IT WAS A BRILLIANT plan. Now that she had made her first public appearance since the incident, Rosalyn Barlow was ready to tackle the larger problem, the social problem that was making its way across the country, and doing so indiscriminately. Wealthy or poor, the scourge of teenage promiscuity and this latest twist, this “friends with benefits” phenomenon, were infiltrating the lives of children everywhere. That her daughter had become a victim in its powerful path had opened her eyes, and she would not turn her back on the other girls who were potential prey. Like Al Gore and climate change, Rosalyn Barlow was about to become the poster woman for this important social cause. When she was finished playing spin doctor, this problem would be viewed through her eyes, and the town would believe it was virtually breeding inside the walls of the school. Whether or not that was actually true was of little concern.
And that was why, seated around her at Asi (Wilshire’s answer to Nobu) and eyeing a platter of designer sushi were the people essential to the plan. First, of course, was Wilshire Academy headmistress, Marcia Preston. With wavy but neat chestnut hair and a serious, angular face, she was just what the situation called for: an intellectual. That she was here solely out of obligation to the Barlow family, and the large donation they had recently made, was silently and mutually understood.
Eva Ridley was seated to the right of Ms. Preston, and Rosalyn was counting on her love of storytelling to broadcast everything that went on at these meetings through the underground sound system she had installed into the far corners of this town. Rosalyn Barlow, hero. Caitlin Barlow, victim. Who would be next? The scandal at the Wilshire Academy would fit nicely on her playlist.
Elbow to elbow with Rosalyn was Sara Livingston, who was not only perspiring under her wool suit jacket and silk blouse, but was actually soaked with sweat. Rosalyn still wasn’t quite sure what she made of this young woman. Middle-class breeding and only twenty-seven years old with one three-year-old, Sara Livingston was a suburban virgin. But Princeton and Columbia—nothing to smirk at. Besides, it was there, on her face. The unmistakable desire to be one of them, to fit in, and Rosalyn was betting Sara would give this agenda the attention it deserved. The local paper would print her articles, providing instant credibility to the cause.
Finally, there was Jacks, the perfect example of the reinvention of oneself. No one really knew about Jacks’s past. She told people she went to a small college “upstate” somewhere, that her parents died when she was little. She had one sister who also lived “upstate,” though Jacks never committed to a specific town. She was a crafty one, dodging questions with more questions—the kind of questions people in Wilshire loved to answer. Questions about themselves. Where did you say your sister lived? Oh—upstate . . . That reminds me, didn’t you rent a cottage in Groton last year? Brilliant. And Rosalyn admired that. No one could read a person better than Jacks, and now Rosalyn was counting on her to be the psychic along the way.
With the team assembled, Rosalyn tapped her spoon against a glass of water. “Ladies . . . ,” she said, interrupting the chatter. “Should we get down to business? Let me first thank all of you for coming. I am—” Rosalyn paused then to be momentarily choked up. “—so grateful for your support.”
There was a collective sigh and a gentle shoulder-pat from the head-mistress.
Rosalyn shuddered as though shaking off her emotions. Of course, her emotions had been placed in a vault and locked away earlier that morning. How else would she survive this meeting? The sincerity, the angst, the endless talk of girls and self-esteem and the gender politics of horny teenagers. At the end of it all, it would still be there, sitting on the table in front of them among the vibrant pink salmon rolls and milky white toro—the truth of the matter. Her daughter had been branded a loser somewhere along the way, and the hallway blow job was nothing more than a down payment on a ticket out. Wasn’t that the way of the world? The exploitation of the weak? The scratching and clawing up ladders—social, economic, political?
In any other town, the Barlows’ money would have guaranteed Cait’s ranking among the bloodthirsty teenage girls. But in Wilshire, everyone had money. Owning property here was the great equalizer. It took work, hard work above and beyond her husband’s money, to achieve the kind of status Rosalyn had cultivated. Her mother hadn’t come close to it. Had it been anything else, anything but sex, Rosalyn Barlow would have been relieved that Cait had found an angle to move up the social ranks. God help her, she would have seen it as a welcomed sign that the weakest of her five children would actually survive in a world that was, despite the appearance of civility, ruthless. Rosalyn knew this firsthand.
Taking a breath, she continued. “I need to thank the school, Marcia, for the gracious way everyone handled things. Really—it was the perfect balance of discipline and support. We will never forget it.”
Marcia blushed. She wasn’t used to flattery, and in fact, had developed the skin of an elephant to keep out the shit storms she usually received from the parent body.
“Thank you, Rosalyn,” Marcia said. “She’s a good kid. We all know that.”
“Yes, which brings me to the purpose of this meeting. There are a lot of good kids who are losing their way when it comes to their sexuality,” she began, though the words were sticky as they emerged from her carefully lined lips. “They’ve lost the true joy of first love, first kisses. They don’t have relationships anymore.”
Rosalyn looked at Sara, eyebrows raised in an unspoken invitation for her thoughts.
When the request finally registered, Sara opened her mouth. “Um” was all that came out. Then a pause. Then, finally, something articulable. “It’s a national problem, actually.” Her words held confidence, though her voice was a bit shaky, mirroring the unsteady ground beneath her that shifted between her old life and her seat at this table.
Still, what she said next pleased Rosalyn.
“Although teenagers aren’t engaging in sexual activity any earlier, the circumstances under which they do have changed. Sex has been separated from emotional intimacy. I did some research on it last night. There’s been a lot of discourse lately.”
“Ha!” Eva Ridley was chuckling to herself as she took a gulp of wine. “That sounds like most of the marriages in this town.”
“Oh, Eva,” Jacks said.
Eva shrugged. “Well? Am I wrong?” She knew what she knew.
“Anyway,” Rosalyn interrupted, “I would be very indebted if each of you could come up with a few names. Maybe we can do a little research. Sara, weren’t you a feminist in college? There must be some feminists who specialize in this area.”
Sara had a mind-boggled expression. “Um . . . I can look into it.”
Again, the subtle smile from the hostess.
“Thanks—I really appreciate it. Can I e-mail everyone to stay in touch? And Marcia, can you get me some dates to work with? Just after the holidays, maybe?”
Marcia nodded. “Sure. A winter event seems appropriate for such a somber issue.”
Rosalyn raised her wineglass. “To our girls,” she said.
They all took a sip. Then Marcia Preston gathered her things. “I really should be getting back. Thank you for the lovely lunch,” she said, now rushing to get the hell out of there.
“We’ll be in touch.” Rosalyn stood to give her a mini-hug at the shoulders.
Eva watched the educator walk away, then set down her wineglass before giving Rosalyn a disapproving look. “Weren’t you a feminist in college? Did you really say that?”
Jacks forced a smile. “She really said it.”
“What? Sara—weren’t you a feminist in college?” Rosalyn asked, pretending to be indignant.
Sara thought about that for a moment. Then she decided to answer the question the way she might were she not so damned intimidated. “I don’t think you can actually be a feminist anymore. Feminism is really a way of life.”
“Exactly!” Eva said, though she had, on numerous occasions, boasted about being one. “It’s not like being a communist. Any woman who believes she has a right to choose her own destiny is a feminist. End of story. In fact, Rosalyn Barlow, you are a feminist.”
“A feminist who shaves her legs,” Jacks said. Eva laughed hard. Rosalyn smiled.
“I mean, look at all of us.” Eva eyed her friends, old and new. “Every woman here went to college, had a job, then chose to stay home with her children. We are living the legacy of choice that the feminists laid down.”
“Huh,” Rosalyn said, her eyes narrow as she pretended to think about this seriously. Choice was an interesting word to describe the gender politics of Wilshire. It was an interesting word to describe what had happened between her daughter and Kyle Conrad in that hallway.
“All I know is that the world looks very much the same as it did when I was a child. Maybe it’s a sad state of affairs that the feminists worked so hard to give us all these choices, and we chose to stay put.”
Eva gave Rosalyn a sad smile. “Well, anyway, I think we can all agree that keeping dicks out of girls’ mouths is a worthy cause—feminists or not.”
Jacks raised her glass. “Well put, Eva. Tactful, as always.”
Eva smiled. “Thank you. I guess we can now adopt a name for our cause. The blow job committee. Oh, and speaking of prurient things, how is the Halloween party coming along?”
Rosalyn paused for a moment to glance at Sara. The Barlows’ annual Halloween party was Wilshire’s most prominent and infamous event, and Rosalyn had not invited the Livingstons. Not yet.
“Sara, I completely forgot!” Rosalyn lied, covering herself. “The invitations went out before we met and I just didn’t think—”
Sara brushed it off. “Don’t worry about it, really. . . .”
“No, you must come. Call my assistant for the details. Here—” Rosalyn pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to Sara. “—it has all my numbers.”
Then, with the plastic smile returning, Rosalyn raised her glass for the second time. “One final toast. To our girls.”