Tell on You

  SIXTY SEVEN

  NIKKI SMIRKED AS SHE read the Star Ledger article. Too bad the reporter couldn’t use her real name, because she was a minor. How would the story go over at school? Nikki had holed up in the bathroom that morning, convincing her mom she had a stomach bug, so she wouldn’t have to face more bullshit from those bitches. But they’d be kissing her butt now that she was famous.

  Anonymously famous, anyway.

  The phone rang and she ignored it. Let Mom get it. Nobody Nikki wanted to talk to called on the land line. She debated—cut the article out of the paper, or download the online version? Her mother came into the living room before she decided, face beet red with fury.

  “Suspended! That asshole principal of yours just called.”

  “Suspended?” Nikki echoed. “How come?” She bolted upright on the sofa.

  “What exactly is going on with this Facebook stuff? Donnelly said he did this for your sake. A week’s leave from classes. Some crap about a cooling off period.”

  “Then it’s not a suspension,” Nikki protested.

  “Leave, suspension, whatever.” Her mother reached for her coat. “I asked you about Facebook, Nikki. What’s going on?”

  “Oh.” Nikki folded the newspaper. No point in letting Mom see. “Uh, some of the girls are kinda mad at me.”

  “Mad at you?”

  “Yeah. Mr. B is a pretty popular teacher.”

  Her mother buttoned her coat. “This whole thing seems completely inappropriate.” She pursed her lips. “I wonder if we should get a lawyer?” She pondered, then shrugged and reached for her purse. “Well, your father needs to step up for a change. I have to get to work. You stay in today, young lady. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Whatever,” Nikki mumbled. Like she couldn’t make trouble from home if she wanted?

  “And be nice to your little brother. Make him a snack when he gets home.”

  Nikki rolled her eyes. Piss on that.

  “I’ll see you tonight.” Her mother left.

  Nikki heard the garage door close and went back to reading her interview. Cool that the reporter named the development where Mr. B and his wife lived. But no apartment number.

  Fortunately, Nikki knew who to call for that information.

  “OH, MY GOD!”

  Heather looked up from her cereal as her mother nearly spit out her coffee. “What is it?” she asked.

  Her mom had the morning paper open, stared at it like the neighbor’s dog had pooped on the page. “A serial pervert! That weasel! I knew it.”

  “Cereal pervert?” Heather stared in confusion at her bowl of corn flakes.

  “Look.” Her mother turned the newspaper toward her and smacked the page. Heather read the article about Mr. B, her breakfast turning to dust in her mouth. Holy shit.

  The call from Nikki came a few moments later.

  “Did you see the Star Ledger?” Nikki asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Is that you? That Traci they talked about?”

  “The one and only.” Nikki sounded smug.

  “But—did you really tell that stuff to a reporter?” Heather asked. “I thought you didn’t want people to—”

  “Listen,” Nikki interrupted. “I’ll fill you in later. Right now I need you to do something for me.”

  “Can it wait? I need to finish my breakfast and get to school.”

  “Heather! I said I need this now. Can you go online and find Mr. B’s apartment number for me?”

  Heather got a bad feeling in her gut. Forget breakfast. “You mean, where he lives?”

  “Duh! Yeah. The article only gave the development. Hillcrest Apartments. Come on, you know how to look up stuff like that. It’ll only take you a minute.”

  “Okay.” Arguing with Nikki would only take longer, with the same result. “Call you right back.” Ending the call, Heather opened the online White Pages on her iPhone. But she didn’t like the whole thing. Whatever Nikki might be up to spelled trouble.

  NIKKI DIDN’T EVEN NEED Mr. B’s apartment number, after all. When she pulled into the Hillcrest Apartments she spotted two news vans. Only one reason for them to be there. She pulled into a nearby space and watched from the driver’s seat.

  Perfect timing.

  Mr. B came out of the building Heather had sent her to. Reporters and camera crew streamed from the vans, closing in on him like a pack of jackals.

  Showtime.

  If only she could go join the fun. But if mom caught her act on the nightly news? Her funeral. Nikki settled for remaining a spectator, lowering her window to listen.

  “Any comment on the Star Ledger story?” The reporter shoved a mic at Mr. B’s face. “Did you sexually assault your student?”

  Nikki beamed. Her! Even more famous. She saw Mr. B shake his head. Lot of good that would do him. He glanced at the camera, looking awkward and uncomfortable. Good. Nikki hunkered down so he wouldn’t see her.

  He raised his hands to silence the clamoring reporters. “Look, you want a story? Follow me.”

  Interesting.

  Mr. B headed over to his Honda, got in and pulled out. The news people scampered into their vans and took off after him.

  About to take her place at the back of the motorcade, Nikki noticed a woman emerge from the apartment building and look around cautiously. It took Nikki a moment to recognize her.

  Mr. B’s pregnant wife.

  She walked quickly to her car, the Ford Escape Nikki remembered from the park. The woman started the car and drove off.

  Nikki had a wonderful idea.

  SIXTY EIGHT

  JEREMY PULLED OUT OF his development, the two news vans on his tail. Now what? Where to take them? Drive around in circles? He had to give Melissa time to get out unseen.

  Damn his no-good father-in-law, who’d put them in this mess. Jeremy knew Howard Milton meant to drive a wedge between Melissa and him, sink his claws into their child. By revealing the ugly truth about her father, Melissa had given him the green light to despise the deceitful, controlling bastard, guilt-free at last.

  Coming to a decision, Jeremy veered into a sharp right turn. Ready to poke the rattlesnake.

  He pulled onto the entrance ramp to Route 78, checking his rearview mirror to make sure the vans followed. He floored the Honda’s accelerator and, twenty minutes later, pulled into the Miltons’ driveway. Jeremy bounded from the car to the sound of the van doors slamming. The news crews’ footsteps thundered behind him as he stepped up to the front door. He rang the bell, then glanced over his shoulder.

  Cameras running. Now, what? Time to improvise.

  “This is Howard Milton’s house, right Jeremy?” a reporter asked.

  Must have checked out the address on her smartphone. Insane to bring them here. Winkelman had warned him to keep his head down and instead he’d invited the media to cover his half-assed showdown with Howard.

  “What’s his role in all this?” the other reporter asked.

  “He’s my father-in-law.”

  “Is he expecting you, Jeremy?”

  “Nope.” He gave the doorbell another furious stab. His own wellbeing didn’t matter anymore. All that counted was Melissa and the baby. Jeremy prayed she’d made it safely to the doctor’s.

  The door flew open.

  Howard Milton gaped at Jeremy, then took in the cameras and microphones. He scowled. “What is this?”

  Jeremy drew a breath. I’m doing this for you, Mel. Please know that. He turned to the news crews. “You want a story? Talk to him.” He pointed at Howard. “I’m just a pawn. He’s the chess master.”

  Suddenly everyone was shouting at once.

  “What does he mean, Mr. Milton?”

  “Can you elaborate on the charges against your son-in-law? Did he assault a minor student?”

  “Jeremy, what are you accusing him of?”

  “Over here, Mr. Milton!”

  “Get off my property!” Howard roared. “Turn off those goddamned cameras!”

  “
Go ahead,” Jeremy yelled to the news crews. “You want the lowdown on messing with teenage girls? Ask him! The expert.”

  “You are all trespassing,” Howard snarled. “I’m going to call the police.” The cameras continued to roll. “And you,” Howard fumed at Jeremy. “I’ll see your ass in jail! I’ll make sure you don’t get within a mile of that child, Barrett!”

  “My child, Howard!” Jeremy shouted. “And it’s you who’s not getting near them. Melissa might be smart enough to leave me, but she’s not dumb enough to come back to you.”

  “We’ll see about that.” With a black look at Jeremy, his father-in-law pulled out his cellphone.

  “Try it, Howard, and I’ll take you down with me.” Jeremy wheeled, pushing past the news people. He’d made a mockery of his lawyer’s instructions. Headed for jail, no doubt, prison even. He needed to get away before the cops came. The reporters fired questions as he rushed down the steps.

  “What child, Barrett? Are you and Howard Milton fighting over a teenage girl?”

  “Melissa? Is that her name? Another one of your students?”

  “No comment,” Jeremy muttered. He kept going, fleeing the apocalypse he’d unleashed, praying the reporters wouldn’t follow. To his relief, they went for the bigger game, converging on his father-in-law. Hurrying to his car, Jeremy heard one of them ask:

  “Are you and your son-in-law involved in child pornography together?”

  Jeremy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, only that he needed to get out of there and call Melissa.

  SIXTY NINE

  IN HER OBSTETRICIAN’S WAITING room, Melissa avoided the eyes of the other women, feeling as if she wore a neon sign—Pedophile’s Wife. Stupid, really. If they’d even read the newspaper article about Jeremy, how would they spot her as his wife? Not like the receptionist gave out name tags.

  But the receptionist knew. When Melissa checked in, the Star Ledger sat open in front of her. Under the woman’s intent gaze, Melissa’s face flamed. She’d taken the most isolated seat available and hunched over her cellphone, wishing it had an app for invisibility. In her haste to dodge the news vans, she’d arrived early. Now her wait in the reception area dragged on for a seeming eternity. About to venture over to the magazine rack, Melissa caught sight of two women across the room whispering to each other. One of them glanced her way and Melissa nearly bolted.

  “Melissa?”

  The nurse spoke softly, but Melissa started as if a firecracker had popped. Thank god for those HIPPA laws prohibiting medical staff from using patients’ last names. She stood and scurried after the nurse to the examination area, feeling like she had a searchlight tracking her.

  Out of the waiting room, at least.

  Following the usual drill, Melissa stopped at the powder room and left her urine sample, then went to the nurse’s station to weigh in and have her vitals checked.

  “Everything okay?” The nurse smiled and strapped the cuff around Melissa’s arm. She pumped it up without awaiting a reply. Maybe she hadn’t read the paper yet.

  “I’m having some spotting,” Melissa told her.

  The nurse frowned, keeping her eyes on the sphygmomanometer. “When did it start?”

  “This morning. Lucky I had the appointment today.”

  “All right.” The nurse removed the cuff. “Let’s get you into a gown and the doctor will be right with you.”

  Melissa followed her into an examining room and changed into the obligatory paper gown when the nurse left. It crinkled as she boosted herself onto the examining table and sat, legs dangling off the side, awaiting the doctor. Why did they always keep the place so cold? She massaged the goose bumps rising on her bare arms.

  A quick rap on the door, and her obstetrician breezed in, frowning at her chart.

  Not a good sign. “I’m spotting,” she said.

  “How heavily?”

  “A little when I urinated this morning. “What does it mean, Doctor? Is it serious?”

  “Probably not,” he reassured her. “I’ll take a look. I want to re-check your blood pressure first.”

  Shivering, Melissa extended her arm. Her readings must be through the roof. She took slow breaths while the doctor took a reading from her left arm, then repeated the process on her right.

  “What did you get?” she asked as he removed the cuff.

  “One eighty over ninety two.”

  Melissa’s eyes welled. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  He patted her arm. “Let’s take a look and see what’s going on. Then we’ll talk.”

  She nodded, turned and slid her feet into the stirrups.

  On cue, the nurse came in. The doctor gloved up and carried out the pelvic exam without comment. Melissa concentrated on the ceiling, her breathing—anything but those probing fingers. She especially didn’t want to look down and catch sight of any blood streaks on his latex gloves.

  Finally he nodded to the nurse and snapped off the gloves. “All right, Melissa. Go ahead and get dressed, then we’ll talk in my office.”

  In her obstetrician’s inner sanctum Melissa fidgeted in the chair beside his large, mahogany desk as he finished writing in her chart. Her eyes flitted over the diplomas and certificates on the wall, trying to summon hope from all that framed paper.

  He put down the pen and looked at her. “Well—”

  “Am I having a miscarriage?” Her voice quavered. Might be for the best.

  “Very unlikely.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “A little spotting at this stage is not unusual. And you had a normal ultrasound last week. There’s a difference between spotting and bleeding. What you’re experiencing is common during early pregnancy. Bed rest usually helps.” He paused. “It’s your hypertension that worries me.”

  She had an impulse to apologize, as if her high blood pressure reflected a personal failing. “I—I’m under a lot of stress right now.” She reached for a tissue from the box on his desk.

  “I can understand that.”

  He knew. “Maybe you saw the Star Ledger this morning,” Melissa ventured. “The article about my husband?”

  His mouth tightened in a grim line. “I did. I’m truly sorry for what you must be going through. Especially at a time like this.”

  Melissa wept into her tissue. A time like this? Putting it mildly. Alienated from her parents, no job and no idea if her marriage might survive. Crazy to think of bringing a child into this mess.

  “I’d like to start you on an anti-hypertensive,” the doctor said. “We want to nip this in the bud before it can develop into something serious.”

  “You mean pre-eclampsia.” Melissa blotted her eyes.

  “That’s right.” He reached for his prescription pad.

  “Doctor?” She hesitated.

  “Yes, Melissa?” He looked up from his writing.

  “I, um, I might be having second thoughts. About the pregnancy, I mean.” She lowered her eyes.

  “I can understand that.” He paused for a beat. “Perhaps some counseling…?” Yeah, right. That would fix everything. “If I—if I decide to terminate…?” He leaned back and put down his pen. “You’re twelve weeks along. While a pregnancy can be terminated into the third trimester, you’re right at the milepost for a D&C.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What does that entail?”

  “The cervix is opened with a dilator,” he explained. “Then a curette—a thin rod with a sharp edge—is inserted into the uterus to dismember the fetus.”

  Melissa cringed at the ugly image.

  “Finally, the fetus, placenta and uterine lining are suctioned out with a cannula.”

  “I see.” She swallowed. “Could—could I be asleep for that?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “And after twelve weeks?”

  “Then it’s the second trimester. We’re into either a D&E, a two or three-day procedure because the dilation takes longer…” He paused. “Or a prostaglandin abortion.”

  “What’s that?”<
br />
  “The hormone prostaglandin is injected into the amniotic sac, inducing violent labor.”

  “My god!” An even more repulsive prospect—painful delivery of a dead fetus. Melissa’s stomach roiled.

  “Please,” he said, “don’t be alarmed. “You needn’t go through all that—or any of it. I wanted to be sure you understood the options. We can safely do a D&E up to 24 weeks. But if you wanted a minimally complicated procedure, it would be best to do it this week.”

  “I see.” Fear sent a rushing sensation through her ears, like ocean waves. An abortion. This week. How do you make a decision like that?

  Alone. Getting pregnant was her idea, not Jeremy’s.

  “Think it over, Melissa, and let me know.” Her doctor handed her the prescription he’d written. “In the meantime, take this. You’ll need it if you plan on carrying the pregnancy to term.”

  She took the script, feeling light-headed. “And if I don’t plan to?”

  “Then call me before the end of the week, and we’ll get it done.”

  SEVENTY

  JEREMY SPED AWAY FROM his father-in-law’s house, leaving behind the news vans. Hearing no police sirens, he hoped Howard hadn’t made him the target of an All Points Bulletin.

  Although he wanted to return to the apartment, Jeremy knew he’d better stay away, rather than risk drawing reporters to swarm Melissa after her doctor’s appointment. He decided to put a few miles between himself and the Miltons before calling her.

  Pulling out his cellphone, Jeremy remembered he hadn’t charged it before he’d run out of the apartment. Luckily, he kept a spare charger in the glove compartment. While his phone charged, Jeremy pondered his next move. Even without the media in tow, Melissa might not welcome his return. The Star Ledger story this morning hadn’t helped his cause any. Quite a stretch to expect one’s wife to shrug off a public scandal. Better let Melissa set the pace for a reconciliation. Give her space, if she wanted it. For now. Suck it up, find the cheapest motel in the area, and wait.

  At least until the credit card charges got denied.

  Jeremy preferred not to dwell on that prospect. Instead, he focused on clothing and toiletries. He’d rushed out that morning without any. Should have taken a minute to pack his overnight bag.