PhinnyB: Do you even get it?
TheIgster: People hate us. HATE
As usual, I can’t decide if I want to weigh in. Isla would tell me to listen to my lawyer. To shut the hell up. But I don’t feel like shutting up. I haven’t spoken to anyone who was not my family or being paid for their legal services in two weeks.
Me: They should hate us. If I wasn’t me, I’d hate me
PrettyPen: That’s ridiculous
Me: You know what? I do hate me. We are disgusting
PrettyPen: Speak for yourself bitch
Me: No seriously. I’m not saying I knew anything, but it doesn’t matter does it? What we knew? We were all playing our parts in this game. We thought we deserved everything and it didn’t matter who we hurt to get it
PrettyPen: I didn’t hurt anyone!
TheIgster: TBH, I didn’t deserve Yale. I knew I wasn’t smart enough to go there
PhinnyB: I wanted SCC more than anything else in the whole world. And I loved every second until they kicked my ass out
TheIgster: Did you hear about that black lady from Connecticut who went to jail for five years because she pretended to live in a better school district?
PhinnyB: That’s messed up
PrettyPen: We have better lawyers. Also, I hate to say it, but it helps that we’re all white
Me: That’s exactly my point. Why should she go to jail while we don’t?
PrettyPen: Oh now you’re arguing we should all go to jail? Nice Chloe. You’re garbage
TheIgster: Maybe no one should go to jail for trying to help their kids
ALC: We definitely over-incarcerate in this country, especially people of color
Slyse: My parents weren’t trying to help me. I wanted to go to art school. They wanted me to go to Princeton. They did this for their bragging rights
PhinnyB: I’m so scared. I can’t go to jail
Me: I’m scared too
TheIgster: Me too
ALC: Me too
PrettyPen: You guys are pussies. There are six production companies who want my film rights. Just you watch, this will be the best thing that’s ever happened to us
Slyse: Can we drop Penny from this group text?
TheIgster: Done
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Then
On Saturday night, my parents head out to some charity auction, Isla sleeps over at a friend’s house, and so for the first time since our shift in status, Levi and I will be alone, indoors, possibly in a room with a bed. When I swing open the front door, he’s leaning against the wall, fresh from the shower, so handsome it makes my soul ache and my insides quiver.
We have plans to “watch a movie,” and so I lead him downstairs to the screening room. I figure this is the way to go, not directly up to my bedroom, which seems too forward, especially because I don’t know what I want to happen tonight. With his hand in mine, me leading him like I know where we’re going, this seems naive and I feel overwhelmed, which is how I feel all the time lately. Like I’m constantly living that recurring dream I have where it’s finals week and I’ve forgotten to go to math class all year.
“Don’t worry. Levi’s totally a virgin,” Shola said yesterday when we were eating Friday tacos, which is what we do every week and is exactly what it sounds like. Eating tacos on a Friday, not tacos made out of Fridays, which Shola has posited would be totally better: Imagine if we could package the feeling of Friday last bell into a taste? We’d be gazillionaires. “Based on national statistics and popular belief, teenagers have way less sex than pop culture suggests. Also, Levi has no time to get it on. He’s too busy trying to take my spot at Harvard.”
“You’re both getting into Harvard.”
“He’s a legacy, he’s president of our class, he’s on the tennis team, and he fences, which my parents wouldn’t even let me try because the gear is like crazy expensive, and he obviously doesn’t need financial aid, so he can apply early. You know what’s messed up? Levi probably thinks I’m trying to take his spot.”
“You’re both getting in,” I said.
“This is a zero-sum game. There are only so many spaces, and most of them are reserved for full-paying kids like Levi, again contrary to popular belief.”
“Popular belief seems to be very unreliable.”
“And yet, it is, by definition, quite popular. Anyhow, if you start to freak out at any point, you can stop or you can slow down, and you can even say ‘Hey, Levi, this is all new for me.’ ” Shola says this like we’re in health class and she’s the teacher. Which to be fair, is our usual dynamic. I always joke that Shola seems to be perpetually twenty-five—still young enough to be fun and spontaneous, and yet mature enough to have seen some stuff.
“Honestly, I’m more worried about the opposite. What if I, like, attack him?” I asked.
“Different strokes for different folks, I guess,” she said.
“No pun intended.”
“Your dad is way hotter,” she said.
Levi and I are sitting on the oversized leather couch in the screening room scrolling through our movie choices. He lands on the new romantic comedy about a workaholic woman who doesn’t have time for love. I don’t mention that I’ve already read the script since my mom was up for the role of the mean boss, and it’s terrible. She lost out to the blond lady from Desperate Housewives, the cool, harried-looking one married to the shaggy guy from Shameless.
Doesn’t matter. I assume we won’t do much watching anyway.
* * *
—
Two hours later, we’re horizontal on the couch, the popcorn long since kicked over and likely hoovered up by Fluffernutter. We’ve been kissing, long, tender kisses, and short, brutal ones, and Levi’s hands are everywhere. My lips feel puffy and sore and I think, So this is what our mouths are for. I wonder if he’s left a mark on my neck and decide I kind of hope so; this is a night I’d like to remember. My fingers explore his chest. I think maybe growing up has its perks.
“Movie’s over,” Levi mumbles into my ear as his hand spans my stomach, and it sears my skin like a brand. “Fine film.”
“The best ever. Should win all the Oscars.” My head arches back as I feel his breath on my neck. This is the feeling we should bottle into a taste and turn into a taco.
“Oh, I know this movie,” a voice says. The lights come on. Too bright and too sudden and Levi and I scramble upright. I’m grateful, suddenly, in a way I wasn’t mere moments ago, that we are both still fully dressed. “Director said they wanted to go ‘in a different direction.’ I mean, I don’t get the appeal, personally.”
“Mom!” I say, and feel my face flush a deep red.
“Hi, Mrs. Berringer. I mean, Ms. Fields,” Levi corrects, and I have to fight a giggle. His eyes are round, and it looks like he thinks my mom might chase him off the premises. They’ve met before, obviously, but always under more neutral conditions—back-to-school barbecues, dropping me off at the Grove with Shola, middle school graduation.
“Call me Joy, Levi. We’re practically family, after all,” she says with a devilish grin, and I want to kill her.
“Funny,” I say.
“Listen, you can’t spend hours fooling around in the screening room and expect me not to tease you a little.”
“We…we were watching—” Levi says, and gestures inanely toward the television. “It was about…” But he loses all words as my dad comes down the stairs and stands behind my mom. My father, if you only get to see him like this—immaculate suit, face puffy from what I would guess are a couple of cocktails, his body enormous next to my petite mother—can be intimidating. He looks like a movie star from the ’40s. He’s slick and rough featured, and seems tougher than the life he currently lives. The crooked nose on his face, broken by a punch and unfixed, remains like a badge of
honor from his hardscrabble childhood in Detroit. So does the small scar on his left cheek.
“Hello, Levi.” I swear my dad drops his voice an octave to mess with Levi. “I see you’ve been having a pleasant evening with my daughter.”
I roll my eyes.
“Sir,” Levi says, and nervously rubs the back of his head. Levi has no way of knowing that I’d already planned to give my mom a detailed account of my night. Earlier, on her way out the door, my mother blew me a kiss, winked, and said, “Enjoy yourself, sweet pea.”
“Please call me Richard. Sir makes me feel ancient.” Levi will never call my dad Richard, of course, and so what has happened here is that Levi will call my dad nothing at all. Which is fine by me.
“Well, this was a fun chat. You guys can go upstairs.” I do a shooing motion. “We’ll be up in a sec.”
My mom ignores me.
“How’s the college search going?” she asks Levi. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress and her hair is pulled up Audrey Hepburn style. An oversized teardrop diamond necklace rests delicately in her cleavage. She’s stunning. What does Levi think when he looks at her? That it’s a shame the apple fell so far from the tree?
“We’ll see soon. I applied early to Harvard. Fingers crossed,” Levi says.
“A Harvard man. Impressive,” my dad says. My father went to a small community college back in Michigan, and despite his own obvious success, he’s obsessed with fancy credentials. About five years ago, my dad went to a Wharton Business School executive conference, and even now, he’ll say, “When I was at Wharton…” and not correct other people when they assume he actually graduated from there.
“Well, not yet,” Levi says.
“Chloe is going to SCC,” my mom declares, and I don’t only want to kill her, I also want to die.
“Mom!”
My dad elbows my mother in the ribs, and she looks at him, confused, then looks back at me.
“What? You totally are,” she says.
“She has to get in first,” my dad says.
“I like to be optimistic. I have it on my vision board,” my mom says, and I wonder if she might have broken Raj’s rule and had more than one glass of sauvignon blanc. Maybe it turns out a woman can’t live on celery and endive alone.
“I didn’t know you wanted to go to SCC,” Levi says, and I look away. There’s a reason I don’t talk about college with him. My distant reaches are his safeties.
“It’s a long shot for me, so…”
“The good news is that Harvard and SCC are on opposite sides of the country. I don’t think your arms are that long,” my dad says, and laughs, like this is funny. It is not funny.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Joking!” he says. “I’m so sorry you got stuck with the worst parents in the world who let you have full run of the house, with a boy no less, while we were busy doing the hard work of raising money for kids with cleft palates. The wine was terrible, by the way.”
My dad winks, and my mom links arms with him to lead him up the stairs.
“Don’t worry. We’re going before you disown us,” my mom says.
“Too late,” I call out after them.
“Are they always like this?” Levi whisper-asks, once my parents are out of earshot.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Explains a lot,” Levi says, and I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Now
My mother sits hunched at the head of the table, looking strung out. She’s dressed at least, after having spent most of the past month, like me, in old pajamas. Today she’s wearing an ivory silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt and sensible navy flats. I imagine this ensemble was labeled “serious business” in her closet by her stylist. We’ve been summoned for a family meeting, which in this new bizarro version of our lives, means my parents, Isla and me, and ten lawyers plus Paloma.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” asks the lawyer who seems most in charge, Mr. Spence, though of course it’s not a question but a demand. He’s old and white and his watch costs more than four years’ worth of college tuition. “We wanted to convene to have a final discussion of Joy’s options before her court appearance. Chloe, as I’ve told your counsel, the judge has dropped the gag order, so you and your mom can talk freely, though beyond this conversation, I’d still advise against it.”
I turn to Kenny, who sits next to me, here to represent my legal interests vis-à-vis my parents, which feels bananas and like overkill, but he insisted. He nods.
“Okay,” I squeak.
“Because of the totality of the evidence, as well as the possibility of Chloe and/or Richard being charged, we strongly advise that Joy take a plea deal. We can push the prosecutors to commit to a recommendation on the low end of the sentencing range, and also have them promise not to go after anyone else in the family. We can end this nightmare.”
“Don’t worry about me,” my dad says, with a manufactured jauntiness that doesn’t match the rest of him. He’s all stiff horizontal lines today—forehead, lips, the crease of his shirt. “Stuart thinks they would have charged me already if they could have. If they had the leverage, they would have used it.”
The guy my dad hired to represent him, Stuart, grunts in agreement and reaches forward to place a hand on my dad’s shoulder, as if to tell him to be quiet.
“Any plea would include jail time?” my mom asks. She takes a sip of water, and her hands are shaking so badly, a few drops land on the table. She wipes them with her sleeve, and this gesture, so unlike my mother—reflexive and uncouth—unnerves me.
“In all likelihood. Sentencing discretion varies dramatically by judge, so it’s somewhat the luck of the draw. As we’ve discussed, public opinion is not with us. You very well might get a judge who wants to make an example of you,” Mr. Spence says. “We can push for ankle monitoring, but it’s a long shot.”
“So if I plead guilty, I will go to jail,” my mom repeats. The lawyers at the table exchange uneasy glances. It’s obvious this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation with my mother and this is not the first time she has refused to understand. Last term when I took a psychology elective, we learned about the Kübler-Ross stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I want to call up Mrs. Santiago and ask her if the model can be applied to all the other unforeseen terrible things that can happen to a person, like being arrested by the FBI.
My mom seems stuck at denial.
“To a minimum-security federal prison, not a jail, but most likely yes. For a much shorter period of time than if, say, we go to trial and you lose, which is a real possibility. Minimum guidelines then say twenty years.”
My mother starts to laugh, unhinged and hysterical, and then once she hears herself, she stops. She takes another sip of water, again spilling, and it takes all of my willpower not to take her glass away.
“Twenty years. Two decades,” my mother says. “I mean, that’s…that’s a long time for trying to help your kid a little.”
“Joy,” my dad says, and puts a steadying hand on hers. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“How? How are we going to figure this out? By me going to jail? Not you, me. Even though you were just as involved—”
“Joy,” Mr. Spence says, stopping her. Apparently, he went to the same law school as Kenny. The one where they teach you not to let your clients say too much.
“This is ridiculous,” she says, changing direction, since it’s in no one’s interest, not even my mother’s, to implicate my dad. “I’ve already lost my job and my reputation. I accept that. Haven’t I been punished enough? Explain to me how this is any different from buying a building to get your kid in.”
“What you did and buying a building are both unethical, Mom. The diff
erence is what you did was also illegal,” Isla says, her voice steely, uncompromising, not softened by even a drop of sympathy, though perhaps with more than a drop of condescension. I feel a surge of admiration and love for my sister, but then fear too. What does she think of me? What does she think I deserve?
I know I will never get rid of the stink of this, but I have to believe that Isla will.
We were greedy, so disgustingly greedy, and yet, my mother has a point. How big a price must we pay? Twenty years? Isla’s future too?
Here’s the truth: If my parents had openly offered to endow a building at SCC, I wouldn’t have said no. I would have been psyched. My parents didn’t not buy a building because it was unethical. They didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. We are not Aunt Candy rich.
“This is why we thought it vital that the rest of your family chimes in,” Mr. Spence says, and another lawyer hands him a file. He opens it, closes it, opens it again, as if he’s wafting legal wisdom into the air.
“When you say chimes in, you mean pressures me to plead guilty,” my mom says, and the way she cocks her head to the side, stubborn and determined, looks so much like Isla, that I feel shaken. Usually, I think of it the other way around: Isla reminds me of our mom. “I’m not ready to do that yet.”
“Time is not on your side,” Mr. Spence says. “Other defendants are going to start to plead out, and each time they do, you’ll be in a worse bargaining position. Dr. Wilson is already cooperating with prosecutors, as is the proctor, who will one hundred percent make the government’s case stronger by testifying against you. I’m talking about the other parents caught up in this case. Our plan requires you, as the public face of this scandal, to be the very first to take full responsibility with an emotional heartfelt public apology, in the hope that sincere remorse will lead to the greatest amount of leniency.”
“From a PR perspective,” Paloma jumps in. “You put out an apology press release about all the mistakes you made, blah, blah, blah, you love your children too much, blah, blah, and then we’ll start your reputation rehabilitation tour. We’ll leak that you and Richard are in counseling and meeting with spiritual advisors. You’ll talk about how you lost sight of your wholesome Midwestern roots because of this scam artist. You fell victim to the pressures of modern parenting in a cutthroat place like LA,” Paloma says, nodding. She’s smiling, like this—my mother’s confessional media lap—could be fun.
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