“Your father is offering you a job, and you could stay with your brother,” she pointed out. “Or you could stay here, which would cost us nothing.”
I protested that I was trying to build my résumé, not to mention my professional portfolio—
She sighed. “So bring your camera with you to DC.”
“And take pictures of what? Men in suits?”
Mom’s jaw was set. “You could take pictures of cracks in the sidewalks for all I care.”
My cheeks flamed, and I held back a dozen retorts, all of which were guaranteed to get me exactly nowhere. I had a desperate idea, one that wasn’t the least bit appealing even as I said it. “What if I took a summer class, and I got ahead on some of my coursework for the fall—”
Mom’s laugh was brittle. “So you’d need money for tuition, too? Don’t you think you’re asking a lot?” She turned back to her calendar, to the rows of neat black lettering, the color-coded Post-it notes, blue for business and yellow for family. Blue for fund-raisers and speeches, yellow for birthdays and anniversaries. The blue notes far outnumbered the yellow ones.
After a minute, she turned to me again. “You’re an adult, Lauren, so you can make your own choices. If you choose to stay in Scofield, that’s your decision. But if you want me to pay for it—sorry. Not this time.”
* * *
Megan was folding her laundry when I arrived back at Keale, a complicated operation that involved sorting and folding and unpacking half of her dresser to repack it with the clean clothes. She started babbling the moment I came through the door. “I got a job doing summer tours for Admissions. Part-time, minimum wage, but I’ll take it. A bunch of the Sisters are sticking around, too. We found a place where they’ll take six of us—two bedrooms, but we can do bunkbeds or a loft or something.” She caught my expression. “What? There’s room for you, of course.”
I moved a stack of her T-shirts and lowered myself to the foot of her bed. “It looks like I’m going to DC after all.”
She paused, holding up two mismatched socks that were missing their mates. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah—it’s the only way. Well, it’s complicated.” I picked one of the missing socks from the floor and tossed it to her, like an offering.
“But you weren’t interested. You said you’d rather eat glass.”
Had I really said that? “Well, it’s not like I’m thrilled. But my mom made all the arrangements...” I trailed off, watching the stiff set of Megan’s shoulders as she paired her socks, rolling them into tight, angry balls. She was angry, I realized. “It’ll be miserable without you,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “Alone with my brother in the city for eight weeks? Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Megan yanked open her top dresser drawer, tossing handfuls of socks inside without her usual care. “You do realize I was looking for a job all spring,” she said. “For you, too. I found you the job at the Sentinel.”
“Right, but it doesn’t pay any—”
Megan slammed the drawer, stopping my thought in midair. “And you never even mentioned this. I didn’t even think it was a real possibility.”
“Maybe it’s not too late to see if they need another intern,” I suggested, knowing this was the wrong move as I was saying it. “I could email my brother—”
“Conveniently, I suspect it is too late,” Megan snapped. I’d never seen her angry like this—not at me. “I just signed the forms for the Admissions job, and I put down four hundred dollars for a deposit. It’s too late on my end, anyway.”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” I said. “You wanted to stay here, and it’s all going to work out.”
“With you,” she said, nudging a dresser drawer shut with her knee. “I wanted to stay here with you.”
“You’ll be with the Sisters,” I pointed out. “I’m the one who’s going to be all alone with my jerk brother.”
“You’ll have to remind me later to feel sorry for you,” she said. And then, leaving her laundry in piles, she grabbed her backpack from her desk and was out the door.
* * *
DC was humid and bustling with politics and scandal and busyness, not to mention the tourists who streamed from the metro stations each morning to begin their queues at museums and national monuments. It would have been fun with Megan there, I realized—she would have wanted to go to the museums and monuments, too; she would have wanted to explore the Capitol and snap pictures of the Watergate Hotel and do all the things MK refused to do with me. As it was, he and I shared a two-bedroom apartment off Dupont Circle, and for the first sticky weeks of summer, we were in each other’s faces constantly. In the office, MK was my boss, in charge of my bathroom breaks and lunch hours. At night, we bickered over where to pick up takeout and who controlled the remote. He preferred baseball; I wanted something that could make me laugh.
After three weeks, he brought home Gabby, one of my fellow interns, and I finally had the television to myself, although I had to turn the volume up high to avoid hearing the bedsprings and moans.
I went into his room the next morning while Gabby was in the shower and smacked him on the shoulder to wake him up. “This isn’t a frat house, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured, smiling into his pillow. “Did we keep you up?”
“I’m telling Mom,” I said.
He laughed. “Really? I’m twenty-six. I’m pretty sure she’ll think this is normal behavior.”
“Gabby’s an intern, you idiot. You’re supposed to be her boss.”
“Hey,” he said, leaning on one elbow. “I’ll tell you what. There’s a smoking hot lesbian who works for the EPA. I could totally set you up.”
“Very funny.” I whacked him with one of his pillows, and he rolled over, laughing. “You could at least be considerate. These walls are thin.”
He yawned. “What happened with you and Megan, anyway? You’ve been such a nag since you broke up.”
“Asshole,” I muttered.
After Gabby there was Deena, an intern for the Republican senator from Nebraska who spent three loud nights in our apartment, and after Deena there was Sophie, the daughter of one of Dad’s donors and a sophomore at NYU who was interning for the justice department. Sophie had the luxury of her own place, a fact she dropped casually into the conversation over dinner at a pizzeria near the Capitol. MK volunteered to see Sophie home afterward, giving me a thumbs-up over her shoulder. Fine—I was eager to be alone for a change, to play my music and watch my TV shows and slip into my most comfortable pajamas within five minutes of entering the apartment.
After that night, MK packed a small bag to bring over to Sophie’s.
“Is this serious or something?” I asked, watching him sort through our plastic-sheeted dry cleaning.
MK winked. “Serious for now.”
* * *
My main job in Dad’s office was to run envelopes through the printer and then stuff those envelopes with letters addressed to each of his donors. As I tri-folded each paper, over and over, I caught snatches of carefully worded language. “At the close of a productive session in Congress, I remain grateful for your support.” Dad was in the middle of the election cycle, which meant the next two years would be marked by stump speeches and endorsements and ribbon cuttings in every corner of the state. Mom would be at his side, and I was sure that whether I wanted to or not, I would be drafted into these appearances with MK and Kat.
I sent Megan the occasional email, but her responses were short, her voice cool. She didn’t react when I told her about the sexy foreign diplomats I’d met (exactly none), and she seemed bored when she told me about the bratty high schoolers she was chauffeuring around Keale as part of her work for the admissions office. Her messages were perfunctory, and she always signed off with a note that she had to be somewhere or other—on campus, out to dinner, off to a movi
e. I couldn’t tell if she was hurt, or if she wanted me to be.
It had been a mistake not to tell her about MK’s internship offer, I saw now, or to raise the issue with my mother when I’d been busy pleading for other things. If Megan were here, we could have hung out at night, using our congressional IDs to get us into live music clubs. Or we could have eaten our way through a bag of microwave popcorn in front of reruns and old movies, and made fun of MK and his conquests together. Instead, I was alone and bored, scuttling from the metro station to the apartment at night and back again in the morning.
Eventually, I grew bolder, heading out by myself at night, ignoring catcalls from the drunken congressional assistants and lobbyists wandering from bar to bar. I always took my camera, the case tucked into my backpack, and shot surreptitiously the lines of partygoers, the raised glasses and, yes, over and over, the men in suits. Once I allowed myself to experience it, the nightlife in DC was intoxicating—a dangerous mix of youth and aggression and people letting off steam. On one of my last nights, when the apartment was stuffy and lonely, I snuck into a twenty-one-and-older jazz club near Logan Circle, making it past the bouncer by blending in with a chatty group of women. The bartender didn’t bat an eye when I stepped up to order a beer.
The club was crowded, but I found a spot on the side and sipped my drink slowly, letting the music flow through me. For a while I watched a couple dance, back to front, his arms around her waist, and I wondered if that would ever happen to me.
More people packed into the club, and I felt someone at my elbow, too close for comfort. A man leaned close to me, his breath against my cheek. “Lolo? Lolo Mabrey?”
I reared back to study the vaguely familiar face—straight teeth, a mole by the eyebrow, dark curly hair. He wore jeans and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was the dress shirt, more than anything else, that brought the memory back. “You’re from Reardon?”
“Yeah, a long time ago. Braden Leavitt.” He held out a hand, and I maneuvered my drink to shake it. “I was in your brother’s class.”
The song came to an end, and the crowd clapped. Someone yelled out the name of a new song, and after a beat, the band started again.
Braden leaned forward to be heard over the noise. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Ha.”
“No, seriously,” he said, tapping the side of my beer. “If I’m doing my math right, you’re not quite twenty-one yet.”
I took a deliberate gulp, locking eyes with him. “Age is a social construct.”
He laughed. “I remember that about you. You were always funny.”
I smiled. “And what else?”
“Well, I think the last time I saw you, it was during a field hockey match against Sheldon. You were being ejected for using excessive force.”
I groaned, remembering that particular afternoon. “Better watch out. I’ve still got mad defense skills.”
He held up both hands, like he was surrendering. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Do you go to school in DC?”
“Just interning for my dad for the summer. I try to stay as far away from this city as I can. What about you?”
He grinned. “Law school. Georgetown.”
“Doesn’t the world have enough lawyers?”
His smile wavered.
I took a final gulp of beer, leaving a half inch of frothy foam at the bottom of the glass. “Sorry. I’m an ass. Did you remember that part, too?”
The band was back, the lead singer at the microphone.
“It’s hard to talk in here. You want to go for a walk or something?” Braden asked into my ear.
I shrugged.
“I’m here with a few guys. Let me just tell them—” He made his way through the crowd to the bar, tapped someone on the back, and began a conversation that was mostly gestures. A few of the guys turned to look at me, grinning. Not likely, I thought, rolling my eyes. But then Braden was back with a smile so genuine, I couldn’t help but relax.
Outside, it was still muggy, the air heavy with the relentless humidity that had settled in to stay. The night was permeated with the hum of air conditioners wedged into apartment windows, churning away above street level and dripping condensation steadily onto the sidewalks.
“Okay, let me ask you. How can you not love this place? There’s all this energy and passion...” Braden opened his arms, a gesture meant to encompass the entire city. He almost smacked into a man in a suit moving at a near run, briefcase slapping against his leg. Braden looked at his watch. “You see? Exhibit A. It’s after ten, and that guy’s still hustling.”
I shook my head. “He’s probably late for dinner or his kid’s birthday party or something.”
“So cynical,” Braden said.
“So practical,” I corrected.
I wasn’t sure where we were walking or if we had any destination at all, but I didn’t complain. I hadn’t seen Braden since he graduated from Reardon years ago, but it was easy to fall in step beside him, matching his legs stride for stride. He asked what I was up to, and I told him about Keale, about the pictures I’d been taking for the Sentinel.
“A photographer, huh? That’s cool.”
I glanced at him, trying to read his face. Did photography seem “cool” to someone in law school, someone with a defined future ahead of him?
Our forearms bumped against each other as I sidestepped a raised portion of the sidewalk. Braden put his arm around me for a brief moment, steadying me, and then dropped his hand back to his side. It was like walking with an older brother, or at least, an older brother who wasn’t such a pain in the ass as MK.
We reached the edge of a tiny, unofficial-looking park, a forgotten wooded area with a few picnic benches. Toward the back of the lot, only faintly visible in the darkness, I made out a rusty-looking swing set.
“Race you,” I said to Braden, bolting before he could react.
My only advantage was the element of surprise; after twenty yards, I heard Braden’s breath over my right shoulder, and then he passed me, sliding precariously in the damp grass when he reached the swing set. I came to a stop, panting, beside him. Warm as it was, it had felt good to run, to get out some of the pent-up energy of the last few weeks.
I flopped onto one of the swings and caught my breath. “I’m glad you didn’t let me win. I would have lost all respect for you if you did.”
Braden swung beside me, kicking his legs out, pumping them back. “I’m surprised I could beat you. I haven’t run like that since college. Or maybe even before.”
We swung side by side, and I was aware of him slowing to keep my pace, speeding when I increased my speed. The dull noise of city traffic was occasionally perforated by specific sounds—a dog barking, a car honking. We’d been quiet for so long that I wondered who would be the first to break the silence. As it was, we both spoke at the same time.
“So—”
“You aren’t—”
“Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to tell on me, or anything.”
Braden laughed. “Tell on you for what? Sneaking into a nightclub? Underage drinking?”
I laughed. “Sure, that or sneaking off with some creep my brother’s age.”
He put a hand over his heart, as if to staunch the bleeding. “Moi? I’m offended. And I haven’t seen your brother since I graduated from Reardon, so...slim chance I’m going to bump into him anytime soon.”
“Yeah, probably not. He’s got a girlfriend. Well, a girl of the minute.”
“Some things never change, then.”
We slowed, our legs dangling loosely.
“What were you going to ask me? Earlier, when I cut you off.”
“Oh.” He turned in his seat so that his body arced sideways and our knees crashed gen
tly together. “I was just wondering how long you’re in town. If you like jazz, there’s a festival in—”
“Only until Friday,” I interrupted. “Well, I mean, I’m leaving Saturday morning. But I think there’s some kind of party for the interns on Friday night.”
Our knees knocked together once, then again as we came to a stop.
“That’s too bad,” Braden said. “Because I know an older, creepy guy who happens to love jazz.”
We were quiet for a minute, and then I burst out laughing.
“That sounded better in my head,” he admitted.
“It couldn’t sound worse,” I agreed.
Fat drops of rain started falling without warning, the water warm and stinging.
“I’ll take you to the metro,” Braden said. “Least I can do.”
We walked with our heads down, shoulders hunched forward, as the drizzle turned into full-on rain. Our shirts were soaked by the time we reached the station, and we stood under the overhang, shaking off our clothes.
I smiled at him. “I can take it from here.”
“No way,” he said. “I’m going to make sure there aren’t any creeps lurking down here. Real creeps, I mean. Do you have enough money to get back?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad. Thanks for checking.”
He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Well, then.” I fished the metro card from my back pocket. “I believe my carriage awaits.”
Braden didn’t move, and in order to avoid the awkwardness of the hug that was surely coming, I took a step forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, no friendlier than what I would give to one of Dad’s donors at a fund-raiser.
He smiled, caught off guard. “So, I guess I’ll see you around.”
But I knew he wouldn’t see me. On Saturday MK and I would be taking the earliest train out of the city to Boston, and from there the Downeaster to Portland, followed by a water taxi to The Island. I only had a couple weeks there before I had to be back at Keale. Tonight would be an anecdote for my future life—the night I met up with my brother’s prep school friend, walked through a sticky stew of humidity and ended up on a rusty swing set.
Here We Lie Page 17