Mr. Winters, annoyed that his lecture had been interrupted, glanced over at me and nodded permission. I gathered up my books. What was this about? The only other time I’d been called down to the principal’s office was freshman year, when Sister Dorothy had to inform me that my tuition check had bounced. Nothing good ever happened in the principal’s office; everybody knew that.
Mr. Winters’s discussion of the role of railroad unions in the economic landscape of the 1870s faded as I closed the door softly behind me and stepped out into the hallway. My footsteps echoed down the Saints Corridor under the watchful gaze of all those long-dead women. Saint Maria Goretti peered out at me from behind the sheep she held clutched to her bosom. Saint Appolonia tumbled across the ceiling, frozen forever in the moment just after a Christian persecutor knocked her teeth out with a wooden club. Saint Agnes of Bohemia leered at me with her wide, red mouth. And Our Lady of Lourdes stood above my locker, the soft folds of her shawls painted by my mother’s own hand, her mouth drawn downward in a look of either sorrow or pity.
When I got to the principal’s office, Mrs. Lang, the receptionist, showed me to the door. I opened it and found Sister Dorothy sitting grimly at her desk beneath the giant velvet portrait of Jesus and the Sacred Heart. Sapphire, Emily, and Kenzie sat in a row in the chairs opposite her desk. And standing against the window were two police officers.
“Sit down, Wendy.” Sister Dorothy indicated the remaining open chair next to her desk. She did not smile at me. I moved to the chair on shaking legs and sat down, glancing over at my former friends, but they were all staring at their laps.
“Do you know why you’re here, Wendy?” Sister Dorothy was sitting up straight as a rail, her hands folded on her daily planner.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sister.” I tried again to make eye contact with the other girls. But Kenzie, slumped in her chair looking almost bored, was busy methodically peeling away a layer of blue nail polish while Sapphire’s and Emily’s eyes remained trained to the patterns of their uniform skirts.
“Okay, then. Let me give you a hint. Do you know a boy named Ned Munro?”
Ned Munro. Ned Munro. The name was sort of familiar. And then I remembered: October. The mansion on the lake. Evan’s cousin with the orange hair and the shiny apple face.
“I’ve met him,” I said. “Once. Why?”
One of the police officers, a young guy, not much older than my brother, with flat blond hair and pale eyebrows, raised a finger in the air.
“I’ll take it from here, Sister, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Sister Dorothy nodded slightly, sat back in her big principal’s chair and watched me.
“Ms. Boychuck, were you at a party at Ned’s family home a few months ago?”
“Yeah. I think it was in October.”
“Uh-huh.” He wrote something on his notepad. “Well, at that party, some very valuable memorabilia was stolen. You know anything about that?”
And suddenly everything made sense. The Abraham Lincoln silverware.
I swung around and stared at Sapphire, willed her to look up. Look at me, you fucking liar. You fucking coward. Instead, she fiddled with her hair and stared out the window at the cars rushing past the wrought-iron gates of Academy of the Sacred Heart.
“Ms. Boychuck? Do you hear me? Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
The cops glanced at each other. The other one, older, with a belly that hung over his belt like a sack of flour, spoke up.
“A set of silverware. You don’t know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He sighed, strummed his fingers on the windowsill. “Ms. Quintana?”
“Mm?” Kenzie looked up, sifting the piece of peeled blue polish onto the carpet of Sister Dorothy’s office.
“Show me your phone, please?”
As she handed him the phone, she finally looked at me, and her dark eyes were coldly triumphant. The cop held the phone in front of my face. There was a picture of me, sitting in the booth at Taco Burrito Queen, with a mountain of chicken nachos in front of me, holding one of the beautiful silver Abraham Lincoln forks aloft.
“Then how,” he asked, “do you explain this photo?”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
“Well?” Sister Dorothy leaned forward in her seat. “Can you explain that photo or not?”
“Yes!” I exploded. “I was with them when they took it. When Kenzie dared Sapphire to do it, and then Sapphire did it. Remember?” I glared at Sapphire, but she continued to be fascinated by the plaid pattern of her skirt. I couldn’t stand it anymore, the way she sat there like a church mouse, her lips twitching. I reached over and smacked her, hard, on the arm. “Remember?” She winced and shrunk away.
“That is enough, Wendy,” Sister Dorothy roared, jumping up from her desk and nearly knocking over a jar full of pens. “I have to say, I expected more from you. An honors student. An A average. A girl who—”
“Whose father is Stephen Boychuck, the dirtiest cop in Chicago?” I interrupted. “Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s why you believe them over me, isn’t it?” I could feel hot tears pricking my eyes. “Isn’t it?”
The blond cop looked at me with lizard-like calmness. His eyebrows were so light you could barely see them; it sort of made him look like an emoji.
“We’d like to search your locker,” he said. “If you’ll come with me, please.”
“Fine,” I said. “You want to see my physics notes? Maybe an old Dr Pepper can will crack the case? Let’s go!” I was shouting now, and I could see in the stillness with which Kenzie held her body that she was trying not to laugh. The cop held me by the arm and led me out of the office, with the other one following behind.
We walked down the Saints Corridor saying nothing. Their footsteps echoed heavily, so different from the more familiar sounds of running girls and the quick, efficient steps of the nuns. The saints were silent, watching, and so were all the girls in the classrooms that lined the corridor, craning their necks to see us as we passed, popular blond-haired Wendy Boychuck being led down the hallway by the police. Even the teachers were watching, and I knew what they were thinking: Like father, like daughter. We reached my locker. Our Lady of Lourdes watched as I spun the numbers of my combination. 07-08-08-17—my birthday and Kenzie’s birthdays combined, because she was always borrowing my locker to store her books since it was closer to her first period class, and this was the only way she could remember the combination.
Of course.
She knew my combination.
I knew even before I opened the locker that the silverware would be there. It was placed neatly on the metal shelf where I normally put my lunch and my lab goggles. The plastic case was a little banged up, several of the tines were bent, and a withered piece of ground beef still clung to one of the knives. My lunch and goggles had been thrown carelessly on top of the rest of my books at the bottom of my locker. They’d probably planted it there after chapel, while Kenzie was distracting me with her “no hard feelings” talk.
I didn’t see them take out the handcuffs, but when I heard the click, I knew exactly what it was. I’d heard that sound once before.
23
THE WINNETKA POLICE STATION WAS an immaculate brick building shaded by pine trees, with peaked windows and a brick walkway that made it look more like a country club than a building for booking criminals. I half expected the holding cell to have marble floors and satin bedding, so I was a little disappointed when they escorted me into a small, dingy room with concrete floors, a dented metal bench lining the perimeter, and a high, drafty window that looked out on the gray March sky. A steel toilet stood low to the ground, surrounded by a four-foot partition and no door.
“Aren’t I supposed to get a phone call?” I asked Emoji Cop as he slid the cell door shut.
“Well, somebody’s been watching Law and Order.” He smir
ked. “I’m going to process your papers, and then yeah, I’ll come and get you.”
I stood in the middle of the empty cell and looked around. At least I was alone—I didn’t much feel like making small talk. I sat down on the steel bench, feeling the coldness on the backs of my thighs below my uniform skirt.
The weirdest part about being in here, I thought, was just having to sit and think. They’d taken all my stuff, including my phone, and without that to distract me, or a laptop, or a TV, or other people, I became acutely aware of my aloneness. I had forgotten what it was like. It was strangely calming in a way. By now, I was sure word had spread far beyond the walls of ASH, to Saint Mike’s, to Notre Dame Prep, to Lincoln, to Tino, who would think I was a dirty criminal, just like my dad. At least here, in this cell, I was safe from all that.
A little while later, the cop came back.
“You still want to make that phone call?”
At first, I figured I’d call my mom, because moms are the default setting whenever you’re in a crisis. But she always left her phone at the nurse’s station when she was working in the ER and this wasn’t exactly something I could explain over voice mail. Besides, it might be nice to delay my death sentence just a little bit. After a minute’s thought, I dialed Aunt Kathy’s number instead.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Aunt Kathy?”
“Wendy? Is that you?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh God. Why is my phone telling me that you’re calling from the Winnetka Police Station?”
“I got arrested.”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Uh-huh. You and every other person who’s ever been arrested!”
“Look, can you just come pick me up?”
“Jesus, Wendy. I’m in the middle of a shoot for Food and Wine. How does this work? Do I bail you out? How much money am I supposed to bring?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Kathy.” My voice broke. “Just come, please?”
“I’m leaving right this instant. Don’t go anywhere.” There was a pause. “That was a bad joke. Sorry.” She hung up.
I sat in the cell, my bare legs covered in goose bumps, and waited. The way Kenzie had smiled at me as the cops had escorted me out of Sister Dorothy’s office: of course she had planned it all. But the thing that bothered me more than anything else was that she’d been so prepared, so calculating, in the way she had humiliated me: as if she’d been saving it up all along. As if she’d been just waiting for me to cross her so that she could take me down so spectacularly. Why had she offered to shake my hand that morning? Now I knew: so that everything about our friendship, even the ending of it, was on her terms.
An hour passed, maybe two. It felt like forever. There was no clock and I didn’t wear a watch and my phone had been confiscated. Something occurred to me that made me feel a thousand times worse: This is my dad’s whole life. Morning, noon, and night. This.
At last, I heard, faintly, from down the hall, the hurried footsteps of my aunt Kathy.
They grew louder, accompanied by the squeak of Emoji Cop’s boots, and finally she appeared at the door, dressed in a white smock and orange lipstick. I’d never been happier to see her in my life. The cop unlocked the cell, and I nearly jumped into her arms.
“You owe me, kid,” she said, hugging me tightly, then put her arm around me and held me close as we followed Emoji Cop down the dull linoleum hallway and back to the main entrance.
“Go sit down while I figure this out,” she said, pointing to a row of plastic chairs. There was nobody sitting in them, and I waited, straining to hear the hushed conversation at the front desk, but only getting snippets: first offense . . . having a difficult year . . . apologize . . . stupid teenage prank.
At last, Aunt Kathy signed a bunch of papers. The cops made a few phone calls. Finally, they handed her my cell phone and my backpack. She thanked them and walked over to me.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“I’m only going to ask you one question about all of this, so don’t lie,” she said as we pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road. “Did you do it?”
“No.”
She bit her lip and nodded, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
“Okay. I would have forgiven you if the answer was yes. But I’m still glad you said no.”
“What happens now? Am I going to go to jail?”
“I talked to this Ned Munro person’s mother. Eleanor. She was a pretty reasonable lady, actually. She said that if you apologized, she won’t press charges.”
“But I just told you I didn’t do it! I’m not going to apologize for something I didn’t even do!”
“Wendy, it’s the easiest path to make this thing go away.”
“Are you serious? That’s some real great advice, Aunt Kathy. Give up your name and reputation just because it’s easier.”
“Now, you listen to me, Wendy Boychuck.” She whirled around so quick that she nearly veered into a snowbank that was jutting out into the cobblestone street. “I believe in standing up for the truth and all that. But if they press charges, you’ll have to put that on your college applications. And I am not going to let you throw your future away over a couple of goddamn forks. Even if they’re Abraham Lincoln’s forks. Even if the forks belonged to Jesus Christ Himself. You’re going to make something of your goddamn life, goddamn it!”
There was a heavy silence.
“Sorry for that extra ‘goddamn it,’” she said finally. “It was probably unnecessary.”
“Well, when am I supposed to make this apology?”
“No time like the present.” Steering with one hand, she fished in her purse and pulled out a Post-it. “Read that address to me, would you?”
“Wait,” I said. “We’re going now?”
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” she said.
Ned Munro’s house, in the bright light of early spring, looked even more majestic than I remembered. Aunt Kathy pulled into the circular drive.
“I’ll wait right here,” she said. “They’re expecting you.”
My heart in my mouth, I walked the gallows of the driveway, hating Kenzie and Sapphire and Emily more and more with each step. I hadn’t even had time to figure out what I was going to say. Which maybe was why Aunt Kathy had insisted I do this right away. No time to construct any bullshit. I rang the doorbell. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
There was a pause, then the knob turned, and finally the door swung open and a goblin-thin lady about my mom’s age opened the door. She had honey-blond highlights and wore a pale pink cardigan that matched her perfect nails.
“Um,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Munro?”
“Yes.” She looked at me, her lips pursed and flat.
“I’m Wendy. I’m here to, um, apologize to you about your Abraham Lincoln silverware.”
“Not to me,” she said. “To my son.”
She walked away on a pair of pointy black flats, and while I waited, I contemplated myself in the huge mirror hanging on the wall next to the staircase. I saw myself as Mrs. Munro must have seen me, my long blond hair with its raggedy split ends, my smudgy black eyeliner, my uniform skirt that was three inches above the knee, the hem held up with a safety pin. Trash, she probably thought. White trash. It probably kept her awake at night, knowing that the daughter of Sergeant Stephen Boychuck had been in her house among her fine things while she’d been soaking up the rays in Cabo, blissfully unaware. And the little bitch had turned out to be a thief, but then, what would you expect, with that name?
She returned a few minutes later, with a reluctant Ned slinking behind her. He was blushing all the way from the tops of his ears to base of his throat.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and disappeared around the corner, most likely to eavesdrop from the cavernous dining room.
“Hi, Ned,” I said.
“Hi.”
“I—” I began. I watched my lips move in the mirror. “I’m sorry about your Abraham Lincoln silverware.” He stared at the floor. I could see his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “I mean, just so you know, I wasn’t the one who actually took it. I just need to say that. My friends, the girls I was with that night—they took it.”
He looked up.
“But did you make them put it back?”
“Well, no—”
“Did you report it to anyone?”
“No.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed painfully. “It’s like, I get that you didn’t do anything wrong. But sometimes, doing nothing is almost, like, worse. You know?”
“I do,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I remember you from my party. You and your friends. You guys didn’t even speak to me that night. Why would you go to a party at someone’s house and then not even, like, talk to them?”
It was my turn to look at the floor. When I looked up, I saw that he was about to cry.
“The thing is,” he said, “my dad already thinks I’m a loser. He probably would have been happy that I had a kegger while he was out of town. Give him a chance to relive his glory days, you know? Except then his stupid memorabilia got stolen. And then he knew that the kids who came over here, they were just using me.”
There was a flurry of quick footsteps and Ned’s mom, flushing pink beneath her jewelry and her makeup, stepped back into the hallway.
“Are we finished, Ned?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his fist. “We’re finished.”
“Good.”
She opened the door for me, and I turned back once as I headed toward Aunt Kathy’s car. Mrs. Munro looked small and frail in the doorframe of her gigantic house, and Ned stood just behind her, his jug ears silhouetted in the glow of the chandelier, and I really did feel like I’d committed a crime worth apologizing for: the crime of indifference, the crime of blindness, the crime of forgetting that you’re not the only one who hurts.
Neighborhood Girls Page 21
