When it was over, he looked at me, his eyes hooded.
“That,” he whispered against my lips, “was a kiss.”
Seventeen
Charlie Calloway
2017
When I returned from Camp Wallaby, there was a large box waiting for me on my dorm room bed. Inside was a letter from Uncle Teddy.
As promised, kiddo, here is everything from Mr. Lynch, the private investigator.
There were stacks of thick manila envelopes with labels like “Phone Records” and “Credit Card Bills.” I found a drive labeled “Interviews” and plugged it into my laptop. Several folders popped up instantly with names and dates. Nearly everyone on both sides of my immediate family had been interviewed, as well as close friends of the family and employees. My father’s family was at the top of the list because it was in alphabetical order. I wondered whose interview I should listen to first. I had already heard what Eugenia had to say—that my mother struggled with depression and that might have had something to do with her disappearance. I clicked on my aunt Grier’s folder. She was my aunt by marriage and a psychologist. She had gone to Harvard and gotten her doctorate at NYU. If anyone were to weigh in on my mother’s mental state and how it may have related to her disappearance, it would be my aunt Grier.
I clicked on the audio file and it started to play. I put on my headphones in case Drew came into our room.
“State your name, the date, and your relationship to Grace Calloway,” came a male’s voice. It was a deep, rough voice that I assumed belonged to Mr. Lynch.
“Grier Calloway. October twenty-second, 2007. Grace Calloway is my sister-in-law.”
October 22, 2007—that was more than two months after my mother went missing, and a few weeks after the bank tapes were discovered.
“Mrs. Calloway, would you say you and your sister-in-law are close?”
“Not particularly,” Grier said. “Given her history with my husband, I think it’s only natural.”
What did that mean? Did Uncle Teddy not like my mother for some reason?
“But we were cordial enough, and we saw each other at family gatherings and over the holidays quite a bit,” Grier’s voice went on.
“And what is your impression of her character?”
“That’s a complicated question,” Grier said, “because my impression of Grace was influenced by events that transpired before I even met her. But I would say that, looking at her history, Grace is a creature of habit. She exhibits similar patterns of behavior—namely abandonment—and seems driven by a singular desire.”
“And what desire is that?”
“Well, on the face of it, money. But of course, there’s always an underlying cause for this desire. Maybe to Grace, money represents a sense of freedom or security she never had in her working-class family. Maybe money gave her a sense of power. I couldn’t tell you; I didn’t know her well enough.”
“When you say Grace is a creature of habit, can you give me an example of what you mean?” Mr. Lynch asked.
“Well, take what she did to Teddy,” Aunt Grier said. “It was no coincidence that Grace settled near Princeton and met Teddy. She was clearly hunting for an affluent partner. Teddy was a good catch—he came from a well-established, wealthy family, and so Grace invested her time in him, in their relationship. And then when she met Alistair, who was obviously the favored heir, someone who was already positioned for leadership at the Calloway Group, she latched onto him. When she saw an opportunity to secure him, she did. She saw it as trading up.”
I could hear my heart beating in my chest. I felt dizzy. My mother dated Uncle Teddy? She left him for my father? Was this true?
“And you see both of these relationships as primarily motivated by money?” asked Mr. Lynch.
“Yes,” Aunt Grier said. “Everyone is acting as if Grace taking this money and running off is some kind of surprise. But if you look at her history, it’s a behavior she’s exhibited repeatedly. Grace is, like most people, a creature of habit. Here she had a chance to get Alistair’s money without any of the obligations or entrapments—no more husband, no more children, nothing tying her down. Grace saw an opportunity, once again, to trade up, and she took it.”
I slammed my laptop shut. I didn’t want to hear any more. I couldn’t. My mother had used Uncle Teddy and my father for their money, and then, as soon as she had the chance, she just ran off with it? This whole time, she had just been manipulating all of us? And what did that make me? Just some by-product of her greed—some entanglement, or “obligation” or “entrapment,” that stood in the way of what she really wanted?
Not to mention—what other dark secrets about their past were my family hiding from me?
Maybe listening to these interviews and going through the case files was a bad idea. What if I found out things that didn’t only ruin any nice memory I had of my mother but tainted my relationship with the family I had left? Did I really want to know? Was it really worth it?
“She’s the worst,” Drew said, sighing heavily as we made our way across Healy Quad, back toward Rosewood Hall. “Quantum physics? Trig? Is she serious? I almost fell asleep just reading the course descriptions. How am I supposed to survive a whole semester of the actual classes?”
Drew was upset because Mariah had told her she needed to take some upper-level math or science courses next semester to round out all the art, history, and language classes she was taking.
“I want to study political science in college,” Drew said. “Not actual science.”
“Speaking of scheduling for next semester,” I said, lowering my voice, “Dalton told me he could get all of the junior A’s preferred enrollment for the spring.”
Normally, only seniors had preferred enrollment, which meant they got to register for their courses first, giving them first pick of spring classes. Apparently, Jude Bane had been able to hack the registrar and trick the system into thinking the junior A’s were really seniors, effectively allowing us to skip right to the front of the line when enrollment opened.
“Hallelujah,” Drew said. “I’m going to sign up for Miss Horvath’s Yoga and Mindfulness seminar. I’ve been wanting to take that since I started here but it’s always full by the time I register.”
“We need to get our course lists to Dalton by the end of the week so he can input them into the system,” I said. “Maybe we can coordinate so we can have similar schedules?”
“Of course,” Drew said. “Oh, so, you never told me, what terrible things did Mariah say to you?”
“Apparently, I lack empathy and suffer from a severe case of narcissistic personality disorder,” I said.
“Psh. Show me a teenager who doesn’t meet that description,” Drew said, unimpressed.
“Did she call you a narcissist, too?”
“No, but Stevie told me Mariah said her perfectionism was borderline obsessive-compulsive and recommended counseling.”
“Harsh.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Stevie taking it?”
“She’s creating a spreadsheet of psychiatrists within a fifty-mile radius who are covered by her parents’ insurance, complete with what schools they went to and their specializations, before she makes any decisions.”
“Maybe Mariah had a point about that one.”
“A little,” Drew said.
“Mariah told me I’m more likely to get into UPenn if I join some extracurricular activities,” I said.
“I’ve been saying that since freshman year,” Drew said. “You should join fencing. I swear it will help you work out all that pent-up aggression you have inside you.”
I thought about my recent volleyball match at Camp Wallaby. “I’m not exactly very coordinated,” I said.
“Fair point,” Drew said. “What about the debate club? Physical sparring might not be your forte, but verbal sparring is definitely your thing.”
“Yeah, but the debate club? I’d rather not get into UPenn than be a master debater.”
“Fine. Fine.” Drew stopped suddenly and held out her hand to stop me too, which caught me hard in the gut.
“Ouch,” I said. “Hey, I’m walking here.”
“I have the best idea,” Drew said, and she started walking again.
“Can you have good ideas and walk at the same time?” I asked, pressing my hands to my aching stomach.
“Shh,” Drew said. “Listen. This is genius. You should join the Knollwood Chronicle.”
“The school newspaper?” I asked, dubious.
“Yes,” Drew said. “You could write for, like, the Opinions column. The newspaper has way more clout than the Debate Club. It’s not quite on par with joining a sport, but it’s close.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“UPenn would eat that sort of thing up,” Drew said. “And it would get Mariah off your back.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Ladies,” Leo said, coming up behind Drew and me on the quad and putting one arm around each of our shoulders.
Drew shrugged out of his grasp. “Gross,” she said. “I just showered.”
“Where’ve you been lately?” I asked Leo. “Your Xbox is getting lonely.”
“Sorry, my extracurriculars have been keeping me busy,” Leo said. “Speaking of which, how’s round two looking for you guys?”
“When did—?”
“This morning,” Leo said. “Check your mailboxes.”
“How’d you make out?” I asked.
Leo removed his hand from around my shoulder and reached into the pocket of his blazer. “Just swimmingly,” he said.
Drew and I both stopped to read the card he handed me.
Item #2: One fish sculpture from the Poseidon Fountain
Drew pursed her lips together into a fish face.
The Poseidon Fountain sat on the north lawn in front of the theater. It was a large stone fountain with Poseidon in the center, riding a frothy wave, brandishing his trident in the air. Five large bronze fish sculptures surrounded him, jumping out of the sea, their mouths pursed open and water pouring forth. Stealing the fish would be a tricky job if Leo didn’t have someone helping him, as I’m sure the fish sculpture was probably pretty heavy for one person. Luckily, Leo had me.
“Not bad,” I said, handing the ticket back to him.
Leo followed us into the mailroom of Rosewood Hall. He leaned against the wall next to my box.
“Wanna take bets on what you’ll get?” Leo asked. “The secret recipe to Mrs. Wilson’s biscuits?”
“Mmm,” I said. “Or Headmaster Collins’s prized pit bull—the whole dog this time?”
I withdrew the card from my mailbox and read.
Item #2: One compromising photo of you with Mr. Andrews
My stomach twisted.
Drew leaned over to read mine as she unlocked her own box.
“No fair,” she said. “You get to seduce Mr. Andrews for your ticket? I’d do that just for fun.”
“What’d you get, Reisling?” Leo asked.
Drew opened her box and withdrew her card.
“Fuck,” she said, reading it.
“That bad?” I asked.
“See for yourself,” Drew said, handing me her ticket.
I took it and read while Leo read over my shoulder.
Item #2: Mr. Franklin’s trig midterm
Leo let out a low whistle.
“Damn, Reisling,” he said. “Who’d you piss off to get landed with this?”
Drew and I both looked at each other. Ren. All of Drew’s flirting with Crosby hadn’t gone unnoticed. Ren was using the Game to carry out her revenge.
Stealing an exam would have been bad enough because of Knollwood’s zero-tolerance policy when it came to cheating. If Drew were caught trying to steal an exam, she’d be expelled, no questions asked. But this particular exam was even tougher, because Mr. Franklin always wrote the exam fresh the day before it was given. There would be no easy shortcut, like getting an old exam from a previous student or sneaking onto his computer to print a copy. No, this would be some serious Mission: Impossible stunt.
“I’m not sure,” Drew told Leo. “But someone up there hates me.”
As I stood outside the door to the room that housed the Knollwood Chronicle, I imagined all the things I’d rather have been doing at that very moment.
Eating a jar full of raw jalapeños until my throat blistered.
Having another heart-to-heart with Mariah about my personality disorder.
Running a marathon on a searing August afternoon, with heat pooling on the pavement.
None of these things sounded fun, exactly, but they were all more appealing than what I was about to do. Still, I told myself to suck it up, exhaled deeply, and pushed open the door to the newsroom.
My view of what a high school newsroom would look like was largely and improbably shaped by old films like His Girl Friday and Citizen Kane and All the President’s Men. I imagined a kinetic room where editors—clad in glasses and sweater vests, each with a pencil tucked behind one ear—chased their reporters down narrow rows of desks, demanding to know where they got their scoops, the reporters always vowing steadfastly to never divulge their sources. I imagined journalists hunched over typewriters, and endless piles of Styrofoam cups nesting stale coffee, and the sound of phones ringing.
The Knollwood Chronicle’s room looked like most other classrooms around campus—the same bland, taupe-colored walls, the same gray carpet. A few desks and computers and chairs. An old patched-up couch at one end, and at the other, a steel filing cabinet. It was quiet, mostly—there were only a handful of people, mainly sitting at desks, clicking away at their keyboards, and another small group in the corner on the couch.
“Can I help you?”
I turned and saw a girl with pale skin and dark hair sitting behind the desk closest to the door.
“Is this the Chronicle?” I asked.
“In all our glory,” she said. She stood and leaned over the computer on her desk to shake my hand. “I’m Penn Franklin, the editor in chief,” she said.
Penn was a senior. We’d never officially met, but I had seen her around.
“I’m Charlie,” I said. “I was hoping to try the Chronicle out for Open Period. If you have any spots left.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. It wasn’t just that I was wandering in in the last week of Open Period asking for a spot. It was also that I was an upperclassman who had never stepped foot in the Chronicle before. Most students who did Open Period were underclassmen, freshmen eager to find their place at the school, carve out their niche. And most juniors, well, they had already found their place. Most of them had climbed to the upper rungs of whatever club or sport they had joined as freshmen. Drew was cocaptain of the volleyball team. Stevie was president of the Student Ethics Board. Leo was president of the junior class. I was title-less.
“What department are you interested in?” Penn asked. “Writing, photography, layout, marketing, sales?”
“Writing,” I said. “Definitely writing.”
“Most of our beats have been given out already,” Penn said, tucking a sheet of hair behind her ear. “I’ll have to check and see if any of our editors have room to take you on.”
“I can take her.”
I knew the voice before I turned around and saw her shiny, perfectly coifed blond curls. Harper Cartwright.
“We have a spot in Features,” Harper said, smiling at me.
I instinctively gritted my teeth.
“Perfect,” Penn said before I could edge my way out of it with some bullshit excuse. Because I knew what this would be, what I was getting myself into. As a new writer, I expected to be hazed a little, to do coffee runs, to get the shitty stories that nobody else wanted. But this would be something else entirely. This would be placing myself directly under Harper Cartwright’s thumb, something I was loath to do given she was Dalton’s most recent ex and she probably suspected Dalton and I were more than friendly.
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br /> “Perfect,” Harper said, and I saw the evil gleam in her eye. “We’re just wrapping up pitching, if you want to sit in.”
“Sounds great,” I lied.
I followed her over to the corner of the room, where a group of students sat around an old coffee table, and took the only spot left on the patched-up couch. Harper sat in an armchair facing the couch, a notebook in hand.
“This is Charlie,” Harper said to the group. Looking around, I realized I didn’t know a single person there, which probably meant they were all underclassmen, mostly freshmen. They looked so doe-eyed and young. “Charlie’s a junior,” Harper said. “She’s new to the paper so you guys will have to show her the ropes.”
I almost cringed under the weight of her condescension but managed a little wave and smile to the group.
“Finn, you’re up next, I believe,” Harper said, glancing down at her notebook.
“Well,” Finn said, sitting up straighter in the seat next to me. “Picture this. Title: ‘School Uniforms.’ Subtitle: ‘The Great Equalizer or the Great Divider’?” He gesticulated widely, as if writing the invisible title in the air in front of him with his short, stubby fingers. “The title needs some bedazzling, some sparkle, for sure, but the meat of the piece is a quasi-fashion, quasi-political story on these hideous uniforms we’re forced to wear.”
It was then that I noticed the perfect creases down the legs of his pants, the way his blazer was neatly pressed. He had added a bright pink silk handkerchief that was folded in his breast pocket. It took all that was in me to refrain from rolling my eyes. Not another clothing-obsessed prep up in arms because he had to wear a polyester blazer to class. Please, kill me now. I’d known coming here was a mistake.
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