by Dyan Sheldon
Contents
Prologue: Something That Happened Last Christmas
Chapter One: Dr Kilpatiky’s Bubble Speech
Chapter Two: A Conversation at the End of Summer
Chapter Three: Marigold Tries Reason
Chapter Four: Georgiana Grumbles
Chapter Five: Asher Attempts Negotiation
Chapter Six: Marigold Starts Weaving a Tangled Web
Chapter Seven: No View of the Ocean, Either
Chapter Eight: Asher Is Dragged Away from His Career Strategy with Something of a Vengeance
Chapter Nine: Another Week, Another Wednesday Afternoon
Chapter Ten: The Kilgour Wakes
Chapter Eleven: If You Won’t Embrace the Chaos, the Chaos Will Embrace You
Chapter Twelve: Marigold’s Favourite Book
Chapter Thirteen: A Match Not Made in Heaven
Chapter Fourteen: Asher’s Not Going to Let Mrs Dunbar Push Him Around Any More
Chapter Fifteen: Waiting for Mrs Hawkle
Chapter Sixteen: Georgiana Can’t Find Her Phone
Chapter Seventeen: More Than One Kind of Mystery
Chapter Eighteen: This Time Asher Really Isn’t Going to Let Mrs Dunbar Push Him Around Any More
Chapter Nineteen: Georgiana’s Lost Lover
Chapter Twenty: Asher’s Lost Weekend
Chapter Twenty-one: Christmas Present, Christmas Past
Chapter Twenty-two: Merry Christmas, Mrs Kilgour
Chapter Twenty-three: Another Christmas Not a Million Miles Away
Chapter Twenty-four: Just When Things Seem to Be Going So Well
Chapter Twenty-five: A Few More Things That Georgiana Didn’t Know About Mrs Kilgour
Chapter Twenty-six: Things Are Bad, Then Things Get Worse
Chapter Twenty-seven: Detective Liotta on the Case
Chapter Twenty-eight: A Short Cruise, a Long Journey
Chapter Twenty-nine: Asher’s Career Trajectory Takes an Unexpected Turn
Epilogue: A Conversation at the Beginning of Summer
Prologue
Something That Happened Last Christmas
There will be millions of things that Dr Kilpatiky will forget as time goes by, but the moment when she saw the set of golf clubs among the donations for the school’s Christmas Adopt-a-Family appeal will not be one of them. That she will remember for the rest of her life.
“God help us!” Dr Kilpatiky spoke so loudly that everyone in the room turned around. “What the hell is that?”
“Golf clubs,” answered Mrs Mahoney, who was unfortunate enough to be standing beside the principal right then.
“I can see that!” Dr Kilpatiky snapped back. “What I don’t understand is what they’re doing here.”
“They came with the slicing machine and the caviar,” muttered Mrs Mahoney. She might have added, “and the pairs of very expensive worn-once shoes”, but didn’t because she was already scurrying away.
Left to herself, Dr Kilpatiky examined the offerings more closely. The shoes were all designer labels. The slicing machine had never been used. The caviar had expired. The golf clubs were monogrammed.
Every year the local paper publishes a list of families in the county who have fallen upon hard times and need some special help at Christmas, and every year Shell Harbour High School “adopts” one of those families. Because Shell Harbour is one of the most affluent communities in the state, its students have shelves (if not closets and rooms) full of things that have barely or never been used, and they are encouraged to donate them. But it’s always been understood that these should be practical things – things people struggling to get by can use: canned and boxed goods, towels and linens, jackets and trainers, toys and games, even small appliances or a sixth TV set that no one has ever plugged in. While there might be an argument that a slicing machine is practical (assuming the recipient has something to slice), Dr Kilpatiky didn’t feel that the shoes, the caviar or the clubs fell into that category.
Thanks to the monogram, it took the principal no time at all to identify the donor: Marigold Liotta. Marigold Liotta was summoned.
Marigold was smiling as she stepped into the principal’s office. Partly she was smiling because she had never been in even the most minor trouble since she started school and had no idea that anything was wrong. Partly she was smiling because Marigold smiles the way the sun shines. Always, unless hidden by something.
Dr Kilpatiky thanked her for coming.
“Oh, that’s OK,” said Marigold with her usual good humour. “Is it about the Christmas tea?” Traditionally, Marigold’s sorority hosts a tea for the staff each December. That year Marigold was one of the organizers. “Because you don’t have to worry, Dr Kilpatiky. I found a baker who can do gluten-free.”
“No, it’s not about the tea.” Dr Kilpatiky gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat, Marigold. I wanted to have a word with you about your very imaginative donations to our Christmas appeal.”
Marigold’s smile brightened. “I wanted to do something different.”
“Well, you certainly achieved that.” The principal’s lips were as flat as the EKG of a corpse. “I don’t think anyone’s ever donated caviar before.”
Marigold said she figured as much. “Everybody usually gives stuff like beans and spaghetti.”
“Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Dr Kilpatiky folded her hands on her desk, leaning forward slightly. “I was wondering, Marigold, if you’d actually read the information on the family we adopted.”
That year the school had chosen Family 898: two adults, and three children under twelve; both parents unemployed because of lay-offs and a debilitating illness; deep in debt because of impossible medical bills and lack of income; living in an emergency shelter since the bank foreclosed on their house.
“Of course I did,” said Marigold. “I feel really bad for them. Those poor little kids.”
“I see,” murmured the principal, but she didn’t. “Then could you explain what you thought our family could do with your gifts? Did you think Mrs 898 would wear the Louboutins to the laundrette?”
Not one of the students at Shell Harbour High has ever suspected the principal of having a sense of humour, but Marigold laughed nonetheless. “Of course not. But I know Georgiana – Georgiana Shiller? – I know she gave her boots. And I know other people gave slippers and trainers and stuff like that. That’s why I gave shoes that are nothing but pretty. And special. I thought they’d cheer her up.”
“But she’s never going to use them.”
“That doesn’t matter,” explained Marigold. “I mean, Christmas shouldn’t be just about warm jackets and jumpers and boxes of macaroni and cheese, should it? It should be fun and joyous. I believe Christmas should sparkle.”
Rather like the Louboutins.
“That’s a lovely thought, Marigold.” Dr Kilpatiky was starting to feel that staring at Marigold’s smile was like staring at a naked light bulb. “Only—”
“And didn’t Jesus say that you can’t live just on bread?”
“More or less,” murmured the principal. “But I doubt very much that he was thinking caviar and golf clubs were needed for a well-balanced life.” She took a breath and tried again. “The point is that none of these things really help people who are hungry.”
“Oh, but they do,” Marigold protested.
Dr Kilpatiky raised one eyebrow. Archly. “Let them eat caviar? Have you become Shell Harbour’s answer to Marie Antoinette?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that they can sell all that stuff on eBay. And get whatever they want with the money they make.”
“Expired caviar and monogrammed golf clubs.”
Mar
igold nodded, causing the miniature reindeer hanging from her ears to dance merrily. “The caviar’s only just expired, so it’s fine, and those clubs are really expensive. Somebody’ll buy them no matter whose initials are on them.”
“And what if our family doesn’t have a computer?” enquired the principal. It surprised her that she was actually having this conversation, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “They’re not going to be able to sell them on eBay without a computer.”
“Oh, they’ll have a computer,” Marigold assured her. “You know Byron – Byron Locke? – he’s always upgrading. He gave them one of his old ones.”
Chapter One
Dr Kilpatiky’s Bubble Speech
Almost a year has gone by since Dr Kilpatiky had her few words with Marigold Liotta about her Christmas donations. It is now the end of August, and today Dr Kilpatiky and the department chairpersons of Shell Harbour High are having one of their final meetings before the start of the new school year.
The last item on the meeting’s agenda is the school’s community service requirement. In order to graduate, every student must donate twenty hours a year to work that in some way benefits the public – such as picking up litter in the park, visiting care homes, raising money for charity, helping in a church charity shop or coaching an elementary school sports team. Dr Kilpatiky has been giving this requirement a great deal of thought over the summer, and has come to the conclusion that there is a flaw in the system.
“I don’t really see any problem,” says Mrs Mahoney. Not that she would. The community service requirement is managed by the social sciences department, which Mrs Mahoney heads. “We can’t expect them to do more than twenty hours a year. Not and keep up our academic standards.” Among other things, Shell Harbour is known for its high academic standards and competitive curriculum.
Several pairs of eyes glance quickly at watches. Dr Kilpatiky can almost hear ice cubes falling into glasses and lawn furniture being dragged into the sun. It’s been a long meeting; everyone wants to go home. She smiles. Warmly. As if to say, This won’t take much more time and it won’t hurt. “Of course not, Gwen. It isn’t the quantity I’m worried about; it’s the quality.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Mrs Mahoney’s smile falters. “You know we have no control over what goes on in the placements, Irenie. If they don’t find their own, we just provide a list of options. The organizations and the students do the rest.”
“It’s not as if they get graded on what they do,” chips in Ms Sketz from maths. “They just get marked on attendance.” No one has ever failed a community service position – not even the junior who was found sound asleep in a supply closet at the hospital.
“Yes, I am aware of that.” A sledgehammer couldn’t shift Dr Kilpatiky’s smile right now. “However, if I’m remembering correctly, the community service placements are supposed to expand our students’ experience of the world.” The only way Shell Harbour could have a wealthier and more privileged student body would be if it were a private boarding school. Along the lines of Eton. The majority of its students have about as much contact with ordinary people as the Queen of England does. Possibly less since their visits to hospitals and developing countries aren’t as frequent as Her Majesty’s.
“And that’s what they do,” says Mrs Mahoney.
“Not as well as they might.” While others were relaxing at the beach, Dr Kilpatiky was looking into this quite thoroughly. Although all of the students are doing something that can be interpreted as community service, many of the projects are not exactly Everest-like challenges that catapult them out of their comfort zones or put them in touch with the less fortunate. “Something like picking up soda cans from the side of the road may be very helpful but it’s not really stretching their capacity for compassion.”
“We’re not trying to create Mother Teresas,” argues Mrs Mahoney. “Just open them up a little and encourage a sense of public responsibility. And in any case, you can’t blame them for the less challenging options. The brief is necessarily rather broad.”
“I’m not blaming them. But the majority of placements are within our township.” Dr Kilpatiky absent-mindedly twists her wedding ring around her finger. “Which means that many of our students have no idea how most people live.”
Sebastian Marks from the language-arts department stops doodling at the bottom of his agenda and puts down his pen. “With all due respect, Irenie, ‘most people’ don’t live in the United States. So even if you have them running a soup kitchen they’re not going to know how most people in the world live.”
Dr Kilpatiky’s mouth looks like patience stretched to its limits. “I meant most people around here, Seb.”
“Even so,” says Mr Marks. “You can hardly blame them for that, either. This is their community, after all. They don’t live in a trailer park or a suburban slum, they live in Shell Harbour.” Where, besides the ocean and the bay for their boats, everyone has a pool. “As far as our kids are concerned, being poor means having one bathroom, one car and only two TVs.”
Because she has years of training and experience, Dr Kilpatiky manages to sigh only in her heart. “I appreciate that, Seb, but I overhear things and I observe. And my general impression is that a lot of them believe that life is a meritocracy and that those who don’t succeed have only themselves to blame.”
“Be that as it may—” begins Dr Goldblatt from science.
“Be that as it may, besides this general impression of mine, several things happened last year that have convinced me that many of our students live in a bubble. A bubble of advantage. Which I believe it is our duty to burst.”
“Are we talking about the war on poverty debate?” asks Mr Marks. It was in his class that Georgiana Shiller suggested that throwing a party could be used as a weapon against hunger.
Dr Kilpatiky does believe that if life were a candy bar Georgiana Shiller would eat the wrapper, but it wasn’t Georgiana who started the principal thinking about reforming the programme. “Not specifically.”
“Asher Grossman coming to the Halloween dance as a homeless person?” guesses Ms Sketz. Asher, dressed in clothes that obviously weren’t his (they were cheap and well-worn), had sat himself near the door of the gym, a dog wearing a bandana on one side and a cardboard cup that held a few dimes and nickels on the other. On his lap he had a sign that said GOD BLESS YOU. When Dr Kilpatiky saw him Ms Sketz thought the principal might have a seizure. Her face turned a shade of red normally associated with over-ripe tomatoes, and her nose started twitching uncontrollably, a sign that she is very angry. “He was being ironic,” adds Ms Sketz. Asher not only has the highest GPA in the school but is the star of her Advanced Placement Calculus class (and every other class he takes) and, therefore, deserving of her protection.
“That’s one interpretation of what he was,” says Dr Kilpatiky. “But to be honest, it was as much the dog as anything. You don’t see that many people living on the street with a dog that costs over a thousand dollars. But, again, I wasn’t thinking specifically of Asher.”
“Oh,” Mrs Mahoney sighs. “It’s Marigold Liotta who’s brought this on, isn’t it?”
It is. If there is any one student who stands out among the scores whose comments and jokes and behaviour have caused the principal’s eyes to narrow and nose to twitch like a hound on the scent of a hare over the last year, it is probably Marigold Liotta, who, though her heart is very much in the right place, wins the so-out-of-touch-she-might-as-well-be-in-orbit prize. Dr Kilpatiky really never will forget her first sight of the golf clubs, although it was probably the expired caviar that was the sliver of straw that would have had her flat on the ground and waiting for the ambulance if she were a camel.
“I’m still not sure what it is you want to do,” says Mrs Mahoney. “You can’t punish them because their parents have money.”
“I don’t want to punish them,” says Dr Kilpatiky. “I want to help them become the sensitive and aware people I know the
y can be.”
“What are you planning to do?” asks Mrs Moreno from foreign languages. “Pack them all off to dig wells in Africa?”
“I don’t think we need to do anything quite that drastic. However, it won’t do them any harm to broaden their definition of community a little. After all, we’re not an island. There are other, less wealthy, towns and villages all around us, but very few of our students choose the placements they offer.” She can’t restructure the entire programme, but she can do something to redress the balance – even if only slightly. “What I’m suggesting is that we remove the element of choice, so those who would automatically choose the soft option won’t be able to.”
“You mean assign them placements?”
Guarded glances are exchanged and eyes roll. Choice is something the pupils of Shell Harbour think of as a constitutional right. The menu in the cafeteria is testament to that.
“I was thinking of something more random and lottery-like.” Dr Kilpatiky focuses her smile on Mr Jacobwitz, chairperson of IT. “I was thinking there must be a computer program that could make the selections.”
“No problema,” says Mr Jacobwitz. “We have the technology.”
“What if they get something they can’t do?” Mrs Moreno wants to know. “Something they aren’t any good at? Let’s face it, you wouldn’t want someone like Georgiana cutting the grass in the park.”
When the laughter finally stops, Dr Kilpatiky says, “Then we do it again.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” says Mr Marks.
“They’re not going to like it,” warns Mrs Mahoney.
“They don’t have to like it,” says Dr Kilpatiky. “They just have to do it.”
A statement that, though the principal has no way of knowing it, easily fits under the heading: Famous Last Words.
Chapter Two
A Conversation at the End of Summer
Six teenagers and a Yorkshire terrier lie on rattan loungers by a large swimming pool. The pool water is the colour of a tropical lagoon on a very good day in a very good year, and all seven are shaded by brightly coloured umbrellas (souvenirs, like the loungers, of a trip to Thailand the summer before). The pool has a view of the ocean and gives the impression that if you dived in and kept swimming you would effortlessly flow into the Atlantic (and, presumably, be washed out to sea). Three of the six – Marigold, Asher and Georgiana – are being discussed at this very moment by Dr Kilpatiky and her staff. The remaining three are Claudelia Gillen, Byron Locke and Will Lundquist. The Yorkshire terrier’s name is Dunkin. Dunkin belongs to Will. The pool belongs to Georgiana.
