by Amy Meyerson
It took two weeks of absences for the school to call Helen.
Looking back on it, Beck had wanted to get caught. She was sixteen. She didn’t know how to talk to anyone about how pathetic and exposed her English teacher made her feel. And the grand irony is that Beck spent those two weeks studying at the library. Her friends thought she was skipping school to be with an older guy they’d met at a party, but the only older guy she spent her days with was the librarian, who talked to her about Virginia Woolf and Douglas Adams, never noticing her exposed midriff, her wild blue hair.
When two weeks had passed, Beck returned home from the library, acting as though she’d been at school, to find Helen waiting on the couch, disconsolate. To Beck’s surprise, Helen didn’t yell or make her feel guilty. Rather, she’d said, “Explain it to me, Becca. Tell me why a girl as smart as you would want to skip school.”
After a lot of deflecting, Beck finally told her about Mr. O’Neal, the doubt he inspired, the homework she’d completed during her absence. She left out his comment on her appearance. It was still too embarrassing to say aloud.
The next day, in the principal’s office, Helen dropped the pile of work Beck had completed over the last two weeks on the principal’s desk and asked Beck to wait in the hall. Beck never learned what Helen had said to her principal behind that closed door. When it opened, the principal looked ashamed and defeated; Helen, ferocious and beautiful. The principal told Beck that the absences would not be reflected on her record, but it was up to the teachers whether they wanted to give her credit for the assignments. Given the circumstances, he assured her they would. Beck didn’t know what circumstances he meant, but Helen cautioned Beck to thank him for his decision.
That would have been that if not for Mr. O’Neal, the only teacher who refused to accept her outstanding work. Beck spent the rest of the year sitting in the corner of the room, head down, body cloaked in a hoodie, counting the minutes until class was over. Every once in a while, when they spoke of the treatment of Hester Prynne or Offred, she found herself raising her hand. Mr. O’Neal cast her the same slow nod whenever she spoke, an expression on his face that she couldn’t decipher but made her deeply uncomfortable.
It wasn’t about the C he gave her for the year, how that grade might affect her chances of getting into college. That wasn’t why she broke into the principal’s office and logged on to his computer. Mr. O’Neal made her feel small and had gotten away with it.
She might have gotten away with it, too, if she’d just changed her grade. Once she was logged into the system, she couldn’t help herself. She searched all of Mr. O’Neal’s grades and saw that he’d given Reid Taylor, Jon Rubens, and the other jocks A-range grades while most of the girls received Bs and Cs. Callie Morgan, who had braces and pimples and still looked like she was in middle school, received an A, but Olivia Thomas, a cheerleader who wore low-cut tops and also happened to be number two in their class, got a B. Lizzie Meyers, the bustiest girl in their grade, who was by no means a genius but hardworking, got a C-. The pattern continued across Mr. O’Neal’s other classes. She counted twelve girls, including herself, who received grades she knew were lower than they deserved. Eleven other girls, who must have felt as exposed and vulnerable as Beck did. It provoked a rage in Beck that made her sloppy. If she’d just changed her grade, from a C to a B, no one would have noticed. Instead, Beck gave them all As. And she still may have gotten away with it, if Lizzie Meyers wasn’t quite so conscientious and hadn’t thanked Mr. O’Neal for rewarding her hard work. That made him curious, so he did a little digging, which led to Beck’s expulsion.
Before Tom, she’d never told anyone what Mr. O’Neal had said to her. Not Helen, who despite winning that early battle against the principal had lost the war when it came to Beck’s status at the high school. Not her other boyfriends, who didn’t even know she’d been kicked out of school. Not Jake, who had returned home for the summer and spent countless nights with her on the porch, smoking pot and assuring Beck that everything would turn out okay. Before Tom, Beck couldn’t bring herself to explain the way Mr. O’Neal’s eyes had lingered on her body, like he was both aroused and disgusted, like he was so much better than she was.
At first, Tom had hugged her close, but his arms slackened as she explained her decision to leave the expulsion, a senior year homeschooled, off her law school application. He held his breath as she told him that she would have gotten away with that, too, if it weren’t for Jake’s movie, or for Molly Stanton, Beck’s main competitor for editor of the school’s law review. Maybe if Beck hadn’t had such open disdain for Molly, who had a position waiting for her at her father’s firm, Molly wouldn’t have looked into Beck’s past after seeing Jake’s movie. Maybe she wouldn’t have alerted the deans about Beck’s expulsion, and Beck would now be a fifth-year, partner-track lawyer rather than a paralegal.
“So you don’t regret it?” Tom had asked.
If she’d had her guard up, Beck would have said yes, would have given him the party line, remorse and shame, a speech that might have been appealing to the law school, the Bar’s Character and Fitness Committee. Instead, she told him the truth.
“I don’t regret any of it. Mr. O’Neal was a lecherous creep who should have been fired. And Molly Stanton was an entitled daddy’s girl who should have accepted that I was a better student than she was. I didn’t have anything handed to me. I worked hard. I know I should feel guilty, but I don’t. I still feel mistreated.”
After that, Tom nodded for too long, then rolled over and pretended to fall asleep. Beck listened to the forced rise and fall of his breath, struggling to say something that might help him understand. She knew in that moment their relationship was over.
A month later, when he stood in the entryway with his suitcases, she wanted to be angry with him. Instead, she was crushed; she’d finally opened up to someone, and it had resulted in her being alone once again.
* * *
After Tom’s BMW turns right off Edgehill Road, Beck watches the empty street, taking a brief respite on the porch. A moment to collect herself and decide what to say to her family. She finds the black jewelry box in her purse, and when she opens it, the diamond sparkles in the sunlight. Under no circumstances will she tell them about the Florentine Diamond. Dollar signs will flash in Ashley’s eyes, even though Ashley is the only Miller who does not need the money. A movie will build in Jake’s brain, one that exploits Helen and her private life. Pain will quake in Deborah’s limbs as she realizes the house was a distraction from the estate’s true gem.
She considers lying to them—You know Helen, it was just a piece of junk jewelry she thought I might wear. I totally forgot about it—but Ashley has always been able to see through her lies. If she shares the diamond with them, she will have to sell, and Beck has decided that, like Helen, she will keep the diamond buried in her drawer, a sentimental gift, a brooch priceless with family lore, not a historic diamond.
Beck snaps the box shut and drops it in her purse. It’s decided, then. Beck will waltz inside as though she’s hidden nothing. She will reset the diamond in the brooch and it will return to a piece of costume jewelry her grandmother kept in her dresser. Besides, it’s not the diamond Beck is after. It’s the stories it holds.
When Beck reenters the living room, there’s a moment of charged silence as her family waits like a room full of predators with no prey.
Finally, Ashley grabs the computer and waves it toward Beck. “Anything you forgot to tell us?”
“Careful,” Jake warns, taking the laptop from his sister. Ashley’s attention shifts briefly to her brother, expecting him to cower. “Some of us can’t afford to just buy another computer.”
“What?” Beck says casually. “You mean the brooch?”
“Yes, Beck, I mean the brooch. What did she call it?”
Jake reads from the computer screen, “‘My yellow diamond brooch.’”
> “‘My yellow diamond brooch,’” Ashley repeats.
Beck laughs, feeling alarmingly calm. A sixth sense, the Miller sense, where she can predict everything her family will do. This is going to be easier than she anticipated. “What? You think it was worth money or something? It’s a piece of costume jewelry I found in her dresser.”
“Can I see it?” Deborah asks. “I don’t remember Helen wearing a brooch.”
“It’s at my apartment,” Beck lies.
“How convenient.” Jake returns the laptop to his messenger bag. “Your boyfriend told us that the way Helen listed it, we still have to split the estate evenly. You get to keep the brooch, but you have to pay us two-thirds of what it’s worth out of your share of the money she left us.”
Beck flinches. “He’s not my boyfriend. But sure, I’ll give you twenty dollars for the brooch. That’s about how much it’s worth. In fact, if you’re so hard up—” Beck digs her wallet out of her purse and finds a ten-dollar bill. She balls it up and throws it at her brother. “That’s all I have. I’ll get you another ten next time I go to the MAC machine.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jake says.
“You don’t get to tell me how I’m being.”
“You’re both being ridiculous,” Ashley announces, hands on hips as though Beck and Jake are Lydia and Tyler.
Deborah mimics Ashley’s pose and says, “Why don’t we take a step back.” Her children turn to her, teeth bared, and she sits down in the armchair, bizarrely proud of the three humans she created, able to defend themselves.
Beck forces a laugh. “Honestly, it slipped my mind. It’s just some rhinestone thing.”
“Why would she call it a diamond?” Jake asks.
“Really, Jake. I didn’t take you for the gold digger,” Beck says, casting a cool glance at her sister.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ashley says over her brother, who asks, “Jesus, Beck, can you be honest for, like, a second?”
“Like you, the paragon of honesty?”
“When have I been dishonest?” Part of Jake wants a candid answer.
“Right, your problem is you confuse divulging other people’s secrets with honesty.”
“Oh, this old sob story again. Look, I fucked up, all right? At some point you’re going to have to get some new material.”
“Why? You haven’t.” Beck doesn’t actually know what’s going on with her brother’s career, only that since My Summer of Women, he hasn’t made another movie.
“Come on, Beck,” Ashley says, noticing the hurt on Jake’s face. She, too, doesn’t know what’s going on with Jake’s career, if he’s writing or has given it up, but she knows his fight with Beck has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t worked as a screenwriter again. “Let’s stay focused on what’s going on here. Why didn’t you mention the brooch?”
“Did you ever think I didn’t want to hurt your feelings? Sorry, Ash, Helen liked me best. Excuse me for not wanting to rub that in your face.”
“Oh, that’s such bullshit.”
“Don’t confuse spending the most time with Helen as her liking you best,” Jake says.
“This really isn’t the time or place for all this,” Deborah says, crossing her arms and curling into the chair. “This is Helen’s shiva.”
“Do not take the position of the morally superior,” Ashley snaps.
“When did you become so bossy?” Deborah asks.
“She’s always been bossy,” Beck says.
“Always,” Jake agrees. Only, when Beck turns to look at him, it isn’t out of solidarity.
From there, Jake isn’t sure what he says, which of the other Miller women calls him a traitor. He doesn’t know when they turn their attention from him to each other.
“Beck Miller,” Ashley chants, “protector of other people’s feelings. Beck Miller, the considerate and noble. Like any of that could go on your tombstone.”
Beck mimics the same singsong. “Ashley Miller, the reliable. Ashley Miller, the caretaker. Like that could go on yours.”
“Girls, let’s—” Deborah begins, but her daughters scowl at her.
“I’m sorry I have a family, Beck, that I can’t drop everything because you’re having another crisis.”
“When have I ever asked you for help?”
“That’s true. You don’t. You just hold it against us when we can’t magically read your mind and behave exactly how you want.”
“I’m the one who expects everyone to cater to me?”
“Are you calling me self-centered?”
“I don’t need to—it’s plastered across your Botoxed face.”
“So now you’re better than me because you make yourself ugly instead of attractive?”
Beck runs her hand through her dyed black hair and hugs her tattooed arms to her chest. Even before her cosmetic alterations, Ashley was the prettier one, but the laws of sisterhood have always commanded that neither utter this truth.
“I’d really like to see the brooch,” Deborah chimes in. She doesn’t actually care about seeing the brooch. She believes Beck didn’t want to hurt her siblings’ feelings, especially over a piece of junk jewelry. But she doesn’t like the bruised look on Beck’s face. The only thing she can think to do is divert attention from it.
“Why?” Jake asks. “You already took the house—now you want to take the brooch, too?”
“I didn’t take anything. Helen left it to me,” Deborah says, already regretting that she’s reinserted herself into their argument.
“Just like Helen left the brooch to me,” Beck says.
“You know we can contest the will? We can get the court to evaluate it,” Ashley says.
“Look who’s suddenly become the family litigator,” Beck snipes. “What, because your husband is a lawyer you suddenly are, too?”
“And because you were kicked out of law school you’re suddenly the family magistrate?” Ashley counters.
Jake watches as their shouting gets louder. It’s straight out of a scene from My Summer of Women. He loses himself in the cadence of their argument until everyone grows silent. Esther and three white-haired women stand frozen in the entryway, holding casserole dishes. Jake reaches out to take the casseroles before the women drop them.
Soon the Millers have to be respectful because the living room is full of old Jewish women and two men from the neighborhood, the younger family from next door who shared a porch with Helen. Despite the covered mirrors, the washed hands, the casserole dishes, this is not a typical shiva. Everyone is laughing and talking over each other. While the Millers have retreated to opposite corners of the room, their shoulders relax as they listen to the stories the visitors share.
At sundown, the house grows quiet again when the guests leave. The presence of the Millers’ fight lingers. They flop heavily on the couch, too tired to speak. No one is going to apologize. Deborah turns on the television and clicks through the five channels Helen gets, evening news on the networks and a children’s show on PBS, before turning off the television.
Beck glances at her phone. It’s almost seven. No message from Tom, not that she’d really expected him to call.
Beck stands. “I’m going to call it a night.”
“You’re leaving?” Jake and Deborah say in unison.
Ashley shakes her head in disbelief. “Sure, run away.”
“It’s been a long day. We’re all tired. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Beck walks toward the front door.
“Beck,” Ashley calls. “Is it really just a piece of junk jewelry?”
From the couch, Jake, Deborah, and Ashley stare at Beck, their faces animated with hope. As Beck holds their hungry gazes, she feels the weight of her family.
She feels the weight of her standoff with Jake, his incessant desire for forgiveness. While he
often sends her texts, referencing inside jokes from their childhood and remembers to send her a birthday card each September, he’s never outright apologized for his characterization of her in his movie. She can tell that he still doesn’t understand why she felt so betrayed.
She feels the weight of her frustration toward her mother for abandoning them, for taking out two credit cards in Beck’s name, which, nineteen years later, Beck is still paying off. For her mother’s scheming. Before the catering and dog walking, there was the cake business, the tarot cards, the salad dressing company, the zodiac jewelry, the diet pills. Trying and quitting had been her full-time job. It consumed more of Deborah’s attention than her own children.
She feels the weight of her fraught relationship with Ashley, who disappeared for college, then marriage, then motherhood, only visiting Philadelphia once she had Lydia and Tyler. Every time they visit, Ashley puts on a performance—the perfect housewife, the perfect mom. How can Beck really know her sister when Ashley doesn’t know herself?
Mostly, Beck feels the insurmountable weight of Helen’s death, the weight of everything she didn’t know about her grandmother, the weight of the Florentine Diamond in her bag. Beck scans her open purse and sees the black box. Their fighting will continue until she tells them about the diamond. It will continue after she tells them, too. Fights where they say things they can’t unsay. Fights where they all become greedy, petty caricatures of themselves.
Her gaze shifts between the black box and her family. Even if the brooch is rightfully Beck’s, the past it represents does not belong to her alone.
Beck takes the diamond out of its box and places it on the coffee table. In the muted light of Helen’s musty living room, the diamond looks more brown than yellow. As she pushes it toward them, it catches the glow of the lamp and jumps with color. Her family gasps, aware that, ugly or not, something hallowed has been placed before them.