Annie and the Wolves

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  On the margins of the next-to-last assignment book Kennidy would ever keep, there were numbers: 106, 103, 99—the last with a big smiley face. On November 5 of her sophomore year, Kennidy weighed less than a hundred pounds, a dubious achievement that Ruth doubted anyone had noted, except perhaps to praise her for it. She was on the soccer team and was a long-distance runner. Being leggy, slim and flat-chested was de rigueur. Even when her grades slipped, her sports participation remained strong. Which might have explained why the mentions of Troy and Joey and Jordan and Collum all petered out or become mere enigmatic abbreviations—Fri out w P, Fight w JW, hearts filled in or crossed out—and were overshadowed by sport and workout notations.

  Now there were calendars with running mileages. Finish times. And also meetings: Coach V 3:30.

  The first mentions made sense. He was a coach. She was into running. But after a while, just as the other friends’ initials had faded from mention, so did the numbers indicating mileage times. Still, there was Coach V, 4:15. Weekends, too: at 5 and 7 p.m. or just the name—no time of day, just an asterisk, or an exclamation mark.

  And more and more, just V.

  The codes became more enigmatic yet, not even words, just symbols: stars, plus and minus signs. Ruth thought back to her own adolescent journals and all the symbols she had used to stand in for late periods, hangovers, covert kisses . . . and more than that. Ruth was deep into an assignment book from Kennidy’s junior year now. There was also a senior-year assignment book, but it was almost entirely blank, except for one fall weekend marked for a retake of the SAT. So she had still been hoping to go to college even then, just weeks before she went into her bedroom and never came out.

  Ruth went back to the junior-year yearbook: that was when things had happened, what it all hinged upon. The notations that spring were especially dense: V, V, V. Until May, when they stopped.

  Why, Kennidy?

  Ruth’s stomach clenched, fighting motion sickness from the bumpy ride and the smell of the man next to her and the imagined smell of someone else—licorice hard candy.

  Ruth had gone to his house, too. She had sat on his couch. She had pressed her sweating legs together tightly, feeling the sticky surface of the scrapbook against her knees, and she had leaned away, against the armrest of the prickly couch, disliking his unwanted attention. He hadn’t tried anything, not a handshake, not a hug. He had sized her up correctly. He had known not to try, or maybe Ruth was giving herself too much credit. Maybe he simply didn’t try that first time and would have later. Ruth felt she would have known how to resist him, but perhaps she was wrong.

  Why, Kennidy?

  But she knew exactly why, because they’d grown up in the same household. Children needed love, and not just when they were small and cute, but even when they were older, changing and often unlikable. That was when they needed it more than ever.

  V, V , V.

  And then finally there was no V.

  Full stop.

  Sometime after this, Ruth had visited home. She and Kennidy had gone drinking and driven to that cabin in the woods. Ruth remembered the golf club, the garden gnome, that blue sports pennant tacked next to the door. She remembered Kennidy stalking off: “And you’re still a bitch!” But that had been after riding in the car for a sullen and silent forty minutes—time they might have talked, even if it had hurt.

  Ruth wished she could have those minutes back, every one of them.

  28

  Reece

  Reece’s mom had scheduled the family counseling session without his blessing.

  “If you come, great. If you refuse to come, your father and I will go anyway,” she said, putting away groceries while she talked. “Mondays, four o’clock. Your afternoon practices will be all done by then, right? We thought it would work out for everyone.”

  She hadn’t asked whether or not he wanted them to come to the big show on Friday. Despite his outburst the other day, he hoped they were smart enough to know that he really did want them there. But if they didn’t come—well, that would certainly be fodder for discussion on Monday.

  Did that mean he was going on Monday?

  He groaned, closing his bedroom door.

  He didn’t want to talk about last year. He especially didn’t want to have to replay last summer: the moment he did it, the temporary relief and enduring dread, waking to shame and confusion in the hospital.

  From outside the door, he heard his mom ask whether he was planning to join them for dinner.

  “Already ate!” he called back, a bag of chips under one arm and a bottle of root beer under the other.

  If the family therapist forced him to, he would talk. That was the problem! Not that he would sit and glare and say practically nothing, but that he’d explode.

  I shouldn’t even be at this shit school.

  I would have been earning college credit while I was still in high school.

  I could have been on the East Coast already!

  Oh yes, Reece would give that therapist an earful.

  Right fingers scrolling while his left hand dipped into the greasy potato-chip bag, lips stinging lightly with vinegar and salt and pleasurable indignation, he summoned his evidence. He looked again at the program’s admission page, which showed that the average admitted entrant had lower PSAT scores than he’d had. And he’d had a 4.0. Grades and scores were not the problem.

  Maybe a clinical expert would agree with him. Maybe she’d tell his parents that they’d sabotaged him. Itching to go before the judge—therapist, rather—Reece opened the photos section on his phone and scrolled back to the videos he hadn’t replayed in over half a year: among these, the two videos he’d sent into the school as part of his failed application package.

  He stared at the first unplayed video, thumb hovering.

  He wanted to see himself dance, wanted to be back in that moment when everything was still possible. And at the same time, he expected some measure of disappointment. Of course, the video would be shitty quality. It couldn’t compete with an in-person audition.

  The school had asked for one solo performance plus one group. For solo, he’d had Gerald record him in the school gym doing a much-simplified choreographic number inspired by Polunin’s “Take Me to Church” video, featuring the Ukrainian dancer storming around an empty barn to the sound of Hozier’s hit song. Reece winced, realizing how many other applicants might have sent something similar. But he’d been full of hope last spring. At the time, he hadn’t worried about doing something trite.

  Reece wiped salt and grease onto his jeans and gripped the phone with both hands. Did he really want to do this? It wasn’t like he’d never watched the video before he uploaded it to the program website. But that day last March seemed like years ago.

  He pressed play and the sound started up, his friend’s whisper audible for the first few seconds in the background—“Come on Gerald, shut up now, this is serious”—and there Reece was in the corner of the screen. Capri-length nude tights, no shoes, bare chest. Muscles more visible because he’d been leaner last spring.

  It started slowly with him on his knees, head down and swaying, face hidden by dark shaggy hair until he pushed it back. Then he lifted himself up on one hand, one leg extended, foot pointed.

  Collapse back onto the floor. Upward thrust of the chest, as if a hook through his sternum were hoisting him up toward the ceiling.

  All good so far, as the music got going.

  Then the pace picked up. He leaped, spun, dropped to the floor in plank position. Okay, a little sloppy, but it was the switch in tempos. He was just getting going.

  He pushed up, rigid plank again, and flipped over, chest up, one clean line from toes to head. Taut—or it was supposed to be.

  In his defense, the move was harder than it looked.

  Reece swallowed hard.

  In the video, he pulled his
knees to his chest. Scowled. Emoted. Jumped again and swung around and leaped, using all those early years of ballet training which clearly . . . weren’t enough.

  The video was just over three minutes. He was only a minute and forty seconds in.

  Reece watched his younger self repeat the moves with slight variations and no improvements. His leaps were nothing like Polunin’s. His attempt to appear artfully pain-stricken just looked like a temper tantrum on the floor.

  Worst of all was the unchoreographed slip—a poor landing that turned into a skid—around 2:10. Reece closed his eyes. The song was still playing. He couldn’t watch anymore.

  When the video was finished, he opened his eyes and exhaled loudly through his nose.

  Not good. Understatement of the year.

  Had his ability to judge skill changed that much in six months? Why hadn’t he realized that this video hadn’t been the right thing to submit?

  Okay, he thought, shaking his head. So that was one video. Better to aim high and fail—right? The application committee must have understood that.

  For the second video he’d had limited choices, given that he hadn’t danced in a group since the start of high school. Instead, he’d asked another friend to record a short Rockets performance featuring half of the group. With luck, the tumbling and acrobatics, incorporating some dance moves, would be less shockingly bad than the solo video.

  Reece pressed play.

  This video had fewer surprises. It wasn’t shockingly bad. It also wasn’t shockingly good.

  Reece watched his own moves, nodding without satisfaction. Raj flipped off Gerald’s shoulders and then did some hip-hop moves. Justin and Vanessa did a half-modern bolero-flamenco hybrid that didn’t quite fit the music but always captured the audience’s attention.

  All fine, especially for a high-school performance, but nothing special.

  We just don’t want you putting all your eggs in one basket.

  We’re just not sure you’re ready yet.

  They’d been at least partly right. He’d have to give them that. Which didn’t mean he didn’t still feel cheated, somehow. It would take a while to get over this. And no, he didn’t want to talk to a therapist about it.

  The routine still playing in the video was so familiar and dully adequate to Reece that his mind began to wander, eyes taking in what was happening along the edges of the screen.

  Two other Rockets members were visible at the back of the gym behind the main performers, clapping in sync, keeping the energy high. And there, farther off to one side, alone but not entirely alone, was Caleb. He’d started hanging out at practices and performances that spring, not yet a member, only watching in the beginning. But that wasn’t the weird part.

  The weird part was the look on his face—a thin-lipped grimace.

  Vorst was directly behind him, his entire head visible above Caleb’s. Reece had forgotten how much shorter Caleb had been, just last spring. Vorst had a hand placed on each of Caleb’s shoulders and his fingers were digging in, like he was pressing him down into the ground. Caleb made a shrugging motion and started to turn and pull away, but then he didn’t. Vorst had him rooted to the spot.

  Maybe Caleb had been talking during their performance, not that anyone would have cared with the music blasting. Maybe Vorst was pressuring Caleb into staying to watch in support of the team and for his own benefit. Maybe they’d just had some sort of argument and this was the aftermath.

  Reece’s attention went back to Caleb’s face. He enlarged the image. Caleb took a breath and held it, eyes shut, like he was at the doctor’s office waiting for a shot.

  Reece’s homage to Polunin had meant to show deep pain, but none of it had worked: not the dancing or the contrived facial expressions, either. He hadn’t been able to fake agony. He’d just looked like an idiot.

  Caleb’s agony, by comparison, was clear as day. The guy looked like he might puke or spontaneously combust.

  It didn’t mean anything, necessarily. But Caleb looked desperately uncomfortable, and Vorst was right behind him, standing too close. Was Vorst closing his eyes, too? Reece did not want to imagine the old coach was grinding against Caleb, in a public place no less, but it wasn’t impossible.

  That image would take a while to process. Then what?

  29

  Ruth

  Sophie had arrived at the restaurant early and taken command in a preferred corner next to a fireplace with bread and olive oil already on the table.

  Without getting up, she called out, “Ruth!”

  “Sophie.”

  They reached out to clasp hands, appraising each other. Sophie looked younger than Ruth had expected, with a burgundy-colored asymmetrical bob, a black turtleneck and chunky silver jewelry. Ruth had done her best—long skirt with a belt, yoga-style soft blue wrap top—but she still felt underdressed. Then again, she’d been on a bus all day. As Ruth allowed Sophie to pull her into a full hug, she hoped she didn’t stink.

  “Sit, sit,” Sophia said. “Do you want the booth side? Would it be more comfortable?”

  Ruth had tried to suppress her hobble on the way in, but Sophie had still noticed.

  “No, this is fine.” Ruth smiled brightly.

  Sophie was already studying her menu. Ruth did the same, scanning the specials without noticing the words, suddenly uncertain why she was even here. She had enough on her hands: Kennidy’s papers and mementos, so much still to be read. Scott’s future, and Reece’s too, so much still to understand. The rest might be nothing more than a silly wild-goose chase.

  A waiter appeared as soon as Sophie raised her finger. “Bring a second pinot gris. Unless you want something different?”

  “Maybe just water to start.”

  “Water and the pinot gris. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll make it disappear.” Sophie laughed. In a stage whisper, she added. “It has been a shitty, shitty day. Pardon my French. And please tell me you’re not vegetarian.”

  Ruth took the cue. She ordered a steak, medium rare.

  There was no need to guide the conversation, thank goodness. Sophie had an agenda.

  “First, I have to tell you. I was on your committee.”

  Ruth was confused at first, thinking back to her grad school, dissertation days. “Committee?”

  “The university press,” Sophie explained. “They bring together their own people and some outside experts. The foundation was contacted, no surprise. I was happy to do it. Usually, these committees are confidential, but in this case, the book isn’t coming out now—I’m so sorry about that—so I don’t think it matters anymore.” She paused long enough to take a swallow of white wine. “The point is, I thought it was a good manuscript. A good start, anyway. There was nothing . . . inaccurate, objectionable . . . and that’s what the press wanted to know. The greatest damage is done by biased people with no interest whatsoever in plain facts.”

  Ruth waited. This was no high praise. Fair enough.

  “On top of that,” Sophie said, “I know you were hamstrung. I know you’d been trying to get more information from Lila for some time. She ran a tight ship, to put it kindly. And so, your email to me.”

  “Yes.”

  The waiter arrived with salads. Ruth hadn’t ordered one.

  “Caesar dressing—their best. Do you like Caesar?”

  “I love Caesar.” The only correct answer.

  Sophie waited for the waiter to withdraw. “But like I said, shitty day. The Minneapolis meetings were not a success. Everything I’m going to tell you tonight is confidential. Do I have your word?”

  Sophie lifted her glass, and Ruth followed. They clinked.

  “All right, then.” Sophie leaned in close again. “This goes back several years. Business side first: the foundation has lost a lot of funding. I was here in search of new sources: 3M, General Mills, Target. I wanted to go home
and show them we don’t have to rely on Mr. LaPierre for everything, and with Lila gone, it’s easier to come out and say it: good riddance. But I misjudged. Beyond a few historical societies and small museums with Western themes, there aren’t a lot of organizations that care about Annie Oakley right now. We got a little too dependent, I’m afraid.”

  For all the time Ruth had spent researching Annie’s life, she hadn’t paid attention to the logos that showed up at the bottom of the foundation screen, if there were logos at all.

  Mr. LaPierre. The pieces finally clicked. “So the NRA doesn’t want to support you anymore?”

  “Frankly, they were always lukewarm. What do they care about history? But Lila charmed them.” Sophie took another sip of wine. “As for me—I was about done by the time Sandy Hook happened, and Wayne gave that awful speech blaming video games and the media, no tears shed for the children themselves. But then the very next year, the NRA opens its museum of sporting arms in Springfield, Missouri—that’s practically our neighborhood. It’s certainly our people. Plus, they’ve got three of Annie’s guns on display there. To outsiders, we look cozy.”

  For half of the bus ride, Ruth had rehearsed how she would begin to tell Sophie about Nieman, the journals, Vienna. But it was becoming clear that Sophie’s own confidential story didn’t converge with anything Ruth had come to ask or say.

  Sophie sighed. “The upshot is, some problematic materials have gone unseen in order to not ruffle feathers, and all for what? They’ve already cut their donations by sixty percent. And to keep the rest, we have to continue Lila’s legacy, oversimplifying what Annie Oakley stood for. If I can find new funders, I’m staying on the board. If I can’t . . .”

  She paused with her fork in the air, and then set it down, salad uneaten.

  “Sophie, I’m so sorry.” Ruth waited as Sophie steadied herself, eyes clearing. Ten seconds, twenty, still waiting until it was the right time to push for more. “You were saying. Problematic materials?”