I wonder if the headmaster, Mr. Hochman, considered expulsion. I wonder if Mrs. Oh talked him out of it.
No backsies, I think.
I remember Mrs. Pollack’s class, and how she went on and on about the idea of culpability—the various ways we end up paying for our sins. I think of all the people across the country who would like to see my mom and me sent to a Siberian labor camp. And then I think about how my mother hasn’t left her room in the forty-eight hours since our disastrous family meeting. She’s been eating Xanax like candy and telling Dad over and over that she’s still confused about why what she did is considered a crime at all. Occasionally, I hear her mumble the word Zurich.
I get it, though. Why what she did—what we did?—was a crime.
“Thank you. That sounds super fair,” I say, thinking that my parents or Carrie can hire me a tutor to help. A beat later I realize that I don’t want them to. I need to manage this on my own with a little hard work. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“Good. Glad that’s sorted. So then about prom.”
“I’m not going.” Last week, I finally received a text from Levi. It was only six lines. My very first breakup haiku.
I’m sorry about prom
But what happened was messed up
Not ready to talk
I’m not sure when/if
Obvi hope it works out for you
But this is goodbye
I, apparently, am not even worthy of full sentences, or the writing out of the word obviously. Which, come on, it probably would have been the faster choice with autofill.
“Right, okay. Good. We were worried about paparazzi, so—” Mrs. Oh clears her throat. The bell rings again, and all that background shuffling comes to a stop. I picture Shola in class finding someone else to talk to when Mrs. Pollack makes everyone break into small discussion groups. I picture Levi taking Sophie to prom instead, and kissing her on the dance floor, and not giving a second thought to the fact that it was supposed to be me there with him. Obvi. “One more thing, and I’m sorry about this, truly I am, but SCC is rescinding your acceptance. You’ll be getting a letter soon.”
My friends on Signal had warned me this was coming. The future that had so recently seemed inevitable—me in my dorm room at SCC becoming whomever I’m meant to become—disappears. I remind myself that I don’t want to go someplace where I don’t belong, that everyone hates me there anyway, and most importantly, that I never earned my spot in the first place. None of that lessens the sting.
For a week, I’d had the pleasure of basking in my parents’ evident pride, of walking through the Wood Valley hallway flaunting my brand-new SCC sweatshirt, of scrolling my SCC class hashtag on Instagram. I’d felt important and special and chosen. Now I wonder if what my parents were experiencing was nothing like pride at all. Only a perverse relief. Or if there was pride, it was because they had found the side door, the secret handshake to get me in.
In the complaint, there’s an email my mom wrote to Dr. Wilson after I got my SCC acceptance. She sent him a high-five emoji. That’s it. No words. Only the high-five emoji. Out of everything I’ve read and for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, that one hurts the most.
“Yeah. Okay,” I say, my voice thick. “No SCC. I figured.”
“I know it sucks.”
“No. I mean, yeah, it sucks. But they’re right to rescind. I don’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t anyway.” I stop talking, give up. She knows what I mean. SCC belongs to fictional alterna-Chloe. Liar Chloe. I stare again at the chandelier, willing it to give me answers, or a plan, or a road map. Something to get from here to whatever comes next so I can hop over this terrible part. I feel myself sinking into my mattress and I imagine the pillow top suffocating me slowly. “I don’t know what I’ll do now, though.”
“That’s okay,” Mrs. Oh said. “You’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” I say.
“That’s okay too,” Mrs. Oh says.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Then
The first morning of Thanksgiving break, I sleep till one in the afternoon. Despite the fact that our teachers know we’re all in the middle of college admissions, they haven’t let up on the homework. I’ve been up late every night this week trying not to fall further behind.
I’ve scrapped the essay Mrs. Oh hated, and I’ve rewritten it from scratch. What I end up with won’t win any awards, or be excerpted in the New York Times, like Maverick Stone’s—last year’s valedictorian—essay was. That was about a kid who convinced his parents to defect from Scientology while in middle school. I still think mine’s good enough to send off.
Even Mrs. Oh agrees. When she handed it back, it was covered with red pen, but she also said, Well done, Chloe, which felt better than I would have thought. The closest thing I’ve gotten to a gold sticker at school.
Now it’s in the hands of Dr. Wilson and his on-staff writer, for what he called a “quick copyedit.” I imagine there might be some tinkering, but at least I wrote the gist of it myself. I wrote about the real me, which is to say, unlike my classmates who all seem to already know who and what they want to be when they grow up, I admitted to not yet finding my passion or myself. That I’m hoping college will be the venue that helps me to do so.
Okay, so nothing mind-blowingly original, but at least it’s honest.
“Get up, lazybones. Dr. Wilson needs a photo of you,” my dad says, and barrels into my room and opens the blinds. The sun streams in through the window. I can hear the buzz of a lawn mower and Isla conjugating Spanish verbs. The number of these sorts of mornings are running out, and I want to hold on to them. My bed, the sounds, the promise of a familiar, unchallenging day.
“Seriously, get up,” my dad says, and sits down on my duvet. He’s in golf clothes and smells like fresh laundry. He whacks me on the head with a pillow.
“Stop!” I sit up, laughing, and block my face with my arms.
“I don’t know your phone code or I’d find a picture myself. Is yours face or finger ID?”
“I’m not giving you my phone. What do you need a picture for?” I ask.
“For your college applications,” he says, like this is perfectly reasonable.
“You don’t need to send a picture with a college application.”
“Dr. Wilson said we did. Joy, didn’t Dr. Wilson say we needed a photo?” he calls to my mother, who comes running.
“We need a photo. Yes,” my mom says. She’s wearing her usual weekend uniform: leopard-print running tights and a matching sports bra and no shirt. I stare at her midriff. To be clear, I don’t begrudge my mother her figure. I happily choose food. And free time. And my mental health.
“What is that?” my dad asks, pointing to my mother’s face, which is covered in a terrifying Korean sheet mask.
“It does good things to your skin. Dr. Roth said to use one every third week, so Carrie set a reminder on my calendar.”
“Huh.”
“Mom, your abs look insane,” I say.
“I know, right? Paloma has me doing a fitness cover shoot later. If you look closely, you can see some of them are painted on with tanner.” I squint, and sure enough, the lines appear hand drawn. Still, if you painted a six-pack onto my abs, they’d look like Hawaiian dinner rolls.
“Photo. For Dr. Wilson. Now.” My dad pulls up an email on his phone and squints at the small type. “Only requirements are you facing forward where we can see your face and neck.”
“Can someone please tell me why Dr. Wilson needs my photo, particularly one showing my neck?” I ask for a second time.
“I think it’s for some sort of profile,” my dad says, and my mom shakes her head in exasperation. Isla does this killer impression of mom yelling at dad: Richard, get that phone out of your face and listen to me for once. In all fairness, my da
d is an epically bad listener, which is one of the many reasons we have Carrie. My parents have found a way to outsource all of the things married people usually nag each other about. That might be the secret to their mostly blissful union, come to think of it, enough money so that neither of them has to cook or clean or negotiate who picks up the dry cleaning or the kids.
“It’s for his website,” my mom says, elbowing him.
“I don’t want to be on his website,” I say.
“Stop being difficult,” my parents say in unison.
“It would be good if you can find one where you look a little tan,” my dad says.
“Why?”
“You need to look a tad Latino,” my dad says, again as if he’s making sense.
“But…I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I’m not Latina,” I say.
“There’s a little Argentinian on my side,” my dad says, and holds up his forearms, which are perfectly tanned. From weekly golf under the California sun. Not genetics.
“Ignore Dad. It’s not a thing,” my mom says. She grabs my phone, flashes it in my face so she can bypass the passcode, and then pulls up my photos. “Ooh, this one is cute of Levi.”
“Hands off, Joy. He’s too young for you.” My dad pinches her butt and she squeals.
“Here. One from the beach in Maui. You look stunning,” my mom says, and messages the image to herself. “Done.”
“The one with me in a bikini? Oh my God, do not send that to Dr. Wilson.”
“Relax. He just needs your face and neck,” my dad repeats.
“What are you even talking about?” I ask.
“Shush,” my mom says, though I don’t know if she’s talking to my dad or to me. She glances at my phone again. “Ooh, time’s up. Need to take off this mask. It’s all tingly.”
“I know how to make you tingly,” my dad says, and I groan, because boundaries.
“Can I go back to sleep?” I ask, though I have no plans to go back to sleep at all. I plan to lie here and listen to Isla through the wall, and memorize the sound of that lawn mower. I plan to luxuriate in my waning life.
“Fourteen-forty on your SATs. Got your essay in. I think you earned it, love,” my mom says, handing me a silk eye mask from the side dresser.
“Sweet dreams, princess,” my dad says. And then they both blow kisses from the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Now
This time, the meeting is held in the playroom, my family sitting on the wraparound couch, while a man I’ve never met before and who despite his suit and tie doesn’t seem like a lawyer, stands in front of us, fiddling with the television. A tattoo peeks out from his sleeve, and it occurs to me you can tell a lot about a man from how he decorates his wrists.
“Do I need to call Kenny?” I ask, because this is how we live now. Before spending time with my parents, I need to consult my lawyer.
“Not for this,” my dad says. “This is Mr. Forster.”
“Call me Michael.”
“Michael, who are you?” Isla asks, and somehow manages to adopt a tone that is authoritative without being rude. She immediately gives the impression that she, not my parents, is the one in charge here. Instead of going to college, I should take life lessons from my sister.
Michael looks bemused. I guess he’s not used to being addressed directly by sixteen-year-old girls, particularly ones dressed in pajamas decorated with tiny llamas crossed with unicorns, that have the commandment Be a Llamacorn! written in script across the chest.
“I’m here as part advisor, part therapist, part—”
“Oh crap. Are you the priest that Paloma wanted to hire?” Isla asks. “You should know, she’s only using you for reputation rehabilitation and social media exposure. We’re all atheists in this family, though Chloe leans agnostic.”
“Isla, listen to the man,” my dad says. Usually my father puffs up when Isla shows off her smarts, and it would be my mother who’d get annoyed by the interruption, but today my mom sits next to me on the couch, quiet and subdued. She smells of that potent cocktail of Xanax and defeat.
My dad, on the other hand, looks like he’s had twenty gallons of coffee and needs to pee. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a paper towel. He has opted out of his suit jacket for this one, instead wearing a deep blue linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Instead of using the app on his phone, he gets up to lower the temperature on the Nest and then sits back down.
“I’m not a priest. Far from it, I’m afraid. I’m actually a prison consultant.”
Isla laughs out loud when he says this, long and hard, and I glare at her to stop.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize that was a thing. You and your love of consultants. Did Aunt Candy recommend him too?” Isla’s voice is thick with scorn and sarcasm. She looks at my parents, and they both look at the ground, unwilling to meet her eyes. She’s no longer trying to control her anger, or even keep it on a tight simmer. Somehow we knuckleheads have managed to outsmart her and bring her right down with us.
Michael clears his throat and gets started.
“So to more fully answer your question: Who am I? Ten years ago, I went to a minimum-security federal penitentiary for embezzlement and tax evasion. At the time, I thought my life as I knew it was over, and in some ways I was right. It was. But, and I realize how this is going to sound, prison was also the best thing that ever happened to me,” Michael says.
“Are you going to try to get my mom to plead guilty? If so, I’m here for it,” Isla says.
“Nope. That’s your mom’s choice. I’m here to help make it an informed one,” Michael says, and claps his hands together, like he’s the coach and we’re Little Leaguers and the time for messing around is over. I can’t get a good look at his tattoo. It seems serpentine. “The prospect of prison can be really scary, especially to people like you and to people like who I used to be—”
“You mean rich,” Isla fills in.
“Don’t be crass,” my dad says, but Michael looks at Isla and laughs.
“Being wealthy is part of it, sure. Though I meant people who are used to having complete control over their lives. Prison is by definition a loss of control.”
“Can we stop using that word?” my mom asks, her voice small and tight. Fluffernutter, sensing the tension, jumps into her lap to soothe her, and my mom runs her fingers through his fur.
“What word?” Michael asks.
“Prison,” my dad says.
“Yes,” my mom says. “That one.”
“Sorry, no. I can’t do that,” Michael says. “From everything I’ve read, you’re going to have to get used to both that word and the idea. And with all due respect, Ms. Fields, the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. So how about we start immediately,” he says, clicking on his PowerPoint presentation, and I realize this may be the very first time I’ve ever heard someone talk to my mother this way, striking right through her artifice to the truth. Tough love, Mrs. Oh would call it. I may have snowplow parents, but they too live their own kind of snowplowed existence.
The opening slide reads On the inside: the ups and downs of prison life.
Next, a picture of Michael looking about fifteen years younger—thirtysomething, thinning hair, long-limbed but with a paunch, wearing a flashy suit and sitting on the edge of a wide wooden desk. A finance cliché. Exactly who I imagine both Axl and Simon will grow up to be.
Click. Michael again, this time in his orange prison garb, thicker, stronger, his paunch ironed out into muscle. He has a shaved head, a whisper of a scar at his temple, and he looks straight into the camera. He’s smiling in this one. With teeth. I can see his full tattoo: a snake up his arm, curling around the neck of a lamb at the elbow.
A little too obvious.
The pictures present two versions of the same man. I disturb myself by
finding the second significantly more attractive.
“One bonus of prison. Lots of time to exercise,” he says with a wry grin.
His lecture is long and detailed, teaching all of us way more than we ever wanted to know about minimum-security federal penitentiaries. The ways to structure your life as an inmate, like waking up early while there’s still fresh toilet paper, and avoiding team sports so you won’t find yourself in front of the prison doctor. To ration your commissary funds, because they tend to go fast. How you need to make allies instead of friends.
I watch my mother’s face as he talks. She looks both riveted and nauseated. Maybe reality is finally sinking in.
“I hate to admit when I’m wrong,” Isla says, once Michael has finished and asks if we have any questions. “But Aunt Candy did good this time, for once. Thank you for that. Super informative. I give it five stars on Rotten Tomatoes.”
“Ignore Isla. She’s just angry,” my dad says dismissively, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, I can tell that my father, in his usual blunt carelessness, has without noticing lit a match. I feel Isla tense next to me—her teammate has veered to the other side—and so I put my hand on hers, in what I hope she’ll understand is a calm down, I got your back gesture. She shakes me off. She stands up so quickly that so does Fluffernutter, barking.
“Of course I’m angry,” Isla says. She’s been dancing on the edge all morning, all week, and we’re going to see her jump. “I’m freaking livid.”
“Isla, please sit down,” my dad says, and I can tell by the way his words come out that he’s too tired, too broken to put out this fire, even though normally he relishes his role as the family mediator. He likes to play the levelheaded dad smoothing out the hotheaded women around him, just like dads do on sitcoms.
Admission Page 16
