Deep breath.
One step at a time.
ELEVEN
No Such Thing as Bullying in Private Schools
October 19
The Present
7:30 P.M.
While his wife was busy entertaining the ten-figure set, Todd had somehow fallen into the managing-the-children part of the event. It was a position he wasn’t unfamiliar with. Ellie liked to remark that he wasn’t “babysitting” if he was with his own children. He had been unemployed for a while now and though he had spent the first several months furiously lunching with every colleague and connection, he hadn’t followed up with any leads or offers and they had frittered away slowly. At the time, it didn’t feel like he was the one consciously choosing not to do anything, just seemed that none of the projects or production companies willing to take him on felt “right” somehow. Did it really matter that he hadn’t worked in two years? Ellie made more than enough money.
So even if he pretended to have been roped into chauffeuring drop-offs and pickups, he actually enjoyed seeing the kids on a regular basis since he did the morning school-run every day and picked up on Fridays, while Miranda handled the rest. Todd had missed so much of Sam’s childhood that he was glad for the chance to do it over again with Giggy and the boys. There was always ice cream or Pinkberry after Friday pickup, which kind of added to the weight gain, but Todd found he couldn’t deprive them when they asked, then begged, then threw a tantrum for it. It was easier just to give in from the start.
He was in the middle of a conversation with one of Ellie’s old friends from London when he heard a loud wail coming from the side yard playground where they’d corralled the kids. Ellie had insisted on being able to have little kids running around her party—a strange tic of hers, but one that was endearing. Red wine or colored drinks were forbidden, but kids were always welcome at any of her events. Todd went to check it out immediately. He knew that wail.
When he walked into the playground, Giggy was sitting on the grass, crying her eyes out, while several girls from her school were huddled in the corner, whispering and watching. Only one of them was kneeling on the grass next to her, an arm on Giggy’s shoulder.
“What happened?” he asked, his temper flaring instantly. He hated seeing any of his kids in pain. “Why is she crying?” he demanded.
Most of the girls who were huddled together shrugged and looked away. One of them boldly looked him in the eye and said, “We have no idea; she just started crying for no reason.”
Little liar. He knew this kid. Her father was one of the top agents in the business. She was just as pugnacious as he was. Todd looked around hurriedly. Where was the playdate coordinator they’d hired to keep an eye on the kids? To make sure nothing like this happened?
A young Latina rounded the corner, carrying juice packs and string cheese. She had been Giggy’s first-grade teacher and now taught the boys. If Todd thought it was odd that Ellie hired her to babysit the kids at her party, he tried not to think about it too hard. How much did elementary schoolteachers make? Miss Kayleigh probably needed it, right? They were doing her a favor?
“Oh, Todd! I’m so sorry. I went to get the girls some snacks. What happened?” she asked.
“They won’t say,” he told her. He knelt down so he was next to Giggy. “Can you tell us what happened? Were they bullying you?”
Giggy shook her head.
“See, she’s fine,” said Miss Kayleigh. “You’re fine, right, Giggy? Sometimes the kids just get a little rough, that’s all.” That was the school policy: They stopped using the word bullying to describe aggressive behavior because there was no bullying in private schools. Especially not at the tuition they were paying.
Todd tried not to look too incredulous. “She’s obviously not fine.”
The little girl next to Giggy gave her a hug. “You’re okay, Giggy.”
“Thank you, Zoe,” he told the little girl. He knew all of Giggy’s friends and Zoe was particularly sweet.
He pulled Giggy up from the grass. “Come on,” he said, even as she kept sniffing and wiping her nose with her sleeve.
* * *
—
They went to Giggy’s room, which was also decorated in shades of white and gold with splashes of pink and green. She sat on one of the princess beds. There were two, and Sam had placed her suitcase on top of the other one, except Sam was nowhere to be seen. She was probably in the bathroom since the door was closed. The girls were supposed to share a room even though the other princess bed was really for Giggy’s friends when they came for sleepovers.
“Gig, you’re going to have to tell me what happened,” he said.
“Nothing happened,” she said sullenly.
“So you were just sitting there crying for no reason?”
“Correct,” she said, with just a trace of an English accent since she had spent the weekend with her father, who was in town for the party.
Todd sighed. For a while he just sat next to her, rubbing her back. He’d learned not to push. At last, when she’d stopped sniffing, he brought it up again. “Can you tell me why you’re upset?” he asked gently.
“They were teasing me,” she whispered, kicking her feet against the duvet cover.
“What about?” he asked, even though he had an idea. There had been many emails from the school in the past few months. Ellie was supposed to be on top of it (Giggy being her biological child) but of course had been too distracted with running her company. Todd was the one who had gone to meet with the teacher.
“They said I was stupid,” said Giggy.
“You’re not stupid, you know that, right?” he said firmly.
She hung her head. “Maybe I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not smart like Sam,” she said, her blue eyes blazing. She worshipped her older sister; all three of the little ones did. Sam was their hero and idol.
“You’re smart in your own way, Giggy,” said Todd.
“What way is that?” said Giggy sullenly.
Todd thought about it. He wasn’t lying to her. He did think Giggy was smart, just not academic. “You’re smart like your mom is smart.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He put an arm around his daughter. He remembered how she’d smelled as a baby, like milk and powder. Her skin was so white it was translucent. “Look at me, I did well in school, but I don’t work anymore. Your mom never even went to college, and she can wipe the floor with everyone I went to Harvard with.”
Giggy giggled.
“It’s true,” he said with a smile.
Stepdad had not been in Todd’s vocabulary. His parents were strict midwestern Catholics; divorce was anathema, and blended families were regarded with pity. Of course he hadn’t planned on getting married four—was it truly four?—times. It was amazing he had only four children really. His parents both came from large families, and one of Todd’s uncles had ten children. Ten! Was it the nineteenth century or something? Who had ten children? Todd had no idea how much he disdained his upbringing until he left it—divorced his first, second, and third wives and left his only child and married a woman who already had a baby.
This baby.
He wanted Ellie so much he didn’t care what she came with, didn’t even really think about what it meant to marry a “single mom.” But a baby wasn’t luggage. Giggy was a person and, for the first four years of her life, called him Daddy. The problem arose when Archer came back into her life and Giggy discovered she and Todd weren’t related to each other at all. She’d pulled away, confused as to how she could have two dads. He’d been hurt when Giggy started calling Archer “Papa.”
Todd was her father. He was the one who found the private reading tutor. He was the one who made sure she had therapy. She wasn’t a special-needs kid but she had special needs. She was so much harder to dea
l with than Sam, who was meek and quiet, and the boys, who were naturally lovable.
The problem was that Giggy called him out on his shit. She made arch comments about his penchant for video games, and loudly wondered why he was home all the time. She was ten years old and already as tough as her mother. She looked the most like Ellie too, with her fair coloring and delicate features.
Giggy leaned on his shoulder.
“Want to get ice cream? I told the boys they could get dessert early. Do you want some too? We could go to the kitchen and see what gelato flavors the chef brought.”
She nodded.
Todd gave her shoulder a squeeze. Of all the things he had learned from being a more hands-on dad, it was that ice cream cured every ill. He thought of the party that was going on outside, and how peaceful it was in here.
“Maybe I’ll have one too,” he said.
TWELVE
Friends in High Places
October 19
Twenty-Four Years Ago
8:00 P.M.
Downtown Portland. Was there anything more depressing? Leo thought not. It was barely a city, just a couple of blocks of storefronts and warehouses, a couple of boarded-up stores, sleepy diners, seedy bars. There was supposed to be a transit rail system one day, and Pioneer Courthouse Square had opened just a few years prior, a slick new central park in the middle of the city. There was talk of revitalizing the waterfront, but so far, it was just talk. One day, she’d get out of this place, one day, she vowed, this city wouldn’t be enough for her. She wouldn’t rest until she was familiar with the streets of Paris and New York, when jetting off to London was as routine as taking the bus to the mall. One day. But for now, this was all she had. It was too early to get into Sparkle; the club didn’t even open until nine, and the “good” DJ didn’t start his set until after midnight.
“Pass me the nice drink,” ordered Mish, one hand on the steering wheel while the other reached back to grab the red cup from Leo’s hand. Mish was driving because Brooks was way too plastered. He’d gotten in the car and hit reverse, almost knocking into a few trash cans. Mish had insisted she wasn’t drunk at all and that she could drive.
So Leo had spent the ride passing the “nice drink” to Mish, praying to god that they wouldn’t get in an accident. Please, Lord, don’t let me die on my sixteenth birthday.
Brooks had passed out asleep in the passenger seat. “Lightweight,” said Mish, trying to prod him awake after she found parking a few blocks from the club.
“Come on,” said Mish, getting out of the car.
“Where are we going?”
“Anywhere!”
Leo scrambled out of the back seat. “We’re just going to leave him here?”
“He’ll be fine!” Mish yelled, slamming the door.
Mish led the way, through the dark city streets, passing convenience stores and diners, laundromats, tattoo parlors, and liquor stores. At least she had put her shirt back on. They were getting a little close to Burnside Bridge, which was always a little more sketchy, with more homeless people around. Leo was starting to worry.
“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Leo, trying to keep up.
“No, do you?”
“Mish, what are we doing?”
“Killing time, looking for trouble, looking to score,” she said, a crazed look in her eye.
“Score?” Leo scoffed. “Score what?”
“Drugs, silly!”
Leo made a face. She didn’t do drugs and neither did Mish. Mish was just exaggerating again, trying to appear cooler than she was.
“It’s your birthday!” screamed Mish.
“It’s been my birthday all day. Come on. Let’s just go back, just drive me home,” said Leo.
“No.”
Leo lunged for the keys in Mish’s hands, but Mish was too fast for her. “Gonna have to catch me!”
“Come on, Mish, it isn’t funny.”
But Mish was laughing and held up the keys. “Want these?” she taunted.
Leo lunged again and missed. She felt like slapping the shit out of her friend. She was tired, drunk for the first time, and wanted to go home. But Mish wasn’t done, and she was looking for trouble.
Thankfully, they found Arnold first.
Arnold Dylan was skinny-scrawny, with long bangs that fell into his eyes, and surprisingly tall, which no one ever noticed because he slouched so much. He’d dropped out of high school a few years ago but wasn’t much older than them. The girls liked to say he was dirty-cute, filthy-sexy, like obviously a loser. But there was something about him nonetheless. Leo thought it was the eyes; Arnold had nice eyes and a sweet smile. He was rumored to deal, especially since he spent most of his time standing around corners all day.
“Arnold,” Mish called. “Hey, hey, Arnold! You have something for us?”
Arnold shuffled over, his baseball cap pulled low. “What do you need?” he asked with a shy grin.
“Anything. What have you got?” Mish asked, crossing her arms against her chest with a serious look on her face.
“Anything?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Anything for free!” Mish said, laughing. “Come on, we’re saving to get into Sparkle.”
Arnold sighed. “Fine. But you owe me.”
“We owe you!” said Mish.
“I’m going to collect,” Arnold joked.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Mish.
Arnold was always saying he was going to collect on the favors he did for them—giving them cigarettes, or buying them beer, or lending them a CD or a cassette tape. But he never did. He was the closest thing they had to a friend in their neighborhood. Mish was mean to him a lot, always telling him to get lost when the cigarettes were smoked and the beer ran out, or that if he wanted his copy back of the Smiths’ Meat Is Murder, he had to buy another one. Leo felt bad about it sometimes, the way they treated him. Arnold didn’t seem to mind, though.
“Wait here,” said Arnold.
“Where are you going?”
“Get my stash,” said Arnold. “One sec.”
They watched as Arnold disappeared around the corner.
“Is he coming back?” asked Leo.
“Of course he is,” said Mish confidently. “It’s Arnold.”
THIRTEEN
Whores d’Oeuvres
October 19
The Present
8:30 P.M.
Did that asshole actually bring a hooker to her birthday party? Already on edge because Harry Kim had yet to text or call back and the stark reality of their financial situation was finally hitting her, Ellie found a new place to vent her rage. As she made the rounds, flitting between guests and introducing old friends to new, conferring with the party planner on when to start dinner service (hold it just another hour, she’d decided), she couldn’t help but keep staring at a certain conspicuous couple. Melvin Ames was a short, bald, mega-successful producer of television shows of dubious entertainment value, a friend of a friend, a quasi-boldfaced name, and a classic LA douchebag whom Ellie had invited because they had bumped into him at the golf club that morning. “I’m having a birthday party tonight!” she’d chirped. “Stop by!” So there he was, in all his lecherous, dwarfish glory. And by his side was a very, very expensive piece of arm candy.
“Is that a fucking hooker?” she hissed, grabbing her husband by the elbow and steering him to look in their direction.
“What? Who? Huh?” said Todd. He squinted at the couple.
Was it her imagination or did Todd have chocolate on his upper lip? She wiped it off with her hand and he wrenched away from her touch, annoyed. “What are you doing?”
“You had a smudge,” she said. “But back to Melvin’s date, she’s a pro, right?”
You’d have to be particularly eagle-eyed to even notice, for the girl was no ordinary call girl. T
his one was five-ten, Asian, gorgeous, and dressed in tight jeans, thigh-high boots, a Chanel purse slung on her shoulder (real, unlike Mean Celine’s), and a gold Hermes belt wrapped around her twenty-four-inch waist. Why anyone would think she was a hooker rather than a model or an actress, only Ellie could explain. It was the whole package, from the too-tight clothes, too-shiny mane of black hair, and too much makeup, but it was the Hermes belt that really sealed the deal. H for hooker. No self-respecting actress or model ever splurged on designer clothing; they hoarded their money and wore samples from showrooms or cheap castoffs from set.
But hookers? Hookers spent, baby; they wore brand-name logos like merit badges. Blow-job Balenciaga. Anal Armani. Louis Vui-threesome.
“Maybe he’s her sugar daddy,” said Todd, shrugging.
“Which still makes her a whore,” said Ellie, furious. “I want them out of here.”
Todd sighed. “You invited them.”
“Great! I can kick them out.”
“Ellie.”
“A hooker, Todd. The children are here. Sam is here. Have you spoken to her yet, by the way?”
“No, not yet, but I will. I’ll find out what’s going on. I was dealing with the boys and Giggy. The boys broke a speaker and the girls are bullying Giggy again.”
Ellie wasn’t listening. She was staring daggers at the Hollywood producer and his pricey date, willing for them to disappear. What would Vanity Fair think? What would her billionaires think? She hoped no one else would notice, even as she caught the other LA moms glancing over there and casting wary looks the girl’s way. Maybe she was being too judgmental. She knew how hard it was, how rough it was to come from nothing.
But there was a hard line between modeling and dating rich guys and, well, hooking. Besides, the only rich guy she’d ever dated was Archer de Florent, and he married her. There was a huge difference. Ellie had used her looks to claw her way up the social ladder, to secure her business, to build her fortune, but she had never, ever, ever sold her body for any price. She would joke that she sold it only to the highest bidder, but that’s all it was, a joke, and even if she was from the trailer park, she was still horrified and repulsed by the very idea of letting anyone touch you just for cash. She’d made many mistakes in her life, and had been young and stupid once, and she hated seeing the same desperation in other girls. It was too close a reminder of her own past.
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