People Like Us

by Dana Mele

  “He absolutely did manipulate my grandfather,” she says with a faint smile, leaning her head against the horse’s pink-painted mane. “My father.”

  “To get the house?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  I look around. It’s beautiful but eerily empty now that I know it used to be bursting with family. It doesn’t surprise me anymore that they have so many visitors. Otherwise, you might just disappear in it. “He could have shared it, right?”

  She seems disappointed with my answer. “Not as a permanent residence. You wouldn’t get it. You’ve probably lived in the same place your whole life. You’re so normal, Kay. It’s enchanting.” She smiles and pats my head, and I duck away.

  “What if Spencer’s guilty?” I sit down on the floor and support my head with my hands.

  She slides down next to me. “Then you breathe a sigh of relief because it’s over and life goes on. If Greg did it, life goes on. This nightmare ends one way or another.” She turns my face gently toward hers. “You are resilient as hell, Donovan.”

  I try to smile, but my face is plaster. Resilient is the wrong word for someone who attracts tragedy like a magnet but survives to watch her loved ones die.

  * * *

  • • •

  LATER, AFTER A warm soak in an enormous claw-footed tub with rose-scented sea salts, I feel much calmer. Nola and I sit together in the library on a leather settee, watching the hypnotic flames of a gas fire leap and dance.

  I gaze into the rings of fire, blue melting into yellow and gold. “We don’t have the full picture.”

  Nola glances at me wordlessly.

  “Our suspect list is clouded by what we know about people,” I say. “What we think about them. And ultimately, what we want to happen to them. We have no physical evidence. The cops have such an overwhelming advantage. That’s how you can be so wrong about someone you think you know.”

  “But we also know about things they don’t. Like the revenge blog.”

  “That’s true. But my point is, we need to go deeper. Brie tried to record a confession because she thought she could get one out of me. Not because she had any evidence. Because she thought if she said the right things, she’d lead me to it.”

  “And you think you can do that?”

  I nod slowly. “I think I have a shot. Spencer definitely. Greg maybe. He leaves himself wide-open.”

  “Then do it.”

  An image materializes in my head of Spencer pushing Maddy underwater, and it sucks the air out of my lungs. I cross my arms over my stomach and lean forward, trying to mask my inability to breathe. Slow inhale. Long exhale. “Unless Maddy and Jessica were killed by different people.”

  Nola shakes her head. “They weren’t. The revenge blog proves it.”

  “Anyone could have written the blog. Any seven people could have written the blog.” I’m talking too fast. But she doesn’t seem to notice. I keep counting my inhales and exhales.

  “God, Kay, who are you trying to protect?”

  I freeze for a moment, and then realize it’s a rhetorical question. “No one. I just think we need to keep an open mind.”

  She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. “Spencer has a stronger motive. But it’s up to you who to question first.”

  I tap my fingers on my knees. “Greg thinks it’s a student and it all comes down to whether Jessica got into a fight on the night of the murder.” I don’t mention who the student is.

  “That would be convenient for him. But all signs point to him or Spencer.” She squeezes my hand. “You can do this.”

  I wonder. “One problem. I may not get a confession from either of them.”

  Nola clears her throat. “You were framed.”

  “So?”

  She looks me in the eye. “So all bets are off. If you become absolutely positive that you know who’s framing you, I say frame them back. There’s nothing shady about framing someone for something they actually did. It’s not really framing. It’s just planting evidence to make sure they get caught for it. To lead the police toward him and away from you.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “You lied to the police for Todd. Why not to save yourself? Playing nice isn’t working, Kay. The bad guys can’t win this time.”

  For a moment we stare at each other, and the silence is thick and painful. Then the air between us vanishes, and Nola’s lips are on mine. This time I kiss back, and even though I don’t feel that magnetic pull I felt with Brie and Spencer, I am warm and happy, and it feels good to relax and smile into her mouth. She caresses the back of my neck and slides closer, slipping her arm around my back and wrapping one leg around me.

  I glance around, but she squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, my parents are off tennising or teaing or something that involves leaving the house. The empty, empty house they fought so hard for.”

  I kiss her again, trying to push our conversation out of my head.

  She bites my lower lip and slides down to the floor, pulling me on top of her. She runs her hands up and down my sides and for a moment every bad feeling that’s held me captive in the past month floats away. She kisses my neck and then my shoulders and then stretches my bra strap aside.

  I sigh and roll over onto my back, and she brushes her lips against mine. Another kiss and my head swims. She pulls my arms over my head and kisses me deeply. I feel safe. Safe and sweet and delicious. But with every passing second, I feel a rising anxiety in the pit of my stomach, like I did the first time we kissed. It doesn’t feel the same as those quick, crucial moments when Brie and I swirled together in Spencer’s room, or the thousand times he and I flung ourselves at each other.

  “Are you happy?” she murmurs, and tastes my lips.

  I look up at her, unsure what to say, and then push up slightly on my elbows.

  “Do you wish I was Brie?”

  My body suddenly feels like ice water has been poured over it. Nola stiffens suddenly and rolls away. I look up, and Mrs. Kent is standing in the doorway, a tennis racket in her hand, a strange expression on her face.

  “Sandwiches and lemonade in the solarium,” she says, and then disappears up the staircase.

  Nola straightens her shirt and pants and smooths her hair. “You have a choice to make,” she says primly, as if the kiss had never happened. “Spencer or Greg.”

  23

  The next day, Nola tries to convince me to accompany her into town to buy a better microphone to record the confessions, but I fake cramps and stay behind for a nap. I really just need a break from the investigation. I thought that was what this week was supposed to be. I also need time to clear my head after yesterday’s kiss and Nola’s bizarrely timed question about Brie. I watch from her window as she gets into her mother’s car, backs out of the driveway and through the security gate, and disappears down the long winding road that lines the cliff side. Both of her parents have left again and Marla has the day off, so the house is empty and silent.

  I head downstairs, grab a grapefruit-flavored soda, and wander into the game room, but I halt when the sun catches me straight on through the glass walls, reflecting my image back at me. I almost don’t recognize myself. I’ve lost weight and muscle tone in the past month. Since the night Maddy died and I got sick, I haven’t even been running. I’m pale as a ghost—and that’s to be expected this time of year—but the dark gray shadows under my eyes make me look gaunt. I look ill, not just cold-and-flu ill, but the way my mother looked that year when she was helpless to do anything but hang on to life and not let go. For me. I look like I’ve been worn down to a wisp.

  I step slowly toward the window, but as I draw near, the sun becomes blinding and I disappear. It’s chilling, like the moment in a ghost story when the ghost realizes they’ve been dead from the very beginning. But I’m not. I’m just unrecognizable, with hair that’s become a
ratty tangle of unspooled yarn, skin I haven’t taken care of, a body I haven’t been conditioning. I back up a few steps until my reflection comes back into focus again and shake my hair out. That’s one thing I can change. Right now. And not have to deal with for a long while. I walk purposefully to the kitchen and rummage through the drawers until I find a pair of scissors, which I take up to Nola’s bathroom.

  I wet my hair and comb out all the snarls until it hangs in waves down over my face and shoulders. Then I pull a handful tightly down between my middle and forefinger and close the scissors with a satisfying snip. I cut off six inches around at first, giddy at the sudden lightness of my skull, and then a nauseous wave of nervousness hits when I realize how difficult it is to cut it evenly all the way around. I have to rewet it several times and use a variety of handheld mirrors, and the kitchen scissors do not cut very easily.

  There are some useful tools in Nola’s bathroom hutch, including several sets of salon scissors and buzzers, which I experiment with. I end up pulling the top layer of my hair on top of my head in a bun and shaving the lower layer about a half inch short, something I saw once on a pro soccer player I admire, then cutting the top layer short in the back and long in the front. It looks a little different on me because my hair is so wavy, but it’s still pretty cool. I think my waves actually hide the fact that I can’t quite manage to cut it perfectly straight. Just as I’m finishing up the last few snips, I hear the front door open and slam shut downstairs. I hurriedly sweep all of the evidence up into the trash can and rinse the scissors and combs, then towel dry my hair and change into a shirt that isn’t covered in damp hair cuttings.

  I jump on the bed and grab one of Nola’s books, assuming a poker face. I want an honest reaction.

  Nola flings the door open and flicks the light on. “I had the best idea. When you call Spencer—” She stops. “What did you do?”

  I jump up. “Ta-da!”

  “You look like a circus freak.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, feeling less confident but also annoyed. “No I don’t. I look like Mara Kacoyanis. She’s, like, my personal hero.”

  Nola approaches, cringing, and turns me around in a circle. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

  I gape at her. “For permission?”

  She rolls her eyes. “For my opinion. Not to brag, but I know a bit about couture.”

  “Not here you don’t.”

  She pauses. “Do you have a problem with the way I dress around my parents?”

  “Do you have a problem with the way I wear my hair around them? Or my name, for that matter? I never go by Katherine.”

  She sits and sighs into her hand. “My grandmother’s nickname was Kay, and she is revered as something of a beloved ghost that’s never mentioned.”

  I shift my weight back and forth. “Is there some Freudian reason why you befriended me?”

  “No. It’s just one of those family things. Kay is sacred. It’s taken. You can’t be Kay. She got dibs.”

  “And my hair?”

  “That’s just ugly.” Her expression softens. “I’m sorry. It’s not ugly. It’s just not what I would choose.” She pauses. “Let me fix it for you.”

  I take a step back from her, stung by the sudden change from yesterday. “No. I like it.”

  She bites her lower lip and looks like she’s struggling not to say something. “Fine.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I liked you the way you were,” she bursts out.

  I touch the soft new ends of my sharp curls. “I am the way I was.”

  She paces a bit and chews on her nails. “I just like things a certain way. Forget it. What’s important is what Spencer likes.”

  “Oh my God.” I push her away and sit down on the bed. “He doesn’t care what I look like.”

  Nola flinches at that. “Isn’t he the enlightened one.” She throws a plastic bag at my feet. I open it to find a body microphone and recording unit, tiny and sleek and very expensive looking. The receipt falls out at my feet, and when I bend to pick it up, the total catches my eye and I gasp.

  “I cannot possibly accept this, Nola.”

  She pushes the bag into my hand. “You have to. I won’t let you refuse.” She takes my hand in hers and looks into my eyes. “Kay, I am not watching you go to prison because of someone else’s crimes. This has been a nightmare. One last push. Then life begins again, and everything goes back to the way it was.”

  The words churn in my head. Nothing is going to go back to the way it was. But if there are two paths in front of me, and one leads to prison and one still holds the possibility of scholarships and college, I don’t have a choice. I take the plastic bag and stuff it into my overnight bag.

  “Thank you,” I say, swallowing hard. Failure is not an option.

  * * *

  • • •

  AT DINNER, BOTH Mrs. Kent and Bernie compliment me on my new haircut. Bernie calls it “winning” and Mrs. Kent says I look like a young Dolores Mason. I’m not sure who that is, and I don’t want to sound ignorant, so I don’t ask. Since Marla has the night off, dinner is Chinese takeout. It takes me back to the months after Todd died and Mom was absent. Dad and I had a rigidly planned weekly menu. On weekends we visited Mom, but every other night was a set schedule. Monday was my turn to cook: mac and cheese from the box. Tuesday was Dad’s night: spaghetti and sauce from the jar. On Wednesday night, we ordered pizza. The first half of the week was admittedly carb heavy. Thursday night was Chinese.

  “This is the best Chinese north of Chinatown,” Bernie jokes, and Mrs. Kent laughs, but Nola rolls her eyes and mouths at me, Every time.

  “I’m sure it’s better than what I’m used to. I practically ate it daily back home.”

  I take a sip of the Pinot Noir Bernie has set in front of me. It’s much drier than any wine I’ve ever tasted, and has an odd cardboard aftertaste. I wonder if this is what people mean when they say oaky.

  Bernie and Mrs. Kent both shoot me a sympathetic glance.

  I eye my shrimp lo mein. I’ve avoided Chinese food since that dark period. Oversaturation, for one thing, but also, it brings back that feeling of isolation, of sitting in the living room silently, eating in front of Pardon the Interruption and wondering how long I had to sit there before I could escape and go for a run without feeling like I was abandoning Dad. Or if he would, like, kill himself if I left him alone for too long or if I got hit by a car or something terrible happened to me. This isn’t very good lo mein, anyway. The place at home was better. These noodles are greasy and there’s too much garlic in the sauce. I nibble on a piece of shrimp, which at least is plump and, I’m sure, very fresh.

  Mrs. Kent suddenly turns to me with a coy smile. “So, Miss Katherine. Can you tell us anything about Bianca’s mysterious new gentleman?”

  I dart my eyes to Nola, who purses her lips and gives me what is probably meant to be a very meaningful and communicative look. But I have no idea what she’s trying to get me to say.

  “I’m as curious as you are,” I say, trying to return the coy expression.

  Mrs. Kent looks dissatisfied. “Well, I hope it’s worth lying about.”

  It takes me a moment to absorb the sting of her words. I lie fairly openly and unapologetically. Everyone does it, though maybe not as often as I do. But never once has an adult called me on it so casually. It makes me feel insignificant, like she’s putting me on notice that I’m way out of my depth.

  “No one is lying, Mother. I just don’t see why we should talk about him until we’re sure things are serious.”

  I wonder how much more serious things can get than an engagement, but then Nola does seem to have a crappy relationship with Bianca, so maybe there’s a jealousy thing going on.

  “Like the last one, mmm?” Bernie says darkly.

  Nola glares at him.

 
“It’s too bad Bianca couldn’t make it,” I offer.

  Nola kicks me under the table.

  Mrs. Kent holds up a finger as she coughs into her napkin. “Too bad Bianca couldn’t make what?”

  I twist my napkin into knots under the table. Nola’s family is terrifying. “Dinner, I guess?”

  Mrs. Kent places her fork down and studies Nola sternly. “Well.”

  I decide the direction the conversation has taken is mostly my fault, and it’s on me to change it. “Who cares about dinner when there’s a wedding to plan, right?”

  Everyone looks at me with irritation, even Nola.

  “For Bianca.” I take a sip of wine and wish I could disappear.

  Bernie folds his hands on the table, all trace of his friendly, breezy personality evaporated. “Nola.”

  “For God’s sake,” Mrs. Kent breathes into her wineglass, fogging up the sides.

  “Bernie.” Nola downs the rest of her glass and sets it down a little too firmly.

  “Why are you discussing our family with strangers?” Bernie taps his pinkie finger against his plate, and for some reason the sound makes me want to scream.

  “Katherine is not a stranger,” she insists. She casts me a desperate look, but there’s nothing I can possibly do to save the situation.

  “So I noticed,” Mrs. Kent says drily.

  “She didn’t tell me anything,” I attempt weakly. And I thought my friends were secretive. Who forbids their daughters to discuss each other outside of the family? “I saw a picture of Bianca with a guy and I asked who he was. Nola said they were getting married.” That’s when I really start kicking myself. Because the key to a good lie is vagueness.

  “Which picture was that?” Mrs. Kent asks icily.

  “Katherine, please excuse yourself,” Bernie says in a dangerously calm voice.