“Honestly? No.” Paul Henry has been my dad’s personal intern for the past two years. He lives in the carriage house above our garage. I cross my arms. “How did this happen?”
“Well,” Stephanie begins, “maybe we should let Franny tell you that.”
“Franny?” I stare at my roommate. She gives me a guilty smile, and the pieces start to fall together: The chicken noodle soup we made him last year, and her insistence that she be the one to deliver it to him. The mismatched underwear. Her odd disappearances. I feel my stomach curdle a little bit. “Oh, please. Say it isn’t what I’m thinking it is.”
“He’s only twenty-three,” she says defensively.
“Someone’s got daddy issues!” Grace shrieks again. Her grin barely fits on her face. “So,” she rushes on, “we figure that we’re totally safe, because since Franny is screwing around with Paul, he can’t tell on us.”
“We kind of blackmailed him,” Stephanie says. “It was in everyone’s best interest.” She smiles at me. “Let’s go for a ride, Em.”
I blink at her. “What, now? To smoke?”
She nods.
“I want to come!” says Grace.
“I want to come!” says Franny.
“Why don’t we just do it in here?” I ask. “We won’t get caught.”
“No,” Stephanie says, her tone decisive. “I want to go for a ride with my best friend, and I want to go alone.” She dangles her keys in my face. “Now.”
I look at my roommates. Grace and Franny go quiet. Despite Stephanie’s smile, there’s a sudden, palpable tension in the room.
“Right now?”
Stephanie nods, still smiling at me, but her gaze is steely. I can tell it’s going to be a fun ride.
chapter eighteen
Normally, students aren’t allowed to just drive off campus without permission. But I figure I’ve got leverage. Even if I didn’t, at this point I don’t really care. What are my parents going to do about it?
In the car, Stephanie doesn’t say much of anything for a while. We make our way down Stonybrook’s winding driveway, and I lay my calc book on my lap to start rolling a joint. Then, once it’s lit and we’re a good few miles from campus, Stephanie starts talking.
“I want to lay some ground rules,” she says as we begin heading down Route 1 toward the beach. She drives a black Mercedes—a sixteenth-birthday present from her dad—and out of pure disgust toward him and his new family, she’s made it her point to start taking as little care of the car as possible. As a result, it’s seen virtually no maintenance in almost a year. The engine makes a funny clicking sound as we drive. Stephanie’s solution is to turn on the radio to drown it out.
I’ve rolled a tiny joint on the surface of my book, which is balanced on my knees. “Some ground rules,” I echo, pretending to be oblivious. “Okay. About what?”
She snorts. “Don’t play dumb, Emily. You know. About you and Ethan.”
“Stephanie.” I light the joint and take a hit, pass it to her. For reasons that have recently become obvious, pot smoke has never bothered me as much as cigarette smoke. Still, I’ve only gotten high a handful of times. It’s never been exactly my thing. “You can’t do that,” I say, holding my breath.
(Stephanie, holding her breath:) “Why can’t I?”
“Because it’s weird, that’s why. Just because he’s your brother—”
“He’s my only brother. My freaking twin. Our dad walked out last year”—(passes joint to me)—“and you have no idea how crazy things have been. I have every right to offer some suggestions about how we can all keep this situation civilized.”
“You think I have no idea how crazy things have been? I do have an idea. I’m your best friend.” I pause. “And I’m his girlfriend now. I’ve known both of you since seventh grade. And I know a little bit about screwed-up families.”
She doesn’t take the bait. “Right. Emily Meckler and her perfect parents. You think your family’s screwed up because your mom secretly smokes?” She sighs. “Can I just tell you the rules? There are only three of them. I’ve been working on them for, like, forever.”
“And you’re finally getting to impose them on someone, now that your brother is dating one of your friends?”
She shrugs. “Something like that.”
I figure, what does it matter? Let her think she has some control. “Okay, fine,” I say. “Lay ’em on me.”
“Okay.” (Puff, puff, pass.) “First of all, no more making out in the hallways like you were this afternoon. It was disgusting. From now on, I don’t want to see any physical displays of affection beyond hand-holding.”
“We weren’t even making out.” (Puff, puff, pass.)
“Second of all,” she continues, ignoring me, “you can’t have him for any of the holidays. We already have to alternate between my mom’s and dad’s houses, and he’s not coming to campus to visit you.”
They live in Colorado. It’s not exactly a short commute. “Steph. Fine. You can have your brother for holidays. I’m sure I’ll manage without him.”
“Okay.” (Puff, puff, pass.) “Third. And this is the big one, Emily.”
I can hardly wait.
“You can’t have sex with him. I totally forbid you.”
She’s gone completely berserk. I’ve never had such a strange conversation with someone—and I’ve had some odd ones lately.
“No sex with Ethan,” I repeat. “You know we’ve only been an official couple for like a day, right?”
She throws the roach out the window, leans over to fumble through the glove box for her cigarettes. “Yeah, I know that—oh, there was one other rule! I forgot.” Her tone remains stern. “You can’t break up with him.”
“Why can’t I break up with him?” I ask. “I thought you’d be happy if I broke up with him. Then you’d have—um—you’d have him back.”
The absurdity of it all. The nerve she has, telling me what I can and can’t do with her brother! Not only is it insane, but it’s also gross. How would she know if we had sex? Does she expect a play-by-play of every date? If I had a brother—which, who the hell knows at this point, maybe I do somewhere—I certainly wouldn’t want to know about his sex life, let alone write the rules for it.
“If things don’t work out, that’s fine. But I just mean that you can’t hurt him. No cheating, no dumping, no flirting with other boys. That kind of thing.”
“That sounds like more than three rules. That’s, like, four rules plus a bunch of addenda to the rules.”
“Just tell me you’ll follow them.” She looks at her cigarette with distaste, flicks it out the window as she does a U-turn at a red light. “I don’t want you to hurt him, that’s all.”
“Fine,” I say. Then, “Maybe you should write them down and post them on my wall. You know, in case I forget one.”
Stephanie giggles. The tension is broken. “I know you think it’s weird,” she says, “but I’m serious.”
“Okay.” What she doesn’t know is that I have no plans to sleep with Ethan, and I don’t think I’ll be breaking up with him anytime soon. Unless …
Boysboysboys. Del’s face flashes in my mind. I try to picture the face of a baby, the baby I carried for nine months. Our baby. But nothing comes. I can’t imagine her. I don’t even know what a ten-week-old looks like, or what they can do. Do they sit up? Drink from a bottle? Sleep through the night? How would I know? I’m just a kid. She might have come from my body, but I’m not her mother. Not since the second I signed her away, without even looking at her face.
But I remember the sound of her crying. I remember the feeling of achy despair as she was whisked away to the nursery, the way the nurses looked at me the whole time I was in the hospital. They were all cool, detached, and acted like I’d done something terribly wrong.
We make it back to campus just in time for dinner. We throw on our uniforms, spray ourselves with plenty of perfume, and put Visine in our eyes.
On the way up to dinner,
I see Ethan waiting for me outside Winchester.
“Let’s sit at Mr. Henry’s table tonight,” I tell him. I feel foggy and sort of gross. I’ve never really liked smoking pot; it always makes me self-conscious.
But I have some ideas about Paul Henry and Franny. Mostly, I just want it to stop. She’s a victim, for God’s sake, and she doesn’t even realize how pathological she’s being.
Paul Henry graduated from Harvard after Stonybrook, and my father adores him. I know for a fact that he wants to give Paul a permanent place on the faculty next fall.
Ethan and I sit at the end of the table farthest from Mr. Henry.
Ethan squints at me as he reaches for the mashed potatoes. “You’re acting weird, Emily.”
Stephanie is sitting beside me. We’ve been giggly since we sat down. I put a hand beside my mouth to keep Mr. Henry from seeing and give Ethan the universal sign for getting high, pressing my thumb and index finger together against my lips. Then I give him an apologetic grin, batting my eyelashes.
“Oh.” He’s obviously surprised. “Really?”
I nod. “Your sister made me do it.”
“Well, in that case—here you go.” And he begins to pile mashed potatoes onto my plate, one spoonful after the next.
“Stop!” Stephanie screeches, laughing. “You don’t want a fat girlfriend.”
“Her, too?” Ethan asks.
“Yes,” I say. He picks up the serving dish of mixed vegetables and starts dishing them generously onto his sister’s plate.
We’re practically holding on to each other to stay in our chairs, laughing, when Mr. Henry scowls at us and says, “Hey, girls. Calm down.”
“Ohhh,” Stephanie says, under her breath, “look who’s in charge. Hey, Mr. Henry—what’s your girlfriend’s name again?”
He glares at her. For the rest of dinner, he doesn’t say a word to us.
Later that night, after study hall but before lights out, I walk across campus to the carriage house above my parents’ garage and bang on Mr. Henry’s door.
It takes him forever to answer. When he finally does, it’s obvious he’s just gotten out of the shower: his hair is damp, a T-shirt and jeans thrown on.
“Emily,” he says, “what are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.”
He keeps the door almost closed. “About what?”
“You know what.” I cross my arms. “And if you don’t let me in, my dad’s gonna know all about it, too.”
He looks around, checking to see if anyone can see me. There’s nobody; besides, it’s almost dark. “Okay,” he says, “come in.”
He doesn’t offer me a seat, but I take one on the sofa anyway. “Thanks for getting us our smoke,” I say, sarcastic.
He blinks at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, no? You don’t remember getting an ounce of high-grade reefer for your girlfriend? Hm.”
His look turns stony. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
I remember when Paul was at Stonybrook, which makes the whole thing with Franny all the more creepy. Was he ogling her when she was in eighth grade and he was a senior?
“Well, then, let’s talk about something we both know about,” I say. “Franny.”
Paul starts to open his mouth, but I don’t let him get a word in. “You know she had a stepfather who—” I stop myself. I bite my lip. I feel like it’s none of my business to be telling him this. Even worse, I’m afraid that telling him might only make him want her more. This is the last thing Franny needs right now.
“A stepfather who what?” he asks, obviously interested.
“Never mind. But listen, Paul.”
He smirks. “That’s Mr. Henry, please, Emily.”
“I said listen, Paul. I don’t want you screwing around with her anymore.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “And you’re telling me this because you’re what? Her keeper?” He pauses. “She’s eighteen, Emily. It’s not illegal.”
“But it’s enough to get you fired.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” he says. “Come on. I’ve known you since you were a kid.” He gives me a smug grin. “Besides, I don’t think Daddy would like it very much if he knew his little girl was a stoner.”
“I am not a stoner. I didn’t have anything to do with that, um, transaction. But you know, Paul, for someone who went to Harvard, you’re not being very smart. What are you going to do, go to my dad and say, ‘I might be sleeping with a student, but you should know that I sold her roommates a felony’s worth of weed’? How does that help your case?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Okay. What do you want?”
“I already told you, I want you to stop screwing around with Franny.” It’s not lost on me that I’m doing pretty much the same thing to Paul that Stephanie just did to me. But it’s different with Franny. Franny can’t protect herself. She needs someone to help her.
“Emily. You have to understand, it’s not just a thing with us.” He hesitates. “I know a little bit about her stepfather. She’s been seeing Dr. Miller. I think it’s helping. Have you noticed she hasn’t been pulling her hair out lately?”
I hadn’t. I’ve been too preoccupied with my own problems. But now that he mentions it, I realize that he’s right.
“Emily,” he says, “I’ll be honest with you. I think I’m in love with her.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“I’m serious! She’s an incredible person. You don’t even see her, do you?” He crosses his arms. “If you’re going to cause trouble, we’ll just wait until after she graduates.” And he rolls his eyes. “But you ought to know that you’re being ridiculous.”
“Shut up. You’re just an intern, you know. I know for a fact that my dad is leaning toward not hiring you in the fall,” I lie.
He frowns. “He’s not? But he told me—”
“I don’t care what he told you. I’m his daughter.” Except that I’m not. “But I could put in a good word. If …”
“If what? Anything to get you out of here.”
“If you do two small favors for me.”
“What?”
“Find out what happened to Madeline Moon-Park.” This one’s for Renee, mostly. “You remember her, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Not really. She was in your class?”
“She was a year behind me. And she didn’t come back last year. She was here since seventh grade, and nobody has heard anything from her. So do some digging, ask my dad, whatever. Find out everything you can.”
Paul nods. “Okay. I can do that. What’s the second favor?”
I hesitate. “There was a boy here last year,” I say. “He wasn’t here long. You might remember him.”
Of course he remembers him. How could he not? People like Del come along once in a lifetime.
Paul’s lips curl into a slow grin. “Let me guess. His name was Del Sugar?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I remember him, all right. I remember him well. You want to know where he went?”
“Do you know?”
“I do,” he says. “Your father still talks to his parents, you know. And for someone who thinks she’s so clever, you shouldn’t have to blackmail me to find out what happened to him. He was a coke fiend. He went to rehab.”
Of course! Rehab! That’s why I haven’t …
“But rehab only lasts for, what, a few months?” I ask.
Paul shrugs. “It depends.”
“So is he still there?”
He takes a moment to stare at me. “I shouldn’t tell you,” he murmurs.
“Tell me what?” I can feel my pulse quicken. “What happened to him? Where is he?”
“It’s time for you to go,” Paul says.
“I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what happened to Del.”
“Nobody knows,” he says, heading toward the door. I get up and follow him.
“What do you mean, nobody kno
ws?”
Paul opens the door. He leans against the frame, clearly enjoying how agitated I’ve become. “He went to rehab for three months,” he tells me, “and then he went home. After that, he ran away. Nobody’s heard from him in months. Not even his parents.”
chapter nineteen
I’m in Dr. Miller’s office with my mom and “dad.” The first five minutes is nothing but weary silence. Last night, my mother showed up at my dorm room to tell me that, together, she and my father had gone to Dr. Miller and explained the entire situation, and that we were meeting in her office first thing in the morning, during my study hall.
So here we are.
Dr. Miller’s hands are folded on her desk. “Well,” she begins, “Emily, we’re here for you, after all. Would you like to start?”
Where am I supposed to begin? What does she expect me to say? What do any of them expect me to say?
“I don’t know what you want to hear,” I tell them. “I live the same life for almost eighteen years, never knowing anything different, and then I find out that I’m not even your real child, Daddy. How do you think I feel? I’m pissed.” I pause. “I’m just like Franny and Grace and Steph, calling you ‘Dad.’ I’m not any different now.”
“You’re pissed,” Dr. Miller repeats. “Okay. That’s good. That’s healthy.”
I want to smack her across her accredited face. How can she possibly know how I feel? How can she sit here with my parents, pretending to be an impartial mediator, knowing that we’ve wasted session after session trying to work to the bottom of something that my parents could have explained in one conversation?
We sit in her office for what feels like hours; when I glance at the clock, I see that it’s only been about twenty minutes. Forty to go. My mom has just finished retelling the story of how she and my father have been deceiving me my entire life—which Dr. Miller interrupts to make sure I understand was all “in my best interest”—when my dad sits up a little straighter beside me. Until now, he’s been silent and stiff, although there are tears in his eyes. He’s gripping the arm of Dr. Miller’s sofa so tightly that his knuckles are white.
Where the Truth Lies Page 20
