She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 10
Phoebe shrugged. “Just because.” She scurried up the stairs to her bedroom, not to be seen again for several hours. Ben was the one who reported the details to Amy. They’d eaten at Maki on Friday night, where they ordered way too much sushi. They’d gotten to sit in fifty-yard-line box seats at the game on Saturday, courtesy of one of Scott’s developer friends. It was obvious Scott was trying to buy their love.
Amy’s attempt to discuss Phoebe’s tennis prospects with him at the drop-off had been silenced with a head shake and a grimace.
“I’m not going to push the tennis thing,” he said before retreating into his car and driving off to his other life.
The buttery-sweet aroma of melting chocolate and baking dough warmed the kitchen. Amy leaned down and flipped on the oven light, finding the cookies spreading into even circles.
The lock on the front door jiggled and the door pushed open. Amy leaped up and rushed to the foyer, eager to hear all the details of Phoebe’s new activity. Her feet stopped moving when she reached the entryway; at first she was convinced that the person standing before her was an intruder, but she quickly recognized Phoebe’s face, ponytail, and new obsidian earrings. Amy had never seen these clothes on her daughter before—the black leather jacket with metal studs lining the collar and sleeves, the kind a member of a motorcycle gang would wear. Phoebe’s baggy jeans hung straight from her waist, causing her body to lose all feminine shape. Chunky black boots were strapped to her feet and made a loud clomping sound each time she took a step.
“What in the world are you wearing?” Amy hadn’t seen Phoebe leave for school in the morning and hoped this was some sort of dress-up assignment for the poetry club.
Phoebe shrugged. “Clothes.” She removed her jacket, revealing a black T-shirt with an image of a screaming skull; dark, gaping holes formed the eye sockets and mouth. Phoebe’s fingernails were cut short and painted black.
Amy stepped back, confused. “Is this part of the poetry club?”
“Not really.”
“Where did you get those clothes?”
“At a store.”
“You didn’t wear that skull T-shirt to school, did you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Amy’s stomach turned over. The oven beeped incessantly from the next room. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening to her daughter.
“Did you buy them over the weekend?” A cold sweat overtook her. “Did Cece do this?”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “I know how to take the bus.”
Amy squeezed her eyelids closed. “I don’t like these clothes. Or your nail polish.”
Phoebe scowled. “I don’t like some of the things you wear.”
“Who drove you home?”
“A friend.”
“Simone?”
“What?” Phoebe’s face contorted. “No.”
“What happened to you?” A hiccup caught in Amy’s throat. “Where did my fun, sweet girl go?”
Phoebe’s blackened fingertips pulled at the hem of her T-shirt. “This is me. Don’t you get it? That other girl was a dumb fake. This is who I really am.”
Ben and Noah now stood at the edge of the foyer gaping at Phoebe.
Ben threw a suspicious glance toward his sister. “You look weird.”
The oven continued to beep. The smell of burnt cookies cut through the air.
“Can we have the cookies now, Mom?”
Amy glanced toward her son. She blinked her tired eyes and inhaled a long breath through her nose. This was just a phase. An unfortunate, misguided teenage rite of passage. In a few days, Phoebe would realize how ridiculous she looked. Amy would take her shopping at Lululemon or Banana Republic, and they’d laugh about it together.
“Yes. I’ll get the cookies.”
The next morning, thunder rumbled from beyond the ceiling. Rain pelted against the windows, the intensity of the storm increasing. Ben and Phoebe were at school, Phoebe wearing the same grim clothes as the day before, but with a different T-shirt featuring a different skeleton. Amy let it slide, sticking with her conviction that this unpleasant phase would fizzle out sooner rather than later.
Amy flipped on the light in her study, the daylight outside having all but disappeared. The screen of her laptop glowed and flickered. Her eyes darted toward the overhead lights, and hung there, pleading for them to stay on. They remained steady, and she clicked on a new email from Green Hills Nursing Home, the subject reading, Payment Due.
The current balance for Elizabeth Heavner is $4,541.00. Payment is due by November 1st.
Amy pictured her mother lying in the stark white room, a few framed photos of family displayed near her frail body and vacant eyes. The last time she’d traveled to Florida for a visit was just before Scott had asked for the divorce. Her mother had seemed to know her at first, had asked after the kids, and about the real estate business, but when Amy returned the next morning with a new large-print book and a bundle of flowers, it was as if Elizabeth had never seen her daughter before. Dementia had her in its grip. The doctor had told Amy that it wasn’t going to get better.
Green Hills was a high-quality facility. Amy’s father had died fourteen years earlier and it gave her peace of mind to know her mother was taken care of, even though making the monthly payments had been a struggle since the divorce. She’d fallen a couple of months behind, but she could catch up. She opened another window and looked up her credit card balances, which had increased in recent months. There were two more weeks until the next alimony payment, and then she could make a dent in the bills. Her new job didn’t pay for much, but she needed to gain the work experience so she could move on to a more suitable position. Her first paycheck would cover something, even if only a trip to the grocery store.
Amy toyed with the idea of taking the kids down to Florida to visit Grandma over Thanksgiving. It could be a bonding experience, a lesson for them to appreciate their own mom before she found herself in the same spot. Elizabeth would be stunned by Phoebe’s appearance, even if she hadn’t lost her memory. She wouldn’t recognize her granddaughter with her skeletal frame, black nail polish, and the clothing that made her look as if she was a member of a homeless motorcycle gang.
Amy closed out her emails and put her laptop into sleep mode, hoping to also put her worries over her mother to rest. At least she had a job now. She headed to the refrigerator to grab a quick lunch before she drove to work.
Thirty minutes later, Amy pushed through the glass door of the main office, trading the smell of rubber-soled gym shoes and the laughter of teens in the hallway for the stale coffee odor and beeping noises inside. Lydia leaned back in her chair, holding the phone to her ear and eyeing Amy. The office manager was dressed in layers of beige, a permanent scowl glued to her colorless lips. Sucking in her abdomen, Amy slipped past the front desk and into the creaky office chair next to her cubicle. A scuff on the tip of her leather flats caught her eye. She slid her foot under the chair. After seeing the way Lydia dressed, she wouldn’t waste any energy worrying about her shoe.
Amy fired up her computer and logged into the system with her password. She opened her new email account and found dozens of emails since she’d last logged in on Monday. She’d barely started skimming through them when the smell of mashed sunflower seeds and orange soda wafted over her shoulder. She swiveled her chair, finding Lydia hovering behind her, breathing through her open mouth.
“Oh. Hi, Lydia.”
“Hi.” Lydia stared at her for an uncomfortable number of seconds.
Amy shifted her weight, wondering if Lydia had spotted Phoebe changing classes in her gothic clothes. Had Principal Albright noticed her daughter’s altered look, too? People would think she was a terrible mother. Humiliation prickled through her.
Lydia finally spoke. “I sent you an email this morning. We need to clean up the spreadsheets for the facilities department. The guy who had this job last year left it a mess.”
Amy exhaled, relieved Lydia hadn’t mentioned anything about Phoebe’s appearance. “Okay. Will do.”
The homely woman turned and shuffled back to her post, the air lightening with each step she took further away. Amy scanned the emails and found the one Lydia had sent her this morning, entitled Facilities Spreadsheet. Just before she clicked on it, another email a few rows down caught her eye. The subject line read Poetry Club.
The mention of poetry club was too much for Amy to ignore. Elena Mayfield, Phoebe’s new English teacher, had sent the message to the entire staff. Amy clicked on it, her eyes racing through the words.
One of the students recently named on Ravenswood’s “confidential” watch list, Rowan Hasloff, has indicated an interest in poetry. I’ve started a poetry club in my classroom on Tuesdays after school in order to foster his connection to the school. I’ve done extensive research on adult intervention into teen violence and experts agree that the best way to prevent acts of violence by students is to make them feel connected to their school. I hope other teachers and staff members will consider sponsoring similar clubs, should a need arise. It would be wonderful to be able to work in an atmosphere filled with positive organizations and clubs rather than stigmatizing “watch lists.”
Amy’s eyes backed up and reread the email. She’d heard quiet rumblings in the teachers’ lounge about a watch list, the words always spoken in a whisper and with a look of consternation, but she didn’t know much else about it. She supposed she wouldn’t have known about it if the list was confidential. The name Rowan Hasloff didn’t sound familiar.
She glanced toward a shelf on a nearby wall where several yearbooks from the previous year were stacked in a row. As soon as Lydia stood up to deliver a bundle of papers to Principal Albright’s office, Amy left her chair and grabbed one of the yearbooks. Returning to the relative privacy of her cubicle, she skimmed through the last names beginning with “H” from each class until she found him.
He’d been a sophomore last year, the same grade as Phoebe. The boy in the photo appeared to have rolled out of bed moments earlier, his unkempt black hair at least six months overdue for a haircut. Heavy kohl liner encircled his eyes, but the deadened pupils stared toward her with a chilling gaze. Rowan’s ghostly skin glowed under the light of the camera. A metal stud shone from his nostril, a nose piercing. The dingy fabric of his coat blended with his hair, making it difficult to decipher where one ended and the other began.
Amy sucked in her breath, wondering if drugs were involved. She considered putting an end to Phoebe’s foray into poetry if only to prevent her from coalescing with this sullen boy.
The bell announcing the start of fifth hour rang just as Vice Principal Mittal rushed out the door of Albright’s office with a solemn look on her face.
“I’m heading to the Midwestern School Alliance Consortium,” she said in Lydia’s direction as she hurried out the door.
Lydia tipped her head and wobbled back to the front desk.
Amy closed the yearbook and refocused on her screen, opening the link to the attached facilities spreadsheet. She scanned the numbers, identifying several possible errors. She’d need to check the actual account balances to make sure everything added up properly. She rose from her chair and approached Lydia, who had just picked up the receiver. The office manager held up her index finger.
“Hi, Elena. It’s Lydia from the office. You have fifth hour free, right…? Principal Albright would like to speak to you… Okay.” Lydia hung up the phone and huffed. “These young teachers. They’re always trying to push the boundaries. She didn’t even get permission from Albright first.”
“For the poetry club?”
Lydia nodded. “You saw the email, too, huh?”
“Who’s Rowan Hasloff?”
Lydia leaned dangerously close to Amy’s ear and lowered her voice. “Long trench coat, lots of piercings. He’s a real loner. He got suspended last year. Kicked out of private school before that. Scary.”
Amy leaned into her heels, a hot flash streaking through her. The situation was even worse than she’d imagined. Before she could formulate her request to Lydia for access to the accounts, Elena Mayfield pushed through the office door wearing a floral wrap dress and tall, brown leather boots. Her doll-like face held a stoic look.
Lydia waved toward the closed door to the principal’s office. “He’s ready for you, ma’am.”
Elena gave a nod, hiked a messenger bag up further on her shoulder, and strode through the door.
Lydia’s eyes followed the defiant teacher. She lowered her chin, several more chins forming underneath. “She better get off her high horse or she’s not going to last very long.”
Eleven
Jane
Fifth period, my cold glass of H2O in the desert heat, my island paradise in a turbulent ocean. This was my free hour every day. I couldn’t survive without it. Usually, I hung out at my desk and graded papers or reviewed the next day’s assignment, but today was September 20, the third Wednesday of the school year, the day before Curriculum Night. My back pressed into a couch next to a window in the teachers’ lounge as I reviewed my speech for tomorrow night’s main event. Someone had tossed a rotten banana into the trash bin, and I swallowed back the stench.
The door flew open and Elena rushed inside, her lips pinched and a sheen of sweat covering her normally perfect skin. She perched on a chair across from me.
“Everything okay?”
Her eyes darted around the empty room. “Did you see my email?”
“Huh? No.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my email list, finding the one Elena had sent less than an hour earlier. My head lowered as I read the words, my stomach plummeting in disbelief. “You shouldn’t have sent this, Elena. The social worker’s email about the watch list was an accident. Albright is going to be pissed.”
“Yeah. I know. I just came from his office.” She smoothed down her skirt with her palms. “I have to meet with Jefferson after school. Review protocol, or some bullshit like that.”
I stared at her, wondering how she could be so oblivious to the fact that she was dangling off the edge of a cliff, her safety rope about to snap.
“Elena, you should check with me, or Jefferson, before you send stuff like this.” I held up my phone. “This will get you fired.”
“Albright seemed angrier that I didn’t wait for him to approve my poetry club. It was only one meeting. I tried to explain that we can’t waste time when it comes to connecting with the kids who need it most.” She lowered her eyelids. “There’s too much bureaucracy in this place. It’s killing me.”
“Welcome to teaching.”
Elena’s nose crinkled. “It smells like rotten bananas in here.” She stood up and peered into the bin, before dragging it to the far corner of the room and resuming her position on the chair. Her sunflower necklace reflected the light.
I watched her, proud of myself for heeding Craig’s advice and not mentioning the necklace. I glanced away from the sunflower pendant and toward the bullet-pointed list in my hand. “I’m preparing for Curriculum Night.”
“I’m going to wing it,” Elena said, her eyes already glued to the open page of a poetry book in front of her.
“Really?” I asked, remembering how nervous I’d been before my first Curriculum Night presentation at Ravenswood. I’d given the same speech for the last seven years, with only minor alterations for AP Chemistry versus Organic Chemistry. As much as I wanted to blow it off, I’d learned the hard way that I had to be ready for the inevitable questions and challenges from overly enthusiastic parents. The ones who worked in the science field—the doctors, chemistry professors, and research scientists—were usually the worst. The best way to deal with their challenges was to invite them to get involved. “You don’t think the traffic light experiment is the best way to demonstrate oxidation interference? By all means, help your brilliant teenage scientist set up a booth at the science fair and show us how it’s really done!” It was amazing how quickly the parents backed off.
Soon, I’d be a parent too. Maybe I’d see things from a different perspective, but I swore to myself I’d shave my head before I talked in a condescending way to my kid’s teacher. Unless he was a genuinely crappy teacher, like Sean Mullens, who taught ninth-grade biology. He phoned it in big time. Maybe I’d be a little snarky with him.
I was three-quarters of the way through reciting my practice presentation in my head when the door to the teachers’ lounge creaked opened. Jefferson rushed inside, head jerking in different directions until he spotted Elena and me. He angled toward us with an awkward stride, his eyes popping from his concave eye sockets like supersaturated orbs.
“I thought I’d find you in here.”
Elena lowered her book and straightened her shoulders. “I already talked to Albright.”
“I know. I talked to him, too.” Jefferson raised his fists to his face and dropped them to his sides. “You can’t do that. If you have a problem with the way the school is handling things, come talk to me directly.”
“Yep. I get it.”
He paced two steps to the side, then back again, his eyes darting toward me and then back to Elena. “Should we go somewhere more private?”
Elena looked at me and shook her head. “No. She’s fine.”
Jefferson threw back his head and let out a dramatic sigh. “Why didn’t you wait for the poetry club to get approved? We talked about the rules. You’re making me look like I can’t do my job.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to have to write you up. It’ll be part of your record.”
“Do what you have to do.”
He grimaced, inching closer to Elena. “Are you ready for Curriculum Night tomorrow?”
Elena forced a smile. “Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.” She motioned toward me. “Jane was just going over her presentation.”
I pressed my lips together, hoping to avoid any unnecessary conversation with the jumpy man.
