The Good Sister Page 17

  She promptly sent Nicki a private Peeps message: thanks a lot

  The reply: 4 whattttttt?

  joking about my hair

  o that was no joke u need to do something about it Carls its kind of hideous

  Hideous?

  Stung, Carley didn’t reply.

  Maybe that was her first mistake.

  No. Maybe her first mistake was believing that her friendship with her best friend would stay the same even now that they were in high school, growing up, growing apart.

  The hair comment was just the beginning.

  The next one Nicki made was about her weight.

  And then her skin.

  it’s constructive criticism carls, Nicki messaged her, after Carley deleted the latest cruel comment so that no one else would see it.

  Nicki added, this is stuff u can fix, if u rly care

  She did care. A lot. Too much.

  But when she texted Nicki, asking to get together and talk about it, Nicki made excuses. Then she came right out and said it.

  Well, she didn’t actually say it.

  She sent a text: i rly dont think we have much in common nemore

  wht do u mean? Carley texted back with shaky fingers.

  take the hint do you rly need me to spell it out for u?

  No. Carley did not.

  She got the hint.

  That was sometime in early October, when she was still thinking she might eventually become friends with some of the girls at Sacred Sisters. It wasn’t going to be easy, given her shyness. And she’s not exactly experienced at befriending new people, having met Nicki when she was a mere toddler. They had a comfortable circle of friends throughout the parochial school years—friends who sat with them at lunch and worked folded paper fortune tellers with them at recess and invited them to playdates and birthday parties . . .

  Them. Carley and Nicki were a pair, always. Where one went, the other went, and their classmates at Saint Paul’s knew it.

  Some of those girls moved on to Woodsbridge High with Nicki; others scattered to Catholic schools. Not Sacred Sisters, though. It’s too out of the way for most South Towns kids.

  Why didn’t Mom realize that was going to be a problem?

  Why didn’t I?

  How was Carley supposed to make new friends at a school where no one lived in—or even near—her neighborhood? It wasn’t like she could walk home with the other girls after school or stop over on weekends, even if they were friendly—and, hard as it is to remember, some were, sort of, at the beginning of the school year.

  Still, back in the fall—when Nicki dumped her—making new friends wasn’t out of the question, either.

  Not then. Not yet.

  That was before the second phase of Carley’s troubles began, with the bullying at school and online.

  So what is this, then? Phase three? Getting suspended for cheating?

  How much more, Carley wonders, can I take before . . .

  Before what?

  What are you going to do?

  There’s nothing to do, except force herself to get out of bed every morning and go through the motions of another day . . .

  Right?

  She swallows hard, trying not to think of Nicki, who obviously concluded there was another choice after all.

  Come on meet me just for 2 secs

  Reading Gabe’s latest text on her phone, Emma takes a screen shot of the text so that she can show it to Bridget at school tomorrow, then texts back wickedly, sex?

  Of course she knows secs is short for seconds. But she can’t resist flirting with him and holds her breath for the reply, which comes quickly.

  sounds good!

  Wow. He’s interested in her, all right. Too bad she can’t do anything about it right now.

  told u i cant

  y not?

  Martha is still up

  Martha would be Martha Stewart—otherwise known as Mom.

  Gabe has been calling her Martha Stewart—in a derogatory way—ever since the other day, when he found out she bakes cookies from scratch.

  Emma found herself wishing she had a normal mother—the kind who works full-time and buys Oreos—or maybe even no mother at all, like Gabe.

  She’s not sure if his mother left him and his dad or is dead, but either way, she’s out of the picture. And Gabe’s father is never home. Which means Gabe gets to come and go as he pleases.

  Emma, on the other hand, is a prisoner in her room at the moment. On a normal night, Mom would have gone to bed hours ago. But it’s long after midnight and she’s still downstairs in the family room, watching television.

  still up? is Gabe’s reply. what is she a vampire?

  Emma snickers at the idea of her mother in a black cloak and fangs instead of the ratty bathrobe and pajamas she was wearing when Emma snuck downstairs to check on her about an hour ago, the first time Gabe begged her to sneak out of the house and meet him.

  She was hoping to find Mom dozing, in which case she might have actually risked slipping out for a few minutes.

  But her mother was wide awake, and called from the couch, “Em? What are you doing up?”

  “Getting a glass of water.”

  “There are Dixie cups by the sink upstairs.”

  Duh. As if she doesn’t know that. She’s lived in this house fourteen years, and there have always been Dixie cups by the bathroom sink.

  “I want a real glass, and the downstairs faucet is colder.”

  “Well, hurry up and get to bed. It’s a school night.”

  Emma got water and made the return trip up to her room to report to Gabe that she couldn’t meet him. Instead, they video-chatted for about a half hour, mostly about music.

  Gabe told her he plays guitar and asked if she plays any instrument.

  “Piano,” Emma told him—which was stretching it. She took lessons years ago because her mother made her.

  But she really wants Gabe to like her.

  It seems like he does, considering that he’s back again, persistently texting her about meeting him.

  She thumb-types a reply to his last text: MS is not a vampire just a PITA who wont go to bed

  ? is his response.

  it means pain in the—

  no, he cuts in, i mean y wont she go to bed?

  Remembering how he teased her about her cookie-baking mother and, later, about having the perfect all-American family, she writes back, she’s pissed b/c my sister F’d up bigtime @ school and got suspended for a week

  There. That should show him that her family isn’t all that perfect.

  SRSLY??? WAT DID SHE DOO??

  Translation: Seriously? What did she do?

  Emma’s thoughts whirl.

  Rather than tell him the boring truth—cheating on a math test is super lame, in the grand scheme of things—she texts, no clue something pretty bad tho

  as bad as sneaking out of the house to meet me for sex?

  She grins and writes, You mean secs

  nope

  u dont give up do u?

  nope

  too bad its not going to happen. not tonight anyway. how bout 2morrow?

  maybe, he texts back, and then, gtg

  Got to go.

  Disappointed, she signs off, wondering why he’d ended their conversation so abruptly. It’s not like his father would care that he’s still up at this hour. Even when he’s home, he apparently doesn’t care what Gabe does.

  Must be nice, Emma thinks again, slipping beneath her brown and blue comforter and leaning back against the pillows.

  Her mind wanders back to Monday afternoon, when she fooled around with Gabe right here in her room, in her bed, in this very spot.

  Later, when Bridget asked how far they went, Emma said, “All the wa
y.”

  In truth, they didn’t go that far. She was planning to, but then chickened out. After he left, she worried that he’d decided she’s just a tease and lost interest in her.

  If anything, though, it’s been exactly the opposite.

  Next time, Emma promises herself, I really will go all the way with him.

  She can just imagine what her parents would do if they ever found out about that. Look at how they’d reacted to what Carley did.

  Emma has to admit, she was pretty impressed when she heard what her sister did. She didn’t think Miss Goody-Goody had it in her. In fact, she still doesn’t quite believe it. But she eavesdropped on her parents talking and found out that apparently, Carley had admitted to cheating on the test.

  Emma knocked on her bedroom door earlier, wanting to—well, not congratulate her, exactly. More like offer her some support, now that she knows her sister isn’t as straitlaced as she thought.

  “Go away,” Carley said through the door.

  “It’s me, Emma.”

  “I know. Go away.”

  Emma did, annoyed. You’d think Carley would want to talk to the one person who’s on her side—sort of.

  Mom is always saying that someday, she and Carley will be the best of friends again, the way they were when they were little.

  Maybe she’ll actually turn out to be right about something for a change.

  Opening the creaky door just off the kitchen, Angel is greeted by a pungent wave of musty mildew.

  Ah, the cellar.

  That’s what they always called it when they were living in the house, as opposed to the “basement.”

  Back in the late seventies and early eighties, the word “basement,” in Angel’s opinion, evoked pleasant images of finished rec rooms with drop ceilings and wood paneling and indoor-outdoor carpet installed over concrete floors.

  But this dank, rambling cavern beneath the house, with its clammy stone walls, dirt floor, low, cobweb-draped, rudimentary ceiling beams and exposed pipe work . . . this is a cellar.

  Angel quite understandably never spent much time there back then and hasn’t lately, either.

  Unfortunately, at the moment, it’s a necessity.

  The eighteen inches of snow that fell earlier in the week melted rapidly, seeping into the already saturated ground around the house. This flood-prone cellar that was supposed to be somebody else’s problem is Angel’s problem now, and has been for almost two years.

  Tonight, Angel put off dealing with it as long as possible.

  Just like I put off dealing with Carley . . .

  But for different reasons.

  Knowing Carley was going to want to talk about what happened in school today, Angel took perverse pleasure in allowing her to cool her heels for most of the evening. But when they did finally connect, it was hardly satisfying. Carley seemed distant and ended the conversation rather abruptly.

  That isn’t good.

  One problem at a time, though.

  Flashlight in hand, Angel descends the rickety cellar stairs to assess the latest flood damage, shuddering at the memory unearthed by the familiar creaking sounds and echoing drip from somewhere below.

  Water rising in the cellar . . .

  Mother.

  The old chest freezer.

  Angel stops midway down the flight, trying to grasp a thought that swoops in like a twilight bat, only to fly away again.

  What is it about the freezer?

  Why is the thought of it so unsettling all these years later?

  If the power went out—and it often did—Mother would don the rubber waders Father used to wear for creek fishing, and she’d clump down these steps to the freezer. Angel would hear her sloshing across the floor, heaving open the heavy lid, foraging amid the wrapped packets . . .

  They’d have to eat whatever had started to thaw, and it never tasted good, but—“Eat it!” Mother’s voice booms.

  “But the freezer was sitting in all that muddy water . . . what if it’s contaminated? What if I get sick?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! How many times do I have to tell you the freezer is waterproof? Now eat it or I’ll force it down your throat!”

  And she would, and she didn’t care if you gasped and vomited and choked. One time—

  With a shudder, Angel blocks out the memory.

  It’s all right. That was a long time ago. Mother is dead. The freezer is gone. It’s time to move on.

  Angel continues the descent.

  The bottom tread of the stairway has been swallowed by several inches of standing water.

  With a grimace, Angel steps onto it, barefoot, and then the floor.

  Even if those waders were still around, I wouldn’t wear them. I wouldn’t touch anything that reminded me of her.

  But of course, the waders are long gone. The freezer. Mother.

  All gone.

  Angel sloshes across in the general direction of the clogged drain, bare feet scuffing along in the mud.

  Last time, it took nearly half an hour of probing around until the flat edge of the submerged metal grate was located.

  I really should put some sort of marker near the drain for next time. Just a yardstick poking up out of the ground would—

  “Ouch!”

  Big toe stubbing into something that protrudes from the mud, Angel flails and nearly goes down with a splash.

  “Dammit!”

  What the hell was that?

  Not the drain, that’s for sure.

  Angel reaches down into the water and feels around for the offending object.

  There. There it is.

  It feels like some kind of metal bar, or . . .

  No, it’s a handle.

  A handle sticking up from the ground?

  Probing the mud surrounding it, Angel’s fingers encounter a flat, hard, rectangular surface buried beneath a relatively shallow top layer of mud.

  It appears to be some kind of trapdoor in the floor.

  So.

  The old house has revealed yet another secret.

  Staring down at the murky water that obscures it—for now—Angel wonders whether the contents of this compartment will prove to be as interesting as the last.

  Too bad I’m going to have to wait until the water’s gone to find out.

  If there was a pump, or a shop vac, the water could be gone in no time. But that would mean another trip to the hardware store, and . . .

  No. That’s all right.

  Mother always said patience is a virtue.

  Then again, Mother said a lot of things—not all of them true.

  Bitter memories churning once again, Angel resumes looking for the drain in the mud.

  Crawling into bed in the dark beside Thad, Jen looks at the digital clock on the nightstand.

  It’s almost three A.M., but she’s wide awake. She figures she should at least try to get a few hours’ sleep, unlikely as it is that she’ll manage to drift off. Until now, she’s been sitting downstairs in the family room for hours, staring absently at the Weather Channel—the most inane wee-hour programming she could find—and mulling over the bizarre events that unfolded this afternoon.

  As the meteorologist droned on about the freakishly warm weather that’s settled over the Northeast, Jen concluded that the world as she knew it had somehow spun off its axis—not just today, but in the past couple of weeks.

  Yes, somewhere along the way, she woke up to find herself inhabiting this bizarre alternate reality where her reliable, respectable daughter is blatantly cheating on tests and has become a social outcast; where that daughter’s squeamish best friend, who had everything to live for, had slit her own wrists open and bled to death, leaving a shattered mother . . .

  A mother who’s apparently been having a secret affair with none oth
er than Jen’s own first love.

  You don’t know that for sure, she reminds herself as she pushes the down comforter away. Even with the windows cracked open, it’s warm enough tonight with just a sheet and blanket. Too warm.

  An earthy scent wafts in the air. Ordinarily Jen would welcome it as the first hint of spring, but now it brings to mind the cemetery on Tuesday. Standing beside an ominous heap of snow-crusted mud at Nicki’s open grave, watching the white coffin being lowered into the ground . . .

  No. Don’t think about that. Think about something else. Something pleasant.

  Like what? Carley getting suspended?

  After a few moments of restless tossing and turning, Jen realizes that her husband, whose rhythmic, gentle snoring usually lulls her to sleep, is lying awake beside her.

  “Thad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re not sleeping.”

  “No.”

  For a long time, they’re both silent.

  Then Jen asks, “What are you thinking about?”

  “One guess.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m still having a hard time wrapping my brain around it,” Thad says. “She’s such a stickler for rules. She knows the difference between right and wrong.”

  Of course she does. But Jen herself had tried to convince her that not every rule is set in stone.

  Right and wrong . . .

  Black and white . . .

  Did Carley decide there was gray area somewhere in the school’s code of ethics and that it was okay to cheat? Is that the message she took from Monday morning’s conversation?

  Thad sighs. “You know, I don’t think I’d believe it at all if Carley hadn’t admitted it—”

  But she had.

  When Jen arrived at the school this afternoon, she found a stricken-looking Carley waiting for her in the receptionist’s area outside the principal’s office.

  Jen went straight to her as the receptionist picked up the phone to tell Mr. Newcomb she’d arrived.

  Carley sat stiffly within the circle of Jen’s arms until she pulled back to look at her daughter’s angst-ridden face. “What happened? Tell me.”

  “I cheated on my math test on Monday” was the straightforward—and absurd—reply.

  Before a stunned Jen could ask her to elaborate, they were ushered into Mr. Newcomb’s office.