Like It Never Happened (23 page)

S
chool on Friday was mostly a blur
.
Every time the bell rang and the halls filled with the usual frantic energy, it seemed impossible to me that everyone was just carrying on with their lives. It was like being in bed with the flu and watching TV characters run around and fall in love, when you can't even remember what it feels like to be healthy.

The day ended and I still had no information, no idea of what was going to happen to Mr. McFadden. My feet carried me to the office. The secretary's face hardened when she saw me, but I figured if they could ask me so many questions, I could ask some of my own.

“I need to see Principal Gladstone.” I stood up straight, trying to appear indifferent to the secretary's irritation.

“He's very busy.”

“Please.”

“You need a referral. First make an appointment with your guidance counselor. When and if he decides it's necessary, you can see Principal Gladstone. He has an opening next week.”

The resolve of a much braver person seeped into my voice. “You know why I need to see him!”

She squinted at me, clearly annoyed that I had shattered her shield of formality. “Do you have new information?”

“There is no
new
information because there is no
old
information!” I shouted. “This whole thing is a joke and I need—” The blood was rushing to my heart, and I paused to catch my breath. “I need to know when it's going to end.”

Every muscle in her face went taut. It was really pathetic, I thought, that she would voluntarily work in a high school. She should get a life. When I was her age I wasn't coming anywhere near this place.

“Here's some advice,” she hissed. Behind her, the copy machine released a groan. She swiveled in her chair to confirm our privacy. “Don't appear so concerned about your teacher. It looks really bad. If nothing happened between you two, you've only got yourself to worry about.”

I brought my hands to my face. Anger rattled my skull. Through the tips of my fingers I could feel my pulse, racing.

“Just go home,” she said, taking a stab at kindness. “This will be over soon.”

I could see how, from her perspective, if I had done nothing wrong I had nothing to fear. But she didn't know about the things I'd done that were maybe wrong, or a little wrong, or at least not prudent. She couldn't trace my lawless feelings back to the moment I first loved him—or to the moment I became the kind of girl who would fall in love with her teacher. This situation was a mess, but it wasn't complete chaos.

The secretary rolled her chair toward the copier, done with me. I tried not to scream. I tried to ground myself in a world where everything was ultimately okay and I was always safe.

But this was not that world.

I meant to go home, I swear. But when I left the office and stepped into the mostly empty hallway, I saw Charlie at his locker, clutching a basketball. Because of course, now that the play was canceled, might as well shoot some hoops.

With my spine straight and my shoulders squared, I went to him. Shielded by his locker door, he didn't see me until I was inches away. His eyes went wide and he half jumped, like he was actually scared of me. But Charlie Lamb gained composure quickly, running his fingers through his hair and twisting his mouth into a smirk.

“Rebecca Rivers. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He sneered at me, like I was Blanche DuBois, exposed as the whore of the Hotel Flamingo.

“Tell them you made it up.” I stuck out my jaw. “Go to the office right now and admit it. This could ruin Mr. McFadden's life. What did he ever even do to you?”

Charlie sighed, like he was sick of this game. “I didn't tell them anything,” he said. “It wasn't me.”

“Yeah?” I challenged. “Then who was it?”

For a second he looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea. But if you want to tell everyone I'm the rat, go ahead. Works for me.”

I shook my head frantically. “Nobody else could have made this up,” I asserted. “You're the only person who knows how I—”

Charlie slammed his locker shut, grinning. The clang echoed in the empty hall. “Maybe nobody could have made it up,” he said slowly. “But anybody could have seen you.”

“There was nothing to see.” My voice wavered.

He released a fake, adult-sounding chuckle. “Please.” He shook his head. “You think I can't tell when you're lying?”

My lips parted. A thousand comebacks dissolved on the tip of my tongue.

“Besides,” he said, bouncing the ball hard against the floor, “we all saw the way he looked at you.”

O
n Saturday morning my mother broke her vow of silence to inform me that Mary was on her way over. She was taking me to get my dress fitted. My feelings regarding my sister were mixed at the moment, but at least I could hope for a distraction from drowning in panic. Mary was good for nothing if not talking about herself.

Before I went outside to wait, my mother forced a dumb hat over my head. The hat had a pompom, but it was freezing outside, so I didn't protest. It wasn't like I had anyone to attract. It would be better, I reasoned, to never attract anyone ever again.

Mary pulled into the driveway blasting The Smiths. She didn't really look over as I sank into the front seat. I knew she had her own reasons to hate me. Obviously, I should never have read Nadine's letter or hidden the package, but lately, I had kind of forgotten to feel guilty about it. The crime I had committed did not exactly measure up to the one I hadn't.

Mary lowered the volume on the song about the double-decker bus crash. “Hey.” She sounded all too casual.

“Hey,” I said warily.

“Nice hat.”

I yanked it off. “Are you still mad at me?”

Mary turned onto Grand Street, where we immediately got stuck in traffic. “For what?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes. “For reading a letter from your ex-girlfriend.”

“And then hiding it under your bed,” Mary added.

“Yes.”

Mary changed lanes abruptly, cutting off a cabdriver. “I'm not mad at you.”

I stared hard at her profile. Mary was pretending to have no peripheral vision.

“You're not?”

“It was a terrible thing, what you did.” A smile played at her lips. “But given that a number of authority figures think you slept with your teacher, I am going to give you a break. You have my permission to stop feeling shitty about it.”

“Wow, thanks,” I deadpanned.

“To be honest, it amuses me that you took her letter so seriously. When I was your age I took those kinds of things very seriously too.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Love things.”

“Love isn't serious?”

Mary put on an excessively coy expression. “Sometimes love is dead serious,” she said. “But mostly it's a joke.”

“That makes no sense,” I said.

The bride-to-be slammed on her horn; a Range Rover was taking half a second too long to react to a green light. Then Mary's voice sank an octave. “I'm sorry I disappeared the other night,” she said. “After you got home from your meeting with the cops, I could sense that Mom and Dad were going to lose it, and I didn't trust myself to react appropriately. But I should have stayed. I should have made sure you were okay.”

I waited for the question. She was the only person who knew I had considered kissing Mr. McFadden to be an actual possibility. But Mary didn't ask me any questions.

Drops of rain died against the windshield. Mary uncapped a tube of lip gloss and stretched her neck toward the mirror. Weekend traffic was at a standstill.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?” I wasn't as nervous around my sister as I used to be. With my own scandal on record, I felt more like her equal.

“Nope,” she said.

“Why not?” I was practically pouting.

Spotting a parking space on the next block, Mary veered in front of a competing car. “Because I know you didn't do it.”

Expertly, she backed into the space.

In the dress shop, the seamstress referred to my sister as “the future Mrs. Cline,” which made me feel kind of sad. It hadn't occurred to me that my sister and I wouldn't share a last name anymore. The mirror in the fitting room was edged with lightbulbs, just like the mirrors backstage. I let my ugly winter clothes fall into a damp heap on the carpet and I slipped the bridesmaid dress over my head. For the first time in forever, I liked the way I looked. I didn't know if the dress was more beautiful than my Blanche DuBois costume, but it felt somehow like it had been made for me.

When I emerged from the fitting room, the seamstress made me stand on a pedestal while she examined the dress from every angle, pinching and poking at the fabric. Mary stood with her arms crossed, nodding along with the seamstress's plans.

I allowed myself one good look into the three-way mirror. For a second, pleasure kept my stomach from gnawing at itself. Even my headache threatened to fade.

“She looks very beautiful,” concluded the seamstress.

Back in my stale clothes, I stood beside my sister while she made the final payments on our dresses. The seamstress whispered the price and Mary slid our mother's MasterCard across the counter.

“Don't worry about it,” said Mary, noticing my surprise. “Mom spent more updating the guest bedroom last year.”

“How do you even know that?” Mary had not exactly been a frequent visitor last year.

“Because when I asked if the dresses were too expensive, Mom said, ‘Don't worry about it, I spent more updating the guest bedroom last year.'”

Behind the counter, the seamstress pursed her lips in disapproval. She told Mary the dress would be ready in a week.

On the sidewalk, I remembered Bunt saying it would take two weeks to determine if there was any evidence against Mr. McFadden. One week had already passed. So far, I hadn't really believed in the possibility of evidence. Mr. McFadden had never sent me a suspicious e-mail; he had never called or texted me personally. But suddenly, it occurred to me to wonder: What if he had wanted me like I had wanted him? And what if there was evidence of that?

A collection of unsent letters.

Pictures of me from last year's shows.

His own dreams, transcribed in some kind of dream journal.

Mary was walking toward the car, saying, “So at my last fitting that woman tries to tell me I can't take the dress home, because Jeffrey will see it, which apparently is bad luck. And I wanted to laugh in her face. It's not the 1950s, and not only has Jeffrey
seen
it, but he's already torn it off of me multip—”

She realized I was not moving. “What's wrong?” she asked, backtracking. “Have I scandalized you? Did you think I was saving myself for my wedding night?”

I just stared at her, paralyzed by the possibility that he actually loved me back.

“Seriously, Rebecca.” The rain was making spots on Mary's coat. People moved briskly all around us, unconcerned. “What's wrong?”

He could have written things down. He could have told other people about me. It would be the worst possible thing.

“You're scared?” she asked.

I managed to nod.

“You didn't do anything wrong. It will be okay, I promise.”

I reminded myself to breathe. There would not be any evidence, because Mr. McFadden had not loved me. He was not that kind of guy. I would never fall for the kind of guy who lusts after teenagers.

I would never fall for the kind of guy who keeps a dream journal.

Mary was hugging me, pressing my face into her scarf, which smelled like cigarettes and vanilla.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she added.

She wasn't exactly telling the truth, but it was such an appealing lie.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” said Mary as we merged into traffic. “I think it would be good for you.”

“Okay.” Taking advantage of the offer, I asked, “Do you love Jeffrey as much as you loved Nadine?”

Mary made a small sound, like I had shot a rubber band at her cheek. But I didn't take back the question. She clearly felt obligated to distract me from the present; we might as well discuss the past.

“It's complicated,” she sighed. “I'll never love anyone like I loved Nadine, but I do a better job loving Jeffrey. He brings out the best in me, whereas I treated Nadine like dirt.”

I considered this.

“You have to give me some credit,” she went on. “You don't really know him. I admit his family is kind of insufferable, but they have always been nice to me. Even though I'm sure I'm not who they imagined for their son.” She arched her back over the steering wheel, tapping on the brakes as we approached the bridge. “Besides, look at our family.”

Our family obviously wasn't perfect. But we were nicer to be around than the Clines, weren't we?

“He plays golf for a living,” I said, like she might not have noticed.

She shrugged. “He's good at it. It pays. People applaud.” She reached up to unravel her topknot. Her hair cascaded, wild and kinked.

“People applaud very, very quietly,” I said.

Mary laughed until I was almost proud of myself. “So you're not gay?” I asked.

“When I was your age, I thought I was.”

“Why?” What I meant was: How is it possible to be wrong about something like that?

“Because I was in love with my best friend, who was decidedly not a boy. At first I thought I loved her without wanting to touch her. But as it turned out, touching her was good. Better than it had been with boys because, you know, I loved her. And suddenly we had this new way of getting to know each other. Almost like we had just met. It was perfect at first and I thought, if this is what it means to be gay . . . fine. I didn't care if I never liked a boy again.”

“So you
used
to be gay?” I asked, incredulous.

“I used to be in love with Nadine,” she said. “We broke up. The next time I fell in love it was with a man. It's only happened twice.”

We were almost home, and the last thing I wanted was to return to our cold museum of a house. I struggled to think of a response. Finally, as we were turning up Elliott Avenue, I asked, “What about Nadine?”

“Nadine is gay. She would be the first to tell you that.”

Mary stared laconically at the road, adjusting the steering wheel with the tips of her fingers. Then she slowed the car to a crawl. I looked at her hopefully.

“I'm going to see Nadine today,” she said. “I was planning to drop you off and then head over there. But would you like to come with me?” My sister looked sincere, almost vulnerable. “I'm nervous,” she added. “You would be doing me a favor.”