I think: Maybe there are some things I don’t need to know.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Now
Isla watches cable news on the television in the playroom, vacuuming up the new information. The headline JOY FIELDS FACING UP TO FORTY YEARS BEHIND BARS scrolls endlessly across the bottom of the screen.
“What would putting Joy Fields in jail actually accomplish? She’s not dangerous. Wouldn’t it be better for society if she were severely fined or forced to endow a scholarship for underprivileged kids? That seems more commensurate with the crime, surely,” a talking head, a bald white guy with square tortoiseshell glasses argues. “Force her to turn that so-called charitable donation into an actual charity.”
“First of all, in this country, it’s supposed to be a fact that if you break the law, you suffer the consequences. But because Joy Fields is a white actress with a pretty smile, she doesn’t have to serve time? No. Literally hundreds of thousands of people of color have been put away for so much longer for so much less. There’s a mom of four kids in Oklahoma who is currently serving twelve years for marijuana possession,” a white woman, with a Drybar blowout, argues back.
“But then isn’t the argument that we should have less incarceration generally, not that we should put Joy Fields in prison?” the man argues.
“Maybe, but my point is that not until we see equal administration of the law, not until I see the mass release of African Americans from our nation’s prison, will I start losing sleep over whether this overly entitled, overly privileged, cheating—”
Isla clicks the TV off.
“What were you watching?” I ask.
“You guys have lawyers to explain stuff to you. I have MSNBC,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“How bad do you think—”
“Bad,” she says, fast, unblinking.
“Do you agree with that woman? That Mom deserves to go to prison?” I don’t add what we both are thinking. That if she thinks Mom does, then she probably thinks I do too.
“No. I mean, if she were some stranger, maybe? But she’s Mom. So of course not.”
“I get that, I think.” Lately, when I lie on my bed and watch the chandelier sparkle, I dip my toe in that quicksand and let myself understand why everyone is so angry at us, how we became the focus of so much seething resentment. I try to let go and see this from the outside. How Shola might look at our case, or even some rando in Nebraska. I think it boils down to this: I already have too much I did nothing to earn, and then I went ahead and stole from someone who was running all the bases.
“I’m scared, though. I’m scared she’s blowing her shot of this not ruining the rest of her life and ours. If she has to go away for, like, a year but that’s it, she could do that. She could. We could handle that too,” Isla says. Neither of us even bothers grappling with my mother’s hypothetical innocence. We know she did it. Of course she did.
Or more accurately, they did. The only reason we don’t have to contend with my dad’s guilt is because he’s likely to get away with it.
The question is, what’s the most palatable punishment? Our circumstances don’t allow us to tackle morality so much as practicality.
“But twenty? Or forty? That’s insane,” Isla says.
“I can’t imagine it. Mom in an orange jumpsuit. Mom, not here.”
“What she did, what we all did, was wrong,” she says, and I can see her swallowing back tears. Strong, impenetrable Isla. “We shouldn’t just get away with it.”
“You didn’t do anything,” I say.
“I keep thinking about what it means to know something. Like whether the concept of knowing is something active or passive. When does something graduate from being a suspicion?” Isla brings her arms around her knees, turns herself into a girl ball. Leave it to my sister to boil down everything I’ve been thinking into a simple question. Even now, I haven’t quite come out the other side. Kenny could lay out an argument on paper and prove to a court that there’s little evidence I was in on my parents’ plan. And yet, that’s nowhere near as reassuring as it should be.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too. Though probably in a less smartypants way.”
“I knew, I think. I mean, I didn’t know-know. I couldn’t explain it all like they do in the complaint. But I knew enough,” Isla says, looking straight at me, deliberately holding eye contact.
“You didn’t know. You couldn’t have,” I say.
“There was stuff on the printer.” She nods, as if convincing herself this is the right thing to do, unburdening herself. Saying this out loud. Her confession. “I saw the pole vaulting picture. And I knew about the SATs. I heard them talking to Dr. Wilson.”
“Stop. Let me call Kenny. We need to make sure you’re protected.” The prospect of my mom and me facing legal consequences is terrifying, but the idea of Isla being brought into this is unimaginable. I used to think that scene in the Hunger Games, when Katniss steps up and volunteers as tribute, was ridiculous. That she would risk almost certain death for her annoying little sister? Now I get it.
I’d go to prison for life to keep Isla out of this mess. I really would.
“I’m fine. Safe. Whatever. I can’t be…you know, I’m too far removed. I did my research. I can’t be held responsible for having dishonorable parents,” she says with a shaky laugh.
“Why didn’t you say something to me, then?” I think about how that conversation could have gone, if we could have avoided this mess in the first place.
“I tried.”
My brain short-circuits for a minute, and then I remember. Thanksgiving break. Isla asked about my supposed ADHD and I thought she was being judgmental. How if she wasn’t so good at test taking, she too would understand the pressure of the SAT. I had it all wrong. She knew we’d gone over the edge and was looking for me to help pull us back.
Did I know then about Proctor Dan?
Isla is talking about passively knowing, and I wonder if there is such a thing as aggressively, actively choosing not to know.
A 1440 was magic, a vision board made manifest, what felt like the work of God, not man.
But I’ve never believed in magic. Or vision boards. I’m still fifty-fifty on God.
I was, am, such an asshole.
“Did you like Crime and Punishment? The book, I mean.” This is my way of telling her I know exactly the conversation she’s talking about.
“Oh, I never got past page twenty.”
“What? I saw you.”
“I knew my reading it for fun would piss you off,” Isla says, and I laugh and hit her with a throw pillow. “I should have stopped you guys. Or spoken up more. Then this never would have happened.”
“Isl, you’re the smartest person in this house and maybe the best, but it’s not your job to keep us from…”
I stop, trying to think of the best way to put it.
“Cheating?” she asks. “Breaking the law?”
“Among other things, but yeah, that,” I say. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing. I’m not going to lie to you and say the same about Mom and Dad and me. But you did nothing wrong, no matter what you did or didn’t know or whatever the word know even means.”
I take a firm grip on her shoulders, force her to make eye contact. I don’t want her to carry guilt on top of everything else. We screwed up enough of her life already.
I volunteer as tribute, I want to shout.
She’s again in her llamacorn pajamas, and she looks delicate and small, the less-tough, more adorable version of my mother. I think about the rage I felt when I saw her reading Dostoyevsky. I feel shaken by my predictable pettiness.
“We never should have put you in this position in the first place. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says.
“You deserve better than us,” I
say.
“Nah,” she says.
“You do.”
“Can I borrow your clothes when you go to prison?” she asks again.
“Isla!”
“Still not funny yet. Got it,” she says, and then tackle-hugs me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Then
“So tell me, how do you feel about Boston?” Levi asks. He bounds up to me in the hall, throws one arm around my shoulder. As usual, he’s glowing. His cheeks are pink and recently warmed, and I want to rest the backs of my hands against them. I want to kiss his ears at their jaunty jagged tips. I wish we could find a cozy corner somewhere to make out—the back of the library, a janitor’s closet—but this is real life, not a teen movie. We have exactly two minutes to get to English 4.
“Well, for one, I hate the Patriots. All that winning is boring. And then they had to go and cheat also? They suck,” I say. “Boo.”
“Okay, not team Brady. Got it.”
“But they have the Liberty Bell, which is cool, even with the crack. I’m a sucker for a perfect imperfection,” I say.
“That’s Philly, not Boston.”
“Duck tours. I love duck tours,” I say triumphantly, looking up into Levi’s perfect face. If it wasn’t weird, I’d take out my phone and snap a selfie with him. Capture the two of us in this moment—him aglow, me basking vicariously—so I can have it to relish later, when this is inevitably over. I want to hold on to our casual flow, remember it beat by beat. “I took one in Boston once, and it was awesome, because they are both a car and a boat. Like a real-life Transformer.”
“Okay, this got so off track. Let me start over: I got into Harvard!” he announces.
“What? Really? You got in? It’s official?”
“I got in! It’s done.” I turn around to face him and he picks me up and swings me in a circle.
“Congratulations!” I bury my face in his neck. I plant ten tiny kisses and then I wish kisses were like seeds and that they’d grow so I could keep him. He’d normally be opposed to this sort of public display of affection—we hold hands at school and that’s it—but today, Harvard day, he makes an exception. No wonder he’s glowing.
“I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew I had a shot, but I don’t know. For the rest of my life, I’m going to get to say I went to Harvard.” I don’t remind him that he’s getting a little ahead of himself and that he still needs to get through four years. Then again, unlike me and my SAT scores, I doubt he’s worried that his acceptance is some sort of glitch. He belongs at Harvard. He’ll do great there.
“I knew it. Never had a single doubt,” I say. “And for what it’s worth, I’d love any city you were in. I could even become a Patriots fan.”
As soon as the words are out, I cringe. Both cheesy and presumptuous. Great. Levi and I haven’t talked at all about what next year means for us. I’m assuming the worst-case scenario—sometime in the next six months, I’ll get my heart smashed into a thousand pieces. Then I’ll go off to college—probably somewhere far away from Boston, despite the fact that I wasn’t joking and I do dig a good duck tour—and I’ll be distracted by all the shiny newness of freshman year. Eventually, I’ll get over Levi and he’ll transform from a person into an indelible memory. He’ll become the story I tell new friends when we stay up late into the night talking about our first loves.
Levi doesn’t seem fazed by my uncharacteristic gushing.
“Harvard!” he says, like he still doesn’t quite believe it. I spot Shola farther down the hall, and when she sees Levi, she comes running over.
“You got in?” she asks, eyes wide.
“I got in,” he says, his grin so big it eats his whole beautiful face.
“Congrats. I’m really happy for you,” Shola says, giving him a big hug. I’m sure on the inside she’s jealous and rightly pissed off that she didn’t get the benefit of applying early decision even though it’s her first choice too.
There’s still room for her at Harvard, of course, assuming they cough up enough financial aid. Last year, they took eight kids from Wood Valley, which means there should be about seven more spots.
“I heard Bodhi and Palmer got in too,” Levi says. Okay, five more. Still, I have faith. One of those has to have Shola’s name on it.
“That’s great,” she says. I look over at my best friend in awe. She’s either an amazing actress, or she’s legitimately happy for him. I’m floored by her generosity. I almost say, It will be you next, but instead I grab Shola’s hand and squeeze, and she squeezes back, and we have a tiny conversation that way.
Me saying, It will be you soon, and her saying, Fingers crossed.
“Fingers and toes,” I whisper out loud. And she nods and closes her eyes, like I’ve said a prayer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Now
My mother turns fifty with little fanfare. We don’t celebrate in Mexico as originally planned. Instead, she spends the day in a federal court in Boston, where she officially pleads not guilty. I still don’t quite understand why the case is happening in Boston and not here, but since my dad’s fear of the billable hour has finally sunk in, I decide it’s unnecessarily expensive to ask Kenny. Instead, I make a mental note to ask Isla to explain it to me later.
I watch my mom walk into the courthouse on CNN and then again on MSNBC. She wears a boring black suit, loose-fitting, purchased specifically for this event and never to be worn again, and fake chunky glasses. She left her supersized diamond engagement ring at home, and so she wears only her simple gold wedding band and no other jewelry. Her nails are painted a pale pink, her hair is blown out straight with the ends tucked under—no sexy beach waves—and again she dons the makeup-no-makeup look. The lawyers told her to dress conservative and harmless, “like a mother, not a Hollywood actress,” whatever that means.
What is a mother supposed to look like? I wonder. I remember last fall when my mom pretended to make pancakes for Marie Claire, how she rocked an apron and red heels. I remember Paloma later complaining that she wasn’t Gwyneth enough—another version of motherhood altogether, all-natural, organic, condescending. I think about my real mom in a fluorescent bikini, nagging me about our call to Dr. Wilson, reading scripts on the couch, tucking me into bed every night with an I love you.
Even when she’s facing felony charges, my mother’s forced to play a role. If Shola were here, she’d lecture about the dangers of performative femininity, how my mom is stuck playing a game she can never win. How we all are, in our own way.
I wish my mother could go to court in Wood Valley sweatpants and her hair tied back in a silk scarf, the look that most seems like home to me.
I wish my mother had taken the plea bargain and then this court appearance would be an ending, not a beginning.
I wish this didn’t feel like one more terrible mistake at the end of a long line of them.
My father is in Boston with my mom for moral support, though all of the lawyers collectively agreed that it was better if he stayed back in the hotel room. Safer for him to remain under the radar, rather than remind the prosecutor of his existence. Mr. Spence accompanies my mother into the courthouse, arms linked at the elbow, guiding her past the bevy of cameras. My mom follows Paloma’s instructions, which have changed course since the yoga studio incident—this time my mother is supposed to keep her eye-line down, remain serious and demure. Play it “accidentally in-over-your-head and scared,” Paloma said, and for maybe the first time, Paloma’s instructions 100 percent match reality. I imagine this is exactly how my mother feels.
There will be no tossing off catchphrases this time. None of us is at our “bestest.”
The house feels empty with my mom and dad and Mr. Spence away and the rest of the lawyers returned to their own offices for the time being. Even Cristof and Carrie were given a few days off. The paparazzi are no longer camped ou
t in front of our house, and since I still refuse to venture out into the world, Isla and I are left with a credit card for Postmates. Our only instructions are to keep the alarm set around the clock and to occasionally feed ourselves, preferably with a vegetable or two. My mom, in a moment of Gwynethness, also left me her essential oils kit on my nightstand—she has her travel set—to rub on my wrists for stress relief.
Use as needed, sweet pea, she’d written in a note.
While Isla’s at school, I wander from room to room, lonely. I let my fingers drag along the spines on the bookcase but can’t bring myself to read anything. I switch on Netflix and then turn it off again. Too many choices. I click over to Instagram and create a fake account—I find a black-and-white picture of Dostoyevsky to use as my profile picture, and I set my location as Siberia. I feel ever-so-slightly clever, until I remember I still haven’t read the book. Maybe the reference makes no sense at all.
I click over to Levi’s feed and learn that today is Wood Valley Giving Day. He posts a picture of him and Simon and Axl. In it, all three of them look sweaty and hold nail guns in the air like Charlie’s Angels. It’s supposed to be a day of community service—building houses for low-income families—but looking at Instagram, I can see my classmates are filled with that restless, excited end-of-school year energy and that they’re doing more chatting and selfie-taking than working. I wonder if people are still talking about me, or if they’ve moved on to more important matters. Picking college roommates. Dress-shopping for prom.
It’s a weird feeling—this desire to be forgotten. I’ve spent my whole life wondering about the opposite. If I could find a way to leave behind a mark, to move beyond my own mediocrity. If I could one day be more than simply my famous mother’s daughter.
The doorbell rings, and I freeze. My brain scrolls through worst-case scenarios: A reporter. No, the FBI here to arrest me for real. I pull up Kenny’s number on my cell. I decide if it’s the cops, they’ll at least give me a chance to call my lawyer.
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