“Focus, girl,” Angel cuts in over a tired groan and a snap of her fingers.
Birdy blushes. “Right. Sorry. I guess I just worry that when he gets in one of his grumblin’ moods, he’s gonna, I don’t know, do somethin’ stupid.”
“Like kill you?” Lina asks bluntly.
“Lord, no.” She presses her hand against her chest. “He’d never do nothin’ like that. He loves me too much—and Rosebud, that’s our little girl.” She turns to me and smiles, as if somehow aware we’re both mothers. “He’d never do nothin’ to hurt me or Rosie. I just don’t want him hurtin’ himself somehow.”
“Do you think he’s suicidal?” Bates asks.
Birdy shakes her head. “No, ma’am. But sometimes when he gets in one of his frets, he just starts talkin’ about how sad he is, and how he can’t imagine livin’ without me, and . . . I don’t know.” Her shoulders slump. “Sometimes it’s like he’s two different people. One minute he’s perfectly happy and all sweetie pie, and the next he’s just a sad, mopey little puppy.”
“Has he ever been treated for bipolar disorder?” Iris asks.
“Bipolar?” Birdy’s brow furrows. “I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a mental illness that causes people to have drastic mood changes,” Iris explains.
“That’s called PMS,” Lina grunts.
Maya sputters out a laugh, sending pieces of chewed-up fingernails flying onto the floor.
I cringe and as subtly as possible shift my legs away from her.
“No, that’s called menopause,” Donna chimes in, and everyone starts to laugh.
Everyone except me, and Iris. I can’t help but notice she’s still wearing a concerned expression. It reminds me of the face Dan makes when he’s worried about a patient, when he wants to fix them but isn’t quite sure how.
“No. He ain’t never been tested for nothin’ like that. He don’t have mental problems,” Birdy says over a firm shake of the head. “He’s just real sensitive and gets worked up sometimes, that’s all.”
I can tell by the look on Iris’s face that she doesn’t necessarily agree with Birdy’s less-than-technical explanation. And a week ago I probably wouldn’t have either. But now I know better. Perfectly sane, rational people can get really worked up, and do really stupid things, if pushed to their limits. It doesn’t mean they’ve got a mental disorder; it just means their lives are falling apart.
And that they’re married to a liar—
“What about you, Holliday? Who did you write about?”
I probably shouldn’t be surprised that Bates redirects the interrogation to me, but it still catches me off guard.
“Oh, uh . . .” I fumble with my notebook, pulse spiking nervously.
Rationally, I know that I can talk about Avery without exposing our secret, but with all their gazes zeroing in on me, I can’t help but feel a little anxious.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to share any part of my life with these women.
An unwelcome and familiar tightness returns to my chest. I quickly lay my journal down on my thighs and slide my finger up under the rubber band—desperate to stop the panic before it takes hold—but stop short of snapping when I glance across the circle and lock eyes with Iris. There it is. That same sense of calm I felt when she spoke to me the other day. I blink hard, taken aback by the sensation.
“Whenever you’re ready, Holliday,” Bates prods impatiently.
Gaze fixed intently on Iris’s, I say, “I wrote about my daughter.”
My voice comes out in little more than a whisper, but it’s loud enough that Iris gives me a subtle nod—like somehow she knows she’s anchoring me and too swift a movement will break the connection—and for Birdy to say, “Aww. You’ve got a little girl too? How old is she?”
“Tw-twelve. She’s twelve.”
“Oh, that must be a real fun age,” Birdy coos.
“What’s her name?” Angel asks.
“Avery.”
In my periphery I see her nod while Birdy says, “Ooh. That’s real pretty.”
I bravely pull my gaze away from Iris and turn to her. “Thanks. She’s named after my husband’s aunt. She was his favorite person growing up.”
“Oh! That’s just like me!” Birdy squawks excitedly. Lina reels back, scowling at the outburst. “I was named after my mama’s favorite person too—well, sort of. She never actually met him, but she’s been moony eyed over Mr. Burt Reynolds practically her whole life. Ever since she saw Smokey and the Bandit when she was a kid.”
“Wait.” I blink hard, startled. “I’m sorry. Are you named after Burt Reynolds the actor? Like, your name is Burty? With a t? Not Birdy like a . . . bird?”
She smiles pridefully. “Yes, ma’am: B-U-R-T-Y. Burty Reynolds Bedford.”
My jaw starts to sag while Donna snort laughs and says, “Your parents named you after Burt Reynolds?”
At her age, there’s no way Maya can possibly know who Burt Reynolds is, but she snickers just the same.
“I know it’s sorta funny, but I really like it,” Bird—er, Burty—says, unapologetically.
“As well you should,” Iris affirms, despite the smile tugging on her lips.
“Who the fuck is Burt Reynolds?” Lina scoffs.
“Hell if I know,” Angel mumbles.
“He’s that old actor who looks sort of like Tom Selleck but not nearly as hot,” Donna clarifies.
Lina raises her palms and mutters, “Who the fuck is Tom Selleck?”
“So, what is it you want to change about Avery?” Bates cuts in, turning the tables back on me.
It takes a second to reconcile the fact that my nerves are much calmer than they were a moment ago. Calm enough that I think I can answer the question without having to rely on Iris, or my rubber band, to do it.
“I’d just like us to get along better,” I say. “We seem to be fighting all the time lately.”
“That’s ’cause she’s a walking hormone,” Donna grouses, the scent of musty cigarettes lingering on her words. “I’ve got two girls, and both of them were hell on wheels at that age—”
“Twelve goin’ on twenty-five,” Lina mutters.
“Exactly,” Donna grunts back.
I shift in my seat. “Yeah, I know a lot of moms who are dealing with those kinds of issues, but that’s not what’s going on with Avery. She’s really modest and doesn’t seem to be interested in boys right now.” Unless they’re armed with cans of spray paint. “It’s more like . . . I don’t know.” I drop my head slightly, vulnerability niggling at my spine. “She’s just acting out a lot.”
“What, she doesn’t like being dropped off at school in Mommy’s Range Rover?” Lina questions snidely.
Her comment brings a flush of heat to my cheeks. I don’t care that she knows what kind of car I drive—clearly she saw me pull into the parking lot—but I hate that she pointed it out to the group. Not because of what they’ll think of me, but because driving around in a $100,000 car (that Dan insisted I get) doesn’t fit in with my Morris Creek backstory.
People from Mount Ivy drive expensive cars, not people from Morris Creek!
“So, what is Avery doing?” Iris jumps in.
Still annoyed by Lina, I swallow hard and turn to her. “She, um . . . she’s just getting into some trouble at school.”
“What kind of trouble?” Angel asks.
I shrug. “Nothing too serious,” I lie. “Her grades have dropped a little. She misses some assignments here and there—”
Donna and Iris nod while Lina mumbles, “Like every other kid in the world—”
“—she’s cut a few classes,” I go on, strangely motivated to up the ante, just to shut Lina up. “She got detention once. And, um . . . well, she got caught vaping a couple weeks ago.”
“Oooh . . .” Iris sucks in a deep breath over her teeth.
“Nah, that’s nothin’,” Maya offers beneath a heavy-lidded grin. “I vape all the time. It’s no big deal.”
“You’re not twelve,” Iris fires back.
“I’ve heard vaping’s real dangerous,” Burty says.
“It is,” Iris agrees.
“I do it sometimes,” Angel adds, shrugging. “But just when I’m at a club or whatever.”
“It’s way better for the environment than smoking,” Maya goes on, apparently interested enough in the conversation to drop her tasty fingernails away from her mouth. “And they smell way better than cigarettes. No offense.” She glances across the circle at Donna.
“None taken,” she grunts back, a little too easily to be believed.
“So, what did you do to her when she got caught?” Iris asks.
Once again, their collective gazes zero back in on me, my already-hot seat now threatening to burn me.
“Well, we tried taking her phone away, and her other devices,” I explain. “But that didn’t really work, so, um . . .” From the corner of my eye, I see Bates fold her arms over her chest, like she’s amused by my bumbling. I swallow hard. “So now we’re trying something different—”
“You’re locking the princess in her tower?” Lina snorts.
I raise my chin a bit higher and defensively say, “No. We’re . . . letting her live her own truth.”
Iris’s brow furrows, and Donna says, “Huh?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Lina grunts.
My breath shallows.
Yeah, Jane, what the fuck does that mean?
“It, um . . . it means that we’re allowing her space to find her own place in the world,” I reply, my tone void of all confidence. This sounded a lot better when Heather said it. “You know . . . letting her make her own mistakes so she can figure out who she is . . .”
Silence fills the room, just long enough for a swell of bile to stir in my gut, before Angel bursts out laughing and Lina says, “What the actual fuck?”
“You’re not punishing her?” Donna questions. “You’re just gonna let her do whatever the hell she wants, no matter how stupid or dangerous it is?”
I swallow hard, suddenly wishing I’d sneaked in a few appointments with Dr. Jill myself, so I would know how to defend her advice. Advice that sounded really good last week when surrounded by my friends, but now . . . doesn’t.
“It’s—it’s just a tactic we’re trying,” I say weakly. “A lot of people I know use it with their kids.”
“Yeah, rich people,” Angel mutters under her breath.
My chest starts to tighten.
“Wait, I think I’ve heard about this,” Maya jumps back in. “It’s called, like, hands-off parenting or some shit—”
“Nah, I got it!” Lina leans forward in her chair, ruby-lined lips rising into a smirk. “You’re one of those hipster parents who thinks every kid should get a trophy just for showin’ up, right?”
“Ugh. I hate those parents,” Angel mutters.
“That’s not what a hipster is,” Maya mumbles, fingers once again sandwiched beneath her teeth. “They wear corduroy pants and have beards and shit—”
“Well, is it working?” Iris steps back in.
My throat is quickly growing thick, swelling beneath their obvious judgment. This journal entry was supposed to be easy, but instead it’s turning into my crucifixion. And freaking Bates is just sitting here letting it happen!
On instinct, I slide my finger up under the cuff of my sweater and start to pluck at the rubber band. Not hard snaps—nothing that anyone would notice—just a quick succession to temper some of the stress that’s building in my bones. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. I thrust my chin forward and, mustering up all the confidence I can, say, “Yeah, actually, it’s been working great.”
Iris’s gaze falls to where my fingers are working beneath the thin layer of black cashmere. “Glad to hear it,” she says.
Her tone is encouraging, but the glint in her eyes as she returns her attention to my face confirms what I suspected downstairs: she knows I’m lying. And based on the skeptical looks everyone else is wearing, they’re probably not far behind.
“All right, who else wrote about one of their kids?” Bates asks, thankfully, finally, steering the conversation away from me.
“I did,” Donna grunts with a raise of her hand. “I wrote about my oldest, Harmony.”
“How old is she?” Angel asks.
“Twenty-seven. Stupid kid.” Donna shakes her head. “She just started working down at the Rear End out on Route 9—”
“The Rear End? Isn’t that a strip club?” Lina scoffs.
“A gentleman’s club,” Donna corrects over a heavy sigh.
“Oh shit,” Maya mutters.
“I swear that girl is trying to send me to an early grave.” Donna proceeds to elaborate on her daughter’s poor career choice while I sink down into my chair feeling like I’ve just been dragged over the coals. How am I going to survive six more classes with these women? They’re horrible!
The moment class ends, I take off down the stairs, ignoring Burty’s “Have a good weekend!” comment that trails behind me on the way. She’s sweet enough, but I’ve got to get out of here before I start looking for oranges. The lobby is still teeming with activity, and before I even raise my head to confirm, I can feel that I’m being watched. And I know by who.
UGH!
I ram my attendance card into the time stamper, then cast a quick glance to my left as I head for the exit—
I knew it!
Freaking Chavez.
He’s standing in the same spot by the elevators staring at me, again. Stalking me with that stupid grin and lucid memories of what I did a week ago. Memories he clearly wants to taunt me with.
Not today, buddy!
I can’t handle any more scrutinizing today!
Pulse hammering, I storm out of the building and hightail it across the street toward the parking lot, desperate to put this maddening world of criminals and drug addicts and annoying detectives—a world I don’t belong in!—behind me.
“Thee you thoon, pretty lady,” the homeless guy calls out to me as I blow by him.
“Yeah, whatever,” I growl through my gritted teeth.
“Jane!”
My stomach drops to the dirty concrete at the sound of my name.
It’s Chavez.
Now he’s following me?!
Uh-uh.
NO!
Outside the police station, I’m a free woman.
I don’t have to take your ridicule out here!
I keep my head down, pretending I don’t hear him, and press on, hurrying my steps.
“Hey, Jane!” he calls out again, and now I can tell that he’s getting closer.
Dammit!
Just leave me alone!
I weave my way through the parking lot and quickly climb into my car. Breathing hard, I jam the keys into the ignition and turn the engine over—
“Hey, Jane! Hello!” Flashbacks of last Friday night slam into me as Chavez calls to me from right outside my driver’s window. “Are you okay?” he says, surveying me through the tinted glass with a scrunched brow.
My jaw muscles tense as I slam the button to unroll the window.
“I see you found the right button today,” he taunts, that maddening grin of his instantly reappearing, bringing with it the urge to ram my fingernails into my palms.
Not today!
“Didn’t you hear me calling you—”
“Yeah, I heard you.” I cut him off with a demonic-sounding growl. “I just don’t want to talk to you. I’m not in the mood for any of your shit!”
He reels back, dark eyes snapping wide. “Huh?”
“Look, I know I was a great big idiot last week, okay? I get it. Believe me, I get it! I know all the window-licking and Poncherello, Sexy Pants stuff was really freaking funny, but it’s over, okay! I don’t need you mocking me with that stupid grin every time I walk by.”
“Wait. What? No.” He blinks hard. “That’s not—”
“I can’t handle any more jud
gment today,” I snarl over whatever bullshit comment he was about to make. “Not from those horrible women up there and most definitely not from you! Now get away from my car so I can get out of here!”
“But I just wanted to see how you—”
I pound my fist against the button, raising the window and silencing his impending insults. Not today! He quickly backs out of the way as I reverse out of the spot and head for home.
Home.
Where everyone knows I’m a good mom.
Or at least try to be.
Where my friends support me and accept me for who I am.
The parts they know, anyway . . .
CHAPTER 11
It’s Sunday afternoon. Dan took Avery down to Chicago to watch a Bulls home game, which means I’ve got the whole house to myself. And because all my committees are on hiatus for the upcoming holiday (somehow, it’s already Thanksgiving week; I’d swear it was just Labor Day!), the only thing on my to-do list is to work out the Thanksgiving menu. Normally, I’d relish this rarely offered alone time, but today it’s proving to be a little frustrating. No matter how hard I try to focus on finding the right maple bourbon apple pie recipe, all I can think about is what happened on Friday, with the women in my group . . . with Chavez in the parking lot . . . I didn’t handle it well. Not so much the women but with him.
Now that I’ve had some time to cool down, it’s dawned on me that lashing out at him was about the stupidest thing I could have done. He knows things about me—things that could destroy me and my family—and if I’m not careful, he could stop being the cop who’s amused by me and instead be the cop who wants to make me pay for my crimes outside the classroom. As much as I hate the thought of spending three more weeks with those women, I have to keep my position in that class, which means I’m going to have to figure out a way to tolerate their scrutiny. And even though it sickens me, the only way I can see doing that is by lying to them. About everything.
See Jane Snap Page 12