All These Beautiful Strangers

by Elizabeth Klehfoth

  River rolled her eyes. “Those hard candy shells come from a resin excreted by bugs,” she said.

  “I guess they don’t sound so appetizing when you put it like that,” Drew said.

  “Yes, I find it difficult to find the torture of innocent animals appetizing in general,” River said.

  I grabbed a bag of cinnamon-sugar pecans.

  “Okay, what about some nuts?” I asked.

  River leveled me with a death glare.

  “What? You’re not one of those people who consider plants sentient beings, are you?”

  “They’re coated in sugar,” River said. “a.k.a. bone char.”

  “Is there anything in this store you can eat?” I asked.

  “I’ll check the produce section,” River said, grabbing the cart from me and pushing it determinedly down the aisle.

  Later, when we were waiting in line to check out with our cart full of organic kale and fresh fruit, I skimmed the magazines displayed next to the boxes of gum and York Peppermint Patties, and I saw it: on the cover of the Star Enquirer was my mother. She was wearing a pair of thick sunglasses and a hat and she was sprawled out on a beach chair. She held up her hand as if to block the photographer’s shot of her face. billionaire’s wife grace calloway spotted in buenos aires with secret lover, the tabloid read.

  The color drained from my face. I glanced up and caught Drew’s eye, and I knew from the expression on her face that she had seen it, too. I opened my mouth to say something—to cut it off before it could even start—to explain to her that it was all a lie, that none of it was true, when Drew beat me to it.

  “Oh my god,” Drew said.

  “What?” River asked as she moved a bag of oranges from the cart to the conveyor belt.

  “These blueberries aren’t organic,” Drew said.

  “What?” River asked, reaching for the carton of blueberries in Drew’s hands.

  “I don’t eat GMOs,” Drew said. “Can you grab the organic ones for me? Please?”

  River sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  When she was gone, Drew picked up the People magazine next to the Star Enquirer and flipped through it casually.

  “Another one bites the dust,” Drew said, clucking her tongue at some celebrity breakup. I didn’t see who it was—I was too busy trying to word the explanation calmly enough in my head so that she wouldn’t think I sounded crazy.

  That photograph—the one of my mother on the cover—had been taken on a family vacation in St. Thomas when I was six. I knew this because I was the one who had taken that picture. My mother had put her hand up to block the shot because she had just woken up from a nap dozing in that beach chair, and I had startled her. I don’t know how the Star Enquirer got ahold of that picture, which family album they had raided, which family member had sold it to the highest bidder. But it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  No, my father did not drive my mother off or kill her or whatever else the tabloids were saying. No, I didn’t want to talk about it.

  But Drew didn’t ask. She didn’t give me a condescending smile or a pitying glance. She just placed the People magazine back in the rack, but this time over the Star Enquirer so the picture of my mother was completely covered, hidden from view, and went back to unloading the cart. That’s when I knew we would be best friends.

  That was the closest I had ever come to talking to someone at Knollwood about my mother. I had wanted to keep that part of my life in the past, to move on. So, how did Yael know? How had I been so transparent?

  “It’s Dalton, isn’t it?” Yael asked. “You’re totally dreading seeing him tonight.”

  Dalton. In truth, I had forgotten all about him these last two days.

  I stared back at Yael’s reflection. She was looking at me so earnestly—with so much concern. Maybe it would be nice to tell someone who wasn’t involved in any way in my family drama—someone who could just listen and offer a fresh perspective if I needed it. Maybe it would be nice not to be so alone in all of this. For a moment, I contemplated telling them everything. But then I realized, I would have to tell them everything. I would have to go back to the very beginning of all of it, which felt overwhelming. And what if—what if I did choose to trust them, and that came back to bite me in the ass, as it had in the past?

  “Right,” I said after a moment. “It’s Dalton.”

  “Don’t let him bum you out,” Drew said, coming over and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Here, let me do your hair for you. I have an idea for an updo that would look killer on you. When Dalton sees you, he’ll forget all about that slut McKenna.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to give her a smile that I hoped she would think was genuine. “Thanks.”

  String lights were draped overhead in the gymnasium and a live band was playing on the stage that the student council had set up. Stevie, Yael, and Drew were all out on the dance floor, gyrating in one big clump with most of the other students who had shown up to the dance, but I had made an excuse about needing something to drink half an hour ago and retreated to an empty table by myself. I’d been trying to be sociable and normal all night, but I was reaching my limit. After keeping up a steady stream of conversation at the dinner the school had catered for us on the front lawn, I’d done a solid hour of swaying and jumping up and down with my hands in the air with everyone else (which was no easy feat in four-inch Manolos). Now, I was contemplating my exit strategy even though it was still pretty early.

  My phone vibrated and I pulled it out of my purse. To my surprise, I saw Greyson’s name come up on the screen with a text message.

  Greyson: Nice Irish exit on Sunday.

  His text made me smile. I typed back a quick reply.

  Me: Sry I didn’t say goodbye.:/

  Greyson: No worries. My mom filled me in. She’s worried about you, tho.

  I bit my lip and put my phone down. I didn’t want to talk about how I felt or how worried Claire was. But then I remembered what Eugenia had said—how my mother had struggled with depression. If that were true, surely Claire would know. I picked up my phone and texted Greyson back.

  Me: Did Claire ever say anything to you about my mom being depressed or having weird violent outbursts?

  Greyson: No. Why? What’s up?

  Me: My grandmother told me that my mom went through these weird moods and may have had some sort of chemical imbalance. Idk. Do you think that could be true?

  Greyson: Idk.

  “Who’s Greyson?”

  I looked up to see Drew standing over me, slightly out of breath, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.

  “No one,” I said, and I lowered my phone beneath the table so she couldn’t see the screen. “Just an old friend.”

  “A cute old friend?” Drew asked, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “It’s not like that,” I said.

  “All right, Ms. Secretive, I won’t grill you,” she said, sinking into the seat next to mine. “Are you hydrated yet? You went to get a drink, like, forever ago.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She leaned forward and started unbuckling the straps of her heels. “These bad boys are killing me. I don’t know why I thought three-inch heels were a good idea.”

  I felt my phone vibrate and looked down to see another text from Greyson.

  Greyson: Do you know who the private investigator was who worked on your mom’s case? Like, have you ever seen any of the stuff he had on her?

  The private investigator—I hadn’t thought about him in ages. I had met him once, when I was seven. He had interviewed me. And then I remembered seeing him on occasion the year after. He would come by to visit my father, and they would go into my father’s study and close the door.

  Me: Hmm. No. But I could look into it.

  Greyson: There might be something there.

  “Come dance with us,” Drew said. She was on her feet again, barefoot this time, hold
ing her hands out toward me to pull me up.

  I glanced out at the dance floor and saw Yael and Stevie near the edge of the stage. Yael waved at me; Stevie wrangled an invisible lasso over her head and threw it at me, attempting to lasso me back onto the dance floor. I laughed. Then the song that was playing ended and a slow song came on.

  “May I have this dance?” Drew asked.

  “Of course,” I laughed.

  She took my hand and dragged me out onto the middle of the dance floor. We both put our hands on each other’s shoulders and held each other at arms’ length, swaying back and forth like we were at some middle school dance and giggling like we were five.

  Around us, real couples slow-danced and held each other close. I caught sight of Crosby holding Ren around the waist. Drew saw them too. She rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound. I laughed. But then I saw them: Dalton and McKenna.

  Honestly, I didn’t think it would affect me so much, not with everything else that was going on. But it did. I felt it in my gut, like someone had blindsided me with a punch.

  McKenna was wearing a backless, red, floor-length dress that looked stunning. Dalton had his arms wrapped around her; he leaned down to whisper something in her ear and she leaned her head back and laughed. I looked away.

  What if that were me? That was a silly, stupid thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder. What if I had said yes to Dalton? What if that were me there with Dalton instead of McKenna—me who Dalton was holding, my ear that Dalton was whispering in? My heart felt heavy.

  When the slow song ended, a loud, upbeat song came on. I leaned forward and yelled so Drew could hear me over the music.

  “I’m gonna go pee,” I said.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No, no, stay,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay, come find us,” she said.

  I took off toward the girls’ bathroom, which also happened to be on the way to the exit, which was where I was really headed. I couldn’t be there anymore. I would make some excuse to Drew later—I would tell her I had gotten sick, that I hadn’t wanted to ruin everyone else’s night, so I just ducked out.

  Outside, the air was crisp and chilly. I hugged my bare arms to my chest and ran my fingers over them to keep from shivering.

  I could hear voices carrying across campus. The school had erected a large tent on the football field for the alumni, where they had their own catered dinner and entertainment, and the Falls Church municipal orchestra was playing in the auditorium. The path I was on would meander by there. I wondered what time it was exactly, and whether I would be passing by the entrance to the auditorium as the performance let out. I didn’t want to risk running into Grandfather or Uncle Teddy and have them see me walking home from the dance alone. It would raise too many questions I didn’t feel like answering. It would be best to turn back and loop around Acacia Hall, go the long way. I turned around briskly and walked right into someone.

  “Sorry—” I said, startled, and looked up into Dalton’s chocolate-brown eyes. I was close enough to smell his cologne—a citrus scent mixed with spices and wood.

  He had his hands on my arms to steady me. For some reason, he was smiling at me. “Hey there, Calloway,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said dumbly. What the crap was Dalton doing out here?

  “I saw you take off back there and I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Oh, okay, good,” he said.

  He still had his hands on my arms. Why did he still have his hands on my arms?

  “Is that all?” I asked, glancing pointedly at his hand on my arm.

  “You’re leaving . . . just because?” he asked, finally letting go of me and burying his hands in his pockets.

  “Yeah, I’m tired,” I said. “What’s with the third degree?”

  “You’re upset?” he asked, confused.

  I didn’t know why I was snapping at Dalton when just a second ago I had been fantasizing about being in his arms, but all of a sudden I was so annoyed I couldn’t help myself.

  “What do you want, Dalton?” I asked.

  “Can I walk you back to your dorm?” he asked.

  “You want to walk me back to my dorm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “What about McKenna?” I asked.

  “What about McKenna?” Dalton asked.

  “Are you a parrot or something?” I asked. “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

  “Sorry,” Dalton said, taken aback. “So, you’re mad at me?” he asked after a moment.

  I rolled my eyes. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing. Go enjoy the dance with your date.”

  “You’re mad that I brought McKenna to the dance?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t care who you go to the dance with.”

  “Okay,” Dalton said. “Because I remember asking you to the dance, and I remember you telling me to ask someone else, which is what I did. But now you seemed pissed off about it.”

  Yes, that’s exactly right, I thought.

  “No,” was all I said.

  For some reason, he was smiling. Why was he smiling? Was he laughing at me? Did he find this funny?

  “Stop smiling before I hit you,” I said.

  “Charlie,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen, and then I want you to tell me the truth in return.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I like you,” he said.

  “Well, obviously,” I said.

  Dalton laughed. “See, this is exactly why I like you, Calloway. You’re not like other girls.”

  I held up my hand. “I’m going to stop you right there, before you get to the follow-up cliché line of the century, ‘I’ve never felt this way before.’”

  “Hell, you don’t make this easy, do you?” Dalton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t a line—you aren’t like the other girls here. Other girls would have taken that as a compliment, but I say it to you, and you basically tell me to piss off.”

  “Okay, geez, sorry,” I said. “What did you mean then, if you weren’t being cliché?”

  “I meant, you’re not like other girls, because other girls travel around in these packs, like they’re scared to be alone,” Dalton said. “But you’re by yourself a lot. Not because you don’t have friends, but because you’re just comfortable that way. You’re also, like, the master of bullshitting teachers. And you invite yourself to guys’ poker night, and then soundly beat all of us. Though your tactics were a bit unfair. And while most girls—and guys for that matter—are obsessed with who they’re hooking up with, I’ve never seen you with anyone. You’re just—I don’t know—different. And I like that. I like you. And that isn’t a line, it’s just the truth.”

  I was quiet. I’d always had a way with words. I was quick with witty retorts. I was an expert at deflecting teachers’ questions with observations so long-winded they’d forget what their question was by the end of it. But now, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Say something,” he said.

  I exhaled. It was cold enough out that I could see my breath.

  “You’re all right, too, I guess,” I said after a moment.

  “Okay then,” Dalton said, as if that settled everything. “Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, but I wriggled into it anyway. It still had his warmth.

  “Come on,” Dalton said, and he took my hand. “There’s something I want you to see, and I don’t want us to miss it.”

  We turned back down the path that led past the auditorium and started walking. As we walked, I heard the bell tower over the campus church strike the hour. Ten o’clock. I almost stopped; I almost turned back. The orchestra would just have finished playing—and sure enough, the d
oors to the auditorium ahead of us were opening, and people were pouring out. I wanted to turn around and go back the other way to avoid the hassle of the crowd of alumni, but then I saw it.

  In front of the auditorium was a row of busts on short pillars. On one side were busts of every headmaster who had served at Knollwood for the past one hundred years. At the end of this row, of course, was Headmaster Collins’s bust, which had just been put in the previous year. It usually stood out because it was slightly whiter than all the other busts. The elements hadn’t weathered it yet to the same sepia shade as the others. But tonight, it stood out for an entirely different reason. Under the floodlights from the auditorium, you could see it even from a distance—Nancy’s diamond-encrusted dog collar around Headmaster Collins’s neck. The diamonds caught and sparkled in the light. But it wasn’t just the dog collar or the leash attached to it that drew attention. A balloon had been glued to the bust’s lips, with “Bark! Bark! Bark!” written all over it. And on the pillar, someone had spray-painted the words “Heel, Collins. Good boy.”

  This has been an administration with a bark and no bite, but no more, Headmaster Collins had said at Auden’s disciplinary hearing. He had threatened the A’s. And when Dalton had asked Ren what she had thought of the headmaster’s challenge, Ren had barked. I had thought it strange at the time.

  Now someone from the alumni group had seen Headmaster Collins’s graffitied bust; people were gathering around it. I could hear the excited fervor of the crowd. And there, making his way hurriedly to the bust, the crowd parting in front of him like the Red Sea, was Headmaster Collins himself.

  “It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is,” Grandfather said, sawing into his stack of pancakes. “How a grown man can’t command the respect of a bunch of teenagers when that’s his fucking job is beyond me.”

  “I wish I’d gotten to see it,” Piper said for the hundredth time that morning, sighing into her glass of orange juice. “I wish I’d been there instead of back at the hotel watching the baby.”