CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
2-MAY
Sloane found two voicemails waiting for her after that horrible meeting:
The first: “This is Principal Clark. Something’s happened at school involving your daughter, Abigail. I’m afraid she hit another student. We need you to come in as soon as possible.”
The second: “Mrs. Glover, we’ve been trying to contact you for an hour. We really do need you to come in as soon as possible due to … the severity of the incident.”
The severity! Of the incident!
That was twenty minutes ago.
Sloane had never been sent to the principal’s office in her life, not even for cheating or talking back or some other normal indiscretion. Teachers loved Sloane. She’d been Vice President of Student Council. She’d made buttons, for fuck’s sake.
Abigail, on the other hand, had hit someone. Only hooligans hit people. Grubby kids with sticky little jelly hands and dirt clogged beneath their fingernails. Other people’s kids.
The thought struck her on the frantic drive over: Was it possible that her daughter had been the bully all along? And that was why she’d received the text messages? Oh god, what if Sloane was one of those awful parents that believed their child was a sweet little angel baby, and meanwhile she was out kicking puppies and pinching other children behind the teacher’s back? Oh, shit, oh, shit.
Of all days, Abigail, she would say when she saw her. Of all days for you to do this.
At the double doors leading into the administration office, Sloane checked her reflection in the tinted glass, shimmying her skirt into place and pulling her blazer tails down over her hips when Derek jogged up, appearing behind her in the distorted image.
“Sloane,” he said, breathless. “Jesus, what the hell is going on?” His hand was on her back and she felt her mouth go crooked. “Sorry, I had a hell of a time finding someone to watch my class.”
“I was in a meeting,” she explained, with sympathy. “Came as soon as I heard.”
Seeing Derek’s face, it made it all worse. And better.
He shook his head in disbelief. “Our daughter hit someone.”
“Our daughter hit someone,” she agreed.
They held hands. Though neither of them acknowledged it. And they went into the meeting a pair.
Everyone was waiting for them. That was the first thing they were told when they entered Principal Clark’s office. Everyone’s been waiting for you!
That seemed like a bit of an exaggeration. There was Principal Clark. And Abigail’s English teacher, what was his name? Mr. Tawley? Tully? Derek would know. Derek, whose hand was still grasping hers firmly. And then another mother, whose name Sloane had never known. She was wearing hospital scrubs with the name of a veterinary clinic embroidered above the left shirt pocket. A boy, with sweaty, cowlicked hair and Under Armour sneakers that could blind you, hung his head. Dried blood ringed his right nostril. And then there was Abigail. Sloane’s pulse faltered at the sight of her daughter making herself small in a corner chair. Fresh tears silently streamed down her beautiful, freckled face at the sight of her parents. Derek and Sloane gravitated to her, flanked her. This was their daughter. They would love her no matter what. Even if she killed someone.
“Allow me to introduce you to Steve Lightner.” Principal Clark presented the boy like a trial exhibit. Steve Lightner. She recognized the name from the text messages and instantly felt her heart grow teeth. “Abigail here punched Steve in the nose—twice—outside of her English class.”
Surely, Principal Clark thought he’d uncovered the smoking gun. See, Mrs. Glover, your daughter is not so innocent after all.
Derek touched Abigail’s shoulder, so gently, as if scared she might otherwise shatter. “Is this true?”
Abigail sniffled, but nodded.
“He was bleeding,” said Steve’s mother. “Gushing blood from his nose.” The mother’s face was grave.
Sloane peered down at her daughter, at the bony blades jutting out of her shoulders like stunted wings. “Why, Abigail?” she asked, voice pressing. “Why did you hit Steve?”
It all felt so dire. As though the death penalty were still on the table and everyone—Sloane exaggerated too apparently—was holding their breath to see what the jury would decide.
Abigail swallowed and looked up. “He kept making fun of my underwear. Him and Grady. Every time I bent over to get a book out of my bag, they would shout, ‘Granny panties, granny panties.’” Her cheeks pinked. “And then Steve would kind of nudge the top of my underwear each time it happened and tell everyone what color I had on that day and tell everyone that I didn’t wear thongs. I asked him to stop, but he kept doing it for, like, three days.” Even now, as her daughter slouched, Sloane could see the little peek of underwear showing below the waist of her jean shorts. Purple cotton. “So I went and told Mr. Tully, but Mr. Tully told me to ignore it and that would make him stop. So I tried, but then he grabbed my underwear and…” Her gaze dropped. “He gave me a big wedgie. It hurt. So, I turned around and I—and I—” She started to tear up again. “I punched him. Twice,” she mumbled.
Sloane’s eyes went wide. “She came to you?” She directed the question at Mr. Tully, who, let it be said, was not nearly as handsome as Derek. These people had caused her to question her own, sweet, kind child. Sloane felt wild with anger.
Mr. Tully cleared his throat and shifted his weight on his feet. “We like to discourage tattling. We think the kids working it out among themselves fosters better life skills.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Sloane folded her arms. “So my daughter was being sexually harassed and she came to you—the adult in charge—and your big life skill advice was to ignore it?”
“Now, let’s not overreact.” Principal Clark spread his hands out like he was giving the benediction. Heaven fucking help him.
Mr. Tully scratched behind his ear. “‘Sexually harassed’ is strong terminology. I don’t think it was that serious.”
“Okay, then.” Sloane turned. “Let’s hear it. Steve, what life skill did you learn?”
Steve’s mom—bless her heart—at least had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Steve, she asked you a question,” said the mother.
The boy’s mouth fell open, fishlike and wordless.
“Derek?” Principal Clark lifted his eyebrows. “Do you want to jump in here?”
Derek frowned and took a step back toward the window. “No, Ian. I, uh, think my wife’s got this one.” Her chest swelled. She seemed to feel her heart actually inflate. Sloane had long ago stopped giving blow jobs in the name of feminism, but she was reevaluating this stance, considering.
“So, what would you suggest she have done?” Sloane asked Principal Clark and Mr. Tully. “After she used her words to ask him to stop and then went to the person in authority who refused to help her. What was her course of action next? Because,” she said, when no one offered a suggestion, “it seems like your preferred course of action would have been for her to, what, take it? Let him touch her? Let a boy push her, grab her, reach into her shorts because he thought it was funny, because no one would stop him, because he wanted to? And not fight back? Have I about got the plot of it?” Wild blinking, nostrils flaring, thank the good Lord there were no cameras recording her now. But there was Derek, who would surely comment on it afterward. Only, no, actually, she saw him watching her, following her every word, with soft, kind Derek eyes.
Principal Clark. “We’re just trying to say that violence is never the answer.”
“Oh, well, that’s good to know. But violence against little girls is more of, what, a gray area? Mostly okay? Fine, as long as we’re all good sports about it? It seems to me you’re mistaken about who was being violent and who was acting in self-defense. Abigail, get your things, please,” she snapped, not taking her eyes off the two grown men standing on the other side of the room.
Abigail climbed out of the chair and sullenly collected her bag and her lunchbox from un
der the chair.
Derek held the door open.
“Don’t ever touch her again.” She pointed her finger at Steve. “Do you hear me?”
Steve could not bring himself to look up from those frightening tennis shoes. His eyes must be throbbing.
“I won’t,” he grumbled.
* * *
Outside, the parking lot asphalt was a Teflon frying pan, set on high heat. Sloane was breathing heavily like she’d just won a boxing match. She walked in a tight circle, hands on her hips, letting the throbbing of the vein in her neck slow. She shook out her arms. “The nerve of them,” she exclaimed, at intervals, until she was able to stand still with her little clump of a family, heart still on fire for them.
“Are you mad at me?” Abigail asked, her backpack a tortoise shell too large and loaded for her tiny frame. She was no longer crying, but her lower lip looked unsteady.
“No,” Derek said. “No one is angry with you.” He ruffled her blonde hair.
“But I punched someone,” she told them, as if she needed to be clear on this point. She turned her hand over and examined her knuckles, which were an aggravated shade of pink.
“I think you got that impulse from your mother,” he said. “And it’s a good one. Mostly.” He held out his hand and she turned her heavy bag over to her dad, who slung it easily over his shoulder.
Abigail ventured a guilty grin. “I don’t think he’ll try that again, Dad.”
Derek laughed. “I should think not.”
With more caution than ever before, Derek wrapped his arm around Sloane’s shoulder and kissed her temple.
She pressed her nose into his neck. “Derek.” Her voice was low. “Derek, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Transcript of Interview of Katherine Bell
28-APR
APPEARANCES:
Detective Malika Martin
Detective Oscar Diaz
PROCEEDINGS
Ms. Bell:
Two of my brothers are cops.
Det. Diaz:
Great, then you know the drill.
Ms. Bell:
Not exactly. Not like this.
Det. Diaz:
At least one person has told us that Ames Garrett had requested a chance to speak with you prior to his death.
Ms. Bell:
That sounds right. I don’t recall exactly.
Det. Diaz:
You didn’t mention that you had spoken to Ames Garrett minutes before he fell off an eighteenth story balcony?
Ms. Bell:
He may have asked to speak, but I didn’t see him.
Det. Martin:
Why not? I thought you and Ames Garrett were on good terms? That’s the gist of the statements you’ve given in the sexual harassment suit against Ames and Truviv, right?
Ms. Bell:
We were on good terms, yes.
Det. Martin:
So, why not meet with him?
Ms. Bell:
I couldn’t find him.
Det. Martin:
You couldn’t find him … So, to get this straight, he asked you to speak with him, then when you went to speak with him, he wasn’t there. Why would he do that?
Ms. Bell:
I waited a bit. After he asked.
Det. Martin:
Were you stalling?
Ms. Bell:
No, no I wasn’t stalling.
Det. Martin:
Because you were on good terms.
Ms. Bell:
No. I mean yes. We were. I don’t know why we didn’t meet. He clearly wasn’t in his right mind at the time.
Det. Martin:
Where did Ames want to meet you?
Ms. Bell:
I’m not sure. I don’t think he specified.
Det. Martin:
Hm. That would be strange, wouldn’t it? Did you find that strange?
Ms. Bell:
I figured it was an oversight. It happens.
Det. Martin:
What do you think he wanted to speak with you about?
Ms. Bell:
I don’t know.
Det. Diaz:
Ms. Bell, Grace Stanton mentioned that you had a fear of heights. That true?
CHAPTER FIFTY
2-MAY
Failure was a luxury we couldn’t afford, all chained together as we were, our fates locked up tight. One box office flop from a female director and no one wanted “girl” movies, one stock market plunge from a company with a woman CEO and women couldn’t lead, one false accusation and we were liars, all of us. Because when we failed it was because of our chromosomes, it wasn’t because of a market dip or an ineffective advertising campaign or plain bad luck.
One wrong move! As the saying went.
Ardie lay on her couch, a smorgasbord of takeout containers opened, the stink of failure all around her as she watched an old episode of Community. “The Last Supper,” she was calling it. The last night she could afford UberEats to deliver, more like. The tax attorney in her hadn’t been able to keep from doing the math. Oh, how she’d wanted not to! She would owe a little more than $1.6 million after tomorrow. Even on a five-year payment plan, the yearly amount would equal far more than her annual salary. She had three hundred thousand dollars in savings, which would almost cover the first year’s installment. After that, she’d have to sell the house. That should make a dent in the second year, but Michael would hate staying in an apartment when Tony and Braylee had a lovely home with a backyard, a soccer goal, and a pool. It was only a matter of time until she became the chore. Yes, Michael, you have to go see your mother, Tony would say and he’d feel like a good person for it.
She’d have to go back to a law firm. That was obvious. She hated law firm life, the billing requirements, the face time. She was already too old for partnership track. By the third year, she wouldn’t be able to pay. She’d fall behind, owe interest, the hole deepened and deepened. She ignored the chasm opening and took another swig of Coca-Cola, full calories.
Her phone buzzed on the table, underneath a foil hamburger wrapper.
One of the worst changes that had come with being a single parent was phone-ringing anxiety. If Tony had rung unexpectedly during their marriage, her first reaction would have been to feel pleased and a little special. But now it was different. Her first instinct was to answer the phone, What’s wrong? No matter who called. If one thing could fail, everything could.
But it was Rosalita calling. Ardie watched the phone vibrating in her hand, probably an accident. Or maybe Rosalita was calling to gush more about Salomon’s acceptance. Ardie didn’t think she was up for gushing tonight. But then the call ended and, seconds later, it started up again.
“Rosalita?” She jammed her finger into the spongy remote buttons to turn down the volume.
“Ardie? Miss Ardie?” Rosalita sounded as though she’d been jogging. “I need you to help me fill out Salomon’s financial aid forms. Please.”
“Okay, sure. I can help you.” She regretted picking up the phone. She wasn’t in the mood. “We can meet at the Barnes & Noble later this week.” She would have plenty of time then.
“No, now.” Rosalita’s accent read thick over the phone. “I need you to come now. I don’t understand what happened. I—the deadline—I got confused. I thought I had more time. I don’t know.”
Ardie dragged her hand over her face. She’d already taken off her bra and she hadn’t even had dessert. Were it not for the desperation in Rosalita’s voice, she would have said no. Or maybe were it not for her own, quieter desperation seeping into the couch cushions. She rolled the paper bag containing warm cookies and stuffed them into her purse.
“I’ll meet you,” Ardie said. “Send me your address.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
2-MAY
Saint Ardie, Tony had called her. It hadn’t been a compliment.
Ardie arrived at the apartment complex where Rosalita lived and cut the engine. She sank into darkness and, at th
e same moment, a switch turned on inside her to high alert. She pressed the point of a key between two fingers, a self-defense tactic she’d read about in a chain email that had been passed between dozens of email addresses she hadn’t recognized. It was the sort of unsubstantiated advice that she followed because it felt mildly useful and disproportionately empowering. She stared out the windshield at the distance between her car and Rosalita’s apartment.
It was impossible to remember a time before this instinctive and immediate fear for our safety had set in, the need to glance over our backs when crossing an empty parking lot, to check beneath our cars, to bristle when a strange man walked behind us too closely, to startle when he stopped us to ask the time. The realization that this fear was particular to us came later, that, unlike the boys with whom we played in cul-de-sacs when we were little, we would never outgrow the cautionary tales. There would forever be strangers offering us candy.
Ardie looked both ways as she stepped from her car and made her way up the metal stairs that Rosalita and Salomon navigated every day.
Ardie knocked and Rosalita answered with a stack of papers and an instruction sheet, plus a worried frown that aged her. Ardie still had only the vaguest notion of Rosalita’s age.
A sagging sofa took up a third of the tiled living room. It was spaced too closely to a television set, the size that Ardie and Tony would have gotten rid of ten years ago because it looked “dated.” Salomon waved from the couch. It was late, but he hadn’t changed into pajamas yet and still wore his favorite cap—a blue Mavericks hat with a green brim, an illustrated cowboy hat hooked over the “M” of the logo. It was too big for his head and he lifted his chin up slightly to see the television.
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