I have a test in pre-law coming up. It’s mid-October now; I’ve been at Ant long enough to see this class is going to be my toughest. Law is nebulous, floaty, and gray, completely unlike the dependable sturdiness of math or science. There is a solid certainty to polynomials—they simply are what they are and always will be. But a law is never just a law. If you’re in a fistfight and happen to knock over your opponent to the ground and he hits his head on a parking meter, you may or may not be charged with assault, depending upon how angry the guy rubbing his cranium might be. And if that person happens to have an eggshell for a skull and dies after the exact same scuffle, suddenly you’re facing a manslaughter charge even though you could never have known the man was born to a chicken. It’s called the Thin Skull rule.
All of which means tonight will be a caffeine-and-chocolate-fueled, flashlight-under-the-covers, pray-Dad-doesn’t-wake-up, all-night cram session.
We’ve been studying Vosburg v. Putney, a case where an eleven-year-old kicked a fourteen-year-old in the shin at school. The older kid was recovering from a previous injury and, as a result of his miniature assailant’s anger, lost the use of his leg permanently. No one could have predicted such a thing would happen, but the little boy was still held liable. The Thin Skull rule in action and good reason to keep your feet to yourself.
Speaking of keeping body parts to oneself, Carling, Sloane, Isabella, and I all have a spare second period, and my plans to study are torpedoed by Carling dragging me back to the groper-infested tides of the Petting Pool. At least, without the encumbrance of my lunch bag, I’ll have both hands available to block the flesh-eaters.
As I follow them into the stairwell, my cell phone vibrates from the bottom of my backpack. I dig it out to see a jumble of numbers I don’t recognize. Since the only two people in the world who know this phone number are Dad and Mandy, I figure Mandy must have a new phone. “Hey,” I say, shielding the phone from any teachers that might walk by.
“Sara? Sweetheart, it’s Mom.”
I say nothing, just stop dead and reach for the handrail to steady myself. I haven’t heard her say my name in months. I’d forgotten how smooth it sounds. How comforting. I think about hanging up.
“I’ve been desperate to talk to you,” she says. “Are you at school?”
“Yeah.”
“Darling, I miss you so much. How do you like it there? Have you made any friends?”
Carling and the girls have stopped at the landing and are waving me to hurry up. “Sort of.”
“That’s wonderful. Sweetie, I love you so much. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to fly out here and visit.”
“I don’t know. School’s pretty tough.”
“I’ve been a little worried about your dad. Is he managing okay?”
No. He’s a total mess and so am I. You need to come back right this minute and erase what you’ve done, I don’t say. It might take away his need to pour bleach on the whole world. Might stop his downward spiral. But somehow I can’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she hurt us so badly we don’t recognize ourselves anymore. “Yeah.”
“No return of his problem? No signs of scrubbing or checking things over and over?”
“Nope. Dad’s fine.”
“Oh. I’m so relieved. I was going to ask Aunt Jodie to fly in from Chicago to check on you. Just to be sure you’re not struggling—”
“Mom? I’ve got to go now. Talk to you later.”
“Wait, honey. What about—?”
I snap the phone shut. Then, when I’m certain the connection has been severed, I open the phone up, press a few buttons, and hit Block Caller.
The sofa is already layered with bodies, in some spots two students deep. Carling and Sloane are happy to fling themselves on top of the heap, and I settle myself on the leather arm beside Griff and Leo. I’m shaking after my mother’s call and not sure it’s a good idea to be within verbal striking range of Leo Reiser—you never know what will come out of his mouth—but I’m not willing to plunk myself down on a pile of squirming half strangers in the name of sexual enlightenment.
“That was brutal,” says Griff as we sit. “Curtis is such an A-hole with his pop quizzes.”
“Agreed,” says Sloane, kicking off her worn shoes and closing her eyes. “I totally bombed that one.”
Isabella looks at Carling and says, with a voice so thin and glassy it could shatter, “I think I did exceptionally well. How about you, Carling?”
Carling lets herself fall backward across Leo and Griff’s laps. Then she grins at me. “Fantastic. Maybe even perfect.”
“I hope so,” says Sloane, picking her teeth. “Or Brice and Gracie will implode.”
Carling’s skirt is hiked up high enough for me to see today’s panties are yellow. I won’t be able to tell unless she rolls over, but I’m guessing these are Saturday’s. “True. It’s Harvard med school or death for me.”
I can’t stand this anymore. Carling loves law, she’s the darling of our class. We did a mock trial the other day and not only did she win for our team, she made her points with such passion and humor. What judge, male or female, could resist her? This electricity that surrounds her isn’t always channeled into crazy, I can see that now. When Carling Burnack feels good about herself, she’s the most charming girl in the school. “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why don’t you tell your parents you want to be a lawyer?”
She’s still for a moment, then says robotically, “Because law is for hiring. Medicine is for aspiring.”
Mrs. Pelletier heads down the stairs, eyeing the Petting Pool with mock reproof. Anything that might have been going on beneath the surface stops as she pauses on the landing and leans down to adjust Carling’s errant skirt. “Are we keeping it clean here today?”
“Just a bunch of honor students swapping biological theories,” says Carling. “It’s all very innocent.”
“Hmm,” she says with a sarcastic nod. She starts to walk away. “I rather doubt that. Just remember where you are, people. You wouldn’t want to come to school next week and find your favorite sofa has been moved into the teachers’ lounge. Because that can be arranged.”
“You’re the coolest, Mrs. P,” calls Griff. “If only I were a few years older, I’d give your husband a reason to step up his game.”
She stops and looks back, dumbfounded that this randy suggestion came from Anton’s famed wunderkind, then hurries off as if it never happened.
“I adore Mrs. Pelletier,” says Isabella.
“Forget her,” says Sloane. “If something doesn’t change, Mr. Curtis is going to screw me for Yale.”
“Don’t worry, princess.” Griff pulls a tissue from his pocket and stuffs a corner of it up his nose. “I’ll screw you either way.”
Sloane stares at him. “Say it for me, Griff. I’m too tired.”
He pinches up his face. “Griff, you’re such a pig.”
“Got that right,” says Carling.
“Hey, you guys know anyone who might want to buy the Aston?” asks Leo. “I need the down payment to buy something that actually—I don’t know—runs.”
Carling pokes him. “A down payment—are you kidding me? You think none of us saw that Times article about Reiser Industries last week?”
“Yeah, Reiser,” says Sloane. “You and your brother are inheriting practically the entire Eastern seaboard.”
“What does Reiser Industries do?” I ask.
“Biggest car-parts manufacturer in the country,” says Carling. “And my boyfriend’s going to run it one day.” She turns to Leo. “Tell Papa you need an advance on your allowance.”
“Yeah, right,” says Leo. “My dad’s old school.”
“Daddy Warbucks wants Leo to learn about life the hard way,” says Griff.
“Since when?” asks Carling. “You’re always sufficiently loaded when we go out.”
“Why do you think I work summers at the Manhattan office?” says Leo.
“I don’t know,” she says with a dramatic pout. “I figured you were using that as an excuse to meet New York skanks. Which makes me lie in bed and cry.”
Griff boffs Leo in the head. “See? Leo’s parents are smart. They’re not going to raise him all spoiled and lazy like Carling.”
Carling pinches him. He shoves her off and says, “Seriously, you can’t sell the car, Reiser. She’s a legend. I plan to lose my virginity in the backseat. Just me, a six-pack of beer, Micheline Farber’s dim-witted sister, and a piece of shoestring licorice that will be framed after what she’ll do to it with her tongue. I’ve already stashed a few pieces under the seat.”
Okay, even I can’t stand this one. “You’re going to feed a girl candy that’s been festering on the dirty carpet with the grimy quarters and rotting french fries? You really are porcine, Little Man.”
Griff stares up at me, his mouth hanging open. “I do think our little Brit is settling in.” He slides his hand up my knee. “You’re some feisty kind of mystery chick, aren’t you, London?”
I swat away his stubby fingers.
What comes next shocks me to my socks. Leo grins wickedly, puts one arm around Griff’s neck, and yanks him away from me, grinding his knuckles into Griff’s wild hair. He says, “Leave her alone, asshole. She’s miles too good for you.”
I have to bite down on my lips to keep my face from splitting into a big, dorky grin. It means nothing, I’m sure of it. He probably meant it as an insult to Griff rather than a compliment to me. Leo Reiser is wholly connected to Carling Burnack. She’s lying across his lap playing with his shirt buttons, and all I can think about are the scars on his chest. I wonder if Carling has touched them. Counted them. Kissed them. It’s clear these two are solid. It’s clear he’s hers. So why is my heart beating so fast?
The moment that meant everything to me clearly means nothing to the others, and passes without a blip in the conversation, with Griff pulling away saying, “If you’re lucky, you might lose your own virginity in there one day, Reiser.”
“Yeah, well. Not all of us can be as classy as you.”
“Come on, don’t sell her,” says Griff, smoothing out his hair. “The girls love guys in Astons.”
Carling, twirling Leo’s tie in her fingers, snorts. “All the more reason to ditch it. No one gets her hands on my guy.” She kisses her fingertips and presses them to Leo’s mouth. “No one.”
It sounds like a threat.