Lauren
We spent that spring trying to coordinate our summers. Megan wasn’t going back to Woodstock—no way, no how, she said whenever the topic came up—and Camp Watachwa was out of the question for me, as was a summer spent solely in the company of my mother. It was our favorite topic of conversation, one we circled back to every few days with one unlikely suggestion or another.
“I read online that you can make a year’s salary working on an Alaskan fishing boat for the summer,” Megan would say.
“Or we could find some rich families who need nannies,” I would suggest, and we would laugh at each other.
We would both be horrible fishermen.
I would be a horrible nanny.
Megan went so far as to bike down to a vacation rental office in Scofield, offering to clean properties between guests. Later, she plopped onto her bed, announcing her defeat. “They have someone already, and she’s worked there for thirty-five years. It’s the same everywhere.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said.
“Yeah,” Megan sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Someone is bound to need a pair of dishwashers.”
“Or dog walkers.”
“Or Sandwich Artists.”
A week later, she presented me with a ripped page from the Scofield Sentinel, triumphant. “Here,” she said, thrusting the scrap of paper in front of me. “I found yours.”
“What am I supposed to be looking at? Lawnmower repair services?”
She jabbed one corner of the newspaper. “The Sentinel is hiring a photographer. See? Problem solved.”
I read the advertisement slowly. Freelance photographer needed. Experienced only. Pay per assignment. There was a name and phone number listed below the article. I fingered the feathered edge of the paper doubtfully.
“You have experience,” Megan pointed out. “All you have to do is pull out your portfolio and say, ‘Here’s the proof that I’m a genius.’”
I doubted that genius was one of the job requirements; the photographs in the Sentinel tended to be of championship teams in a semicircle around the three-point line, or the weekly “Good Neighbor” features, which were basically snapshots of women in their gardens.
* * *
But the first week of March, I found myself sitting in front of Phil Guerini, a portly, balding man my dad’s age who had greeted me with a grunt and a frown. He was a retired firefighter who ran the paper more like a hobby than a business, as was clear from his cluttered second-floor office. He glanced briefly at the album Megan had helped me assemble, a portfolio of my collected works—the best shots from my photography classes, a few of the assignments I’d had with the Keale Courier, mostly profiles on students or visiting lecturers. Toward the back, I’d added some of the photos I’d taken at Holmes House—snow falling and Lizzie laughing and one of Megan walking ahead of me into the sunlight, her body taking the form of a blurred silhouette.
He looked up at me, then down again at the book. “I don’t think this job is the right fit for you.”
I flipped to another page, drawing his attention to a photograph of my father, a newspaper open in front of him. He wasn’t recognizable as Charles Mabrey, US Senator, but it was an interesting angle, a line of text reflected in the mirror of his glasses. “Here’s another,” I said before he could object, flipping to one of Megan in a tank top in front of a white sheet, Richard-Avedon style. “I’ve been studying portrait photography.”
Phil tapped a finger against his chin. “The pictures are good. That’s not the problem.”
I shifted in the wobbly chair, the only seat in the room that wasn’t covered with stacks of old Sentinels. “What is the problem, then?”
“Look, Laurie—”
“Lauren.”
He bobbed his head slightly. “Lauren. This is your basic hack operation here. It’s not an art studio. There’s no glory in it. One week I might need a picture taken of a big rig overturned on the highway. The next week someone’s recipe wins a national contest. It’s not—” He gestured to the album, which I closed. “It’s not all of that.”
“The ad said that experience was needed,” I reminded him, feeling warm beneath my sweater. “I was showing you my experience. But I can shoot anything.” My voice caught in my throat, and I realized how desperately I wanted this—the first time I was earning something without the interference of my mother, or the influence of my father. Phil Guerini seemed to have no idea who I was, and that was fine with me.
He was quiet for a long time, paging through the album. “Anything?” he asked finally.
I smiled. “Anything.”
He grunted, which wasn’t a yes or a no. “There’s a science fair this week,” he said finally. “Winners announced Friday.”
I grinned. “I’ll be there. I’ll do it.”
“I only pay twenty-five dollars per assignment. That’s hardly enough to...” He waved his hand vaguely in my direction, as if to encompass the cost of my general upkeep and maintenance. He was right—it was nothing, comparatively speaking. The Sentinel was a weekly paper, appearing on front porches and café tables on Wednesday mornings, and each edition held only a handful of original photos, beyond the submitted artwork of second graders and the oversize real-estate ads. It wasn’t going to pay my rent for the summer, not even for one of the basement apartments listed in the Sentinel classifieds.
Still, I wanted this. I held out my hand before Phil could change his mind, and he clasped it, surprised.
“We’ll see,” he said, gruff again as he removed his hand from my grasp. “We’ll see what you can do.”
* * *
The best part of the Sentinel was its darkroom, old and barely functional, a relic from the previous editor, who’d mostly used it to develop pictures of his grandchildren. I spent a week putting it back into shape, despite Phil’s insistence that the trend was to use digital photography. It was faster, yes, and easier to see if one of my subjects had blinked, but I hadn’t warmed to the digital medium. There was no mystery there, no grand reveal when the paper hit the developing fluid and a composition magically appeared. Phil was happy with my work, giving general grunts of approval to my pictures. He was right—the job didn’t require a lot of artistry, although it gave me a thrill each time I saw my name in the fine print of the caption. Photo by Lauren Mabrey. Not bad at all.
On nights she wasn’t working at the switchboard, Megan came with me to the Sentinel, sitting quietly on a stool in the corner, her face glowing red in the safelight. She was taking her final general education course, a massive political science lecture, and she’d made friends with some of the girls in her class, a ragtag group she referred to as the Sisters, as in, “The Sisters are grabbing pizza. Do you want in?” or “Some of the Sisters are going to that film festival at Smith this weekend...”
I always said no; it wasn’t my thing, although it did give me a perverse pleasure to imagine myself being photographed with the girls in their Down with the Patriarchy! shirts. It was good that Megan and I had our own interests, wasn’t it? It was natural, and probably healthy. I didn’t have a lot of experience with female friendships, not the kind that spanned beyond months into years. The summer camp chumminess I’d experienced as a preteen had typically worn off by October, when our newsy letters became postcards and then nothing at all. Reardon had been full of cliques, a constant tightrope walk between praising one person and offending another, and I’d considered myself a free agent, beholden to no one. Sometimes it amazed me when I looked at Megan, thinking how improbable it was that we knew each other in the first place, and how amazing it would be if we were still friends in twenty years.
She’d even survived my family—the snootiness of my mother, the whininess of Kat, the general disgusting fratboy behavior of MK. I’d been half-asleep on the couch in The Dungeon when MK made his move on her on New Year’s Eve, and I’d held my breath, praying that nothing more would happen. Good for Megs—she’d brushed him off and never even mentioned it to me. Now when she answered our phone and it was my mother on the other end, they chatted for a few minutes about her classes, and I listened, marveling at how much better she was at tolerating my family than I was.
Even though we needed summer jobs, I ignored the emails that came from MK all spring. He was persistent; each email had a link to the internship application for Dad’s office, and I deleted them, one by one. Finally, he sent a read receipt, and I replied.
Do me a favor and pass it on to your girlfriend, too, he wrote.
Very funny, I wrote back.
He emailed again a few days later, asking where our applications were. I hadn’t mentioned it to Megan, even though every morning when she combed through her wet curls, she told her reflection in our mirror, “I am not going back to Woodstock,” like a mantra. But she would have hated DC, same as I knew I would: the social climbing, the political alliances, the law and public policy majors.
I wrote, Sorry, dude. Looks like Megan has other plans.
Are you kidding? This would be a great opportunity. Tell her to reconsider.
Face it. She’d just not that interested in you.
Impossible.
Quite possible, I shot back.
It took him a few days to write, Well, what about you? Mom seems to think you’re going to do it.
That’s because she’s delusional, I countered. Washington wasn’t plan A or B or C as far as I was concerned. Case closed.
* * *
Megan stayed at Keale for spring break, picking up some extra hours at the switchboard, and I went home to plead the case for staying in Scofield. I put off the question until the end of my stay, a Saturday morning when she was sitting in her office in Holmes House, organizing her calendar. It seemed an appropriate setting for a business arrangement. I was asking for a thousand dollars a month, but was prepared to settle for five hundred. That would barely pay our rent and keep us in ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches, but it was still a bargain compared to what Mom had paid to Camp Watachwa. I laid it out, step-by-step, but Mom only stared at me, her lips pressed in a half smile, half frown.
“Your father is offering you a job, and you could stay with your brother,” she pointed out. “Or you could stay here, which would cost us nothing.”
I protested that I was trying to build my résumé, not to mention my professional portfolio—
She sighed. “So bring your camera with you to DC.”
“And take pictures of what? Men in suits?”
Mom’s jaw was set. “You could take pictures of cracks in the sidewalks for all I care.”
My cheeks flamed, and I held back a dozen retorts, all of which were guaranteed to get me exactly nowhere. I had a desperate idea, one that wasn’t the least bit appealing even as I said it. “What if I took a summer class, and I got ahead on some of my coursework for the fall—”
Mom’s laugh was brittle. “So you’d need money for tuition, too? Don’t you think you’re asking a lot?” She turned back to her calendar, to the rows of neat black lettering, the color-coded Post-it notes, blue for business and yellow for family. Blue for fund-raisers and speeches, yellow for birthdays and anniversaries. The blue notes far outnumbered the yellow ones.
After a minute, she turned to me again. “You’re an adult, Lauren, so you can make your own choices. If you choose to stay in Scofield, that’s your decision. But if you want me to pay for it—sorry. Not this time.”
* * *
Megan was folding her laundry when I arrived back at Keale, a complicated operation that involved sorting and folding and unpacking half of her dresser to repack it with the clean clothes. She started babbling the moment I came through the door. “I got a job doing summer tours for Admissions. Part-time, minimum wage, but I’ll take it. A bunch of the Sisters are sticking around, too. We found a place where they’ll take six of us—two bedrooms, but we can do bunkbeds or a loft or something.” She caught my expression. “What? There’s room for you, of course.”
I moved a stack of her T-shirts and lowered myself to the foot of her bed. “It looks like I’m going to DC after all.”
She paused, holding up two mismatched socks that were missing their mates. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah—it’s the only way. Well, it’s complicated.” I picked one of the missing socks from the floor and tossed it to her, like an offering.
“But you weren’t interested. You said you’d rather eat glass.”
Had I really said that? “Well, it’s not like I’m thrilled. But my mom made all the arrangements...” I trailed off, watching the stiff set of Megan’s shoulders as she paired her socks, rolling them into tight, angry balls. She was angry, I realized. “It’ll be miserable without you,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “Alone with my brother in the city for eight weeks? Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Megan yanked open her top dresser drawer, tossing handfuls of socks inside without her usual care. “You do realize I was looking for a job all spring,” she said. “For you, too. I found you the job at the Sentinel.”
“Right, but it doesn’t pay any—”
Megan slammed the drawer, stopping my thought in midair. “And you never even mentioned this. I didn’t even think it was a real possibility.”
“Maybe it’s not too late to see if they need another intern,” I suggested, knowing this was the wrong move as I was saying it. “I could email my brother—”
“Conveniently, I suspect it is too late,” Megan snapped. I’d never seen her angry like this—not at me. “I just signed the forms for the Admissions job, and I put down four hundred dollars for a deposit. It’s too late on my end, anyway.”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” I said. “You wanted to stay here, and it’s all going to work out.”
“With you,” she said, nudging a dresser drawer shut with her knee. “I wanted to stay here with you.”
“You’ll be with the Sisters,” I pointed out. “I’m the one who’s going to be all alone with my jerk brother.”
“You’ll have to remind me later to feel sorry for you,” she said. And then, leaving her laundry in piles, she grabbed her backpack from her desk and was out the door.
* * *
DC was humid and bustling with politics and scandal and busyness, not to mention the tourists who streamed from the metro stations each morning to begin their queues at museums and national monuments. It would have been fun with Megan there, I realized—she would have wanted to go to the museums and monuments, too; she would have wanted to explore the Capitol and snap pictures of the Watergate Hotel and do all the things MK refused to do with me. As it was, he and I shared a two-bedroom apartment off Dupont Circle, and for the first sticky weeks of summer, we were in each other’s faces constantly. In the office, MK was my boss, in charge of my bathroom breaks and lunch hours. At night, we bickered over where to pick up takeout and who controlled the remote. He preferred baseball; I wanted something that could make me laugh.
After three weeks, he brought home Gabby, one of my fellow interns, and I finally had the television to myself, although I had to turn the volume up high to avoid hearing the bedsprings and moans.
I went into his room the next morning while Gabby was in the shower and smacked him on the shoulder to wake him up. “This isn’t a frat house, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured, smiling into his pillow. “Did we keep you up?”
“I’m telling Mom,” I said.
He laughed. “Really? I’m twenty-six. I’m pretty sure she’ll think this is normal behavior.”
“Gabby’s an intern, you idiot. You’re supposed to be her boss.”
“Hey,” he said, leaning on one elbow. “I’ll tell you what. There’s a smoking hot lesbian who works for the EPA. I could totally set you up.”
“Very funny.” I whacked him with one of his pillows, and he rolled over, laughing. “You could at least be considerate. These walls are thin.”
He yawned. “What happened with you and Megan, anyway? You’ve been such a nag since you broke up.”
“Asshole,” I muttered.
After Gabby there was Deena, an intern for the Republican senator from Nebraska who spent three loud nights in our apartment, and after Deena there was Sophie, the daughter of one of Dad’s donors and a sophomore at NYU who was interning for the justice department. Sophie had the luxury of her own place, a fact she dropped casually into the conversation over dinner at a pizzeria near the Capitol. MK volunteered to see Sophie home afterward, giving me a thumbs-up over her shoulder. Fine—I was eager to be alone for a change, to play my music and watch my TV shows and slip into my most comfortable pajamas within five minutes of entering the apartment.
After that night, MK packed a small bag to bring over to Sophie’s.
“Is this serious or something?” I asked, watching him sort through our plastic-sheeted dry cleaning.
MK winked. “Serious for now.”
* * *
My main job in Dad’s office was to run envelopes through the printer and then stuff those envelopes with letters addressed to each of his donors. As I tri-folded each paper, over and over, I caught snatches of carefully worded language. “At the close of a productive session in Congress, I remain grateful for your support.” Dad was in the middle of the election cycle, which meant the next two years would be marked by stump speeches and endorsements and ribbon cuttings in every corner of the state. Mom would be at his side, and I was sure that whether I wanted to or not, I would be drafted into these appearances with MK and Kat.
I sent Megan the occasional email, but her responses were short, her voice cool. She didn’t react when I told her about the sexy foreign diplomats I’d met (exactly none), and she seemed bored when she told me about the bratty high schoolers she was chauffeuring around Keale as part of her work for the admissions office. Her messages were perfunctory, and she always signed off with a note that she had to be somewhere or other—on campus, out to dinner, off to a movie. I couldn’t tell if she was hurt, or if she wanted me to be.
It had been a mistake not to tell her about MK’s internship offer, I saw now, or to raise the issue with my mother when I’d been busy pleading for other things. If Megan were here, we could have hung out at night, using our congressional IDs to get us into live music clubs. Or we could have eaten our way through a bag of microwave popcorn in front of reruns and old movies, and made fun of MK and his conquests together. Instead, I was alone and bored, scuttling from the metro station to the apartment at night and back again in the morning.
Eventually, I grew bolder, heading out by myself at night, ignoring catcalls from the drunken congressional assistants and lobbyists wandering from bar to bar. I always took my camera, the case tucked into my backpack, and shot surreptitiously the lines of partygoers, the raised glasses and, yes, over and over, the men in suits. Once I allowed myself to experience it, the nightlife in DC was intoxicating—a dangerous mix of youth and aggression and people letting off steam. On one of my last nights, when the apartment was stuffy and lonely, I snuck into a twenty-one-and-older jazz club near Logan Circle, making it past the bouncer by blending in with a chatty group of women. The bartender didn’t bat an eye when I stepped up to order a beer.
The club was crowded, but I found a spot on the side and sipped my drink slowly, letting the music flow through me. For a while I watched a couple dance, back to front, his arms around her waist, and I wondered if that would ever happen to me.
More people packed into the club, and I felt someone at my elbow, too close for comfort. A man leaned close to me, his breath against my cheek. “Lolo? Lolo Mabrey?”
I reared back to study the vaguely familiar face—straight teeth, a mole by the eyebrow, dark curly hair. He wore jeans and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was the dress shirt, more than anything else, that brought the memory back. “You’re from Reardon?”
“Yeah, a long time ago. Braden Leavitt.” He held out a hand, and I maneuvered my drink to shake it. “I was in your brother’s class.”
The song came to an end, and the crowd clapped. Someone yelled out the name of a new song, and after a beat, the band started again.
Braden leaned forward to be heard over the noise. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Ha.”
“No, seriously,” he said, tapping the side of my beer. “If I’m doing my math right, you’re not quite twenty-one yet.”
I took a deliberate gulp, locking eyes with him. “Age is a social construct.”
He laughed. “I remember that about you. You were always funny.”
I smiled. “And what else?”
“Well, I think the last time I saw you, it was during a field hockey match against Sheldon. You were being ejected for using excessive force.”
I groaned, remembering that particular afternoon. “Better watch out. I’ve still got mad defense skills.”
He held up both hands, like he was surrendering. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Do you go to school in DC?”
“Just interning for my dad for the summer. I try to stay as far away from this city as I can. What about you?”
He grinned. “Law school. Georgetown.”
“Doesn’t the world have enough lawyers?”
His smile wavered.
I took a final gulp of beer, leaving a half inch of frothy foam at the bottom of the glass. “Sorry. I’m an ass. Did you remember that part, too?”
The band was back, the lead singer at the microphone.
“It’s hard to talk in here. You want to go for a walk or something?” Braden asked into my ear.
I shrugged.
“I’m here with a few guys. Let me just tell them—” He made his way through the crowd to the bar, tapped someone on the back, and began a conversation that was mostly gestures. A few of the guys turned to look at me, grinning. Not likely, I thought, rolling my eyes. But then Braden was back with a smile so genuine, I couldn’t help but relax.
Outside, it was still muggy, the air heavy with the relentless humidity that had settled in to stay. The night was permeated with the hum of air conditioners wedged into apartment windows, churning away above street level and dripping condensation steadily onto the sidewalks.
“Okay, let me ask you. How can you not love this place? There’s all this energy and passion...” Braden opened his arms, a gesture meant to encompass the entire city. He almost smacked into a man in a suit moving at a near run, briefcase slapping against his leg. Braden looked at his watch. “You see? Exhibit A. It’s after ten, and that guy’s still hustling.”
I shook my head. “He’s probably late for dinner or his kid’s birthday party or something.”
“So cynical,” Braden said.
“So practical,” I corrected.
I wasn’t sure where we were walking or if we had any destination at all, but I didn’t complain. I hadn’t seen Braden since he graduated from Reardon years ago, but it was easy to fall in step beside him, matching his legs stride for stride. He asked what I was up to, and I told him about Keale, about the pictures I’d been taking for the Sentinel.
“A photographer, huh? That’s cool.”
I glanced at him, trying to read his face. Did photography seem “cool” to someone in law school, someone with a defined future ahead of him?
Our forearms bumped against each other as I sidestepped a raised portion of the sidewalk. Braden put his arm around me for a brief moment, steadying me, and then dropped his hand back to his side. It was like walking with an older brother, or at least, an older brother who wasn’t such a pain in the ass as MK.
We reached the edge of a tiny, unofficial-looking park, a forgotten wooded area with a few picnic benches. Toward the back of the lot, only faintly visible in the darkness, I made out a rusty-looking swing set.
“Race you,” I said to Braden, bolting before he could react.
My only advantage was the element of surprise; after twenty yards, I heard Braden’s breath over my right shoulder, and then he passed me, sliding precariously in the damp grass when he reached the swing set. I came to a stop, panting, beside him. Warm as it was, it had felt good to run, to get out some of the pent-up energy of the last few weeks.
I flopped onto one of the swings and caught my breath. “I’m glad you didn’t let me win. I would have lost all respect for you if you did.”
Braden swung beside me, kicking his legs out, pumping them back. “I’m surprised I could beat you. I haven’t run like that since college. Or maybe even before.”
We swung side by side, and I was aware of him slowing to keep my pace, speeding when I increased my speed. The dull noise of city traffic was occasionally perforated by specific sounds—a dog barking, a car honking. We’d been quiet for so long that I wondered who would be the first to break the silence. As it was, we both spoke at the same time.
“So—”
“You aren’t—”
“Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to tell on me, or anything.”
Braden laughed. “Tell on you for what? Sneaking into a nightclub? Underage drinking?”
I laughed. “Sure, that or sneaking off with some creep my brother’s age.”
He put a hand over his heart, as if to staunch the bleeding. “Moi? I’m offended. And I haven’t seen your brother since I graduated from Reardon, so...slim chance I’m going to bump into him anytime soon.”
“Yeah, probably not. He’s got a girlfriend. Well, a girl of the minute.”
“Some things never change, then.”
We slowed, our legs dangling loosely.
“What were you going to ask me? Earlier, when I cut you off.”
“Oh.” He turned in his seat so that his body arced sideways and our knees crashed gently together. “I was just wondering how long you’re in town. If you like jazz, there’s a festival in—”
“Only until Friday,” I interrupted. “Well, I mean, I’m leaving Saturday morning. But I think there’s some kind of party for the interns on Friday night.”
Our knees knocked together once, then again as we came to a stop.
“That’s too bad,” Braden said. “Because I know an older, creepy guy who happens to love jazz.”
We were quiet for a minute, and then I burst out laughing.
“That sounded better in my head,” he admitted.
“It couldn’t sound worse,” I agreed.
Fat drops of rain started falling without warning, the water warm and stinging.
“I’ll take you to the metro,” Braden said. “Least I can do.”
We walked with our heads down, shoulders hunched forward, as the drizzle turned into full-on rain. Our shirts were soaked by the time we reached the station, and we stood under the overhang, shaking off our clothes.
I smiled at him. “I can take it from here.”
“No way,” he said. “I’m going to make sure there aren’t any creeps lurking down here. Real creeps, I mean. Do you have enough money to get back?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad. Thanks for checking.”
He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Well, then.” I fished the metro card from my back pocket. “I believe my carriage awaits.”
Braden didn’t move, and in order to avoid the awkwardness of the hug that was surely coming, I took a step forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, no friendlier than what I would give to one of Dad’s donors at a fund-raiser.
He smiled, caught off guard. “So, I guess I’ll see you around.”
But I knew he wouldn’t see me. On Saturday MK and I would be taking the earliest train out of the city to Boston, and from there the Downeaster to Portland, followed by a water taxi to The Island. I only had a couple weeks there before I had to be back at Keale. Tonight would be an anecdote for my future life—the night I met up with my brother’s prep school friend, walked through a sticky stew of humidity and ended up on a rusty swing set.
Just past the turnstile, I looked over my shoulder and Braden was still there, waiting to make sure I was through. “Hold on,” I called, fumbling through my backpack for my camera, unzipping it from the case. A second later I was framing him in the viewfinder, noting the way that the rain had turned his curls into ringlets.
“What’s that for?” he called, his voice echoing in the tunnel.
I yelled, “Documentation,” and waved goodbye over my shoulder.
* * *
MK came in the next morning as I was getting ready, throwing his keys onto the floor and collapsing onto the couch. I stood over him, toweling my damp hair.
“Um, hello? Are you playing hooky today or something?”
He groaned into the couch cushion. He was in the clothes he’d worn yesterday—navy pants, a wrinkled Oxford with a stain that looked like ketchup near his pocket.
“Seriously. It’s almost time to leave.”
Another groan.
“Did something happen with Sophie?”
He rolled over, his face coming into view—a raspberry-colored bruise high on his left cheek and a deep gouge beneath his eye, the width of a fingernail. That wasn’t ketchup on his shirt after all.
“Whoa. What happened? Did you get mugged or something?” I reached out to get a better look, but he turned away, face into the cushion. Whatever he mumbled had the word Sophie in it.
“Sophie did that to you? Sophie the socialite?” I whistled. “Why, did you break up with her?”
He laughed, then winced, bringing a hand to the left side of his face. “What did she think was going to happen? The summer’s almost over. She’s heading back to NYU. I’m finishing up at Princeton.”
“You’re right. Those sound like insurmountable odds.” I laughed despite myself, remembering what I knew of Sophie—blonde and lithe, one of those girls who looked like a sudden breeze could knock her off her feet. “So she hit you?”
“I’m glad one of us is enjoying this. But yeah, she did. Hell of a right hook.”
“Looks like she took some of your skin as a memento.”
He swore. “She just went crazy. I was lucky to get out of there.”
I glanced at my watch. If I didn’t leave now, I would definitely be late. “What are you going to tell Dad?”
“Could you take care of it for me?”
“Seriously? After the way you treated me all summer?”
“Hey, I left you alone. I thought you would like that.”
I ignored this, remembering the handfuls of cereal I’d eaten straight from the box in front of the television night after night, until I finally worked up the courage to go out by myself. “How am I supposed to take care of it?”
“Tell Dad that I ate something funny, and I was up all night vomiting.”
I laughed. “That doesn’t explain why you look like a punching bag.”
“And then tomorrow I’ll say that when I was wandering around the apartment dizzy and dehydrated, I fell and hit my head on the coffee table.”
I had to hand it to him—MK always had a story. Had it come to him just now, or had he figured it out on the way back from Sophie’s apartment? He could, of course, just tell the truth—but that wasn’t how things worked in our family, not when the truth cast shade on the Mabrey name. I remembered Marcus, and the truth that no one, especially me, had told.
No, this was what the Mabreys did. We assessed and reframed and came out with a better story, a better version of ourselves. And then we held the line.
I grabbed my shoulder bag, giving MK a goodbye pat on the shoulder. “Put some ice on that,” I advised.
In a day or two, he would be fine, and no one would ever know.