“Work comes first,” he said, “as you should know by now.” Uh-oh. Some kind of mood. He jotted a few quick numbers on a yellow legal pad. “Who was on the phone?”
“Chloe.”
Dad looked up. “Chloe Ferrand?”
What other Chloes did they know? Was there even another Chloe in the whole state? But Ingrid sensed it wasn’t the moment for an answer like that, and just said, “Yes.”
“What did she want?”
“Me to come over for a swim.”
“Really?” said Dad, putting down his pen. “When?”
“After soccer. I told her I was busy.”
“You said no?”
“Nicely.”
“You said no?”
“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “No.”
That jaw muscle of Dad’s got all lumpy. “And why was that, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“We’re not friends, Dad. I didn’t feel like it.”
“Is that any reason to be rude?”
“I wasn’t rude. I did it nicely, like I said.”
“How did that go, exactly?” said Dad.
“Huh?”
Dad’s tone sharpened just as Chloe’s had done, impatience yearning to be free. “I’m asking what your excuse was. Wake up, Ingrid.”
“My excuse?”
“For blowing her off,” said Dad.
Her excuse. Yikes. The whole MathFest thing, now starting to loom up like one of those shape-changing monsters. Other people, lots of them, could tell the odd lie from time to time and move on, no problem. But whenever Ingrid told a lie, she immediately stepped onto a tightrope of lies, each one slippier than the last. Telling the truth now would lead to the whole MathFest confession, and Dad was big on math, had a thing about her staying on the calculus track all the way to Princeton, where Ferrands had gone since the Ice Age and where she and Ty were going too, no discussion. Telling a lie led into the three-ring circus.
“Um,” said Ingrid, “I just said I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
Doing what? How about—“Going to the mall with Stacy.”
“You told her you were going to the mall with Stacy?”
“Uh-huh.” On the tightrope already.
Dad’s eyes shifted slightly, like he was checking a rearview mirror, a thing he did when he was having a sudden thought.
“No reason it couldn’t fall through,” said Dad, “a plan like that.”
Ingrid didn’t get that at all. It wasn’t even a real plan. She wasn’t going to the mall with Stacy, so there was nothing to fall through. She studied Dad’s face. He didn’t look like himself: skin pale, purple smudges under his eyes, plus red veins crisscrossing the whites. And he’d missed shaving in that little cleft in his chin.
“And if it did fall through,” Dad went on, “would there be any reason not to call Chloe and tell her you’d still like to come over?”
“Huh?”
Dad gave her an angry look. Ingrid didn’t remember many looks like that from him. “Damn it, Ingrid,” he said, “can’t you simply do what I want without arguing for once?”
“You want me to go over to Chloe’s?”
“I do.”
“But why?”
“Because she asked you,” Dad said.
Ingrid didn’t understand. Through the window behind Dad’s head, she saw a dark bird rise up out of the town woods and fly away.
When Dad spoke again, his voice was quiet, not angry at all, even kind of lifeless. “This isn’t the time to piss off the Ferrands,” he said, his gaze no longer on her but on the legal pad instead. What was going on? Ingrid had no idea. All she knew was that she didn’t like seeing him like this, in fact preferred him angry.
“Okay,” she said. A swim at Chloe’s—how bad could it be? “But the invitation won’t be good anymore. I know Chloe.”
Ingrid went up to her room, called Chloe in private, making up a brand-new lie about MathFest being postponed.
“See you after soccer, then,” said Chloe.
Ingrid hung up. Maybe she didn’t know Chloe after all.
“Gonna give it to you in three words,” said Coach Ringer.
The girls’ U13 A travel team stood by their bench on soccer field one, up by the hospital. The sun was not far above the treetops, and the wind was picking up, ruffling all their ponytails. Coach Ringer, not much taller than the girls and maybe three times as wide, wore his black-and-gold Towne Hardware jacket with that slogan—SCREWS FOR YOUSE SINCE 1937—on the back and clutched an unlit cigarette between his nicotine-stained fingers.
“Have your attention?” said Coach Ringer. A few of the girls nodded. Most, including Ingrid, just stared blankly across the field. “Three words: All. The. Marbles.”
Coach Ringer paused to let the three words sink in. Now all the girls’ faces were blank. What the hell was he talking about? Ingrid thought. All the marbles? This was just the first game of the playoffs. Marbles—Coach Ringer was losing his.
Over at midfield the ref tapped his watch. The girls from South Harrow were already in position.
“Any questions?” said Coach Ringer.
“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “Where’s Coach Trimble?”
Assistant Coach Trimble had played for a UConn team that went all the way to the NCAA finals. She was an amazing athlete, could probably jump right over Coach Ringer if she wanted; and the parents couldn’t wait till he retired down to Florida so she could take over.
Coach Ringer shot Ingrid a quick look: not the kind of question he had in mind. “Assistant Coach Trimble’s in Tokyo,” he said. “Business trip. Won’t be back till Christmas.”
Business trip? Ingrid realized she had no idea what Coach Trimble did for a living. None of the kids had ever asked, and Coach Trimble, who didn’t say much, had never mentioned it.
“What does she do?” Ingrid said.
“Some kind of foreign business,” said Coach Ringer. “But in the meanwhile I got us a new helper.”
He waved at a woman standing about ten yards away on the sidelines. A tall woman, although not as tall as Coach Trimble, and strong-looking, the way Stacy was going to be when she grew up. She wore running tights, dark glasses, and a short jacket made of—hey!—fur. Really nice dark-brown fur with black streaks, like maybe mink, absolute—what was the word when something was a complete no-no? anathema?—to Mom.
The woman came over. Ingrid was just thinking there was something familiar about her when Coach Ringer said, “Listen up. This here’s our temporary assistant, Julie LeCaine.”
“Julia,” said the woman.
Julia LeCaine, new vice president at the Ferrand Group. Up close, she looked even more striking than in the Echo photograph, but that might have been an effect of her shades, some new European style, the coolest Ingrid had ever seen.
Coach Ringer didn’t appear to have heard the correction. “New in town,” he said, “but as for soccer credentials—look out. Actual alternate on Team USA, 1999.”
“1992,” said Julia LeCaine.
“Personal friends with Mia Hamm, ain’t that right, Ju—Ms. LeCaine?”
“We met,” said Ms. LeCaine. “I wouldn’t say friends.”
“Anything you want to tell the team?” said Coach Ringer.
Coach Trimble always said “Play hard and play to win,” making an important distinction it had taken Ingrid two years to understand. Ms. LeCaine said, “I’ll just be observing today.”
“Oh, come on,” said Coach Ringer, “give them a little pep talk.”
Julia LeCaine took off her shades. She had green eyes, not just a browny-blue but real green. Ingrid had never seen that before. Those green eyes made a quick scan of the girls, came to rest on Ingrid. “Very well,” she said, “a pep talk. How’s this?” She licked her lips—her tongue was one of those very pointy ones—and said, “Whatever it takes.”
There was a little silence. Then the ref blew his whistle. Something made Ingrid glance over at the stands. Dad was wa
tching from the top row, eyes on Julia LeCaine, jaw thrust forward in an aggressive sort of way that reminded Ingrid of those stupid Rocky movies.
five
FINAL SCORE: ECHO FALLS 2, South Harrow 1. Should have been easier than that, but Ingrid missed a wide-open net in the first half and hit the post on a penalty kick early in the second. The girls gathered around Coach Ringer, the sun behind the trees now and purple clouds sailing fast across the darkening sky.
“Skin of our teeth,” said Coach Ringer, “but—a W is a W. On two, now. One. Two.”
“TEAM!”
“Practice Wednesday, four o’clock, field two, no excuses either way.” Mom, who’d memorized all kinds of poems, said that poetry was language stripped of extras, plus a little magic thrown in. Coach Ringer was like that sometimes, pure poetry. He shuffled off the field in that crablike, hunched-over way of his, had a cigarette going before he reached the sideline.
Dad came out of the stands. “Nice job, girls.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hill.”
Ingrid walked off the field with her father.
“Pretty good game, Ingrid,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Ingrid. She heard that unspoken but. Uh-oh. Another one of Dad’s postgame critiques was coming. Ingrid was starting to get tired of them.
They crossed the parking lot. Dad drove a silver TT, a very cool car, but parked next to it was an even cooler one, longer, lower, wider. A Boxster, Ty’s dream car. She’d never seen one close up before.
“Got open once or twice,” Dad said.
“Thanks.”
“But,” said Dad. She waited. “You didn’t close the deal. Any idea what that’s all about?”
“Nope.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say? Nope?”
Ingrid said nothing.
“Got to get your head in the game, Ingrid.”
“A W is a W,” she said.
Dad’s voice rose. “What did you say?”
Now what? Were they really going to get into a fight about this stupid soccer game? All she wanted was to relax for a while. Why did Dad have to take sports so seriously?
“I asked you a question,” Dad said.
“You heard me,” Ingrid said. Oh my God. Did she really say that?
Dad was stunned. His jaw actually dropped. Then his face got red and that muscle in his jaw clumped up. At that moment, the door of the Boxster opened and Ms. LeCaine stepped out.
“Hello, Mark,” she said.
Dad composed himself, his face assuming a mask of calm, but not with the kind of speed Ingrid could manage. Drama was her passion, and she practiced quick expression changes just about every time she faced the bathroom mirror.
Dad nodded. “Julia.”
“I didn’t realize this little speedster was your daughter,” said Ms. LeCaine. “The coach was telling me all about her. Ingrid, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Dad. “Ingrid.”
“Interesting name,” said Ms. LeCaine.
That was one way of putting it. Would Ingrid have gladly traded first names with any other girl in the whole school, with the exception of LaTrina Welles? Yes.
“I’m going to be helping out with the team,” Ms. LeCaine said.
“So I see,” said Dad.
“The least I can do,” said Ms. LeCaine. “This little town is so friendly.”
Dad usually drove in a casual kind of way, just one hand, or maybe no more than a couple of fingers on the wheel, but now, driving down from the soccer fields, he was using Mom’s two-handed grip. He didn’t speak. Was he getting ready to blast her about the you-heard-me remark? Ingrid kept her mouth shut, concentrated on the route from soccer to the Ferrands’ house. If Sherlock Holmes had lived in Echo Falls, he’d have made it his business to know every inch.
Hill to Main. Main, past Nippon Garden, Ingrid’s absolute favorite restaurant in Echo Falls, to Bridge. Bridge to River. North on River, the bike path running alongside, where sometimes you might see Joey out blading. But with the wind blowing so hard now, dead leaves flying all over the place, there was no one on the bike path. Except…one person, just coming around the bend. An unflashy blader, with a short, steady stride that chewed up a surprising amount of ground very fast—yes, Joey. The blunt Indian feather thing came into view, and then the features of his face. Joey loved blading, always by himself. What did he think about while he—
Dad spoke. “You didn’t ask how I know Julia LeCaine.”
Uh-oh. Totally unexpected. And un-Dad-like. That wasn’t him, following a long, silent thread. It was actually more like her.
She glanced at him. His eyes were on the road. She could bring up that whole business of The Echo in the trash, leading right to why he threw it away before anyone had a chance to read it. Or. “Um,” she said, “oh yeah. How do you know her?”
One good thing about being a kid: You could pretend to be a dunce and no one batted an eye.
Dad glanced at her. She caught the look. It said Still got a long way to go, kiddo. Out loud he said, “Julia’s a new hire.”
“Yeah?” said Ingrid.
“Probably not long-term,” Dad said.
“No?”
Silence.
“You’re vice president, right, Dad?”
“Right.”
“Meaning you do, like, what?”
“I make the numbers work,” Dad said.
“And what does Ms. LeCaine do?”
Dad took a deep breath. “Tim’s looking to upgrade long-range planning. Makes sense—stand still in business and you get trampled.”
“So Ms. LeCaine’s in charge of long-range planning?”
“I wouldn’t say in charge,” Dad said. “Not in sole charge.”
Long-range planning but she wasn’t going to be there long-term? Ingrid tried to make sense of that.
“How did it come about, Dad? Her getting the job.”
“Princeton connection, of course. Haven’t you got it in your head yet how important those things are?”
He was squeezing the wheel real tight. What was wrong with him? Ingrid didn’t reply. Anything she said would probably lead to SATs, the calculus track, MathFest, Ms. Groome. She got the feeling she was way out on the tightrope already, no net.
The Ferrands owned the biggest house in Echo Falls, if you didn’t count Prescott Hall, where no one lived anymore. The last of the Prescotts died off long ago, something about canoeing and getting swept over the falls, but before that one of them had married a Ferrand, which was how the Ferrands got their start in being rich. You could actually see Prescott Hall from the Ferrands’ place. They stood on hilltops on opposite sides of the river, Prescott Hall a towering brick thing with turrets and gargoyles, the Ferrands’ house more sprawling, made of stone and glass.
Dad drove up the long circular drive, gravel crunching under the tires. A young man pushed a wheelbarrow across a long, sloping lawn, the grass somehow still green, even in the fall. Dad stopped by the entrance, big black double doors at the top of broad stone steps.
“Call when you’re ready,” he said.
Ring. Ingrid would have said it out loud, but she knew he wasn’t in the mood.
Dad drove off. Ingrid, bathing suit, towel, and hairbrush in a plastic bag, climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
A dark-skinned woman opened it. She wore a plain gray dress and a white apron. “Yes?” she said, the Y sounding a little like a J.
“Is Chloe here?” Ingrid said.
“Momentito,” said the woman. She turned, crossed a stone-floored hall with a tall vase of purple flowers in the center, and disappeared around a corner.
An actual maid. Ingrid hadn’t been in this house in years, didn’t remember any maid. Mrs. Velez came to clean 99 Maple Lane once a week, but Ingrid didn’t think of her as a maid. A maid was a servant.
Chloe came through the archway. If people could be summed up in one color—Ingrid being red, for example, at least in her dreams—then Chloe was gold. She glowed
from the top of her blond head to the tips of her bare tanned toes. Tanned toes? That would be Chloe, sporting a tan at a time of year when no one else did. But too uncool to comment on.
“Hello,” said Chloe.
“Hi,” said Ingrid. “Where’d you get the tan?”
Just popped out, uncool or not. But maybe the answer would be the Tannerama across from Blockbuster.
“Anguilla,” Chloe said. “Just a weekend getaway.”
Ong Willa? What the hell was that? “Oh,” Ingrid said.
“Been there?” said Chloe.
Not to her knowledge, but wasn’t there a suburb of Buffalo that sounded like that? She’d been to Buffalo. November tanning in Buffalo? “Nope,” said Ingrid.
“Not missing much,” Chloe said. “You want the truth about the Caribbean?”
“Sure.”
“It’s one big slum when the sun doesn’t shine.”
Could that be true? Ingrid had been to the Caribbean once, a Christmas vacation to an all-inclusive in Jamaica, the best week of her life, bar none. Bob Marley had been her absolute favorite ever since, and once when the piped-in music at her orthodontist, Dr. Binkerman, had played “No Woman No Cry,” she’d gotten a bit teary.
“Close the door,” said Chloe. “There’s a chill.”
They swam in the indoor pool, a big rectangular pool lined with deep-blue marble, so the water was deep-blue too, sparkling with reflected light from that amazing French chandelier hanging above. After a while, Ingrid got out, did a silly dive off the board, her legs bent and sticking out in a diamond shape. Kicking up to the surface, she was surprised to see Chloe laughing at the other end. And then even more surprised when Chloe ran out on the board and did a silly dive of her own. Pretty soon they were both doing silly dives, making huge splashes, laughing, swallowing water, choking, and laughing some more. Ingrid had vague memories of them playing like this long ago.
“Fun, huh?” Chloe said.
Ingrid didn’t know whether Chloe meant doing silly dives, swimming in general, or living the life of Chloe. But whatever it was, the answer was clear. “Yeah.”
Behind the Curtain Page 4
