Eighteen

THIS WAS FAR FROM THE first time I found myself yearning for a mentor—a wise headmaster to whom I could turn for advice and counsel—but at Philly Prep, such an idea was ludicrous. Maurice Havermeyer was going to see Olivia’s sad trajectory out of our school only as an entry on the debit side of his ledger, and therefore, a major failing on the part of a faculty that should have strapped her down and kept her paying tuition.

I sought instead the wisdom and companionship of Rachel Leary, the school counselor who was once again large with child. Children, actually. She’d been told she was having twins. “Tell me you’re here to give me a back rub,” she said as she packed up files.

She’d bid us all—except Dr. Havermeyer—adieu last June, sure she was going to be a full-time mother for a while, but the economy had slumped right down on her household, and her husband was looking for work, so she was back. At least until maternity leave kicked in.

“Did you come here with a problem?” She sounded fearful.

“I came here to steer you out of the building.” The problem had been resolved, for better or for worse. “But how about an issue to mull?”

“An issue that doesn’t have to do with Stan finding work and the mortgage getting paid and what we’ll do about child care with three kids under three—or anything related to that?”

I promised.

“Or about college applications and interviews?” The nightmare season for high school counselors.

I promised again.

“Or—”

“This isn’t about Havermeyer, either.”

She chuckled. “How did you guess the third side of my grief triumvirate?”

As we carefully made our way down the staircase, I told her about Olivia.

“I don’t know,” Rachel said when we reached the empty entry lobby. “That’s a horrible situation that’s unfortunately not exactly rare. We can try sensitivity training.”

“Her class is reading Lord of the Flies. It’s almost a blueprint for ostracism and ganging up on somebody—but it hasn’t stopped anything from happening. Although, of course, we haven’t finished it yet.”

“It won’t, nor will the sensitivity training, if you ask me. It’s hard to change behavior when it’s intentional. It’s not like being unintentionally or stupidly sexist or racist—it isn’t as if her tormentor doesn’t know and delight in the fact that she’s making life miserable for that girl. But I can help set up a program, at least get them talking about it. It’s subterranean, though.”

“I thought Melanie was the sweetest thing. Actually, she is sweet, and smart and good in class.”

“See what I mean? It takes deliberate action on their part for us to even see what’s going on—and then, intervention, likely as not, makes it worse.”

“That’s what Olivia said.”

“Smart girl,” Rachel said as we left the building. “And much as I hate to say it because it’s ethically and morally and every way wrong and it shows a huge failing on our part—but I think she’s made the right decision. Sometimes, if there’s poison in the air, the best idea is to head to where you can breathe.”

Piggy’s other island. I suspected she was right, but that didn’t make Olivia’s departure less depressing.

“Did you know the students are making book on when I deliver these guys?” she said. “The high flyers are going for an unscheduled in-school delivery. A sort of live action you-are-there sex ed class.”

“And an effective way to encourage safe sex.”

She chuckled. “Havermeyer would love it.”

“Finally. Something no other school can boast, besides absolute mediocrity.”

*

I had showered and shampooed and was lining my eyes when the phone rang across the room. Macavity pricked his ears, as if finally, somebody was calling him. “It’s not for you, dear cat,” I said. His eternal optimism was touching. Who was it he thought might phone? “Relax.”

And I relaxed, too, once I realized it wasn’t either my parents or my future in-laws on the other end. Then I grew tense again.

“Hey, Amanda,” the voice said. “Joan here.”

“Hey yourself, Joan. How’s everything?” We speak a few times a year, so—why now, when I was wearing panty hose, wet hair, eyeliner, and precious else? And why hadn’t I found the portable phone instead of this one, which had me chained to the kitchen wall? I didn’t want to be rude, so I ran through “I-can’t-talk-right-now-but-I-do-love-you” exits, like making a lunch date, or calling her back tomorrow.

“I apologize for the delay, but I got it,” she said.

I had no idea what she meant.

“You forgot?” Her voice rose a full octave on that final syllable. My failing memory was a huge and audible disappointment—I was a huge disappointment and I’d also probably hurt her feelings. And then I realized what this was about. Joan worked at Shipley. I’d asked her to investigate Vicky Smith Baer’s transfer, mostly so I could find out where she’d come from, and then I’d know a school Emmie Cade had attended.

I also realized that what had seemed important three days ago no longer mattered. Mackenzie’s contacts had come through speedily and, in any case, Claire Fairchild was dead and the investigation over.

“Of course I didn’t forget!” I lied. “I’m astounded that you were able to find the material so quickly!”

“I wanted it to be faster, but the woman who’s in charge of the archived files was out with the flu and when she returned, she was overwhelmed with accumulated work—and she’s the kind of administrative assistant you do not want to tangle with.”

“I know the type.”

“Finally, this morning, she found the files. Then it took me all day to call Ohio Cliff, to get a little clarification.”

“It’s okay, really.” I would never tell her it didn’t matter anymore. She’d tried so hard.

“No, I know things must be urgent in your new line of work.”

“Honestly, Joanie, I’m delighted you were able—” This could go on forever, and even though I had time—an hour, in fact—this particular back-and-forth wasn’t overly interesting. “What was it you found out? And why did you have to call the school in Ohio?”

“I thought—I hope it was okay, Manda. It’s just that I checked Victoria Smith’s file. She transferred to Shipley in November.” She paused, for dramatic effect, I thought.

I gave her the prompt she so audibly yearned for. “November.”

“Well, that’s it. Juniors who are getting ready to apply to colleges and take S.A.T.s and just…be juniors don’t switch mid-semester when there’s no emergency. And there wasn’t any note about a problem, except one note saying that her current grades were not to be taken as the norm. That she’d gone from being an A student, on the hockey team, and all-round epitome of prep school girl—it didn’t use those words, of course—to a pretty bad student. She had C’s and one D. And I noticed that her parents didn’t move with her, and that there hadn’t been a death in the family, so I snooped further, and there was a note from the admissions director saying she should be admitted at this unorthodox time because she was in an unusual situation and a change of scene was all that was required. So that’s when I remembered a woman at Ohio Cliff I met at the conference, and I—I hope it’s okay and it didn’t foul anything up for you—I phoned her.”

“And?” I was getting chilly, wished I’d snagged a shirt or robe en route to the phone. Also, I thought Joan had already made her point, but I listened on.

“I failed miserably. When I asked about what that message meant, she wouldn’t tell me. She said it was confidential material and she couldn’t see the relevance to anything all these years later. I just wanted you to know I tried.”

“And succeeded. Completely. You found everything I needed.”

“I guess I thought you wanted more. I know I did, after I saw that note. I mean the girl went to class, so it wasn’t that she was pregnant, which is one reason to leave your old school midyear. I think they’re just covering their behinds. Not that anybody would sue a dozen years later, but who actually knows? She said it had nothing to do with the school or faculty or administration, and in her opinion, everyone acted precipitously. ‘Time would have taken care of it,’ she said. As if that means anything. But I kept talking and hoping she’d get more specific. All I got in the end was that ‘girls will be girls.’ It was something about popularity and cliques and not belonging. Nothing that should have produced flight. I’m sure it was just what we see here—and you probably see at your school, too—”

Joanie was sweet, and a dear friend, but once you pushed the “on” button, it was difficult stopping her. “Teenage girls,” she said. “Moody, unpredictable. So she exercised her woman’s—young woman’s—prerogative to change her mind. Probably angry with her family because they wouldn’t let her stay out late. Who even knows? I am constantly amazed here, and you must be, too.”

“Yes,” I said. “Certainly. About boys, too.”

“Right. Of course. Our boys astound me, too. But I suppose I can understand Ohio Cliff’s reticence, because you never know what’s going to turn itself into an accusation that the school somehow failed the child. In any case, I’m happy to say, I couldn’t find any evidence of any more problems once she was here with us. She was a good student, in fact.”

Her voice had become pleasant background buzz to me, like crickets on a summer’s night. I wasn’t sure about that woman’s prerogative, or pure moodiness.

Then I realized that Joanie’s pace had slowed. Stopped. She’d been waiting for a response. “So I’m sorry I couldn’t get any more,” she said, wrongly interpreting my missed cue as disappointment.

And once again, I told her not to apologize at all. And then I swung the conversation over to how she was doing with the new school year underway, and finally to why I couldn’t talk as long as I wanted to, what with the big dinner tonight. “Mackenzie’s going to pick me up in…a few minutes,” I said, lying about the time for expediency’s sake. I actually had almost an hour till we sallied forth to pick up his parents at their hotel, but for once, I wanted to dress and dry my hair at leisure.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. Your in-laws! You’re getting married!”

And that, of course, is not an item to be lightly dropped into the end of a conversation, so we spoke on. She offered unsolicited old-married advice about mothers-in-law (“Beware!” being the condensed version), and I asked about the exploits and achievements of her three children, and how the new term was going at her school.

And at mine. “I think it’s going to be all right. I like a lot of the new kids and they seem—for the time being—actually interested and motivated. And I was told that I’m getting good notices on their blogs.”

I was showing off, demonstrating not only my reported popularity, but my up-to-the-minute mastery of contemporary adolescent technology. Joanie was suitably impressed—and confused, so then I had to explain what little I knew about Weblogs. I was, however, truly intrigued by them because they seemed important—the next thing after telephones for keeping up nonstop teen communications. And that was, given Olivia’s experience with them—and mine—a good and a bad thing.

Finally we reached the psychologically apt time for a polite farewell. Once again, I thanked her for her help, and then, after we made a date for an after-school cup of coffee two weeks hence, on a day she didn’t have to carpool, I could graciously, politely, hang up.

It’s conversational etiquette that makes Mackenzie roll his eyes and mutter—till I object—about how long it takes women to say goodbye. It’s one of the few aspects of his personality that depresses me, because it means he doesn’t understand part of the basic rules of civilization. If it were up to him, telephone exchanges would be about information and nothing more. Over and out with military precision, and that of course wasn’t the half of it. Anyone who works with teens knows that.

But even having completed the call according to my inner rhythms of social interaction, I didn’t feel finished with it. I stood near the phone, thinking I now knew something, but I couldn’t access it. If I stood still, I might catch it. So I stood a minute in my sheer-toes panty hose, hair drying in berserk patterns, trying to pinpoint that thing, that something that was so close—and then almost into consciousness and then it was there—it was that close—

And the door opened. “Hey, Manda?”

I needed one minute more to get that thought into range, so I put up my finger in the universal signal of “hold it,” and C.K. stopped talking.

But not everyone did. “Our feet are killing us, so we thought we’d save time and come directly here instead of—whoops!”

Although her greetings had begun before she was visible, now, Gabby Mackenzie was inside the loft, which is, after all, one large cube, with only bedroom and bathroom partitions. And there we stood for a painfully long second, both of us wide-eyed with disbelief.

“Oh, my,” I heard from a male voice that was not my beloved’s.

My beloved, in fact, laughed out loud, which might be grounds for removing him from the category of “beloved” altogether. But I couldn’t give much thought to that, because I had turned my back and was running, hands clapped on my rear end, toward the sanctuary of the partitioned-off bedroom.

One thing about the experience was that it cured me of all concerns about what I’d wear when with my in-laws. As long as I wore something, I’d be ahead of where I was now.