Would they?
Viv
MY SPIN CLASS started at 9 A.M. I was dressed in my Lululemon tights and a pink tank, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’d applied a dab of blush and one coat of mascara, so I looked presentable but not made-up. Normally, I looked forward to this Sunday class. A good sweat set me up for the whole week. But as I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror, I saw the tension in my shoulders, the set of my jaw. My complexion was ashen under the rouge, and my eyes had a haunted appearance. I looked frightened. Because I was.
If Alicia Fernhurst knew that I had stolen her lipstick, she would undoubtedly tell her friends. Likely, she’d share the camera footage with them, too. A couple of Alicia’s confidantes attended my cycle club. There was a good chance I’d see Marcelle McHale in class today. She and Alicia had known each other for years. And Dolly Barber’s attendance was more sporadic, but she and Alicia were close. If these women knew what I had done, I couldn’t face them. The humiliation would be too much.
I had a vivid memory of reaching into Alicia’s bag and grasping her lipstick. I recalled the racing of my pulse, the shallowness of my breath, the adrenaline high when I walked away with her property in my possession. But I didn’t always remember the act. Sometimes, I just found an item in my purse or pocket when I got home. It was almost as if I entered a trancelike state when I stole some objects. Or maybe my guilty conscience blurred the memory, softened the edges.
The lawn mower was buzzing outside the window. Thomas was busying himself with yard work as he did every Sunday morning. He could easily have skipped a week—the yard looked perfect—but curb appeal was important to him and he enjoyed his noisy little gadgets. With my husband otherwise engaged and both my children sleeping in, I slipped into my closet and went to my hosiery drawer. Removing the false bottom, I stared at the collection of pilfered items.
I picked up the bottle of nail polish, such a dark shade of plum it was almost black. I tried to remember where I had gotten it, but I couldn’t. It might have been in a medicine cabinet in a condo I’d staged for one of Thomas’s colleagues, but I wasn’t sure. The corkscrew, I remembered taking. It had come from a dinner party at our neighbors’ house—Camille and Warren. The conversation had turned political, the biggest faux pas when entertaining. I’d felt uncomfortable as heated opinions flew across the table, had excused myself to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Somehow, the heavy corkscrew had found its way into my bag.
The Zippo lighter was a mystery. Who used a lighter like that anymore? I couldn’t think of anyone in my orbit who smoked regularly. It must have come from a home I’d staged or decorated. But I recalled taking the single gold hoop earring. It had belonged to Trina from my book club. I’d used her bathroom during our wine-soaked discussion of Educated, and saw the earrings sitting there in a little glass dish. I’d felt tipsy and reckless. It was the first item I had stolen from a friend. It wouldn’t be the last.
The bag of pills… I had stumbled across them in a linen closet, hidden behind a stack of towels. They were clearly pilfered, stolen, or otherwise illicit, or else they would have been in a prescription bottle. I peered through the plastic at the small blue circles, stamped with the numeral 30. These pills looked slightly rough around the edges and had a dull finish, which seemed odd. But I wasn’t familiar with medications. Neither Thomas nor I took anything stronger than Tylenol. Or the occasional Ambien.
While I couldn’t recall whose home I’d been in, I remembered reaching for a clean hand towel and finding the stash. The discovery had given me a thrill. And I’d felt an even greater thrill when I’d liberated the bag from its hiding place. I’d felt justified, even noble. Someone was using these pills recreationally and I was removing the temptation.
And then there was the lipstick. Alicia’s lipstick. The slight exhilaration I’d felt sifting through my treasures was replaced by a deep sense of self-loathing. And of shame. What was wrong with me? If word got around that I was a thief, even a kleptomaniac, I’d be a pariah. And I deserved to be. My throat clogged with emotion, and I blinked back the tears that threatened.
Replacing the false bottom, I closed the drawer filled with my ill-gotten treasures. Then I stripped off my workout clothes and pulled on a pair of jeans. I realized that I couldn’t go to spin class—I couldn’t go anywhere—until I figured out how to deal with what I had done.
Thomas
EVERY SUNDAY, I got up early and puttered in the yard. I enjoyed doing chores, as long as they involved some kind of power equipment. That morning, I mowed the front grass and edged it with the weed-whacker. Then I power-washed the front steps and the driveway. Viv had cleaned the shit off the front door with a heavy-duty bleach cleaner, but I gave it a blast with the power-washer, just to be sure.
When I was done, I headed for the shower. As I washed my hair with a thickening shampoo, I thought about my daughter’s words last night. She’d been adamant that the recent attacks had nothing to do with her, had even tried to deflect the blame onto us. Her defensiveness only made her look more responsible. This had to be about Tarryn. I didn’t know much about her life, or her friends, but I knew she was a cute girl with a huge chip on her shoulder. She was bound to attract some negative attention.
Tipping my head back, I rinsed the soap from my hair, my mind drifting to more pressing matters. I still hadn’t heard back from my blackmailer. How could I negotiate if she wouldn’t come to the table? The deadline to pay the fifty grand was looming. Obviously, I was going to miss it. I still felt certain—fairly certain—that Chanel wouldn’t release the incriminating photos, that she would come back with a lower, more reasonable figure. I had the line of credit, if need be, but if I could sell the house on Hancock, that albatross around my neck, my commission would help my problem go away.
A thought struck me then. Could Chanel be behind the recent attacks on my house? I knew nothing about the woman I’d supposedly assaulted. Did she live in Portland? Was she taking out her anger at me on my home? It seemed unlikely… but maybe she had kids or younger siblings who were doing the dirty work?
No. No way. Blackmailers didn’t egg houses, throw apples, and wipe shit on door handles. This was kid stuff. It had to be about Tarryn. Or maybe Eli. I turned the water off and reached for a heated towel. I had the Hancock open house at two. My hopes had been dashed when the last potential buyers settled on a bungalow in Laurelhurst. Today was the day, I told myself as I rubbed my hair. A buyer was going to walk in the front door.
* * *
THE HOUSE WAS a dated split-level with a Brady Bunch vibe, minus the charm. The owners, a disagreeable couple in their late sixties, had refused to pay for Viv’s staging services. I’d recently brought it up again as a way to freshen their listing, but they would not fork out for it. I could have asked my wife for a discount, even a freebie, but I didn’t want this property on her radar. And I didn’t relish a speech about her professional value, and women being taken for granted. Luckily, my assistant, Emma, was eager to help out and make a little extra money for her upcoming nuptials. On occasion, I paid her cash to tidy, declutter, hide the appliances in the oven, and make coffee.
When I arrived at the Grant Park house, Emma was in the kitchen, arranging a vase full of pink tulips. The place looked spotless and smelled like fresh coffee and the box of warm doughnuts that was sitting on the counter. On the fridge, brightly colored magnetic letters spelled WELCOME HOME.
“It looks great in here,” I said. I pointed at the fridge. “Nice touch.”
“Thanks.” Emma looked pleased with herself. “I picked up the fridge magnets at the dollar store, and some of those cord wrapper thingies to tidy up behind the TV.”
Emma was better at staging than she was at administration and seemed to enjoy it more. She had really gone above and beyond today with the extra touches. Maybe she could sense how badly I needed to sell this place? I pulled a few bucks from my wallet. “Thanks for your help.”
She looked at
the money for a second, and then up at me. “Your wife has a staging business, right?”
“Yep. Staging and décor.”
“I was wondering if you could mention me to her. Maybe set up a meeting? I’d like to move in that direction, eventually.”
“Sure,” I said, though I hated the thought of losing my assistant. Good help was hard to find, and there was too much going on in my life to have to train someone new. And my last assistant had been hungover at least three times a week.
“Thanks, Thomas.” Emma took the money and stuffed it into her pocket. “I’ve got to run. Paul and I are trying wedding cakes this afternoon.”
“Lucky you,” I said, grabbing a doughnut.
She was shrugging on her jacket when she said, “Are you okay? You seem kind of… tense lately.”
I met her gaze, saw the concern in her dark-brown eyes. Emma was a nice kid, had a good camaraderie with all the agents. She and Leo Grass had a teasing sort of banter that entertained the whole office (even me, until he became my nemesis). But could I open up to a twenty-seven-year-old woman about what I was going through? What would I even say?
Well, Emma, I’m being blackmailed for assaulting a stripper; my wife thinks I’m cheating on her; my son’s dropping out of college; and anonymous delinquents have been throwing food at my house and wiping dog, cat, or human excrement on my front door handle. So, yeah… a little tense.
Emma was young and carefree, focused on her wedding and her future. She wouldn’t understand. And I wouldn’t burden her. “I just really need to unload this house.”
“I know,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “It’s going to happen today. I can feel it.”
I forced a smile as my stomach twisted. It had better.
Eli
MY DAD WAS in a good mood at dinner. He’d picked up pizza on his way home from wherever he’d been. I thought maybe it was a celebration for my new job, but apparently my mom just didn’t feel like cooking. The news was on TV as we ate. My parents kept up a running commentary on the stories of the day, moaning about politicians and policies while my sister and I chewed in silence. No one mentioned that tomorrow was my first shift at the Thirsty Raven. Not until the end of the meal when I excused myself.
“Will you be home for dinner tomorrow night?” Mom asked, stacking the plates.
“No. My training shift starts at four.”
“Here.” My dad handed me the pile of dirty plates. “Your first training shift.”
From anyone else, it might have been funny. From him, it was condescending and belittling. I stomped to the sink and dumped the dishes, then headed up to my room. Behind me I heard Dad say, “What? It was a joke.”
Collapsing onto my bed, I pulled out my phone. Tomorrow marked a new beginning for me and the end of the Worbey chapter. I now knew that my college soccer teammates were not my friends. I’d thought they were good guys, a bit cocky, a bit rowdy, but decent human beings overall. Something had come over them that night—booze, group contagion, excess testosterone—that had turned them into monsters. I’d learned about it in a sociology elective. They’d done something horrible, but they were boys, just like me.
But they weren’t like me; that had become clear when I opened their messages and read their taunts and threats. They were mean and ruthless, cared only about saving their own skins. I didn’t want to destroy them like they thought I did. I just wanted to forget the whole fucked-up incident. But I was the weakest link and they were afraid of what I might say. And they were not going to let me bring them down.
Luckily, cutting them off was easy. I blocked all their numbers from calling my phone. Then I went through Instagram, Snapchat, and Facebook, systematically eliminating my former friends. I also deleted the Messenger app. I probably should have done that when I first got home, before they could turn on me. But better late than never. And then, as I did on occasion, I checked up on Drew Jasper.
It appeared that he’d blocked the rest of his abusers, but somehow, I had slipped through the cracks. Maybe he remembered that I was just a bystander, not a participant in his assault. More likely, he’d forgotten about me altogether. Drew hadn’t posted much since the incident. If I was fucked up about it, I could only imagine how he was coping. But there was a new photo on his Instagram, a picture of a sunset over a lake surrounded by thick forest. The caption read simply:
Home
I couldn’t remember where Drew was from, but it was clearly somewhere rural. Or maybe his family had a lake house? There was a sense of relief in that single word: Home. Drew would not be going to back to college, either. I wondered what he had told his family. Was he able to tell them the truth? Or had he felt the need to lie to them, too? Had they grilled him, demanding answers? Accused him of being selfish and ungrateful, the way my parents had? Normally, I observed his page undetected, not wanting to draw attention to my lurking. But I decided to like his post. Because I got it. I understood.
Drew had come to Worbey in the winter semester. I’d barely met the guy before that night. He hadn’t seemed like a victim; a strong forward with an outgoing personality. Drew had had no problem chugging the drinks the team forced on him, wearing the bra and panties that were the hazing tradition. We’d all gone through it; it wasn’t that bad. But Drew was a late arrival and forced to do it alone. Maybe that’s why things had taken a bad turn?
He’d been handling it fine until the paddle came out. It was about eighteen inches long including the handle, the letters tooled into the black leather. We’d all been spanked with it, hard enough to emblazon the acronym for Worbey College Soccer onto our pink backsides. Its was painful, ultimately degrading, but bearable. What happened next, wasn’t.
Drew had tried to call it off, had tried to stagger away, but the guys wouldn’t have it. There was some shoving, some grabbing, and the next thing I knew, they had him pinned down on the floor. Manny ripped the panties off and Oscar smacked Drew with the paddle. Hard. Too hard. The letters were already visible on his red ass, but Oscar kept spanking, even as Drew twisted and writhed and screamed for him to stop. When Manny took the paddle off Oscar, I thought the abuse was over. But it wasn’t. Manny turned the instrument around, and he used the handle.
The memory made me feel sick, made me hate myself, so I went to my desk and turned on my computer. Gaming was the only thing that let me forget the past, even the present. If I was better at it, I’d get on Twitch and never do anything else. Everything disappeared when I was playing League of Legends. Memories, even time ceased to exist. So I was surprised when there was a knock at my door. My mom poked her head inside.
“It’s late. Maybe you should shut it down?”
I glanced at the time in the corner of my screen: 10:36. “I will. Soon.”
“We’re going to bed. Can you put your headphones on?”
“Sure. Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, sweetie.”
I placed the headphones on my ears and turned up the volume. I stayed up for another hour, probably closer to two. If I played long enough, I could fall into an exhausted sleep, unbothered by dreams about Drew and Oscar and Manny.
I was so immersed in my game that I barely heard the explosion on our front lawn.
Tarryn
I WAS IN my wig, bra, and makeup when the blast interrupted a camming chat about fish oil supplements (you’d be surprised how many viewers were completely satisfied to discuss health and wellness with a girl in her underwear). My first instinct was to run from the room in my camming ensemble, but thankfully, I thought better of it. I closed the laptop, tore the wig from my head, and flicked off the lamps I used for lighting my set. Only then did I peek out the corner of my heavy curtains. Gray smoke snaked across our front lawn, and my heart jumped into my throat. What the fuck had happened?
A few seconds later, my parents’ feet entered the frame. I saw my dad’s sweatpants and untied running shoes, heard him mutter, “Jesus Christ. It’s a smoke bomb.”
“Call the
police,” my mom said, her voice tense and shrill above her fluffy slippers.
Eli’s bare feet joined them. “It’s harmless, Mom. Just noise and smoke.”
“It’s not harmless,” she cried. “These lunatics threw a bomb on our front lawn in the middle of the night! I want to find out who the heck is behind this and why.”
The smoke was starting to dissipate now, so I moved away from the window. Would my parents really call 911? Would the police show up over something so innocent? I wanted to go upstairs to find out, but I’d have to remove my makeup first. And throw a robe over my sexy lingerie. And I had to let the camming community know that I was okay. They cared about me. They’d be worried.
Opening my laptop, I left the camera off and typed into the group chat box.
Sorry guys. I have to sign off now, but I’ll see you tomorrow!
I watched a few comments come in from my regulars.
Hope everything’s okay.
Did Daddy catch you?
Take care, Natalia.
And then, a comment from an unfamiliar name…
Careful little girl. Someone could be out there.
Someone who knows what you’re up to.
Viv
THE NEXT MORNING, shaky and exhausted, I drove downtown rehearsing my spiel in the privacy of my Volvo. I had figured out a way to save face while returning Alicia Fernhurst’s expensive lipstick. She no longer wanted to work with me, I understood that, but I had to try to salvage my career. And my reputation. I was confident that my story sounded plausible, but my armpits were sweaty, and my hands felt slippery on the wheel. The stress of last night’s smoke bomb attack had me wound up and on edge.
The Perfect Family Page 6