When Teddy realized she was crying, he took two quick steps backward and nearly tripped over Weasley, who’d arrived at his feet. Teddy’s hand shot out to brace himself against the wall, his fingers hitting just beneath the painting of a horse he’d done in third grade. Teddy remembered the day they’d gone to the frame shop to pick it up. The clerk had gently unstuck the masking tape on the brown paper wrapping, and Teddy had been thrilled to see his art looking so official. He’d run his hand over the wooden frame and onto the glass. No one had been irritated with him for leaving a fingerprint. The frame shop guy just wiped it away with a cloth.
Had Teddy ever made his mother cry before today? Probably, he thought. Alice was a relatively easy crier, tearing up during commercials and at the end of Pixar movies. But she’d never cried over something like this. Not that he knew. His mom should be out here in the hallway, Teddy thought, yelling about his punishment, not locked in her room crying. His “logical consequence” should be something to do with electronics, right? Of course, she’d already taken his phone, but the photo? The police officer? Even Teddy knew he deserved something worse than anything he’d gotten before. His mother’s tears proved it.
He suddenly felt his legs gain sturdiness beneath him, and he had his own idea of what it would take to make things right. He walked straight down two flights of stairs into the Sullivans’ finished basement. He roughly unplugged the Xbox from the TV in the half-finished den and marched back upstairs with it in his arms.
In the garage, he grabbed a hammer from the box of tools his mom kept on a worktable in the corner and slammed it down on the top of the console. He’d pictured pieces scattering over the table, but he found he couldn’t break the Xbox outright. He used two hands on the hammer and whacked as hard as he could. When he picked it up to check he heard pieces rattling inside it. Then he put it down and hit it over and over until he was sure it would never work again. Maybe if it was really broken, if he gave up gaming forever, that would be enough to make things okay again.
Alice Sullivan
Patrick walked into the kitchen with a beautiful bouquet from Arts & Flowers on Thursday night, and Alice burst into tears for the second time in as many days. “It’s orange,” she said, nonsensically, her chest heaving. “And thanks for coming home early.”
“The woman at the shop said you liked king protea.” Patrick put the vase down on the counter and wrapped his arms around her. “Is that a flower?”
“Yes.” Alice sobbed. “I love them, especially with those orange roses.” She’d been a frequent customer at Arts & Flowers. She typically left an arrangement in each of the homes she finished working on. The staff had put in extra effort on this one, finishing it with dried sprigs of Italian ruscus.
Patrick put his nose in the top of her hair, and she squeezed him harder. “They look like sea anemone,” he said, referring to the king protea. Alice nodded. Her face slid against his dress shirt. She breathed in his Old Spice.
“Where’s Aidy?” Patrick asked. Ordinarily, she’d be there in the middle of their hug, wedged between them and angling to be picked up. But tonight it was only Weasley at their feet. Alice had looped his leash around her wrist, a preemptive measure to keep him under control during trick-or-treating.
“She’s at a friend’s house.” Alice could hear her heart beating slower now that her husband was here. She felt sleepier and heavier, and she scowled into one of Patrick’s buttons when the doorbell rang. It was the second trick-or-treater of the night. “She’s an angel.” Alice laughed then, through her tears. “I mean, that’s Aidy’s costume.”
Patrick released Alice and walked to the door with the painted bowl they always used for Halloween candy. When he returned, Alice sent him to Teddy’s room, hopeful that a male influence could make a difference. Meanwhile, Alice opened the door for five or six more trick-or-treaters, all while restraining their overexcited cockapoo.
In between visitors, Alice grabbed one of the rocks glasses Patrick liked from a kitchen cabinet. She’d chosen Farrow & Ball’s Purbeck Stone color last year when she’d had the cabinetry painted. The doors’ glass insets revealed her wedding crystal and the brightly colored chip-and-dip set Evelyn had gifted Alice on her thirtieth birthday. The effect most often gave her a jolt of satisfaction, but not tonight.
Alice had just dropped ice into the glass when Patrick slumped into the kitchen, his return trek from Teddy’s room less enthusiastic than his departure. His eyes drooped at the corners as they did when he sacrificed sleep for more than a night or two. He’d put in endless hours on the Energy Lab case.
“I figured you’d want bourbon,” she said.
“You read my mind.” Patrick grabbed the bottle from the cabinet where they kept his Maker’s Mark, as well as some random liqueurs they’d purchased for stray cocktails over the years. The doorbell rang.
“We should probably start locking the booze up,” Alice said as she grabbed the candy bowl and walked to the door. “Now that Teddy is getting older.” When she got back, Patrick had poured a double and held the bottle out to her. She waved it away. “Did your parents keep the liquor cabinet locked when you were a kid?”
“I wasn’t interested in my dad’s scotch.” Patrick raised the glass to his nose. They’d both tried alcohol in high school, Alice knew, but everything seemed riskier now for Teddy. If anyone in the room had a cell phone, you could wreck your whole life with a couple of beers.
Patrick took a long swallow.
“What did Teddy say?” Alice’s stomach twisted.
“Not much,” Patrick admitted. “He said he wasn’t thinking when he sent the screenshots. Same thing he said to you.” Alice had hoped that having Patrick home would have softened Teddy. She at least wanted him to explain the broken Xbox, which they’d discovered when Aidy had tried to play Just Dance after school the day before.
There’d been more crying after that, first Aidy’s wails and then Alice alone, her face smashed into her sham.
“Did he say anything about Sadie?” Alice asked.
Patrick bit his lip, and then the doorbell rang again. Patrick went this time. While he usually exclaimed over the neighborhood kids’ costumes, tonight he barely spoke. Alice could hear the Snickers thudding into the kids’ plastic pumpkins.
As soon as he was back, Alice reentered their conversation. “Tell me what he said.” She flattened her hands against the natural stone countertop. The delicate gray grain would have looked great—neutral yet sleek in the background of the Elle Decor shoot, maybe with her cerulean Dutch oven on top. That brilliant orange trivet she’d picked up at an estate sale could have peeked out beneath. She glanced then at the orange flowers, and she felt the anxiety that she’d battled all week creep again into her arms. Her husband was here now, but he’d be gone again in seventy-two hours.
Patrick scratched his ear and looked over her shoulder. “Teddy said that if Sadie was dumb enough to take that photo, of course she knew people would see it.” He slid his drink back and forth on the counter, clanking the ice against the sides of the cut-glass tumbler.
Alice wilted. They’d gotten no further with Teddy than passing the buck? She’d thought there’d been some real remorse mixed in with the shortsighted Xbox smashing. He’d done it, he said, to show he was sorry. “We can start nature therapy,” Alice said. “He actually wants to do that.” She still hadn’t told him about Julienne—the fact that it was her clinic Alice had visited. It had been easy to omit details with Patrick traveling and chaos at home.
“That’s good for now.” Patrick gulped his bourbon. “Can he do individual sessions, too? I feel like the more steps we take, the faster he’ll be able to get back to normal. Go to school. Deal with soccer.”
Alice turned away from him, her relief about him coming home suddenly replaced by irritation. “Honestly,” she said, “at this point who cares about soccer?” She opened the pantry door for somet
hing to do with her hands and then slammed it again. “We just had a meeting with the police!”
“I care about soccer.” Patrick seemed oblivious to her rising alarm. The doorbell rang again.
“You haven’t even been here!” She gripped the sides of her head with rigid fingers, startled herself by how quickly her mood had changed. But how could Patrick question any of her choices when he had disappeared for weeks while she tried to hold their crumbling children upright all on her own? “And you’ve always cared more about sports than school!” She fought an impulse to storm to their bedroom, to throw herself down again on her duvet.
Patrick disappeared to appease the trick-or-treaters, and when he returned, he put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said, still calm. “I’m taking it seriously. I know it’s been harder for you.” She turned back to him, though she could feel her pulse throbbing in her temples.
Patrick took another gulp of bourbon, his expression a mix of plaintive and placid. “But,” he said, “I don’t think you can actually homeschool him. He needs a school, and you have a job.”
Alice collapsed onto her kitchen stool, her stomach churning. “But Elm Creek clearly isn’t working. It’s toxic!” As she said it, she knew the truth of it. “The social dynamics, the soccer team, the teachers he hasn’t connected with . . .” She trailed off, and her anger ebbed as quickly as it had boiled. What’s wrong with me? Alice’s eyes found a familiar spot above the back window where a dot of white paint from the trim marred the matte, silvery color of the wall. “Also, Teddy seems incapable of making the right choices at that school.” If she had to keep him home, isolate him from his peers to make sure he wasn’t arrested, that’s what she would do.
Patrick took her hand and brought her focus back from the paint mistake. She’d fix it this week, she decided, rather than spending any more time looking at it. It would take about ten minutes and the right-sized brush. “Do you really think you’ll be able to get him to do school at home? Like, if you’re his only teacher?” The bell rang again.
Alice pulled her hand back, not entirely ready for a full reconciliation, and headed to the door. After she’d tossed about six pieces of candy in each of the kids’ pillowcases, she roughly turned off the porch light. Enough.
Back in the kitchen, she thought for a minute. “Maybe there’s some kind of online school he could do. I’ve heard ads for those on the radio.” She reached for Patrick’s bourbon and took a sip. Patrick stifled a laugh as she winced. She slid the glass back toward him and kept talking. “The Elm Creek counselor probably knows.” Alice imagined Teddy on a laptop on the stool next to hers, their respective work spread over the countertop.
But Alice doubted how many projects she could do at home, especially if she continued to alienate Ramona. “Do you remember what kind of noncompete I signed?” Alice asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Standard, I think.” Just like the phone contract we put in front of Teddy, Alice thought. What a joke.
“I’m going to get my laptop.” Patrick looked up the stairs toward the kids’ rooms. Alice noticed his hair was getting long, the shaggy blond waves at the back of his neck matching their son’s. “We can research the online schools.”
At least he was trying. But he’ll be gone again before I know it. Alice grabbed the bourbon and sucked a melty ice cube into her mouth, rolling the remnants of alcohol around her tongue.
Sadie Yoshida
Things at home could have been worse, Sadie realized. Again, she hadn’t really even gotten in trouble. Rather, her mother had gone hypervigilant on her phone. Snapchat was discovered and gone. Instagram disabled. All that was left was texting and calling and a couple of educational games, but given the fact that the police had been involved? Sadie knew it could have been much, much worse.
The police. If someone had told Sadie even a week ago that she’d be in trouble with the school police officer—that boxy woman with the broad shoulders and the chest that strained the buttons on her thick, navy uniform top—she would have laughed. She’d only seen Officer Larson before with the kids who vaped in the bathrooms. She hadn’t even known the woman’s name. But now, Officer Larson had explained to her, slowly and using the words “breast” and “nipple” repeatedly, that taking a photo of her own body was illegal.
Even more horrifying than that was the idea that her dad had seen her boob. He saw it, right? It didn’t seem possible that her mother could have kept it from him. Sadie was pretty sure her parents had discussed the Elm Creek soccer players, too, and how many of them had also seen the picture. She’d walked into the kitchen a couple of times to that awkward feeling that everyone had stopped talking the moment you showed up. It was junior high lunch table 101.
Obviously, Sadie wished she could go back to that moment in her room and simply not take the picture. She’d message Tane an eye roll emoji instead. They’d still be sitting together at lunch instead of each suspended. Mikaela had texted her about sixteen shocked GIFs when Sadie had told her what she’d done. “Even I’ve never sent a nude,” Mikaela had written.
Really? Sadie thought. After the crotch shots and the lipstick? Could I really be the first one? After Mikaela’s reaction, Sadie decided not to tell Chloe.
“Don’t tell Chloe,” Sadie had texted back to Mikaela. “Or anyone else.” Fat chance, she said to herself, sounding like her mother in her own head. If she’d just sent that emoji to Tane instead of the picture, everything would be fine. She’d still be able to look her dad in the eye.
Despite the photo, her dad had made his famous pancakes that weekend, but when he put the plate down in front of her, he looked at her forehead instead of at her face. He didn’t sit down with her for even five minutes before leaving for his run, an “extra-long one,” he said, without turning to say good-bye.
Meanwhile, her mom spent a good chunk of the morning on the phone. Sadie could hear some of what she said, even with the study door closed. “That hardly seems relevant,” Sadie heard her say once. “This is about the safety and well-being of a thirteen-year-old girl!” After she nearly shouted those words, her volume decreased. Sadie stood outside the door. She wouldn’t lean her ear against it, she decided, but she’d stand closer, with a better chance to hear at least bits and pieces. After all, the conversation was about her.
“Walt,” Meredith said, “I hardly think the record of a junior high soccer team is more important than the club’s adherence to its values.” Walt is Chloe’s dad, Sadie realized. But she had no idea what he had to do with the picture.
Meredith paused then, and Sadie inched closer to the door. “Of course I value my daughter’s privacy, Walt, but I also want these kids punished, and frankly, I’m surprised that you don’t agree. What if, and I hate to do this to you because I’m currently living this nightmare, but what if this photo were of Chloe? Then would you want Tane Lagerhead and Teddy Sullivan wearing the Elm Creek jersey? Be honest with yourself.”
Sadie shivered, though she wore a heavy Elkettes Synchro sweatshirt. She slid her stockinged foot back and forth across the smooth wood floor outside the office and caught a glimpse of herself in the gold-framed circular mirror. Alice had hung it for them over a little table in the hallway. She frowned at the Elkettes logo on her shirt, a skate blade attached to the bottom of the big block “E.” Suddenly, she couldn’t imagine putting on her eye shadow and slicking her hair into a high bun. The person she’d been in the selfie she’d sent to Tane wasn’t the same girl who’d so recently cared about spins and crossovers.
There was silence for a few seconds, and Sadie wondered if Chloe’s dad had hung up, but then her mother piped in again, as loud as she had been before. “Well,” she said, “I can’t imagine the larger community will agree with you. That seems like blaming the victim. Not a good look, Walt, in 2019.”
Sadie heard the desk chair roll back. Her mother’s footsteps thudded toward the door. There was no time for
Sadie to move before it opened, so she decided to pretend to be on her way to the powder room.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed when she saw her, and Sadie felt herself hold her breath, but she exhaled again when her mom breezed past into the kitchen. “Everything’s going to be okay,” her mom said over her shoulder. “Don’t you even worry.”
She’d said that a few times already. Officer Larson had, too, when she’d explained about the charges. Mikaela had even said not to worry, after she’d expressed her surprise. Everyone assumed Sadie would be worried. But she wasn’t, exactly.
Things would change, right? They had already changed in junior high. She’d already lost Teddy. She already sat at a different lunch table than she had before. And there would be more changes the older she got. People might see her differently. Mikaela and Chloe might make comments about her no longer being a “Mary.” Or they might start sending their own secret photos. Although it would be complicated, Sadie thought it would be okay. The only thing she wasn’t fine with—the thing that made her feel like crying—was her dad looking at her forehead and going for that extra-long run. He hadn’t peeked in on her before bed in the last few days, either.
Him seeing that photo—that was one thing she really wished she could undo.
Nadia Reddy
When Alice slumped toward her in the trailhead parking lot on Sunday morning, Nadia could immediately see her exhaustion. Alice’s shoulders drooped, and her curls seemed relaxed, as if she hadn’t washed her hair in several days. This was how Alice had looked after Aidy was born. She’d been thrust back into sleepless nights for the first time in five years. Nadia and Meredith had exchanged smug glances behind her back, both happy that their kids were sleeping through the night and out of diapers. Not that Nadia hadn’t wanted a second child. She had, desperately, but seeing Alice with a baby—disheveled and with milk stains on her stretched-out T-shirts? It looked hard. And now Alice looked rough again, even though her kid could walk and talk. She looked rough probably because her kid could walk and talk.
Are We There Yet? Page 22