A flurry of teachers streams down the aisles and onstage. The music is abruptly shut off. The girls led away.
* * *
An hour later, when Gemma and Bee emerge from Mr. Nunez’s office (all the girls have been given three-day suspensions), Ruth and Marley are waiting in the hall for them. Gemma is so furious at Bee she can’t bear to look at her.
“She’s grounded for life,” she says to Ruth.
Bee and Marley walk a few feet behind them. Suddenly Marley cries out. Gemma spins around to see Bee yanking Marley violently back by her hair.
“You pussy!” Bee screams.
Marley moans and clutches her ponytail in pain.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mr. Nunez says.
“Bee, apologize!” shrieks Gemma. “Tell Marley you’re sorry.”
“I’m not sorry,” shrieks Bee. “Not one little bit.”
“You need to stay out of Marley Thorne’s way, young lady,” says Mr. Nunez. He stares at Gemma intently. “Make sure she does.”
“I will. I promise nothing like this will happen again, Mr. Nunez.”
PART TWO
RUTH
Ruth’s phone lights up a little after ten. MY MOTHER MADE ME DO IT.
OneWayAtATime: I’m speechless. What a night!!
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: I don’t really understand what bitch you up on the bando means. The bitch is in a band? Like on a grandstand?
TortoiseWinsTheRace: I don’t really know either. Hold on let me google it.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: A bando is an abandoned house that’s used to make or sell drugs.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: Of course it is.
OneWayAtATime: Those outfits. You could practically see their shmundies! And Bee? Was she high? I heard she’s turned into quite the little stoner.
HappilyEverAfter: She looked like a slut. They all looked like sluts. That was their secret name for their dance crew did you know that? Sluts but with a Z, SLUTZ.
PennySavedPennyEarned: You’re kidding.
HappilyEverAfter: I kid you not PennySavedPennyEarned.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: Oh I get it. Kind of like those Bratz dolls. That’s probably where they got the idea.
OneWayAtATime: Everything has a Z stuck on it at the end now. It’s ridicz.
HappilyEverAfter: My DD would NEVER participate in something like that. She knows better.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: Neither would my DD. So obvious. So crude.
PennySavedPennyEarned: My DD was appalled. Bee was repugnant. They all were. Exhibiting themselves like that.
OneWayAtATime: I heard they got 3-day suspensions.
HappilyEverAfter: And poor Gemma. Back in the shithouse again. Just when she was climbing out, Bee put her right back in.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: She’s so checked out. What kind of a mother wouldn’t ferret out that her daughter was in a dance group called SLUTZ?
OneWayAtATime: A negligent mother that’s who.
PennySavedPennyEarned: From what I’ve heard Bee is a sneaky, manipulative girl. Why do we always blame the mother? It’s not all Gemma’s fault.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: I agree. Let’s try and give Gemma and Bee the benefit of the doubt. Clearly they’re struggling.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: Maybe this is their rock bottom. It’s all uphill from here.
OneWayAtATime: Somehow I doubt that.
HappilyEverAfter: Check this out, ladies. #blessedDD’s
HappilyEverAfter sends a link. It’s a cheesy gif. Like an old Hallmark card. A mother and a daughter sitting under a tree on a blanket. Bluebirds hop from branch to branch. The sun shimmers. A plane flies by with a banner attached to its tail: A daughter is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: OMG LOVE!
TortoiseWinsTheRace: Awwww!
OneWayAtATime: Boom boom boom goes my heart…
HappilyEverAfter: Knew you guys would relate! What do you think PennySavedPennyEarned? Isn’t it darling?
Give me a fucking break, thinks Ruth.
PennySavedPennyEarned: Totes adorbz
MARLEY
“Get up, get up, Marley bear.”
Marley wakes to find her mother gazing down upon her, love as harsh as stadium lights beaming out of her eyes. This kind of love requires her full attention. A certain sort of sedulousness, a PSAT word.
Ruth has had Marley studying for the PSAT since seventh grade. She’s under strict orders not to tell Gemma. Her mother wants Gemma to think she aced the test with no prep, courtesy of her 130 IQ. Marley’s pretty sure her IQ is nowhere near 130; maybe 115 tops. She’s bright, but she’s no genius. Her grades are a result of her work ethic.
Her mother stares at her hungrily. She needs Marley’s forgiveness.
“Guess what? We’re playing hooky today! We’re going to go into the city. Nordstrom! Saks! I’m going to buy you an entire new wardrobe. Elegant. Sophisticated.” Her mother tucks a strand of hair behind Marley’s ear. “You’re not a child anymore. You need some grown-up clothes.”
“Forever 21’s at Westfield’s. H&M. Brandy Melville,” says Marley.
Her mother tsks. “Those clothes are disposable. They won’t last you a month. We’re going to get you some quality stuff. Clothes you’ll have for a lifetime.”
“Saks is too fancy,” ventures Marley. Normally she’d just accept whatever decisions her mother makes, but today her mother owes her.
“Well, what’s your style? More of a comfortable vibe?”
“Yeah, comfy,” says Marley, thinking of Lululemon.
Her mother tilts her head, her features go all smushy. “I’m so proud of you for sticking to your guns. Doing the right thing. Refusing to be a sheep. Not following the crowd.”
Could her mother use any more clichés? When Marley was younger she believed whatever her mother told her. Marley didn’t have strong observation skills, didn’t pick up social cues, couldn’t read a room, unlike her mother, who excelled in all these things. Ruth had a high EQ, Marley did not.
Now, it’s the other way around.
Her mother glowers. “You don’t look happy. All those girls got suspended. You understand that will go on their records. Permanently.”
“I know. I just feel bad for them. For Bee.”
“You feel bad for Bee? She practically assaulted you in the hallway, may I remind you!”
Marley deserved the hairpulling and the name-calling. She’d abandoned Bee and the group. She would have gladly taken the suspension and endured it proudly. It would have bonded them all together. Now she’ll be banished forever. There will be no getting back in.
“Oh, Marley.” Her mother strokes her cheek. “You’ve always been such a compassionate girl. I love that about you, just like your mama. Always putting others first. But you must be careful about giving too much of yourself. People will take. They’ll take and take and then you’ll find yourself with nothing.”
* * *
They spend the day in San Francisco. They shop in the morning, dim sum for lunch. More shopping, then they catch a five-dollar showing of Lady Bird at the Roxie and her mother sobs all the way through it.
When they get home, Marley takes her bags and climbs the stairs to her bedroom.
“You’re coming back down, right?” her mother calls up to her, a panicked look on her face.
Marley is depleted in every way. She’s friendless, she’s H&Mless, she’s motherless, even though her mother is standing there in front of her. All she wants to do is go to bed.
She holds up the bags. “Just going to put these away.”
“Hang them up so they don’t wrinkle. And wear the Eileen Fisher poncho tomorrow with jeans. It’ll be so cute!”
* * *
“Can you update my OS?” asks her mother when Marley comes back downstairs. She hands Marley her laptop.
Marley types in her password: RuthAnnThorneTheGreat. “You’ve had
this password forever. You really should change it. Better yet, use a password manager.”
“You’re my password manager,” says her mother.
This is true. Marley is in charge of their digital life. She’s set up everything that keeps their household functioning smoothly: Alexa, Nest, Netflix, Ring, Amazon, Spotify, even their banking. Her mother is more than capable of managing everything herself; she just pretends to be computer illiterate because she’s lazy.
“When’s the last time you did it?”
“Mmm, a while? I keep telling them to remind me again tomorrow.”
Marley clicks on About This Mac. “You’re two updates behind. Mom, the updates are really important.”
“I know, I know, but it just takes so long. Hooours,” her mother drawls.
* * *
Marley FaceTimes her father at 10:35. He’s frequently up until midnight. After Luciana and Oscar have gone to bed, he puts on the Turner Classic Movie channel and lets it drone on in the background as he does the crossword.
“Sweetheart!” he crows. His face looms large in her screen, his eyes owlish. “Something’s wrong. I can’t see you, I can only see me.”
“I don’t have video on. I’m doing a face mask,” says Marley, lying. “It’s made from avocados. I look like the Grinch.” If her father saw her he’d know something was wrong.
All day long Marley’s phone had chimed with incoming texts from the SLUTZ.
Fuck you Marley
You fat bitch
We only allowed you in cause Bee begged us to
You’re a suckass dancer
Omg your back fat
These girls who just weeks ago welcomed her into their club. Who admired her. Who showcased her talents. Whose attention and inclusion transformed her and made her into some shining thing, so bright that even Sander was momentarily dumbstruck. That’s all over now.
“How’s it going? Tell me everything,” her father says.
Tell me everything. Only somebody who really loves you says that. She is so distraught over the whole SLUTZ thing, she wishes she could tell him everything. But she can’t.
Marley catches a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Even though her image is distorted—her eyes seem to be melting down onto her cheekbones, the space between her nose and mouth is unnaturally long—there’s a truth there. A mirror of who she really is. A glimpse of the freak that dwells inside her.
Her mother is the only one who knows of this freak, and she’s tried to cast it out of Marley. To drive it away. And even though her mother’s methods can sometimes be harsh, Marley is grateful to her. Her life’s mission has been to rescue Marley, to save her from her worst impulses, to bring her into the light.
But Marley hasn’t made it easy. You’re your own worst enemy, another cliché her mother has repeated to her over and over again through the course of her childhood. As if she could just snap her fingers and banish the freak. Kick it out.
No, the best Marley can hope for is to put that part of her into some sort of forever slumber. Slip it a poisonous draught and let it drift into a lifelong sleep.
“Not much to tell,” says Marley.
“Really? I don’t believe that. How’s geometry? Are you still on the congruence unit?”
They FaceTime every week. Her father knows her entire schedule, the names of her teachers, her textbooks, her grades.
But he’s a part-time father—a fact her mother reminds her of frequently. He has another family, and they only have two bedrooms. When Marley visits, she sleeps on the pull-out couch in the office, evidence, according to her mother, that she is not a priority. Marley hasn’t told her mother how in the summers they transform the office into a real bedroom. It’s only during the school year that the room stays in its office form, for her shorter visits.
“Yeah.” Marley strains to keep her voice from breaking.
“Kinda boring?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“Mmm. That’s too bad.” He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling. “What else? Tell me something else.”
She is so endlessly interesting to him—it makes her heart hurt. She is endlessly interesting to her mother, too, but in a completely different way. Her father’s love is a hummingbird. Her mother’s is a hawk.
“Everything’s okay?” he asks.
Marley takes a deep breath. “Yeah, Dad, everything’s fine. I gotta go. This stuff is so thick I can barely move my mouth.”
“Call back this weekend. Oscar is dying to talk to you. He’s desperate to get a pet rat. Can you believe it? We never should have let him watch Ratatouille. We’re trying to talk him into a hamster.” He chuckles.
“Kay, Dad, love you.”
“Love you, too, my beautiful girl. Night, night.”
Marley ends the call. She is not a beautiful girl, no, she is not.
GEMMA
Gemma texts Ruth. Can you and Marley come over for dinner on Saturday so Bee can apologize?
Bee’s suspension hasn’t chastened her, instead it’s made her more openly defiant, and judging by the constant chiming of her phone, she’s become a folk hero among her peers. Gemma should take her phone away, but Bee would go absolutely nuts and Gemma’s not up for the battle.
Marley—she didn’t have cramps. She made the calculated decision to back out of the performance. And even though Gemma understands Marley’s decision was interpreted by Bee as abandonment, Bee owes Marley an apology.
Gemma checks her phone. No response from Ruth. She must be furious. Gemma doesn’t blame her; Bee basically assaulted Marley. Ruth would be within her rights to press charges. But she would never do that, would she?
* * *
On the last evening of Bee’s suspension, Gemma walks through the door with Thai food. All of Bee’s favorites: Pad See Ew, Honey Pork, and spring rolls. She knows she shouldn’t be rewarding Bee with takeout. If she were a good mother, a disciplined mother, she’d make her eat, what? Gruel?
Bee jumps up and takes the bag out of her arms. “Thank you!”
“This is not a reward.”
“I know.”
“I was just craving Thai.”
“Yup.”
“Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yup.”
“And what lesson have you learned?”
“Never put a Z on the end of slut. It diminishes the word and makes it funny, and slut is not a funny word.”
Gemma doesn’t know whether to ground her or applaud her.
Bee sets the table. “Wine?”
It’s a Wednesday night. She tries to drink only on weekends. What the heck, it’s been a tough week. “Sure.”
Bee pours her a glass and bends deeply at the waist like a server. “The Woodbridge sauvignon blanc, Madame.”
Bee sits down and rams a spring roll down her throat. “So good.”
Gemma puts a spoonful of Honey Pork and Pad See Ew on her plate.
“That’s all you’re having?”
“I’m not that hungry. I had a big lunch. You enjoy it.” She wanted to do something nice to mark the end of Bee’s suspension. Something that normalized life again.
* * *
After dinner, Gemma runs a bath. She uses the last of her L’Occitane Verbena bath gel. She stays in until the water is cold (she’s heard cold-water baths help with anxiety) then runs to her bedroom, shivering, and puts on her nightgown.
“Black Mirror?” Bee yells from downstairs. “We still have three episodes to watch in Season Four.”
“No thanks, honey, I’m beat. Gonna read in bed. Don’t stay up late,” she calls out.
She’s just pulled the covers up to her chin when her phone chimes. A text from Ruth. Finally.
We can come to dinner on Saturday. What time?
* * *
“Hi.” Gemma kisses Ruth on the cheek.
“Hi, honey,” Gemma says to Marley.
Marley walks in with her head down, shoulders slumped. Ruth is unreadable.
&nb
sp; Gemma puts a hand on Marley’s shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bee sits on the couch, her fingers knitted together, looking at the carpet. At least there’s that. A pretense of contrition. Her posture should count for something, shouldn’t it?
“I’m proud of you for standing your ground,” Gemma says.
Gemma’s known Marley for nine years now, and Marley’s character has never wavered. She’s ethical and loyal. Self-possessed and mature.
She and Ruth parent completely differently. Ruth thinks she’s too permissive. Not vigilant enough. She gives Bee too much freedom. And she’s probably right, case in point last weekend’s humiliating debacle. But Gemma leaves room for Bee to screw up. In the Thorne household, screwing up is simply out of the question.
Marley must have backed out at the last minute because she knew the consequences would be dire with her mother, as they will be for Bee. Well, not really dire (Gemma already has enough distance to know she and Bee will laugh about this someday), but tonight Gemma will pretend that they are. A wholehearted mea culpa is required to get them back on track.
Bee stands, trembling. “I’m really, really sorry, Marls.” And to everybody’s surprise she starts weeping.
* * *
Later Gemma will wonder if Bee’s breakdown was sincere or a masterful performance. Well, whatever it was it worked in her favor. Within seconds Bee is the one being comforted and consoled.
And by the end of the evening, an entire pan of baked ziti having been consumed, nearly two bottles of Apothic red having been downed, they are family again, pledging their love and loyalty to one another.
The us-against-the-world wall rebuilt.
BEE
Yo! You’re Invited Beotches!
To Bee’s 15th Birthday Blowout
Did I Say You Could Go Page 7