Like It Never Happened (26 page)

“Sweetheart,” he began. “There's something I have to tell you.”

I had this idea that he would say “I'm gay,” and it was such an absurd idea that I giggled out loud. Clearly I needed more sleep.

He looked at me like I was insane. “Why are you laughing?”

I stopped.

“When Gladstone called to tell me the investigation was over, and I went down to the school to pick up your things, well, I was very frustrated.” Dad so calmly pronounced his frustration, I had to suppress another smile. “They put you through a lot of hell, based on what? A blind accusation, that's what. So I wanted to make sure the kid would be punished. Suspension, even expulsion, seemed appropriate.”

He paused to study my expression. I wondered when I should mention my decision to never go back to school.

“At first they insisted on keeping the kid's identity a secret. Well, I know what that means in this district: money. Incidentally, I have money too, and I am not above seeking revenge when one of my daughters is wronged.”

I started to feel excited. If Charlie was the one to really suffer at the end of this, that would be okay with me. Except, I remembered, Charlie's family didn't have any money.

“When I threatened as much, they told me the student's name. Frankly, I was a little shocked, but her family has suggested that the two of you have personal issues—”

“Her?”

My breath caught in my throat. I saw Liane in her tree house, smiling with her lips wrapped around a cigarette. Personal issues. Jesus Christ.

“Tess Dunham,” said my father.

My mind went completely blank.

“Who?”

“You remember Tess. Her family invited you to their beach house two summers ago.”

“Remember her?” My heart revved. “I see her every day.”

I shut my eyes and heard Tess sobbing on the other side of the locked door. Half asleep, I had imagined the face in the doorknob was hers. Two screws for eyes and a keyhole mouth.

“Rebecca, can you explain why Tess would do something like this?” Dad's voice was like an echo, originating a million miles away.

Not possible. It had to be Charlie.

“Tess's parents told the school that you two have
personal issues
best left
unstirred
by disciplinary action.” Dad was having a hard time sounding sincere. I knew he probably longed to wring Tess's neck. He had never liked her, what with the
I
♥
MY
VAGINA
T-shirt and all.

“So far, Tess has been asked to write a formal letter of apology to both you and your teacher.” Dad seemed to think this was about as helpful as Tess leading us in a sing-along.

“A letter of apology?” I wondered how that would go.

“It's not enough,” he asserted. “Rebecca, we are trying to understand why this happened. Of course, Mom and I are relieved to learn that nothing was going on—that you've always been just as safe at your school as we thought. But what Tess did—well, it was a very serious accusation, and it could have had enormous consequences. Your school is going to need as much information as possible.”

Dad was straining the muscles around his eyes, so eager for me to supply the missing pieces of the puzzle. Like some small misunderstanding had prompted Tess to accuse me of having sex with our teacher. I pulled her hair, she stole my ice cream, I vandalized her locker, she put an embarrassing photo of me on the Internet. I spread a rumor. She spread a bigger one. At such a perfectly idiotic and teenage sequence of events, the adults could simply roll their eyes.

And the thing was, I understood. It made sense to me. I kept trying to block out that night at the beach because I wanted so badly to consider Tess on the terms we'd agreed to: costars always, friends when necessary. Just two members of the Essential Five.

But Tess didn't possess my talent for pretending.

“I guess she's always been jealous of me,” I said. It was the tiniest fraction of the enormous truth. “She's auditioned for every play since sophomore year and I always get the lead.” I forced a shrug. My shoulders seemed to weigh a ton.

Dad waited for more.

“I mean . . .” My voice wavered, I guess at the mere idea of exposing him to the truth. Not talking about sex was, like, our number one rule.

“Look,” I said with a sigh. “A few weeks ago, Tess was joking around about Mr. McFadden hitting on her.”

Dad looked alarmed.

“He totally didn't. She was just being dumb. Anyway, I defended him, because he's always been nice to me and he's, like, a
good
director.”

My
good
came out strangely impassioned. Dad winced a little, like he was having trouble erasing whatever image had been haunting him.

“Anyway,” I sped up, “Tess knew about Mr. McFadden driving me home a couple of times . . .” I paused for half a second. How
had
she known about him driving me home on Halloween? I had only told Charlie. “So maybe she just jumped to conclusions? I guess she was spying on me when she saw us in the parking lot. Then she just blew the whole thing way out of proportion.”

My father was tempted to believe me, I could tell. His shoulders had visibly relaxed. “Gladstone did seem to think she was motivated by concern, at least on some level,” he mused.

“How'd he get the truth out of her?” For weeks, I had been watching Charlie's every move, wondering how he could appear so guiltless. I hadn't been watching Tess at all.

“When Detective Bunt found nothing to suggest your director had crossed any lines, she asked Tess to repeat her story. Tess had already mixed up her claims once before. This time she became, well, rather emotional, and confessed she knew nothing beyond what you admitted yourself. The rides home, and your . . . chat with him in the parking lot.”

Of course it wasn't Charlie. Charlie Lamb always stuck to his story.

“The school is going to issue a statement assuring everyone the story is false,” said Dad. “You don't have to go back before winter break, but when you do return, you'll have nothing to worry about.”

Sometimes it shocked me, how little my father understood about the world.

“I'm getting pretty tired,” I hinted. “This has been fairly overwhelming.”

Dad stood and moved slowly toward the door. I could tell he had something left to say.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to forgive your mother.”

Propping myself up on my elbows, I blinked at him.

“Perhaps not tonight. But as soon as you're able.”

“Isn't she supposed to forgive me?” I asked.

He ran his fingers through his thin hair. “No,” he said. “Because you didn't do anything wrong.”

It wasn't true. I had done a hell of a lot of things wrong. But still, I thought I understood what he meant.

I
n the morning I went downstairs wearing my blanket like a cape, intending to sneak a bowl of cereal up to my room. I found my mother staring intently at the little television she kept on the kitchen counter. It was playing a commercial for antibacterial wipes.

“What's going on?” I asked.

She shushed me.

The commercial was soon replaced by the intro to the local news—the same station whose meteorology services I had advertised as a child. A woman with spherical hair and a red blazer began, “Charges were never pressed against the Bickford Park teacher accused of
having an affair
with his sixteen-year-old student. Investigators found no evidence to support the claims made by an anonymous third party. The school has released a statement assuring parents that the stories
were
fabricated, and the teacher's record clean. However, Stephen McFadden
has
voluntarily resigned from his role as the performing arts director.”

As she spoke, the screen showed footage of our curtain call for
The Seagull
. I was just a blurry figure receiving a white object from my director while the audience roared. Of course, the white object was my taxidermied puffin, but you couldn't really tell. Most likely somebody's parents had provided the station with the video. Only enthused mothers ever brought cameras to our performances.

The screen switched to a shot of a reporter standing outside my school. In the background, Mr. McFadden emerged from the building carrying a box. His cheeks were covered in stubble and he was wearing black jeans.

The reporter shoved a microphone in his face and asked, “Sir, any advice for your fellow teachers vulnerable to false accusations?”

He shook his head and pushed forward.

Aggressively, the reporter edged in front of him. “Do you think you will ever forgive the student who invented the evidence against you?”

I recognized the smirk on Mr. McFadden's lips. Behind his expression simmered something he would not hold back. “I don't think it's my forgiveness she's going to want.”

The segment ended. I was still standing in the kitchen with my mother. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

“Well,” she said, “at least they didn't use your name.”

Before I could change my mind I announced, “I want to switch schools.”

At first her face hardened: a programmed Mom-response to a ludicrous request. Then she studied me, wrapped in my purple comforter. I was still about three inches shorter than she.

“We'll talk about it,” she said quietly.

Forgetting all about my cereal, I shuffled back to bed.

On Thursday afternoon, Liane knocked on the front door. She was wearing her best skinny jeans and had drawn little wings in the corners of her eyelids. I hadn't left the house since Monday and looked about as frightening as you would expect. My hair was in two greasy braids and my faded
Oklahoma!
T-shirt had a hole in the armpit.

“Want to take a drive?” asked Liane, as cool as ever. Her mother's car was parked in our driveway.

What it really came down to—the reason I forgave her so damn quickly—was the look she had flashed me when she thought I was the enemy. With one arm thrown across Charlie's back, Liane had disowned me on nothing but blind faith.

Incidentally, I could really use that kind of loyalty.

Without breathing a word to my parents, I slipped into my sneakers and followed Liane to her mother's car. I hadn't even known she had her license. Memories of a yearlong drama entitled
Mary Loses Her Shit Over the Volkswagen Stick Shift
had so far dissuaded me from asking Dad for driving lessons.

Liane made a left on Hawthorne, heading toward downtown. Neither of us said anything. To find myself in anyone's company—let alone hers—was fairly shocking. Since Monday I had mostly been eating Rolos and watching
Gossip Girl
reruns. I was going to quit watching just as soon as Chuck and Blair admitted their true feelings for each other, or once I regained interest in living my life. Whichever came first.

Of course, the Hawthorne Bridge was up, meaning we had no choice but to join the line of cars on the ramp and wait for some freight ship to pass. Liane took a deep breath.

Her apology started small, with two cracked words. Then it cascaded.

“When we got to school that morning, Charlie was so pale. Like somebody had died. He told us you'd done something really, really bad.”

Liane turned to me, but I stared straight ahead at the rows of brake lights. My hands were all cold and clammy.

“After he explained what people were saying, Tim said it probably wasn't true, that someone just had a score to settle with Mr. McFadden. Charlie
leveled
him with this look, like he knew it was true. He looked so upset.”

Charlie, I knew, had a whole arsenal of alarming facial expressions.

“He was there early to retake his chem test, so he heard about the accusation first. I guess by the time we got to school, he had made up his mind.”

“Made up his mind?” I wondered how much Liane understood about Charlie Lamb's mind.

“Like, that none of us were going to defend you.”

I forced a laugh. “Nice boyfriend.”

Once I had realized it was Tess and not Charlie who had invented the story, I had wondered why Charlie went along with it so readily. But then I considered his options. How could Charlie rush to my defense when he thought the rumors might actually be true? He couldn't risk the whole school knowing Charlie Lamb had been played.

Liane's eyes were wet, but otherwise she looked as placid as always. “I was pretty mad at you,” she said.

I bristled.

“I guess I always knew you liked Charlie. But I just wanted to matter more than him. To you, I mean. I know that's stupid.”

I let my head fall back against the seat. It wasn't stupid. But who had ever made smart choices with Charlie's lips pressed against hers? Neither one of us.

“Pretty much immediately, Charlie was just his usual self, going on about how we should, like, form a new thespian troupe. He told me I should have been Blanche all along, which isn't true. You were perfect as Blanche. And I loved playing Stella.”

She looked at me for confirmation. I nodded.

“He was so nonchalant about the whole thing, I started to doubt he knew anything for sure. Once it got out that Tess made the whole thing up, I stopped speaking to her.”

“Everyone knows?” Information caught fire fast at Bickford Park Alternative School.

“She broke down sobbing in Principal Gladstone's office. The office aides saw. Her parents had to come get her, then your parents showed up, so it was pretty obvious.”

I didn't say anything. I was staring down at my bleach-stained sweatpants, wishing I had taken half a minute to put on normal clothes.

“It's such an insane thing to do, to make up a story like that. She ruined everything.” Liane spoke evenly, a few tears still clinging to her cheekbones. “It was all so fake—the Essential Five, our supposed
reverence
for the stage. We didn't even know one another. Like, I had no idea Tess was so fucking insane.” She laughed kind of desperately.

“Maybe Tess and Charlie should get together,” I joked. “They have a lot in common.”

Red lights flashed on and off as the line of cars inched forward. Liane reached up to adjust her rearview mirror.

“I have to tell you something.” In one breath, before I could change my mind, I confessed, “Tess and I were friends before the Essential Five.”

Liane stared at me, arm still raised.

“At the end of ninth grade,” I added.

“Seriously?” Liane sounded intrigued, but also wary, as we merged into traffic on the bridge.

I was quiet for a second, searching for the right words. “So halfway through the summer, not last summer but the one before, her family invites me to Seaside for a week.” My heart raced, like in the moments before an audition. “And Tess gets this idea that we should lose our virginities? Or, actually,” I corrected myself, “just mine. Tess made me think she had lost hers years ago.”

Liane rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

“So in Seaside we meet these boys, and we go on the bumper cars, and they won't stop bumping me.”

Now she kind of choked. “They won't stop bum—”

“Let me finish! So we decide to sneak out and meet the boys on the beach. Tess starts kissing the good-looking one, Jason. And I try to make out with the other one, Connor, but he's a really bad kisser. And I was getting pretty concerned that, like, kissing in general was just terrible.”

“It's not.”

“Oh, I know,” I assured her, and promptly blushed, realizing we were citing the same source: one Charlie Lamb.

“So everyone's drinking Heineken,” I continued.

“Blech.”

“So I just leave. I go back to the house and get into bed.”

“Good plan.”

“But I wake up a little while later because Tess has sneaked both guys through her window, and she's sent Connor into my room.”

Liane accelerated up Jefferson Street, past Portland State University.

“And he tries—” My voice wavered. It was a hard story to tell. “Like he tries to force me? I keep saying no, and he basically just keeps going.” Now my narration was laced with nervous laughter—the kind that revealed exactly how unfunny I thought it all was.

Liane pulled up to a stop sign. “Oh god, Rebecca.” We were the only car at the intersection, but she didn't move.

“So I kneed him in the balls.”

She half gasped, half laughed.

“I told him to run. Which he did. He crawled out the window. But I guess Tess was, like, not as worldly as we always thought. Because a while later she was pounding on my door, crying. But I had locked it and I just . . . kept it locked.”

Liane's expression was impossible to read. “Did she tell him no, like you did?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe something in between.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like, sleeping with him was her big plan, right? But I heard them through the wall. She was, you know, upset.”

“Something in between means no.” Liane sounded certain. More certain than I had ever been.

As my stomach tied itself in knots, I struggled not to cry; I was so tired of people crying. But I guess I had thought that maybe Liane would dismiss this story as inconsequential—something that couldn't possibly relate to current events. Something that couldn't possibly be my fault.

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked, sounding desperate. I had never been able to figure it out.

Liane stared vacantly into the intersection.

“I mean, was I supposed to go in there and stop it?”

Again, she said nothing.

“Is that what you would have wanted? If you had been Tess?”

A car pulled up behind us and Liane was forced to step on the gas. We ascended the base of the West Hills, where the houses were all stately and symmetrical.