There’s a new girl at Stanton House by the name of Ming, freshly arrived from Guangzhou. Her English isn’t great. She’s tall, thin, and timid. She walks with a stoop like she wishes she could sink through the floor, straight back to China.
Gemma Costin has launched a campaign of torment against this girl, inciting her cronies to pretend she smells; stage-whisper things that, mercifully, Ming can’t catch; and rub condiments in her hair when she eats lunch alone in the cafeteria.
Gemma’s behind all of this, but I can’t prove it.
Nonetheless, I go to see Principal Bill, who looks extra alarmed to see me, perhaps because I’m dressed as a vampire in a long black wig, plastic fangs from the dollar store, and an old black dress bought for some long-ago New Year’s. All the teachers had to dress up for Halloween. Principal Bill’s gone all-out cowboy in a checkered shirt, neckerchief, and Stetson. I bet he’d love to wear this full time. He thinks he’s John Wayne.
Thoughts of cowboys bring thoughts of Trevor somewhere on the rodeo circuit. What a job: risking your life, day in, day out, to entertain the beer-guzzling masses. We think we’ve moved on since the age of the gladiators, but we haven’t.
I force my attention back to Principal Bill. “This is serious,” I tell him. “Ming Lee is being racially bullied.”
Bill nods and toys with his kerchief. His answers add up to empty platitudes about adjustment and culture shock, like smearing ketchup into new girls’ hair is part of our culture.
I leave his office more pissed than I was going in.
I’m so irate my head’s gotten itchy. I need to take off this stupid wig for a minute.
Headed for the staff restroom, I see Ming’s locker plastered with blown-up photos of dead, roasted dogs, clearly lifted off the internet. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, and stomp toward her locker. I consider going back to get Principal Bill but decide not to bother. Teeth tight with fury, I rip down the offending pictures. I ball them up and lob them into the closest trash bin.
Since Bill’s no use whatsoever, I decide to change tack and call Gemma’s mother. Thanks to the cheating scandal, Gemma’s on thin ice. While Angie couldn’t care less about bullying, she’d have a fit if her precious offspring were expelled from Stanton House. For one thing, she’d lose a full year’s tuition.
I text Dana for Angie’s number, then call.
Faced with an unknown number, Angie trills out a greeting. If she knew it was me, she’d sound much less enthusiastic.
“Hello, Angie,” I say in my best teacher voice. “This is Jo Dykstra. It’s about Gemma. A small issue at school. Can we meet up briefly?”
Sure enough, Angie’s tone changes to annoyance: “Jo? What’s happened?”
“Gemma’s fine. Don’t worry. But there’s something . . .” I lick my lips. “Look, Angie, it’d be easier to discuss it in person.”
A sigh, like she’s doing me a favor. “Okay. Fine. How about Felicity’s, after school?”
Felicity’s is a café popular with Stanton House mothers. It serves gluten-free macaroons and low-fat gelato in pastel colors.
I hesitate. I’ll need to fetch Ruby first. Luckily, my last block is free today. I can sneak out a few minutes early. I have pens and a coloring book in my bag. While Angie and I chat, Ruby can color. “Okay,” I say. “Three forty-five?”
After hanging up, I get a new message from Dana: Why do you need Angie’s number?
I text back: To discuss Gemma.
Her response is quick: I need to see you.
Rather than keep texting, I just call. “Hey, it’s me. I’m meeting Angie at Felicity’s after school. Want to meet me after?”
“I . . . um . . .” Dana’s voice sounds off, like she’s been crying. “What’s the earliest you can meet me?”
“Four thirty?” I’m scared the police are listening in. The technology exists. I don’t dare ask what’s wrong. “But I’ll have Ruby.”
“I’ll get Gloria to pick her up and bring her home with Zoe. We really need to talk. As soon as possible.” She hangs up.
I stow my phone, feeling shaky.
* * *
I cut out at three twenty.
I’ve ditched the wig and fangs and scrubbed off the makeup but still feel stupid. The dress is ankle-length and uncomfortably snug in the middle. It’s too shiny. I’ll stick out like a gangrened thumb amid Felicity’s bleached boho-chic decor.
Stepping in, I’m surprised to see Dana. She’s almost an hour early. She’s at a table at the back, wearing boots, a calf-length houndstooth dress, and big black sunglasses. Despite her pallor and obvious distress, she still belongs in Felicity’s: a movie star mid-divorce, beautiful but fragile. I hope to God she hasn’t done anything stupid.
I look around. No sign of Angie. Figures she’d keep me waiting. After getting my coffee, I walk over to Dana.
“Hey.” I set down my decaf and plop into the chair beside hers. All the chairs in here are mismatched yet complementary. Dana’s is gold and white striped. Mine’s upholstered in faux sheepskin.
I don’t take off my jacket. I’ll need to move when Angie arrives. “What’s happened?”
A quick shake of her head, like it’s too hard to talk. I wait. Dana takes a sip of tea. It smells perfumy. She sets her cup carefully back in its saucer. Is she drunk and trying to hide it? She’s moving stiffly.
“They found his body,” she whispers. “Minus his head. In Garibaldi Cove. It was”—her voice shakes—“the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” She presses a hand to her lips. “I had to go to the morgue to ID him.”
I blink. I can’t believe it. We went so far out. All that way, past the damn islands. “Are you sure it was him?”
She nods. Her mouth twists as if she’s in pain.
She describes his melting tattoo. Despite sips of hot coffee, my insides ice over. The cops have Stan’s body.
Our plan hinged on his fate being a mystery. He wanted a new life far away. He was the victim of a botched kidnapping or a drunk who met with an accident . . . Maybe Stan snapped and ended it all.
Dana’s cup rattles into its saucer. The last fact dribbles out: the cops are waiting on the autopsy to confirm cause of death.
Hope flickers. “Could it look accidental?” I whisper. “Like he slipped on the rocks and drowned? They can’t know he was bashed, right? Not if his head’s missing.”
Dana won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I rub my hands to get warm. It’s a cold day, and this place is freezing.
It’s hard to think, especially in here, everything swirly and soft, from the jazz to the gauzy white curtains and the tufted throw pillows. The place is decorated like Dana’s guest cottage, all cream and oatmeal, like Instagram’s vision of heaven. The pallor makes it seem even colder. Everything about this place feels as fake as the rubber cacti in miniature pots on each table. Still, it’s better than that wretched café in the Oaks Club.
High heels click behind me. The change on Dana’s face alerts me: Angie’s coming.
I turn to look. Sure enough, she’s sauntering our way, a tall glass in one hand, topped with a tower of whipped cream. I bet she asked for skim milk with whip. That would be just like Angie.
Seeing Dana, she grins. “Oh my God, Dana! How are you, honey?”
Air kisses for Dana. A tight-lipped smile for me.
I grab my bag and stand up. Dana’s in shock and in no state to be talking to Angie. “Angie,” I say quickly, “thanks for coming to meet me. Shall we sit over there?” I point to a window table.
Angie ignores this and sets her drink on Dana’s table. She deposits her purse beside it, where everyone can admire its label. “Oh, honey, I just heard.” She makes cow eyes at Dana. “How are you?” She shrugs off her jacket and twists into a chair.
I hold my breath. What has Angie heard? The cops only just told Dana about finding Stan’s body. It can’t have been on the news yet, surely.
Teeth clenched, I reclaim my chair.
“It was on KRAX,” continues Angie. That’s the local radio station. Pronounced kay-rax, not cracks—which is how I say it. Angie’s breathless. Beneath all that blush and foundation, her cheeks are actually flushed. The color runs into her hairline, where her dark roots are showing. “Oh my God! I can’t believe it! Is it really him?”
Like we’re discussing hot gossip, not Dana’s poor dead husband.
Dana freezes, the proverbial deer in the headlights. Her lips move soundlessly.
Angie rushes ahead. “Foul play!” She shudders happily. “Honey. I’m so sorry!”
Dana blinks at me. “The cops told me they didn’t know how he died!” She sounds stunned, although I’ve warned her that cops aren’t obliged to be honest.
Angie frowns as best she can with all the Botox. “Oh, reporters—they get stuff wrong.” She toys with the long spoon in her flavored coffee and takes a sip. In their mascaraed nests, her eyes are glued on Dana. “I guess it sounds more sensational, saying he’d been stabbed.”
Dana flinches. I hold my breath. Thank God Dana’s eyes are hidden behind those massive glasses. Still, the way she flinched. I know Dana’s tells when I see them.
Fear and rage hit me. Stabbed? With a knife? Dana said it was self-defense, that he hit her, and she pushed him. She said she lost it and bashed him with a vase. The one we dumped. I feel hot all over.
Dana hangs her head. She looks sick. We’re all quiet.
“It might not be true,” I manage. “Like Angie said, the news gets stuff wrong.” I want to shake Dana the way I did in the boat when she sat there trying to remove her ring after dumping Stan.
A single tear meanders down her white cheek. She doesn’t stop it.
Angie’s still watching her so intently I want to slap her. I’d like to smack both of them. What the fuck’s going on here?
“I should take Dana home,” I tell Angie.
Dana looks up, like a spell broke. She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” She doesn’t look it. She blinks slowly. Is she drunk? Or on medication?
I wait, not wanting to upset her further. I’m scared of what she could say with Angie here, listening.
“Dane, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew,” coos Angie.
Fury curls my lip. I’m not sure what makes me angrier: Angie’s lie or her shortening of Dana’s name, like they’re besties. Even I don’t do that. Her name’s Dana.
Dana doesn’t react. Angie turns to me. A penciled eyebrow climbs skyward. “Why did you want to see me?”
I frown. Given Angie’s news, it takes me a moment to remember: Gemma and her bullying. The persecuted new girl.
I was outraged and eager to save poor, cowed Ming. Now it barely matters. I’m too scared to be righteous.
Throat dry, I reach for my coffee. It went cold ages ago and tastes bitter. Despite a big sip, my voice is hoarse. “Gemma’s been bullying a new kid.”
Angie snorts. “What? Can you prove that?”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.” It’s a lie, but Angie won’t know. “I just figured I’d come to you first, let you know. In case you can . . . influence her. So there’s no need to inform Principal Bill . . .”
Angie frowns, clearly suspicious that I’d try to help. She tugs at her necklace with its big diamond letter A pendant.
“Gemma’s smart,” I continue, in my best earnest-teacher voice. “She has so much potential. I think she could do really well this year, be a top scorer. I just hope she can learn to be a bit kinder. Girls that age, they can be quite—” I shrug. “Well, you remember. We could all be catty back in high school.”
Angie releases her pendant to toy with her hair, unsure whether to be mollified or outraged. Am I calling her daughter a bitch or finally acknowledging her obvious brilliance?
“Gemma shows strong leadership abilities,” I continue, in top bullshit-parent-teacher-interview gear. “I hope she’ll get involved in student government. Try out for student council.”
Angie eyes me warily. “This kid you say she’s got a problem with. What’s her story?”
“Immigrant family,” I say. “Newly arrived from China.”
Angie’s nostrils twitch like she’s smelled something off. Her glossy mouth tightens.
In recent years, a few wealthy Chinese families have bought properties in the Oaks. It’s pissed off some locals and inspired muttering about being priced out of the market. This is a joke. No one in the Oaks is in danger of being made homeless.
“The poor girl’s lost,” I say, looking sad. “In a new culture.”
Angie’s frown deepens. “Did she do something to Gemma?”
“No. That’s the point. She’s done nothing to deserve being picked on.” Inspiration strikes. “Look, Angie, I don’t want Gemma to get in trouble or, God forbid, be expelled—not now, not when Chad’s grieving.” I throw a sad look at Dana. “The boy really needs her.”
Angie looks at Dana too.
Dana bows her head. “Oh my God,” she moans. “How will I tell the children?”
That stops all conversation, Gemma and her victim forgotten.
For a moment we’re three moms contemplating the enormity of Dana’s grim task. She must tell her kids their dad’s dead. And that the police think he was murdered.
“Want me to come?” I ask after a moment. I need to go to Winderlea anyway, to collect Ruby. And we need to talk about Angie’s claim that Stan was stabbed. If it’s true, that’s another lie of Dana’s. My pity gels back into outrage.
Dana pushes her dark glasses up onto her head. Without them, she looks exposed, eyes wide and glazed with tears. Minus mascara, her lashes are pale. I’m transfixed. I haven’t seen her with bare eyelashes since she was a girl.
“What can I tell them?” asks Dana.
I start to get money from my purse, but Angie waves it away. “Go. I’ve got this.”
For an instant, I almost like her. But then I see the way she’s studying Dana, eyes intent and gleeful above a mouth mimicking pity. “Go!” she says again.
Dana staggers to her feet. I rise too. Before turning to go, I take one last look at Angie, sitting alert and bright-eyed. She brings to mind a scientist peering into a maze, waiting to see which way the rats will run.