The Good Sister Page 8

“But not on purpose. Not like . . . you know.”

  “The jerk.”

  Mike. Right.

  Frankie didn’t even know the extent of what Mike had pulled. Jen had never confided the whole truth about him: how he’d pressured her to go farther than she wanted to, dumping her several times when she wouldn’t. And then, when she finally did sleep with him senior year, then thought she was pregnant, he told her she’d just have to have an abortion, and broke up with her again when she told him she wouldn’t.

  Of course he came back. He always did. And she took him back every single time for years, until finally she grew up, came to her senses, and realized that Mike Morino was sorely lacking a heart.

  It wasn’t just about how he treated her. It was how he treated other people, as well.

  “This guy,” she told Frankie, after meeting Thad, “just wouldn’t deliberately hurt me or anyone else.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I just know,” she said with a shrug.

  Some deep-seated instinct told her that Thad, a virtual stranger, was obviously kindhearted. So different from Mike, whom she knew well enough to realize that he was capable of hurting others—not just Jen—for the perverse pleasure, it seemed, of inflicting pain.

  The night they met, she and Thad danced to U2’s “The Sweetest Thing.” It became their song, the one they first danced to at their wedding a few years later. The lyrics seemed to have been written for them.

  Blue-eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl . . .

  Those blue eyes, at the moment, are focused on the window opposite the couch. Jen knows that Thad isn’t gazing out at the sun-splashed morning beyond the panes. He’s remembering his lost friend.

  “Chase was a year older,” he tells her, “but we were on the lacrosse team together . . .”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Car accident.”

  “Isn’t it always?” she says, remembering names from tragedies in her own past.

  Jimmy Fazzoleri . . .

  She hadn’t known him; he was in her sister Maddie’s class.

  Ruthie Bell.

  Jen had known her, of course. They were sophomores together at Sacred Sisters when Ruthie was killed. Not friends, not by any means, because . . .

  Because she was Ruthie Bell. Even the name itself is light years away from Chase Rivington. But it comes readily to Jen’s mind, ushered in by the memory of Mike Morino’s cruel streak.

  Ruthie was the gawky, ginger-haired girl everyone made fun of; the girl Jen was thinking about just yesterday afternoon when she was wondering whether Carley’s appearance has anything to do with her being bullied.

  But of course Carley is nothing like Ruthie.

  Anyway, what happened to her daughter at school seems much more insignificant now. At least it wasn’t life and death. At least Carley is alive.

  But somehow, they have to break the news to her that last night, Nicki Olivera took a chef’s knife from a kitchen drawer and slit her wrists.

  Morning sunlight streams across Carley’s bed, falling across the carefully arranged menagerie of stuffed animals at her side and the laptop propped against her pillow.

  She tilts the screen to cut the glare, but it doesn’t help much.

  Why does the sun have to shine today? It hardly ever does at this time of year.

  It hardly ever shines around here, period.

  Nicki is always complaining about the western New York weather. Was always complaining. Past tense. Nicki isn’t in Carley’s life anymore, because she apparently decided she no longer wanted to be best friends.

  But when she was around—always around, always, for as long as Carley can remember—she’d sometimes say, “When I grow up, I’m getting out of here. I’m going to live someplace where it’s always warm and sunny, like Florida or Arizona or L.A.”

  And then Carley, who never wants to move that far from home, would remind her of their plans to be college roommates and then get an apartment together and then, after they were married, live next door to each other. And their kids would play together and their husbands would play golf and they would be best friends, closer than sisters, forever.

  Yeah. Not happening.

  Stupid sun.

  Carley can always go pull the shade down or move the laptop over to her desk, but she’s in the middle of instant messaging with a new friend and she doesn’t want to interrupt it even for a few seconds.

  Finally, somebody gets it.

  Gets her.

  Finally, she has someone to talk to about what’s been going on at school.

  Who would have thought she’d find more comfort in a total stranger she met on the Internet than in anyone she knows in real life?

  QT-Pi: do u think i can evr trust her again?

  Angel 770: y wd u want 2?

  QT-Pi: cuz shes been my BFF 4ever its not like i nvr want 2 see her again

  Angel 770: tru friends dont do what she did 2 u last fall who needs thatttt?

  Carley finds herself nodding. Angel is right. Who needs Nicki?

  QT-Pi: i dont need it not anymore

  Angel 770: good then stay away from her

  QT-Pi: believe me i will

  That isn’t very hard to do now that she and Nicki are in different schools. She just hopes the Olivera family doesn’t show up at ten-thirty Mass tomorrow. Some Sundays they don’t make it to church at all, because Nicki’s mom isn’t as much a stickler about it as Jen’s mom is. Unfortunately, though, they usually do go during Lent.

  They were there last Sunday morning. Ordinarily, Carley and Nicki would have been rolling their eyes at each other in silent agreement that Father Peter’s long-winded sermon was ridiculous. But this time, Carley avoided making eye contact.

  When it was time to go up to receive Communion, she whispered to her mother that she wasn’t feeling well and slipped out to wait for her parents and Emma in the car. Otherwise, she’d have had to come face to face with Nicki as their mothers chatted in the vestibule after Mass.

  If the Oliveras are there tomorrow, she’ll have to do the same thing.

  Or maybe she should just look Nicki right in the eye; stare her down. Make her feel super uncomfortable about how she treated Carley.

  That would be good . . .

  Except I could never pull that off.

  Staring people down isn’t her style. Her style is . . . pretty pathetic. A typical Carley move would be to take one look at Nicki and burst into tears.

  She needs to work on getting a thicker skin—or at least try acting like nothing bothers her.

  Angel 770: u still there qp?

  QP. Short for QT-Pi. It’s Angel’s little nickname for her.

  Nicki has one, too. She’s always called Carley “Carls,” and Carley calls her “Nicks.”

  Well, they did when they were speaking, anyway.

  Okay, enough. Forget Nicki.

  QT-Pi: sry im here just spacing

  Angel 770: yeah its early rite?

  QT-Pi: not as early as where u r!

  Angel lives in California. That means it must be, like, four A.M. there.

  QT-Pi: do u always get up so early?

  Angel 770: u mean do i always stay up so late?

  Carley smiles.

  QT-Pi: night owl?

  Angel 770: yeppppppp

  Beyond her bedroom door, Carley can hear the phone ringing.

  She glances at the computer clock. It’s pretty early for a phone call on a Saturday morning.

  It’s probably Grandma Bonafacio. She and Grandpa are always up early, out and about before the sun comes up, even on weekends. They go to seven-thirty Mass at Our Lady every single day without fail, and then over to Tim Horton’s for coffee with a bunch of old people from church. When Carley was younger, they would often pi
ck up a box of doughnuts and bring it over here afterward. They always remembered to get extra chocolate-frosted ones with sprinkles, Carley’s favorite, and extra powdered sugar with jelly, Emma’s favorite.

  But then one Saturday morning a few years ago, they knocked on the sliding glass door in the kitchen and scared the heck out of Dad, who was standing there in just his boxer shorts pouring coffee. He splashed it and burned himself—plus, his in-laws saw him in his underwear. After that, he told Mom to tell her parents to please call first from now on.

  Grandma and Grandpa weren’t thrilled about that, but they said they’d try. Most of the time, they remember.

  Carley wonders if they’re on their way over with doughnuts. Ordinarily, she’d welcome that. But lately, she doesn’t feel like seeing anyone, not even her grandparents.

  Glancing back at the computer screen, she thinks that might be different if Angel lived close by instead of on the opposite side of the country.

  If she were around, I’d be into seeing her.

  No one else.

  Just Angel, because she understands. She’s been through this, too.

  Angel 770: i wasnt always a night owl but when things started getting bad at school i had a hard time sleeping how about u?

  QT-Pi: same here

  Angel 770: do u take stuff to help u sleep?

  QT-Pi: warm milk and honey doesnt help

  Angel 770: not what i meant

  What did she mean? Drugs? Like sleeping pills?

  Before Carley can reply, another question pops up.

  Angel 770: do u have nightmares 2?

  QT-Pi: major nightmaresssssss the other night i—

  She breaks off typing, hearing the phone ring again.

  Unsettled, she wonders who keeps calling at this hour, and why.

  Maybe she should go downstairs and see what’s up.

  She will—just as soon as she finishes this chat with Angel. She looks back at the screen.

  Angel 770: u there?

  QT-Pi: yeah sorry i—

  Again, she pauses, hearing footsteps creaking up the stairs. Two sets of footsteps; her parents are coming up together, which is as unusual as the fact that the phone keeps ringing.

  So, come to think of it, is the fact that Mom and Dad’s bedroom door was already open when Carley got up and went down the hall to the bathroom earlier. They usually sleep much later than seven on Saturday mornings, and whoever gets up last always makes the bed and opens the shades before leaving the room.

  Today, Carley could see that the bed was unmade and the shades were still drawn, but it didn’t faze her—until now.

  The footsteps approach, and there’s a knock on her door.

  “Sweetie?” Mom calls. “Can we come in?”

  We?

  It’s never a good sign when both parents want to talk to her. In fact, that’s the kind of thing that usually happens only to Emma, who lately manages to get herself into trouble at home or at school every other day. But Carley follows the rules, does her homework, and gets good grades—except in math, but she’s working on it.

  What can this possibly be about?

  Maybe they just want to rehash the whole bullying situation again, try to talk her into switching schools. If that’s the case . . .

  The only person I want to talk about it with is Angel.

  Carley quickly types brb in the instant message window, shorthand for be right back.

  Angel 770: kk wuzup?

  QT-Pi: prnts

  Parents.

  “Carley?” Dad calls through the door. “Are you awake?”

  She hurriedly takes off her glasses, then closes the laptop and stashes it beneath the bed, knocking Bubblegum the stuffed flamingo off in the process.

  The door opens just as she’s settling back against her pillows, still clutching Bubblegum.

  Pretending to stir as if she’s just waking up, she rubs her eyes and looks up at her parents.

  Mom is in her pajamas and bare feet, Dad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, as though they just rolled out of bed. Mom’s obviously been crying.

  Maybe Dad, too, Carley realizes, looking from one to the other.

  Her heart starts pounding and she sits up quickly. “What? What is it?”

  Her parents look at each other.

  Mom opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but only a strange, choking sound comes out.

  “Mom? You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  Dad takes over. “Carley,” he says gently, and sits down on her bed, reaching for her hand, “we have some bad news.”

  It’s been half an hour, at least, since QT-Pi informed Angel that her parents had interrupted their instant messaging.

  I bet I know why.

  Now that this cold, sunny Saturday morning has dawned, the shocking news is undoubtedly spreading from house to suburban house in Woodsbridge.

  All night, Angel had been wondering how long it would take before Nicki’s parents found their only child’s body.

  They were both out last evening when it happened.

  Angel had watched them leave, all dressed up, probably headed out to dinner or something—but not together. No, never together. Not those two.

  Debbie Olivera left in her Lexus and her husband in his BMW, an hour apart, headed in opposite directions.

  Having watched them for months now—and well aware of their secret lives—Angel wasn’t surprised that the two so obviously had separate plans on a Friday night.

  Which of them came home first?

  It would be nice to think that it was Debbie herself. How satisfying it is, just picturing how Nicki’s mother might have reacted to the horrific scene . . .

  Imagine if I could have been there to witness that moment in person?

  That would have been tricky to pull off, but well worth shooting for.

  Maybe next time.

  Or the time after that . . .

  Angel checks the computer screen again to see if QT-Pi has returned. No, not yet.

  At this very moment, she’s probably distraught over her best friend’s violent suicide.

  Ex-best friend.

  Angel found it almost as delightful to hear Carley’s version of Nicki’s betrayal as it had been last summer to plan—and then instigate—the rift in their friendship.

  Just think—that was only the beginning.

  With a happy shiver, Angel reaches for the keyboard.

  Angel 770: hope evrything is ok qp gtg cya l8r

  Before hitting enter, Angel thinks better of that last phrase, deletes it, and replaces it with ttyl.

  There. Much more authentic. L8r seems to have fallen out of favor recently.

  Angel has spent months lurking on the Internet, studying the way kids communicate with each other online, learning the ridiculous text message shorthand and paying close attention to the nuances in their interaction. Now it’s almost second nature to type run-on sentences heavy with abbreviation and slang and nearly devoid of punctuation or capitalization—unless, of course, one wishes to express excitement, in which case one must type in all caps and sometimes hold down a key to repeat the final letter in a word many times.

  None of it makes much sense, and yet it’s paid off.

  You sound just like one of them.

  Carley honestly believes she’s chatting with a teenage girl who lives in California.

  She has no idea that Angel is right under her nose.

  But she will. Soon enough, she’ll find out exactly who Angel really is.

  Just like Nicki did.

  Entry from the marble notebook

  Friday, December 13, 1985

  I didn’t realize until I wrote down the date that today is Friday the thirteenth. I just got a chill when I noticed. I wonder if it’s a sign?<
br />
  Do you remember how I prayed in church for something terrible to happen to Father?

  This afternoon, he made me go out with him to practice driving after school. I was nervous, because it was snowing and the roads were slippery. Whenever I had to brake for a stop sign or light, the car would slide into the intersection. He kept yelling at me to be careful, and I was crying so hard I could hardly see. Then he got really quiet and I looked over and he had passed out. For a minute I thought he was dead.

  The funny thing is, that is exactly what I had been hoping for, but in that instant, I forgot all about it. I was in the middle of practicing parallel parking in front of Cardinal Ruffini High School and a couple of guys were just coming out. I started yelling, “Help, help!” to them and they came running. They checked Father. He had a pulse. One of them ran back inside to call an ambulance while the other two stayed with us.

  I don’t remember if anyone said anything while we waited for the ambulance to show up—it didn’t take very long. All I could think was that God had heard my prayer and Father was going to die, and if that happened, would it be my fault? Would I burn in hell for eternity?

  The paramedics put Father on a stretcher and told me to go get my mother and meet them at the hospital. They rushed away with the sirens going and they didn’t even hear me telling them that I don’t have a driver’s license.

  The Cardinal Ruffini guys heard me, though. They said they would drive me home.

  They were all wearing basketball jackets, so I know they’re on the team. One of them was really good-looking. I see him sometimes at church but I don’t know his name. He sat in the backseat with me and I couldn’t stop staring at him.

  Eric, the one who got behind the wheel, was a terrible driver. Twice, he drove up over the curb. The first time, he scraped the side of the car in some bushes and the next time, we were inches away from slamming into a tree. That’s how I found out his name—the cute one yelled, “Eric, you almost just got us all killed!”

  I didn’t find out until we were almost back to my house that Eric didn’t even have his permit. None of them do. By that time it was too late so I just thanked them and they walked off down the street. I hope I see him again soon. The cute one, I mean. Maybe I’ll dream about him when I close my eyes. I hope so.