“Was a little bitch. That was what, sixteen years ago? We were all little bitches then.”
“Oh my god, don’t tell me you forgive her.”
“Forgive’s not the right word. I just get it. She was mad. She wanted to hurt me. She didn’t realize what would happen.” I shut the editing down. I need to come back to it later, when I have some perspective. Right now, I worry I might do more damage than good.
“Right.” Krystle snorts. “She didn’t realize if she put up a nude photo of you and your photography teacher on MySpace that the shit might hit the fan? If you ask me, she’s suspect numero uno. Once a nutter, always a nutter.”
I sit back and sip my now-lukewarm espresso. Even though almost two decades have passed since that weekend, thinking about it sends my heart racing. Madeline Ashford was my one real friend at Overton, another outsider, although not because she was a scholarship student and not just because she was one of the few students of color, although that certainly contributed. She had a graceless honesty about her that rubbed people the wrong way.
But I liked her bluntness. And her bravery. It was as though she had the guts to say the things that I barely had the courage to think.
Today, her inability to read social cues might land her on the autistic spectrum. Back then she was just considered weird. She wanted to be a writer. Wanted is too weak of a word. She craved it. She wrote like her life depended on it, during class, lunch, late at night, in longhand in those cheap marble notebooks you can buy at any grocery store. She mocked people’s grammar and word choices to their faces, which endeared her to no one.
We spent hours fantasizing about our life after high school. We’d move to New York together, and I would take the art world by storm while she made her publishing debut. We did everything together, and we had no secrets, including my crush on Mr. Adamson. In the beginning, she helped me stalk him, find out where he took his coffee between classes, where he parked his boxy vintage BMW. She accompanied me on countless trips into town to skulk through the cobbled streets trying to spot his reddish-brown hair, a bit longer than the older male teachers wore theirs.
But then one day, I had a secret worth keeping.
Madeline was like one of those cats who knows when its owner has been visiting a house where another cat lives. She could sniff Paul’s scent on me. I tried to keep the secret from her for as long as I could.
My secret felt as beautiful and fragile as an aqua robin’s egg you might find in springtime. I wanted to protect it, even as much as I knew it wouldn’t last.
Then came the weekend that I forgot plans with Madeline. Nothing special, not a birthday, just a date between friends. We were supposed to go see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, which we claimed we were watching ironically, although we had both loved the books when we were younger. But I wasn’t at my apartment when Madeline came to fetch me. I was at the Moonlight Motel, off Route 1, where they charged by the hour. Krystle let her go up to my bedroom. She couldn’t have known what Madeline was going to do, because Krystle had no idea what I had been doing.
Krystle didn’t know about the drawer where I kept the pictures and copies of all the letters I wrote to Paul. Letters written in a loopy, girlish hand, bursting with adolescent longing, expressed in graphic sexual language that I thought made me look sexy and alluring.
But Madeline’s instincts were spot-on. Madeline found them.
* * *
I refresh my email, hoping for news from Facebook or Tinder, and to my surprise, I find an email from Overton. I hadn’t expected her response to be so fast.
When I come to the third line of the message, my throat tightens. I force myself to read the line two more times to be sure I am not seeing things.
The National Capital Overton Alumni Group coordinator is Madeline Ashford-Brown.
24
The whole drive back to Bethesda, I can’t stop thinking about Madeline.
Her betrayal cut me deeper than anything done by a guy I had been with. I trusted her, let her in. I told her things about my mother and my homelife that no one else knew. She was the only person from Overton who ever saw where I lived. And she exposed me—on the internet, at school—to ridicule.
And now she’s Madeline Ashford-Brown, living in Alexandria, Virginia, just over the Potomac River, less than a thirty-minute drive from my house. It’s true that loads of people end up in the D.C. area for a variety of reasons, but it shakes me that she is so close. My past is like a parallel life that I had come to believe would never intersect with my present. And here they were, not just crossing but marking a large X.
The worst part of her posting that picture was that I didn’t have my best friend to turn to for support. I felt totally alone in my shame.
She scared me off female friendships for a long time.
I pull into the parking lot of the grocery store and shut off the engine. As much as I want to crawl under the covers until this nightmare ends, I have to keep normal life going for Cole. And that means keeping the pantry stocked with mac and cheese and blueberry granola bars, and buying ingredients to make shortbread for International Night next week.
I’m not a scared teenager anymore, and I need to know what the hell is happening. Could she have sent that shirt? Could it have been an innocent gesture, or is it possible that she is behind everything else, too? There’s only one way to find out.
Without overthinking it, I dash off an email.
Madeline, it’s Alexis Ross (formerly Healy) from Overton. Turns out we’re practically neighbors. Any chance you could meet me for a cup of coffee? I need to talk to you.
I hit Send before I chicken out.
* * *
I’m in the baking aisle, trying to decipher the difference between confectioner’s sugar and superfine sugar, when Krystle calls me.
“Hey,” I say as I put both in my cart. Susan, who has agreed to bake shortbread with Cole for next week’s International Night, can sort it out.
“I got a call from the neighbors in Westport this morning,” she says by way of greeting. “They said you hired someone to assess the house. That you’re selling. That’s not true, is it?”
My throat tightens. I knew this phone call was coming, but I didn’t realize Barb DeSoto would move so fast. “It’s true. I’m putting the house on the market.” I move the phone away from my head an inch and wait for the screaming to begin.
“Are you kidding me? And you didn’t think to mention this to me when we spoke earlier?” she yells. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Allie?”
Gone is my sister the ally, whom I spoke to this morning, replaced by Krystle the rage machine.
“Calm down. In case you don’t remember, I have a lot going on here.”
“Calm down? You want to sell our house.”
“Sharon has to have an aide. It’s going to cost us an additional two grand a month, which as you know, puts us over the income we get from the rent.” I shoot a glare at a woman my age who is looking at pancake mixes while eavesdropping. She scoots away.
“You can’t sell it. I won’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.” I sigh and summon up a softer tone. “She needs the money, Krystle. And anyway, it’s time. I can’t manage a one-hundred-year-old house from this far away, and no offense, you’re not going to do it either.”
“There has to be another way, Allie.”
“I don’t get why you care so much. It’s not like we grew up there.” I push the cart down the aisle toward the dairy section. “We lucked into that house. It’s incredibly stupid to let it fall apart beyond repair. We need to sell now, while we can still get good money for it.”
“Allie, that’s our inheritance. My inheritance.”
I stop short in front of the endless wall of yogurt. Even for Krystle, that’s heartless. “It’s not up to us. It’s her money.”
Krystle snorts.
“It is, Krystle.” I put both salted and unsalted butter in the cart, covering my bets.
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“I need that money, Allie. I have no retirement savings, and I’m in debt from when I hurt my back two years ago. I’m really counting on it.”
“You’re not listening. The house is falling apart. It’s penny-wise but pound-foolish to keep fixing it up. Look, Mark and I are happy to help if you need cash.”
“I don’t need you and your lawyer husband to help me,” she says. “I just want my inheritance.”
It’s not yours, I want to say, but for some reason, I can’t. I know she resents me for having married someone with money. Before Mark, we would commiserate about when our bank balances hit single digits. We were in the same boat, going to Planned Parenthood for routine pap smears because we had no health insurance, buying clothes off eBay. After I married Mark, that changed. In her eyes, marrying him was like winning the lottery—a stroke of luck, and just one more example of how life was easier for me.
As I turn down the cereal aisle toward the checkout lines, I see Janelle, the English major from book club. I back up. The last thing I want right now is to become entangled in a web of chitchat with a neighborhood mom.
“Do you want to spend your inheritance on keeping up an old house? Because that’s what we’ll have to do. Take out a mortgage and use the money. If we sell now, we can invest and make money. We’ll probably end up ahead.”
“Well, I don’t want to sell it.”
I grit my teeth. I didn’t want to have to say this. “It’s not up to you, though, is it? I’m her power of attorney.”
“You’re not really gonna pull rank on me, are you?”
“I’m not pulling rank, Krystle. But it’s my responsibility. You are familiar with the concept of responsibility, right?”
And with that, Krystle hangs up on me. I drive home, my hands shaking. My sister’s emotions rise and plummet like a roller coaster, and I hate how she takes me along for the ride.
25
I can’t pull up right in front of my house, because there’s a blue BMW parked outside. This is the second day this week that some car has parked in that spot. I frown, juggling the grocery bags and my laptop as I enter the house.
Grateful that the back door is unlocked, I push it open. “Hello?” I call out. “I’ve got baking supplies!”
No answer.
“Susan? Cole? I’m home.” With a loud grunt, I manage to hoist all the bags onto the kitchen counter.
A noise behind me makes me jump.
When I turn, Vicki is there.
“How did you get in here?” A chill runs down my back.
“Your babysitter let me in.” Her voice trembles with controlled rage. “You are not going to get away with this.”
“With what?”
Cole rushes in, a yellow bath towel thrown over his shoulders like a cape, and wraps his arms around my legs.
“I’m Super Duck, and this is my costume.”
Susan follows behind him. I try to push Cole off me, but that makes him cling harder. Despite his size, Cole is strong. I want him out of this room and as far away from this conversation as possible.
“Susan, get Cole out of here. Please. Take him outside.”
“I don’t want to go outside,” Cole whines. “It’s cold.”
“Then go upstairs and watch a video. Anything you want.” With more effort than I’d like to use, I pry his arms off me and nudge him toward the dining room.
“I just need to add the carrots and celery to the soup.” Susan points to the large pot on the stove. A heaping pile of chopped carrots and celery sits on a cutting board next to it. The air is rich with the smell of rosemary and chicken.
“I’ll do that later, Susan.” The terseness in my voice startles her, and her elfin face seems to crumple in rejection. “Please, take Cole out of here.”
“But I want to stay.” Cole stomps his foot.
“Now, damn it,” I say, and Cole’s eyes widen. Susan looks shocked. I’m sure she’s never snapped at a child in her life.
“C’mon, sweetie, let’s go watch Dog with a Blog.” Susan takes my son by the hand and leads him out of the room. My stomach churns. I hate it when I snap at Cole, especially in front of witnesses.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” I say as soon as they are gone, “but you need to leave.”
“Rob Avery was a friend of mine, a good one,” she says. “He was a good person, not a sexual predator. And I’ll be damned if I let you slander him.”
“You can’t slander the dead,” I say, pulling that factoid out of God knows what part of my brain. This seems to enrage her further. She straightens up, looming large on the other side of my kitchen island.
“I know you were having an affair with Rob.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Is that right?” She smiles, a vicious slash across her grim face, and pulls out her cell phone. “I have proof.”
“You need to go.” I start toward the door. I am sure she’s talking about that fake Tinder profile, but I don’t feel any need to explain anything to this woman. “Now, or I’ll call the police.”
“Do it,” she spits out. “I dare you.”
A sound at the back door distracts us both. Mark strides in, loosening his blue paisley tie. He catches a glimpse of Vicki and freezes mid-action, his hand at his throat. He turns to me. “What’s going on?”
“Vicki was just leaving.”
“Look, it’s Mark, right?” Vicki fixes her gaze on my husband. “I don’t know what you know or what your wife has been telling you. But she needs to stop talking trash about Rob. And if she doesn’t”—she waves her cell phone in the air—“I’m going to be forced to make their texting history public.”
Mark turns to me. “What is she talking about?”
“She’s talking about that fake Tinder profile,” I say.
“Is that what you’re telling people?” Vicki asks, her voice dripping with derision. “Please.”
“It’s the truth. I’ve already contacted Tinder, and they’re going to shut it down.”
“Saw you at the library,” Vicki reads from her phone. “You make me so wet.”
The words make me want to throw up.
“That’s enough!” The timbre in Mark’s voice seems to shock Vicki to attention. He walks to the back door and yanks it open, sending the bell clanging angrily. “Get out.”
To my surprise, a chastened Vicki does as he says. At the doorway, she pauses and turns back. “This isn’t the end of this.”
Mark shuts the door on her, and we watch through the glass as her face melts into a mask of fury. Once she has stalked off, I throw myself into his arms.
“What a bitch,” he murmurs into my hair. “How dare she come in here, hurling accusations.”
I rub my face against his smooth dress shirt, inhaling his sweat and cologne, overwhelmed with gratitude that he defended me.
He pulls his head back so he can look me in the eye. “Did you make an appointment with Artie Zucker?”
“Yes. We have an appointment for tomorrow. He’s coming to the house at six.”
“He makes house calls, huh?”
“I want you to be there.”
“Of course.” A small grimace crosses his face. “I guess this is a bad time to remind you I was supposed to go to the Nationals game tonight.”
I put on a brave face. Mark works hard and loves baseball, and his team is in the playoffs. I don’t want our lives to revolve around Rob Avery’s murder. “No problem. Go. Have fun.”
“I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.”
“Please. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s just that I told Miles—”
“Go.”
“I’ll keep my phone on, so call me if anything happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’m going to put Cole to bed and then watch some stupid TV.”
“You don’t want to drive me to the metro, do you? I’m meeting Miles at the Tenleytown station.”
“Can’t you just Uber
? I really don’t want to leave the house right now.”
Marks wrinkles his nose. “And how do I do that, exactly?”
I take my phone from my bag. “Just open the app and it’s pretty obvious.”
He takes my phone from me. “How do I pay?”
“You’re such a Gen Xer. It’s already linked to my credit card.”
Footsteps on the stairs tell me that Cole and Susan are on their way down. I leave Mark in the kitchen and head to the powder room. My face is a sweaty mess, and my chest is red and blotchy, which happens when I get really upset. I take a few moments to breathe deeply and exhale. I want to be calm and centered for Cole. I don’t want him to sense my anxiety.
When I come out, Cole is at Susan’s side by the stove, adding vegetables to the pot. Mark comes back into the kitchen, having changed into a Nats jersey over a long-sleeve T-shirt.
“Did you order the Uber?”
He nods, but doesn’t smile. “Mind walking me out front?”
Something in his tone makes my stomach flutter. “Sure,” I say and follow him out.
Once on our front stoop, he turns my phone to me. “What’s this?”
I peer at the screen, where I can make out the small red flame for Tinder. “I don’t know. I think it’s Tinder.”
“You don’t know?”
“I swear, Mark, I did not download that on my phone. I have no idea how that got there. Can I see it?” He hands me the phone. The app is floating, singular, on its own page. I flip back to the main screen where my most-used apps are and then to the next screen, where I have relegated apps I either never use or cannot remove.
Tinder is hanging out all by itself on the third screen. “I never even go to this screen.”
Mark takes it from me and taps the app. Immediately, my profile comes up, the close-up of me in the bikini.
“Alexis, but my friends call me Sexy Lexi,” Mark reads. “Married, but I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Mark, you know this is fake, right? I mean, we talked about this.”
He looks at my face, his brown eyes searching. “I just don’t understand how this got on your phone.”
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