my mom. But I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. Every time I think there’s a line she won’t cross, she blows right through it.”

  Now it was Maren’s turn to be silent.

  “Can I see Winnie? I need to apologize to her. I’ve been so mean to her ever since she started at EBA. I need to explain why.”

  “No, honey, I’m sorry. Winnie needs to rest and can’t be upset right now. She needs time to heal. You two can talk when she’s feeling better.”

  “When I heard about Winnie’s accident, I realized I’ve never had a friend as true as Winnie. And you’ve been more like a mom to me than my own mom.” Brooke dropped her head into Maren’s lap, a familiar position from a lifetime ago. “And I blew it all.”

  “There’s always time to make amends in life, Brooke.” Maren stroked her hair. “You just need to decide you’re going to be your best self and do it. I believe in you. Always have.”

  Maren’s pep talk brought about a fresh round of tears. “You know,” Brooke sputtered, “I don’t want Stanford. That’s all my mom. I actually hope Winnie gets in and goes there. She deserves it, not me.”

  Maren stiffened. Was Brooke fishing for information? She hated having to be suspicious of this girl whom she’d loved like a daughter for so many years. “Well, listen, Brooke, you focus on what you want. If you don’t want to go to Stanford, find another school you do want to go to and try your best. That’s all any of us can do.”

  Brooke sat up and hugged Maren fiercely. “Thanks, Maren. Please tell Winnie I stopped by and I’d love to see her when she feels better. I hope she still likes chocolate chip cookie dough.”

  “Oh, she does,” Maren assured her with a smile. “You take care of yourself. And please let me know if you hear anything I should know?”

  “I will.” Brooke nodded solemnly. “Maren? I know I’ve been a jerk and I’ve said some mean things to Winnie, but I really hope you believe that I would never physically hurt her and I didn’t send that awful text.”

  “I know, Brooke,” Maren said. “It’s OK. I believe you.”

  Part 3

  19

  Kelly

  SIX WEEKS UNTIL RELEASE OF EARLY ADMISSIONS DECISIONS

  News of Winnie’s hit-and-run spread through EBA like a stomach virus, and by Monday morning, the same parents who were openly discussing the “Pressley situation” with relish were now eyeing Kelly from the safety of their cars with shut mouths and narrowed eyes as she made her way from the parking lot to the front door of the main building. Still peeved over the mean-spirited memes targeting her for the crime of being a conscientious mom, Kelly decided it was time to give Ted Clark an earful. As the PTA president, she’d become accustomed to relatively unfettered access to the head of school, but today was not one of those days. Ted’s young administrative assistant, Ryan, must have been alerted to her arrival when she signed in at the front desk, because he seemed to be standing guard in front of Ted’s closed office door. He stood erect with an inscrutable facial expression. All that was missing was a military-grade rifle strapped across his chest.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Vernon. What can I do for you today?” Ryan asked.

  “Hello, Ryan, I need to see Mr. Clark,” Kelly said in the sweetest voice she could muster. “It’s very urgent.”

  “He’s busy at the moment. Maybe you could—”

  Kelly didn’t wait for him to finish. “As I said, this is urgent.” Kelly dodged past him with a hip check. When she thrust open the door, Ted was staring out the window. Busy, my ass.

  Ted looked over at her, the intrusion taking him by surprise. “Kelly? Are you OK?”

  Kelly was breathing hard, and her hands were curled into balls at her sides. “Did you hear what happened to Winnie? The accident? The threatening text?”

  “Yes, I’ve been in touch with Maren.”

  “And? What do you plan to do about it?” She took a step closer to his desk. “What if Krissie’s next?”

  Ted motioned for her to have a seat. Kelly would have preferred to remain standing, but she acquiesced.

  He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together in front of him. “We’ll be sending out an email to the community later today.”

  “Are you beefing up security at school? You know I’ve been saying for years that we need to be doing more—more cameras, facial recognition at all the entrances, a security guard. What about all the rest of us who can’t afford private security details at school for our kids? Come to think of it, I demand to know who else is applying to Stanford! How else can I be expected to protect my daughter from this monster?”

  “Your vigilance on the topic of school safety is well documented.” Ted leaned back in his chair. “Our students’ safety is our highest priority. But we take our commitment to confidentiality seriously too,” he said pointedly. “As I said, we’ll be communicating more later today. The important thing is that we stay calm until we have more information.”

  He was talking to her in the voice people used to quiet a spooked horse, which really ticked her off. She would wager a year of college tuition that Ted would never dare be so patronizing to Alicia or Diana. “Stay calm? This is awful! I mean, who would do something like this? It certainly wasn’t me, but you should see all the cruel things students and parents are posting on social media about me. How could anyone think I would do something like this after everything I’ve done for this school? Why aren’t people pointing fingers at the Stones? I think we both know they’re far more—” Kelly stopped herself midsentence. She was rambling. Ted had stopped listening. Kelly stood up. “Well anyway, I’m relieved to know you’re taking this seriously. I look forward to receiving your communication. But please know this: if anything happens to Krissie, I will hold EBA and you personally responsible.” As she turned to leave, her face smoldered with indignation.

  * * *

  Kelly brushed past Ryan’s desk without a word and headed toward the conference room for the SST meeting. It wasn’t scheduled to start for another half hour, but she wanted to be the first one there. The thought of the other SST mothers gossiping about her before she arrived was more than she could stand. As she walked down the hall, her skin prickled from the furtive stares cast her way by students and faculty alike. She didn’t deserve this harsh treatment. She was a mother determined to support her daughter. Not a psycho killer.

  As she waited for the other SST members to arrive, Kelly drummed her fingers on the conference table, trying to quell the anxiety that was searing her from the inside out. Beads of sweat dribbled down her back. At least she’d had the foresight to choose a moisture-wicking exercise shirt as her base layer, with the added precautionary measure of self-adhesive underarm sweat pads to avoid pitting out.

  This group usu
ally indulged in a boisterous round of college chatter as a warm-up the way athletes stretch before a workout. But today, when Augusta, Diana, Jennifer, Amanda, and Sarah arrived, they were quiet as they took their seats around the table. Kelly couldn’t help noticing they were all holding identical to-go coffee cups from the independent Parisian-style café close to school where EBA mothers frequently hung out to kill time, gossip, sip their zero-calorie drinks of choice (black coffee or herbal tea, hold the milk, and God forbid no toxic sugar), and moan about how they were gaining weight that very second just from inhaling the heavenly scent of buttery, fresh-baked croissants. Kelly used to play that game too, but lately, she’d figured if she was going to gain the weight anyway, she might as well enjoy the goods.

  She glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes after nine. No sign of Maren, but she couldn’t stand to wait in the judgmental silence another second. “So! Shall we get started?” Her voice strained with nerves. “Lots to do today to get ready for Snowcoming.” Kelly turned to Sarah, the chair of the Snowcoming dance. “Sarah, can you get us started with an update?”

  “Oh sure, um, well, Maren’s been handling most of it.” Sarah flashed a sheepish smile at Kelly. “In terms of the dance itself, I think she—”

  “Hey, ladies. Filling in for Maren today. Sorry I’m late,” Bryan Stone said with a wink as he sauntered in doing his level-best imitation of a high school dude in cargo shorts and a rugby pullover. His flip-flops and the Ray-Ban sunglasses pushed up on his head completed the picture.

  Kelly’s relief that Maren wasn’t coming today instantly gave way to annoyance. It was the beginning of November. Why was Bryan wearing shorts and flip-flops?

  “Oh, Bryan, it’s such a treat to have you here,” Amanda said, touching his arm. “It’s so rare that we have the male perspective when we’re planning activities for the kids. This will be super helpful.”