Our family has dinner Thursday night. And I’m shocked to find Dad in the study, and then, later still, at the dinner table. He even talks to me. He asks about Astor.
“I hear you’re seeing someone new” is what he says, a piece of baked potato on his fork.
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t look at Peter, but I can tell he’s watching me. I haven’t asked him why he’s barely spent four consecutive days in California since school started. Now that Astor has explained, I’m angry with Peter again for not getting it. For saying Astor is crazy. He lost his mother. He’s damaged, not dark.
“I’d like to meet him,” he says.
My mother isn’t speaking, but I look at her. “Really?” I say. This is the most interest Dad has shown in my life since January. I can’t help the spark of hope that begins to bubble up.
My dad nods. “If he’s important to you, sure.”
Dad glances at Peter then. I wish he didn’t. So badly. I wish I could have believed a little bit longer that his intentions were genuine. That he was maybe just trying to get to know me, my life again. But he just wants to see if Peter was right. If Astor is crazy.
I don’t say anything. I just eat my baked potato and steak until Mom pushes back her chair. I follow her, leaving my plate. Peter tries to get up after me, but Dad calls him back to the table.
I lock my door. Astor calls, but I don’t pick up. I don’t want to talk. Not now. When Peter knocks, I don’t answer. I pretend to be asleep; it’s the best I can come up with.
I know I should, but I don’t call Astor back, and I go to school Friday morning with a pit in my stomach the size of a peach. It sits there—leaden, hard. I think it might be slowly seeping chemicals into my intestines.
But lucky for me, Astor isn’t at school. I can’t help but notice that this time his absence makes me feel calmer, looser. Freer, maybe.
Second period. English.
I’m listening to Mr. Tenner, and it’s pretty soothing. He kind of has the perfect voice. I know that’s a weird thing to say, and it’s not like I have a crush on Mr. Tenner or anything. I once heard Abigail say that he’s the most “bangable” teacher at school, but that was Abigail, not me. There is something about his voice, though. It’s deep, but not droning. It’s calming, but it doesn’t put you to sleep.
Today is the last day of our week on Mrs. Dalloway. I didn’t read it this time, but I have before because Trevor loves Virginia Woolf. To the Lighthouse is his favorite novel. I read it last summer, but I didn’t really get it. She’s hard to follow. Trevor told me she writes her way into you. “It’s like she begins to think through you,” he said. “She anticipates what’s going on in your head.”
I remember we were in the park, spread out on a picnic blanket, my head resting on his stomach. I was holding the book straight above me, trying to block out the sun.
“But we all think differently,” I said. “That’s impossible.”
Trevor leaned down, smiled over me. “It’s not, actually,” he said. “I believe we’re all a lot more alike than you think.”
“Please,” I said. “The thought processes in my head and in yours are not remotely alike.”
“True,” Trevor said. “You probably don’t constantly think about how gorgeous you are.”
“Man,” I said. “You are like a bad novel.”
Trevor laughed. “It’s true, though.”
“And what about Claire? She goes from lunch to love in the time it takes me to turn off my alarm.”
“Come on,” he said. “Just give it a try.”
Then he grabbed it out of my hands and started reading to me. His voice isn’t like Mr. Tenner’s, though, and soon I was fast asleep on his stomach.
I wonder if he remembers. Like with the shirt from Brooks Brothers, I wonder if he’s thinking about that right now. He’s looking at Mr. Tenner, his lightning scar all lit up on his forehead. I forget I’m staring until he swivels around and looks at me.
I glance sideways at Kristen. She’s sitting diagonal to me in the next row, tapping her pen against her notebook. Trevor was wrong. We’re not at all alike. We have no idea what other people are thinking, what’s going on inside their heads. If we did, someone besides Kristen would have been on Abigail’s roof that night. Tripp and Daniel are bent over something, although I highly doubt it’s Mrs. Dalloway. I crane closer and see it’s the Post. They’re probably trying to figure out what Jacqueline Delgado was up to last weekend. Whether she’s single or not. Page Six never ceases to provide the hard-hitting news.
Arch elbows Tripp and they both look up at me. Tripp mouths something, but I can’t understand what it is. He’s not trying too hard. Then he holds up the tabloid. I squint to look but I can’t see. He’s pointing to the headline, but it’s too far away for me to be able to read.
I shrug and turn my attention back to Mr. Tenner. He’s writing some notes on the board and I take them down.
The role of love.
The role of society
Death.
His words morph into memories.
Astor. Hayley. That room full of photos. I shake my head, trying to clear the frame. Tripp and Arch are still whispering, and Constance has gotten in on it. Out of the corner of my eye I see her slide a Post out of her bag, nod to them, and slip it back in. What is going on, here? Did some D-list celebrity kick the bucket? Alexander Hall and Leslie Pewter are also reading it.
They glance at me and then at each other. I have the same feeling I had the first day of school when Kristen walked into this classroom. The same one I had the first week back at Kensington in January. Like I’m on exhibit in the Museum of Natural History—stuffed and behind glass.
The chimes go off and people start gathering their stuff. Constance makes a move to catch up with Tripp, and then glances back at me. She pulls the Post out of her bag and hands it to me. “Sorry,” she says. Then she’s grabbing Arch’s arm, his hand traveling lower down her waist as they disappear into the hall. Trevor glances at me as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, and then Kristen goes over to him. “I had an idea,” she says.
He smiles at her and nods. “Mrs. Lancaster said three thirty, by the way. Is that cool?”
“Cool.”
They leave side by side, and I stuff the last of my books into my bag.
“Oi, Mcalister.” It’s Mr. Tenner.
I’m holding the paper in my hands, and I tuck it under my arm, attempting to hide it out of his sight. He raises his eyebrows and waves me over. Great, now I’m going to get in trouble for looking at something that isn’t even mine. Thanks a lot, Constance.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Great lecture. I’m really enjoying—” But he holds up his hand, cutting me off.
Mr. Tenner takes off his glasses and cleans them on the corner of his shirt. He doesn’t tuck his button-downs in. Even among the students at Kensington, that’s rare. I think Trevor is one of a lonely few.
“I’ve always hoped that I’m the kind of teacher who puts out the ‘I’m here for you’ vibe.” Mr. Tenner says. He peers at me, puts his glasses back on. “Am I right?”
I cross my arms and the newspaper. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah, definitely.”
“So you know that you could come talk to me, if you needed to.”
A few senior girls are lingering by the doors, listening in, and Mr. Tenner gives them a pointed look. They scatter.
He sighs and picks up his briefcase. Underneath is a copy of the Post, but it’s splayed open, flipped to a middle page. I bend down and look at the headline, and this time I can see it perfectly.
CAULFIELD GRANDDAUGHTER DEEPLY TROUBLED
Mr. Tenner makes a play to grab it, but it’s too late. I snatch it up and start reading. They talk about Hayley’s death, about the tragedy in the pool, and then my eye skips down a few lines. Mcalister’s friend, reached for comment, told our reporter that Ms. Caulfield has “not been herself since the incident.” When asked if she thought Ms. Caulfield was in need of psyc
hological help, the girl sounded simultaneously anxious and resigned. “I think she took Hayley’s death badly,” the source said. “I don’t think she’s thinking clearly.” Mcalister’s friend went on to admit the two girls used to be close but, since Hayley’s death, have drifted. “She doesn’t want to let anyone in,” she said. “It’s like she thinks the rest of the world died too.” The source, another popular Manhattan socialite, asked to remain anonymous.
I look at Mr. Tenner. He’s leaning against the chalkboard, his arms by his sides. “Look,” he says, “I don’t stake too much on gossip columns, and I know this isn’t your first time on the merry-go-round. But it’s my personal opinion that all fiction is born of some truth, no matter how small.” He peers at me.
“Do you get me?”
I can’t quite believe the thought forming in my head, but even before it takes shape, I know it’s true. I got used to these headlines after Hayley’s death. Truthfully, I’ve been used to them my whole life. But this I have no experience in. Because I’ve never had a friend sell me out. I don’t even think Abigail Adams would go to a reporter. And here, in front of me, printed in the greatest circulating tabloid in Manhattan, is my best friend, Claire Howard, talking trash. I can’t think of anything else. The lingering feelings of guilt and terror— the buzzing from Astor—are replaced with pure, hard-boiled anger.
I want to scream, take up the pages, and hurl them across the room, but instead I turn, calmly, to Mr. Tenner.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say through clenched teeth. “But I’m going to be late for physics.”
Mr. Tenner nods. “You know, Mcalister, sometimes people do things out of love, even when we can’t see it.”
I snort. Love. Right. Talking to reporters at the Post is really straight from the heart.
“Thanks. Can I go?”
Mr. Tenner nods. “Of course.” He takes up his briefcase. “Enjoy physics.”
I follow him out of the room and then bolt in the opposite direction. I’m not going to physics. I’m going to find Claire, and then I’m going to make it very clear that if our friendship wasn’t over before, if her blatant dislike of Astor and her ratting me out to Peter weren’t enough to end it, talking to a tabloid definitely is.
“Watch it!” I whip around to see Abigail holding her hands up like her nails are wet. “Where are you going?” she demands.
I inhale sharply. “Downtown.”
Abigail eyes me, then straightens up. “For the record, I always thought Claire was a little gossipy.”
I look at Abigail and say something I never, not in a million years, thought I would ever say. “Well, Abbey, it looks like you were right.”
She seems surprised, but satisfied, as I duck out the gates.
I get a cab quickly. There isn’t too much traffic—it’s only late morning, after all—and before I have time to form what, exactly, I’m going to say to Claire, we’re at her building.
In the lobby I greet Jeff Bridges, who lets me up. Claire is rarely ever at school, and especially not on Fridays. She thinks we should have Fridays off, and she implements a three-day weekend by simply taking one. This happens every week. She should have been kicked out of both Kensington and her downtown school, but every time she gets close, her dad donates some print of Angelina Jolie riding a camel or whatever, it sells for thousands of dollars at the silent auction, and voila! Claire gets another six months.
“Claire!” I yell when the elevator doors deliver me into her living room.
No answer, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
There is always the roof. Even when it’s cold, Claire still hangs out up there.
I rummage the key out of the kitchen drawer and climb the stairs. The door locks from the inside, so if you’re upstairs you can be sure no one will come up to disturb you, unless they have the key. Claire says her parents installed that feature to make sure she wouldn’t sneak up there herself when she was a little kid.
At the top of the stairs I turn the key and pop the door open.
We’ve had a few really good parties up here. And by parties I mean me, Claire, Trevor, Peter, and Claire’s friends, most of them older models or photographers or DJs, sitting around drinking champagne and watching the sun set—or come up.
There is this little alcove by the bar with two stools, where if you spin 180 degrees around you can get a great view of the Empire State Building. I round the corner and then stop dead in my tracks. There is someone up there, all right, but it’s not Claire.
“Peter?” My brother is slumped over a mug, looking out over the river, his feet resting on a stool and a book on his lap. He leaps up when he sees me, the coffee cup spilling over, the book splaying out on the floor. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“What are you doing here?” I snap back. He’s supposed to be at school, in California. Not on gossip-queen Claire’s rooftop. I wait, but no answer.
“I thought you were going back to California today?” I say.
He runs a hand over his chin and drops his eyes. “No.” “No, you’re not going back today?” I start to raise my voice. I’m already revved up; it’s not hard to start. “Peter, what the hell is going on?”
He’s got on his old, brown cashmere sweater, the one with the elbow pads. “Peter?” I ask again.
“I’m staying here,” he says. He lifts the book off the floor, closes it, and sets it on his chair.
“Staying here?” I walk closer. “What are you talking about?”
He runs a hand over his new chin scruff. “I didn’t go back to school.”
“But . . .” I don’t understand. Sure, he’s been back more often this semester. Too often. But . . . I open my mouth to verbalize my running mental commentary, but something stops me. Claire’s shirt the night we went to Eataly. It wasn’t the same kind my brother has. It was my brother’s.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
He blows some air out through his lips. “Which part?” I feel like laughing. It’s all so ridiculous. Peter and Claire. the Post. The fact that we’ve all ended up here. “You choose,”
I say, my voice dry. “How long have you been back in New York? How long have you been lying to Mom and Dad? How long have you been sleeping with Claire?” I fold my arms across my chest. “Any order.”
He inhales, runs his hands over his face. “I didn’t enroll for this year,” he says. “After the summer I . . .” He clears his throat. “After the summer I went back to LA and I stayed at Jeffrey’s.”
Malibu. Our uncle. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “You could have come home.”
Peter looks at me, and I can read it all. It’s like a scary movie I’ve seen before. I just want to plug my ears at the bad parts. Instead I focus on what I can: “Claire,” I say.
“It’s not like that,” he says. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Oh yeah? What’s it like?” My throat feels dry. I have to keep swallowing. “You just decided to shack up with her instead of going to college? You figured, what? Why date Felicia when you can have a high school model? Did you see the Post? Do you have any idea what she did to me? To us?” Peter opens his mouth, but I’m on a roll. “And you didn’t fly in because you were concerned about me. You just came uptown because Claire opened her big mouth. Convenient.”
“Caggs—”
“You deserve each other,” I say. “I hope you know you’re just the flavor of the month, too. She’ll get bored; she always does.”
I turn because all of a sudden a new emotion is taking over—the anger giving way, like icicles melting. I can feel the water coming, salty, tangy, and I don’t want to be around Peter when it does.
He makes a move to follow me again. “Don’t!” I yell over my shoulder.
I don’t turn around, but I hear him stop. Silence behind me. Peter is still my brother. He knows when to push it, and when not to. He won’t follow me. Not now, anyway.
I run down th
e stairs and out into the waiting elevator. I don’t stop to think where Claire is. I want to get far away from this whole thing. I don’t know anyone anymore. Claire’s betrayed me. Peter has dropped out of school to be, what? Her professional boyfriend? I can’t even think about what my parents would do if they ever found out.
I feel the tears well up again, threatening to spill, but I blink them back and focus on the questions. No matter how much Peter wanted Claire, why would he leave school? She’s in LA all the time. It’s completely unlike Peter to drop out of school. He’s always been that guy, like Trevor. President of everything, a million extracurricular activities. He wants to be a doctor. I don’t think doctors take a leave of absence from college. Not sophomore year, anyway. Without even thinking, I’ve fallen into the walking game.
Near Fourteenth Street I pass a Starbucks that used to be a specialty grocery store. I used to like that about New York—how quickly things could change. But that was before Hayley. After she died, the city’s ability to move on seemed intentional somehow, vengeful.
When I think about last May, about being on that roof, that’s the single thing I remember most. The way life seemed to be moving past me, rushing forward. Like a log down a river toward the falls. But I was a rock. Stuck. Everything racing around me, over and under. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but hear the rapids—far-off, close, unreachable. It was all the same thing. The future I wouldn’t be a part of.
People think those sorts of things are choices. Decisions. Whether you stay stuck or move forward. But they’re not. That’s the thing about May: It wasn’t a choice. It was the absence of choice. Standing up there on that roof I’d never felt so powerless. Hauling Kristen up and over that railing—that was no feat of will. That was a reaction, plain and simple. It wasn’t me; it was some old human system, some trick of the brain: autopilot, adrenaline, whatever you want to call it. It’s funny how when big things happen, people want to know lots of details. They always have a million questions—what it felt like, how you did it, what you thought about in that moment, hovering a millimeter from death. But they never ask the right ones. Never the ones they should.
The Edge of Falling Page 16
