Doreen

by Ilana Manaster

  Next item on her agenda: long-term storage.

  Every floor of West Hall had a garbage shoot. And if there was a garbage shoot, there must be a garbage room, some deep, smelly pit in the basement where few would venture and nobody would want to stay for long.

  Doreen tucked the package under her arm and made for the stairs. She descended to the basement and pushed past the fire door, entering a dark concrete room with huge piles of garbage in stacks along the walls. The room had a wet, festering smell that reminded her of a weekend she spent with her mother at a bed-and-breakfast near Dubuque, Iowa, on the Mississippi River. There had been a recent flood, and as they drove to the inn from the highway, Doreen saw shards of broken furniture and drywall and other wood scraps in heaps along the side of the road. She could smell the mildew in the air from the rotten detritus, and they did not get a break from the smell all weekend—not in the cutesy little inn or in restaurants or in the movie theater.

  Doreen shook herself. What a time to think of that, her mother and that long-ago trip! She needed to focus—time was ticking. The main room of the basement was unsuitable, but it opened up into two smaller rooms at the back. Doreen chose the one on the right first. She found an exposed light switch on the wall and a florescent tube flickered to life overhead, revealing a smallish workroom with power drills, metal tools, and extension cords scattered around the place. Here the rotten stink merged with the smell of paint thinner and machine oil.

  The walls were open, with pink puffs of insulation packed between wooden beams. But the room seemed too active. Things were always breaking down, weren’t they? Somebody had to fix them, and that somebody would come here. Doreen flicked off the overhead light on her way out.

  The other room was smaller and darker, with only a dim incandescent bulb overhead. She spotted a flashlight and used that to assess the contents of the room. It appeared to serve as a storage area for electrical wiring, plastic tubing, and other seemingly worthless items. Extralong mattresses wrapped in plastic leaned against a wall. Doreen squeezed past some bed frames at the back of the room. Along the back wall she found a metal ladder coming out from the ceiling.

  “This must go somewhere,” she said, needing the human sound of her own voice in order to muster up the necessary courage. The ceiling looked closed, but nevertheless, with her package still under her arm and the flashlight tucked into her neck, Doreen climbed the ladder.

  Sure enough, Doreen found a square opening cut out of the ceiling with just an unpainted piece of drywall laying over it. She slid the drywall aside easily, and climbing another rung on the metal ladder, shined the flashlight into a small, dark crawl space. There were a few dusty blankets and some filthy rolled-up butcher paper, but nobody human had been up there for a long time, probably years. Doreen envisioned the image of her soul sequestered in that dank, uninhabited space while the rest of her enjoyed the pleasures of her new social position out in the world. She smiled to herself at the perfection of the setting.

  “You think that ’cause they’re girls they’d be clean and sweet,” a man’s voice boomed from the front room.

  Doreen hurled herself into the crawl space. She slid the drywall cover closed and clicked off the flashlight. Huddling her knees against her body, she crouched by the old blankets and tried to make herself as small as possible. The air was still and thick with dust and the smell of moldering wool. The darkness was impenetrable.

  “But these kids are used to being picked up after. Something gets broke, I’ve seen it with my own eyes, it turns into instant garbage,” the voice carried on.

  “Mm-hm,” responded another gruffer voice. “I know what you mean.”

  “You should see some of the stuff that gets thrown out around here. A computer missing a single key on the keyboard. Clothes. Televisions. Hey, I’m not proud. You don’t want your father’s fancy shit, girl? I got no problem taking that home. Or selling it. I sold a violin to some guy over in Radley? Guy gave me a hundred bucks for it. That’s free money. Now, what’s that light doing on?”

  Doreen could hear that the men had come into the storage room directly below her. She tried to make her breathing as quiet and slow as possible, though she was finding it harder and harder to take in the stale air.

  “Anyway,” the man droned on. Doreen heard the scraping sound of things being kicked and moved around a few feet beneath where she sat. “Let’s see now. Ah, here we go. This what you need?”

  “Let me see,” said the gruffer voice. “Hard to see in here.”

  “Thought I had a flashlight,” said the first man. Doreen tightened her grip on the flashlight in her hand. “I could swear I had one right here.”

  “I think this will do it. Help me lug it out, will you?” said the second man. Doreen heard the men strain and direct one another as they moved something out of the room. She heard the freight elevator ding. And then, like a beautiful gift, she heard nothing at all.

  Doreen sat in silence for some minutes before she dared to move. When at last she felt sure that she was safe, she clicked on the flashlight. She hid her package among the rotten blankets. The air, dense with trash and paint, smelled fresh as a new day when she slid open the drywall door to her cell. Carefully, she replaced the drywall and scrambled down the ladder. She thought she would leave the flashlight where she’d found it, then thought better of it. For all the man knew, he’d lost the thing somewhere.

  Filthy, disgusted with her state, Doreen hustled up the stairs. Let it decay there, she thought as she ripped off her clothes and made for the showers. Let it rot and stink and fester in that nasty crawl space.

  What she was referring to, of course, was her own wretched soul.

  Biz tried to ignore Heidi’s telephone chatter and focus on her calculus homework, but it was impossible. Heidi had been at it for hours, making one call after another from a prone position on the chesterfield.

  “She generously agreed to a few dates. That’s just the kind of person Doreen is, you know. Even coming from her family, she is not a snob. Anyway, they barely even kissed when the guy went bonkers. He called her constantly, came to campus to try and see her. Eventually, she didn’t have a choice, she had to break things off with him. Love him? She hardly knew him!”

  With each telling of the story Simon became more obsessed and crazy while Doreen became more and more of a passive victim.

  “And the way he handled her at the dance! Didn’t he seem a bit forceful? He is an athlete, after all. He is trained to push people around, to use his strength to get what he wants. Huh? No, I’m not saying he hit her. Well, she never said he hit her. Of course, victims of domestic abuse rarely say anything.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Biz.

  Heidi shot Biz a look. “What? That’s nice of you to say, Miyuki. I’ll let her know. Oh, she’s strong, you know. Gordon has been a real comfort. Okay. Okay. Sure, you too. Bye!” She clicked off the phone. “What is your problem?” she fired at Biz.

  “Problem? I don’t have a problem. I have a math problem, is that what you mean?”

  “You’ve been making little disapproving noises all day. Look, I’m trying to help your cousin here. If you’re not going to contribute, the least you can do is—”

  “Help? How is this helping? You’re lying! You are spreading lies about her.”

  “I am not!”

  “Heidi, you are telling people things about Doreen that aren’t true. That is the definition of lying. And I don’t understand the point when she didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “It’s not lying. It’s managing. If we let them control the story, they’ll go negative. I’m telling you, everyone prefers a scandal that has the pretty girl going down. This way we are simply ensuring that they reach the right conclusion. Doreen did not owe Simon a date to the dance any more than she owed him a glimpse of her underthings. But people are not generous, Biz. Does her reputation
have to go down with the ship in order to maintain your sense of integrity? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, grr! Who died and made you publicist of the year?”

  “Look.” Heidi knew what she was about to say because it had been said to her, back when she was nobody. She flipped back the curtain and gazed out the window onto the quad, remembering again the speech Roland gave her on the way to the party three years ago, as they sped along in the Porsche on the road to Bridgehampton. “The only currency in this world,” Roland told her, and she repeated his words verbatim to his niece now, “is how you are seen by the people that matter. Perception is reality. Control your own story, manage the character of yourself as it is doled out to the public, and reap the rewards. The second you lose control, you lose everything.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Biz asked.

  “Mmm?”

  “Perception is reality. Do you really think that? Because if you do, I feel sorry for you.”

  Heidi’s PR campaign paid off a thousandfold. After the Simon Vale incident, Doreen became the most in-demand girl on campus. She became a queen. And her court was the dining hall. At the center table, Doreen would sit between her most enthusiastic yes-girls, Misha and Miyuki (the Mi-Mi’s, as Heidi and Doreen called them behind their backs), while the masses approached one by one to hear what she had to say. They hung on Doreen’s every word. Like Chastity Thibodeaux, who came to Doreen one lunch hour. Her boyfriend had attended a family wedding without her. Doreen declared the offense unforgivable.

  “Look, Chastity, it’s obviously up to you, but in my opinion? You are selling yourself short. Graham Weaver is so not worth it.”

  “Do you really think so, Doreen?”

  “Pass the salt, please,” said Heidi. She wondered what Doreen was cooking up. Graham Weaver was the oldest of old money. His father was a senator. If he wasn’t worth it, nobody was.

  “Absolutely. He is small potatoes. And the whole thing stinks of racism. Break up with him, that’s what I think. You—you are such a prize! I mean, with a little bit of a makeover. I’m thinking blonde. Platinum! What do you think, Miyuki?”

  “Amazing idea.”

  “But I’m black,” Chastity said with bewilderment.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Chastity. You think that because you’re black you can’t have fun with hair color? Look at Miyuki! She’s Japanese and her purple extensions rock.” Doreen slapped Miyuki five.

  “You know it,” said Miyuki with a demonstrative flick of her hair.

  “But, I’m just, I don’t see . . .” Chastity touched the edge of her straightened hair with a worried look on her face.

  “You need to work on your self-esteem, Chastity.” Doreen sipped her smoothie. “That’s some serious self-loathing right there.”

  “Salt,” Heidi repeated.

  “But the last time I tried that my hair fell out. I mean, it’s really dark.”

  “Unh-huh. Like I said, it’s up to you. All I’m saying is that if you are looking for a higher-caliber boyfriend . . .” Doreen said with a vague wave of her hand, as if she was too exhausted to complete the sentence.

  “You need high-caliber hair,” said Misha. Heidi stood up and walked to the other side of the table to get the salt. By the time she got back to her seat, another girl was trying to get into it.

  “Excuse me, do you mind? Scram.”

  Doreen stood up. “That’s Heidi’s seat, Cynthia! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her face was red with rage and she slammed the table with the palm of her hand.

  “Sorry, Doreen.”

  “Don’t apologize to me, you knuckle-dragger. Apologize to Heidi.”

  “Sorry, Heidi.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. I have a meeting with my counselor anyway.” Heidi plucked her yogurt off her tray.

  “Nice,” Cynthia said as she settled into Heidi’s seat.

  “And so you think you can just sit here? After that? Out, Cynthia. I mean it! Go sit somewhere else. And that blush makes you look like a carnival worker.” Cynthia walked away, a reprimanded child. Doreen turned to Chastity, her tone perfectly sweet. “Excuse me for a moment won’t you, Chastity? I’ll be right back.”

  Doreen pulled Heidi out of hearing distance. “I’m so sorry, these bitches, they are basically savages.”

  “It’s fine.” From the corner of her eye, Heidi saw Biz alone with her book and her turkey croissant.

  “Really? You know that all you have to do is say the word and I’d tell them all to get lost.” Doreen pouted pityingly at her friend while looking around the room.

  “Um, no. It’s fine.” Heidi could not believe the implication. Heidi need Doreen? How ridiculous! “You know I could mash Cynthia Stern like hot lipstick if I wanted to. You know that, right?”

  “No. Of course! I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  “I just don’t care enough. Anyway, you seem to have your hands full. Speaking of which, if Chastity bleaches her hair she is going to look ridiculous.”

  “I know, right?” Doreen said with a wicked grin.

  “What are you up to here?”

  “I’ll come by this afternoon and explain it all. It’s actually hilarious. And we have to discuss winter break. Wait until you see the amazing bikini I made Gordon buy me. It cost an absolute fortune! The poor slob still thinks he’s going with us to Hawaii.” She rolled her eyes and gave Heidi a double kiss. “See you later.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  With a wave to Biz, Heidi made her way past the back tables, through the exit, and out onto the quad.

  It was all unfolding as Heidi had planned. Doreen was a superstar. She was beautiful, calculating, manipulative—a living embodiment of the tenants of Roland’s tutelage. She had no way of knowing it, of course, but Doreen was becoming exactly the kind of girl that Roland Gibbons would admire. Heidi had made the daughter into the darling of Chandler Academy, using what she’d learned from the father. The circularity of it satisfied her tremendously. And she did not miss the daily grind of running the place. After two years at the throne, Heidi was relieved to leave the minions to a new master, as long as Doreen kept her in the loop on all her little subplots, which, of course, she did.

  All blue had drained from the sky, leaving a cottony whiteness the weak sun could not penetrate, even at midday. Heidi turned onto the path behind the half-frozen pond that led to the administrative offices. Once inside, she warmed the tips of her ears with her fingers. There was an elevator, but as always, she chose the calorie-burning ascent up the stairs. As she chugged up, she couldn’t help imagining, as she’d done a thousand times before, what would happen when Roland saw Doreen. What would he say when the horror show he dropped off at the Chandler gates emerged, a model of physical perfection?

  Heidi found her counselor’s office and followed the secretary’s directions to wait on a lone polyester chair near the door. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a brief indulgence, imagining the moment when Doreen would speak her mind to Roland. How delicious it would be when Doreen rejected him, just as he had rejected her—and Heidi. Roland Gibbons would be left alone, a sad glass of scotch in front of him, while Doreen told him what he could do with his tardy fatherly affection.

  After a lifetime of disappointments, Roland would have to contend with the fact that the perfection he’d been seeking—in the wives, the children, the obsessive acquisition of art—was standing right in front of him, in the form of his very own first-born daughter. Then Doreen would tell him, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck himself.

  Heidi giggled. The secretary told her to go on in.

  “I’m very optimistic,” her counselor declared. “I see great things for you, starting with a top-notch college. What did you have in mind?” On the table he’d laid out several glossy brochures: Harvard, Princeton,
Stanford, Northwestern. This is it, Heidi thought, this is the beginning. She felt like squealing! Dancing! Hopping up and down! She called Peter as soon as she left the meeting to tell him the good news.

  “That’s great, babe. I’d love to see you in Cambridge, though I fear for what you will do to the weak-hearted Harvard men. I’ll have to install an electric fence around you that nukes anyone who comes close.”

  “Some girls may find that a little controlling, but I enjoy being treated like a dog.”

  “I’m not treating you like a dog, I’m treating them like dogs. You would be more like a house I own.”

  “How romantic.”

  “You know it. Anyway, gotta go. Heading into my metaphysics midterm.”

  “Are you really? Or is some creature zapping your brain with electrodes to make you think you are heading into your metaphysics midterm? No way of knowing, really.”

  “Is that philosophy humor? From a high school girl? You are a gift from God.”

  “Or from some godlike, brain-zapping monster. Good luck on your midterm.”

  Heidi clicked off, her heart full. Peter Standish knew almost everything about her and he wanted her anyway. He understood her. They laughed together, they made plans, and Heidi Whelan, who never really fit in—not in her family, her old school, at Chandler—finally felt like she belonged. She understood for the first time what it meant to be happy.

  The final weeks of the semester found Doreen enjoying the benefits of her newfound status. Her throat became accustomed to the cool swish of a fresh oyster, followed by a fizzy burst of fine champagne. Her shoulders were draped in cashmere and hand-stitched Italian leather. Her breasts were lifted by ingeniously crafted underwear and scented in rare French perfumes. She was waited upon, worshipped, pampered, flattered. On a private jet between New York and Hawaii, Coburn Everbock fed her fresh toro and told her she was his miracle.