by M. G. Reyes
Grace has a crush on Paolo but she won’t let him know. It’s like a point of pride. She even pretends to be into other guys, like, we’ll all be watching TV and that Deadbeat show will come on with that cute actor—the one who married your inglesa—and she’ll say she likes him, too. Or she’ll talk about boys at her high school. I finally got the name of her death row guy out of her: Alan Vernon. I looked the guy up online but I couldn’t find any news stories about him. No murderer with that name. Maybe he’s really old and was put on death row before the internet, I don’t know. I’d say that of all the people in the house, Lucy is the one that she gets along with the least. This probably has something to do with the fact that Paolo is obsessed with Lucy. It’s also because they don’t have many interests in common. Lucy is creative and kind of a beatnik, into smoking weed and all. Grace is thoughtful and quiet and apart from the fact that she’s not a virgin, (allegedly), I’d say she’s a bit of a goody-goody.
She stopped typing, read the final paragraph back. The wine had made her sloppy. She shouldn’t be making references to the star of Deadbeat, or to the inglesa—the British movie A-lister, Dana Alexander. She deleted both. Then read, with a pang of guilt, the bit about Grace not being a virgin. After a few seconds’ thought, she deleted that also. It almost sounded catty, and Maya didn’t think of herself that way at all. Who was she to discuss her friends’ sex lives, to cast doubt on their confessions? It might make someone who knew her wonder whether Maya herself was truthful about such things. She didn’t want to open that particular can of worms.
Not when she considered who was going to read the report.
LUCY
OUR LADY OF MERCY CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, THURSDAY, APRIL 23
In the corridor outside the assistant principal’s office, time stretched. Lucy shuffled her feet. She avoided the glances of students who passed her on their way to the library. It wasn’t possible that Guzman was actually held up this long. No, she was keeping Lucy in the corridor to intimidate her.
Twenty-two minutes after Guzman had summoned Lucy, she cracked open her door. There was no hint of apology, no sign that she realized the meeting was late. She called Lucy inside. Lucy sat opposite Guzman in silence for a few minutes while the teacher apparently studied the relevant paperwork.
Then she glanced up. “Looks like it’s go time, Miss Long.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ve had three detentions since we last spoke. I wasn’t messing around when I told you that your work was under review. Well, from these notes from your teachers, you’re finally drinking in the Last Chance Saloon. Which I imagine for you is probably accurate, not metaphoric.”
Lucy bit her lip. She loathed it when the dumber teachers like Guzman tried to be witty.
“I’ve never done anything illegal.”
“In school—maybe. You’re too intelligent for that. Outside though, pardon me, Lucy, but I have my doubts.”
“I’ve never been arrested. Not one time.”
“Never been caught? Quite the achievement. I’m sure your folks are very proud.”
Lucy fought back a wave of resentment. Guzman had absolutely no evidence for her accusations. If she repeated them in front of anyone, it was borderline slander. There was nothing Lucy could do, though. Even her mother would probably take Guzman’s side.
“What did I do now?” she asked in a low, sulky voice.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, your parents have asked for regular reports concerning your progress. Following the latest, I’m afraid they’ve issued something of an ultimatum.”
Lucy’s jaw tightened.
“To achieve a satisfactory overall grade, your next three term papers will have to average an A-minus. You could get an A, A-minus, and B-plus, or three A-minuses. That’s the minimum; I advise you to aim higher.”
Lucy couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t gotten so much as a B-plus in a year. What Guzman was asking for was basically impossible.
“Could I maybe just get three Bs? I’m having problems with studying. The work is much harder than I’m used to.”
“That’s nonsense”—Guzman showed a thin smile—“and you know it. Your essay on Stravinsky wasn’t the work of a beleaguered learner. I’ve seen your grades from middle school. You were a straight-A student. Even in ninth grade. A students only become C students for one of three reasons: the three Ds—disease, drugs, and demotivation.
“You, my dear, are suffering from the latter two,” Guzman continued. “Demotivation is partly the school’s responsibility. I accept that. Clearly, we’ve failed to motivate you.”
Lucy didn’t like the assumption that she had a problem with drugs. Okay, so she smoked pot now and again, maybe snorted some coke when someone else was buying. But how could Guzman possibly know that? It meant that her parents must have shared details of Lucy’s personal life. That idea made her so angry that she felt like walking out right then.
Yet, she didn’t. The house in Venice was the best place she’d ever lived. She was forming a bond with some of the housemates. John-Michael and Maya were becoming like her brother and baby sister. Now that she stopped to think about it, Lucy had to admit that she even thought the two Texas girls were pretty cool, especially Candace.
Her parents were capable of canceling her lifestyle and she knew it. Despite her annoyance, it wasn’t worth bleating about Guzman’s superior tone, her smug implication of a drug habit.
Especially since she was right.
“Your parents have made it clear to the school that we need to step up our efforts to motivate you. So—those papers need to average out to A-minus. If not, your parents’ ultimatum comes into force and they exercise the right to pull you out of school.”
Unlikely. Lucy knew how careful her parents were about money. They’d paid the fees for a full semester in advance. She couldn’t imagine them taking her out until they’d gotten their money’s worth.
It was as though the assistant principal had read her mind.
“Now financially, as it turns out, we’re able to offer you and your parents an alternative. The trust that owns Our Lady also owns a small girls’ boarding school in Santa Barbara. It’s a lovely place. I gather you live near the beach now, is that right?”
“I live on Venice Beach,” Lucy replied, still sullen.
“Well, the Sisters of Mercy have their convent very close to a beach. The school shares the same grounds.”
“Boarding school? I don’t think so.”
“It is the solution that would best accommodate both your wish to live away from home and your parents’ commitment to your education.”
Lucy rose to her feet. It was getting harder to contain her anger. “What if you just expel me? I’m emancipated. I get to choose where I go to school.”
Guzman forced a smile. “Insofar as your parents are happy to continue to fund you, maybe. If they withdraw financial support, you would presumably become homeless.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Lucy said. Untrue, she realized, but it was at least worth a try.
“Lucy, let me assure you, there is only so much a parent can do for a child. At a certain point, at a certain age, you have to let your children go. You are seventeen. You were well on track to qualify for the Ivy League or Juilliard as of ten months ago. Or so your mother assured me. It’s on that basis that we accepted you at Our Lady.”
“Never said I wanted to go to an Ivy League school.”
“Nevertheless,” Guzman said dryly. “You want some kind of tertiary education, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily.”
Guzman sighed, resigned. She leaned across the desk and handed Lucy a folder.
“I don’t like fighting with students. It’s unseemly. Inside that folder you’ll find an evaluation from each teacher who is missing work from you. As well as a deadline and a reminder of the task they set. You can find the supporting documents on the e-learning platform. Now, I have phone calls to m
ake.”
Guzman stood, and pointed at the door.
Lucy rode the bus home wrapped within a tense silence. When she reached the house, Grace and John-Michael were on the couch watching TV, while Paolo fixed himself a protein shake with strawberry-flavored whey powder. She paused, reviewed her plan to go to her room and light up a joint. Maybe she should try to resist. Paolo beamed at her as she wandered into the kitchen. She dropped her schoolbag to the floor and reached for the Wonder Bread. Only a grilled-cheese sandwich could attack this despondency.
As they prepared the snacks, Lucy updated Paolo. He listened, looking serious.
“That sucks,” he said when she’d finished.
“It really does.”
“Can you get the grades?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t paid much attention in class, if I’m honest.”
“Writing songs or thinking about me?” Paolo asked, straight-faced.
A wry smile. “Oh, it was all you, baby.”
Paolo slid across the kitchen counter, positioning himself between Lucy and the living room. He glanced swiftly over his shoulder at the others, engrossed in their TV show, then back at Lucy.
“There is another solution.”
“Like what?”
“Like, if you’re going to get a low grade this year, why don’t you drop out? Go into a public school, but in the grade below.”
“Do-over?”
“Yeah. Think about it—what your parents save in school fees could pay for an extra year of rent. You’ve had a disruptive year. John-Michael’s doing it.”
A smile began to appear at the edge of her mouth. “An extra year here? Any idea which school I should move to?”
“Van Buren is okay, I guess.”
“Van Buren, huh? Isn’t that your school?”
“And John-Michael’s.” Paolo gave her a mischievous grin. “Rides to and from are guaranteed.”
“And in August, what, start the year over again?” She shook her head with a bemused smile. “Same grade as you?”
“And John-Michael,” he added softly.
Lucy pondered. “Interesting idea . . .”
“I thought so.”
“. . . Now to try to convince my folks to keep paying for me to live here, even if I don’t go to the school they chose.”
He watched her eyes for a second, and then leaned in and softly kissed her lips. Lucy didn’t move or respond. When he moved away, she shook her head.
“Not very cool, bro.” Her tone was faintly admonishing.
Paolo just shrugged. He was trying brush it off. Just the same, an angry response flared in his cheeks.
“The offer stands,” he told her. “For now.”
PAOLO
VENICE BEACH, FRIDAY, APRIL 24
“Dude, you do not look happy.”
Paolo wrenched his thoughts away from Lucy for a few seconds and focused on Candace. Her Prius was parked in the spot next to his. He’d have to wait for her to get inside before he pulled out. He tried to smile but it came out a little flat, so he changed the subject.
“You recording tonight?”
“’Fraid so.”
“You got any lines today?” he teased.
Candace gave a knowing smirk. “Not today. How ’bout you; pimping yourself out at the country club?”
He smiled. “You’d better believe it. Two lessons. Another hundred bucks.”
It was a lie. He didn’t have any students tonight. It was months since he’d stayed after a lesson with a student. Lucy’s brush-off, though, had been the last straw. He’d been nice to her, he really cared, and he’d shown it. Okay—she wasn’t into him. Fine. But to let himself stay in some kind of hypnotic trance, unable to even think about seeing another girl? He was starting to look pretty dumb.
There was whipped and then there was total friggin’ control. The girl didn’t even have a clue what she was doing to him.
Paolo waited for Candace to leave and then set off for the Malibu Lawn Tennis Club.
Forty-nine minutes later he was dressed in dazzling tennis whites and cruising the bar. This was how he’d found his first student. One week later, they’d wound up in bed—at her suggestion. That time was exciting, but not as much as with the former babysitter who’d seduced him after they’d bumped into each other at a local coffee shop. Even with the third girl, it had been pretty thrilling. Only with the fourth, Allegra, had Paolo started to wonder if this was all there was—some excitement, a few laughs? And then what?
In his mind, he’d felt nothing. He’d even tried broaching the subject with some guys at school. They’d either misunderstood or pretended to. One guy, with total frankness, had said, “Maybe you’re just not that into women?”
It was this thought that ate at Paolo. Six women and he hadn’t cared about any of them. Surely, surely he should have felt more—even for one of them? That guy’s comment had made him wonder. Could he be right?
Then he’d met Lucy and that theory had crumbled. Lucy turned him on like no one he’d ever known—a smile from her was enough. She was like a virus in his blood, circulating, omnipresent. A mania.
He was wound tighter than a clock. He couldn’t take this much longer.
From across the room, Talia Kravic smiled at him. She was recently over from the Czech Republic. At eighteen, she was the second youngest coach in the club. Talia was taking her seat at one of the outdoor tables, placing two glasses of ice and lemon on the table, and chatting to her companion, another woman. When the woman turned around, Paolo noticed that she was quite a bit older than Talia. At least forty. She had the kind of permatan you saw on some bleached blondes. Not one of Talia’s typical students. He’d noticed that Talia took on a higher-than-average count of the aggressive young banker types. They probably fantasized about beating her in a match.
Darius would wipe the floor with all of them.
The fleeting thought caught Paolo unawares. He thought he’d finally managed to put Darius out of his mind. But apparently not.
He peered at the woman with Talia. She was about five feet eight with a slim, toned physique, straggly, overtreated hair, her eyes gray and flinty. There was something familiar about her. Had he taught her once? He hated when he ran into a former student, the type who moved on after one lesson. Invariably, he’d forget their name. They always looked kind of annoyed when he admitted it. There had to be a way to get them to tell him their name without looking like a jerk, but he hadn’t thought of it yet.
Talia waved him over. Paolo began to make his way to their table very slowly, all the while racking his brain for the elusive name.
“Hello,” he said, smiling at Talia and her companion. The older woman remained seated, giving Paolo a rather calculating look. She sipped from her drink, a gin and tonic to judge by the small bottle of tonic water next to it. He’d certainly seen her before, and not all that long ago. When it came to a name, though, Paolo drew a total blank.
“Hi,” said the woman. “I didn’t catch your name.”
Relief flooded him. She didn’t know him, either.
“I’m Paolo.”
She just nodded. Paolo sat down. He had to suppress the urge to stare at her in open curiosity.
So familiar. Yet apparently not one of his students. How did he know her?
Talia began to chat. She’d been applying for tennis scholarships. Things were looking good. She’d been accepted at USC and Irvine, but what she really wanted was to go to Duke. Her boyfriend from the Czech Republic had just started a doctoral program there and she was dying to join him. Paolo wondered quietly if the boyfriend was as eager for Talia to get an offer from Duke. She was pretty good-looking, with all that fine, ash-blonde hair and toned arms and thighs. But she talked nonstop and she wasn’t even funny. He’d been sitting there for seven or eight minutes and she hadn’t let him get one word out apart from his name. Meanwhile, the older lady was silent, smiling a knowing smile at Paolo, barely acknowledging Talia at all. Paolo avoided lookin
g at the companion as much as was barely polite, but it wasn’t a sustainable strategy.
Then she spoke. “Talia, sweetie, would you go get me some pork rinds?”
“Pork rinds?”
The fortysomething woman blinked calmly. “Let’s give that Lipitor something to work on.”
Talia turned toward the bar with a vaguely puzzled air.
“Lipitor?” Paolo gave a quizzical smile. It was something to say.
“I’m not taking Lipitor.”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t even know what it is.”
The older woman smiled. “I just wanted to get rid of Talia.”
Paolo froze. He recognized her sudden predatory grin.
“You looked cuter as a blond,” she said, her voice silky smooth. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He stared.
Very softly she said, “Do you remember me now?”
Paolo glanced around. Talia had struck up a conversation with the bartender. She didn’t seem in a hurry to return.
“You and that Darius fellow made a pretty big fool out of my son.”
He felt his heart lurch within his chest. When eventually he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Jimmy’s mom?”
“Answer me one thing—why’d you leave the Boxster so near to my house?”
Paolo began to murmur an excuse, but she interrupted him.
“Jimmy found it. But do you think he thought of going to the police? No. Darius—or whatever his real name is— was long gone by then. So Jimmy told me and his father that the deal from your silly game had been to swap the cars. The police picked Jimmy up in that Boxster about two weeks later. Took a lot of fast talking from an expensive lawyer to get him off the hook.”
“I didn’t know the car was stolen.”