Reconstructing Amelia (26 page)

“Amelia, you know that’s not what I mean.” Woodhouse frowned. “But these girls are going to hurt someone. I know they will. Maybe not you, not yet, but it will happen eventually. Asking you to do the right thing isn’t blackmail. If I can get their names from you, maybe I can protect them from themselves.”

“And what happens when they find out it was me who gave them up?” Not that there was any way I was telling Woodhouse anything, not with Zadie holding that video of Dylan and me. “What then?”

“That won’t happen, Amelia,” Woodhouse said. “I promise.”

“Sure you do.” I stood up. “Can I go?”

“Yes, Amelia, you may go,” Woodhouse said. He looked more than disappointed. Sad almost. “But think about what I said. These girls aren’t worth your future.”

gRaCeFULLY

OCTOBER 17TH

Because there are 176 definitions for the word
loser
on urbandictionary.com.

Don’t Be a Statistic

Hey people,

So Dylan Crosby is indeed in love. That’s the word on the street. Who she’s in love with is another question. I know we were all hoping it would be Mr. Woodhouse. I mean, I feel like he deserves a hot, nubile, young thing. But it’s not Phillip, as far as we can tell.

A bunch of the senior class—the membership of Devonkill, sources tell me—got picked up by their parents at the 78th Precinct last night. Seems like they mistook a stoop for a nightclub on the wrong block. Come on, people, everybody knows that you don’t party on Montgomery Place. That little block is like the nicest in the whole hood. And John Turturro suffers stoop sitters for no man.

But lucky for those idiots, one of their dads is a councilman. So faster than you can say expunged, they were all bounced. One of them did get her sweet seventeen at the Standard Hotel kiboshed. Don’t worry, though, sunshine, I’ve heard that place won’t even let you wear tiaras.

We’re still a few months off from early decision notices going out, but Zadie Goodwin seems really confident about her early admission chances. Part of me thinks that’s because her stepdaddy’s been greasing some serious wheels. Then again, maybe she’s been greasing them herself, down on her knees.

Kate

JULY 23, 1997

Called in sick to work for third straight day. I promised myself it was the last. I’ll go back tomorrow. Seems stupid to ruin my whole entire life just because I screwed up a part of it.

Last night, I decided to go drown my sorrows at a bar by myself. And I drank a lot of beer. I don’t even drink beer.

But that was what Rowan was drinking. And you want to know who Rowan is? He’s the completely cute boy I ended up talking with all night long about his passion for teaching and mine for helping people as a lawyer, which was when I remembered that that was what I’d gone to law school to do: to help people. I was going to be a public defender or help homeless people. Instead, I ended up in the Slone, Thayer pit of corporate greed.

I blame Gretchen. The worst part is that I fit right in. They love me there. I blame her for that, too.

Rowan would never fit in. He’s funny and principled and smart, with this great shaggy beard and the warmest eyes. I felt as if I’d known him my whole life, and that was even before beer number three, when I got pretty drunk.

And so by the time he dropped the bomb that he was on his way to Africa, where he was going to build schools and then teach whole villages how to read and probably purify all their water in his free time, I had already completely fallen for him.

We exchanged e-mail addresses. But come on, three years? One night? I give us two e-mails back and forth.

The only really good choice I made was not sleeping with him. At least then it doesn’t really count as another failed romance. The kiss was amazing, though. And I needed it. I was pretty much convinced that I was never going to be able kiss anyone again, at least not without feeling like a whore.

Kate

SLONE, THAYER

JULY 24, 1997

Jeremy:
Are you okay?

Kate:
I’m fine

Jeremy:
Are you sure? You were out for three days.

Kate:
The flu. I’m fine.

Jeremy:
I can make an excuse for you. You don’t have to be at the meeting. I have your memo.

Kate:
No, I’ll be there. I’m fine. Really.

SLONE, THAYER

JULY 25, 1997

Daniel:
Are you coming tonight?

Kate:
No

Daniel:
Why? You know you’re doing the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do as a summer associate. You’re supposed to NOT do any work and party nonstop on their dime.

Kate:
You do know these firm chats are monitored, right?

Daniel:
Slone, Thayer knows the deal as well as I do. Come. It’s a catered picnic for the philharmonic in the park. Free champagne. A bunch of us are going out afterward too.

Kate:
Ok; I’ll come

Daniel:
Seriously?

Kate:
Seriously.

Kate

AUGUST 15, 1997, 4:18 AM

To:
Kate Baron

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Sorry!

Katie! I just saw your e-mail! I know you sent it about two weeks ago. And I’m so glad you did. How has your summer been? I’ve thought so much about you since I got here. I really did feel a connection with you, Katie. I wasn’t just saying that. And I hope you e-mailing means you felt the same way.

Do I sound crazy? Probably. That’s the problem with e-mail. There’s nothing to stop me from running my mouth . . .

Anyway, Ghana is cool. Weird and scary and beautiful. And they seem to like my guitar playing, which is a bonus. I wish you were here to see it with me. And I know we don’t even know each other. But I still mean it.

Anyway, write with news of the U.S., more importantly, of you. Have you thought any more about bagging the corporate gig . . . ? If you do, we could always use an extra set of hands down here. I’ll have access to Internet for the next few weeks, but then I’ll be out of touch for six months, I know. Six months. Six months and we only knew each other like six hours.

Then again, things that are meant to work out, usually do.

Everyone has beacons. Lights that guide them home.

peace,

Rowan

Kate

NOVEMBER 28

A girl. Amelia was in love with a girl. After Lew had dropped Kate back home, she’d sat on her living room couch, coat still on, repeating the words to herself over and over again. My daughter was in love with a
girl
. My daughter was in love with a
girl
. Her interest in boys hadn’t been late blooming; it had been dead on the vine.

Kate wasn’t upset that Amelia had been gay, but she was hurt and shaken that she’d had absolutely no idea. None.
I’m sure you had a feeling, deep down
, her friends would have said if they knew. Because in some magical, cosmic way, mothers were supposed to know every important thing about their children. Kate had worried from the start that she might lack this special motherly intuition, but she’d always believed her genuine closeness with Amelia would overcome any shortfall. She’d been so very wrong. That was obvious now.

Suddenly, all those little “I hate you” notes had taken on an even more sinister meaning, too. Was that what the Birds of a Feather group had objected to, that Amelia was gay? It seemed a stretch that being gay would be such an offense to a bunch of teenagers in a neighborhood as progressive as Park Slope. But maybe it had been an affair between two of their members that had been the real problem. Because Dylan had been on the list, too. Lew had pointed out her name after they’d left Liv’s office. It had taken every ounce of Kate’s self-control not to race straight to her computer when she got home and pull up Dylan’s
Birds of a Feather
pictures. But seeing her daughter’s girlfriend posing half naked for the camera was, Kate knew, more than she could possibly handle.

She dug her phone out of her bag and texted Seth instead.

Amelia was gay.

In under a minute, he called. As she knew he would.

“What do you mean she was gay?” were the first words out of his mouth.

“I just found out she had a girlfriend.”

“Huh.” There was a long silence as Kate waited for Seth to say something more.

“ ‘Huh’? That’s it?” she snapped. “That’s all you’re going to say? I mean, did you
know
?”

“How would I know?” Seth asked, sounding defensive. “It’s not like we all emit some secret frequency that only other gays can hear.”

“But you don’t exactly seem surprised.”

Seth took a noisy breath. “I thought maybe Amelia was figuring some stuff out. I mean, she was gorgeous and a teenager and without a boy in sight? It raised some flags. But I’m sure none of that was lost on you.”

Except that it had been, completely and totally, lost on her.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Kate asked. Her voice was thin, rough. “We were close. Why didn’t she think she could come to me?”

“Listen, my parents are lovely people. They love me unconditionally, and we’ve always been close, too. I knew that my having feelings for other boys would never change that. And look how long it took for me to come out, even to myself.
I
wasn’t ready. That was the bottom line. It didn’t have anything to do with my parents.”

“Then why do I feel so awful?”

“Listen, Lola’s only five, and even I know that being a parent is awful ninety-five percent of the time,” Seth said. “As far as I can tell, it’s that last five percent that keeps the human race from dying out. Four parts blinding terror, one part perfection. It’s like mainlining heroin. One taste of life on that edge and you’re hooked.”

“Yeah, great,” Kate said. “You’re not exactly making me feel better.”

“You were a good mother, Kate,” Seth said, turning serious. “You loved Amelia, and she loved you back. You did the best you could. You tried your ass off. How it ends up is a crapshoot. All you can do is be thankful for every minute the whole thing doesn’t fall to shit.”

“And when it does?”

“You find a good friend with a big shoulder to cry on. I can come over now, if you want. Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”

“No, no,” Kate said, not wanting the pressure of having to act cheered up. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to take a bath.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Seth said, even though it was only midmorning. “Just no maudlin music or candles or anything, okay? I don’t want you burning your house down, too.”

“Flame-free, peppy sound track. Yes, will do.”

As Kate headed upstairs toward the bathroom, her home phone rang. She turned and went downstairs to answer it, only because she thought it might be Lew. He’d had to go back to his office to file an update. He wanted all the T’s crossed and I’s dotted on the investigation this time. But the number on the caller ID wasn’t Lew’s. It was a New York 917 cell phone number that Kate didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” she answered. Her voice sounded rough, like she’d been asleep or crying or both.

“Mrs. Baron?” the man on the other end asked tentatively. “Am I calling at a bad time?”

“That depends, who are you?”

“Oh right, it would be helpful if I identified myself.” He sounded nervous. “This is Phillip Woodhouse, Grace Hall’s headmaster. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by. I’m at a private-school conference up in Boston.”

“Yes, that’s what Mrs. Pearl told us. Is it fun?”

Kate could hear herself sounding like a sarcastic bitch. But between his inappropriate e-mails and his role in covering up whatever sick club Amelia had been part of, Phillip Woodhouse wasn’t entitled to politeness. He should be counting himself lucky that Kate wasn’t screaming at him.

“Um, well, no, not exactly.” He sounded confused. “Anyway, I wanted to be sure you’d gotten everything you needed.”

“Well, let’s see, my daughter was a part of some club at Grace Hall that had her taking half-naked pictures of herself and posting them online. That same group ended up turning on her and sending her hate mail. And apparently, Grace Hall knew about all of this. But I can’t get anyone to tell me anything because of rules the school has put in place.
Your
school, Mr. Woodhouse.” Kate’s voice shook as it rose. “So no, I didn’t get everything I needed. But you must already know that. You’ve circled the wagons quite nicely, Mr. Woodhouse.”

There was a long silence, then the sound of Woodhouse exhaling. “I can imagine your frustration Mrs. Baron, but—”

“My
frustration
?” Kate shouted. “My daughter is dead, Mr. Woodhouse. You do realize that, right? Trust me, you don’t feel
frustrated
when your only child is killed.”

“Killed?”

“Yes, killed,” Kate said. “Because Amelia didn’t jump. We—and that’s the police and I, by the way—know that she didn’t. Now it’s just a matter of figuring out which of your students—or faculty—pushed her.”

“Well, that’s— I didn’t know there was new information.” He sounded genuinely sad or regretful or concerned. Or maybe he was just good at pretending that he was. “I wish that changed what I’m at liberty to discuss with you. Regardless of how I feel personally, I can’t tell you anything about that blog or anything in relation to it either. I’m contractually prohibited from doing so. But I assure you, no one is more upset about that than me.”

“Try me!”
Kate yelled so loud that it burned her throat. She needed to calm down, though. She needed to pull herself together enough to get at least some of her questions answered. “But I guess you’re not contractually prohibited from pursuing a relationship with a student?”

“A relationship?” Woodhouse asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen the e-mails you sent Amelia, Mr. Woodhouse. All of them,” Kate said. “I don’t know what you think you were doing, but I know all about it. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know about this group of girls, I’m going to go public with the e-mails you sent my daughter as proof you were harassing her sexually.”

“Harassing her?” Woodhouse sounded stunned. “What are you talking about? I never harassed Amelia. Maybe I pushed too hard near the end and I regret that, but I was trying to help her.”

“Is that what you people are calling it these days? Some of that special, after-school guidance, the kind you tell a girl like Amelia to keep a secret.”

Kate wasn’t even sure she believed what she was saying, but she didn’t care. She was going to use whatever ammunition she had to get the answers she wanted.

“Mrs. Baron, you have every right to be upset, but I didn’t make any kind of inappropriate overtures toward Amelia.” He sounded heartbroken. “She was a promising student, an extraordinary one, and I was trying to keep her on the right track. I’d rather you didn’t take my e-mails out of context. I’m sure you’re right about how they will be perceived if you distribute them. I promise you that we are on the same side here. If you could just be patient. I’m working on getting—”

“I’m done being patient, Mr. Woodhouse,” Kate said calmly. “You have twenty-four hours to tell me everything about this club Amelia was in, or I will forward your e-mails to every single Grace Hall parent. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll pursue a civil action. Maybe even a criminal one. I’m a partner at a very large law firm with substantial resources and I have plenty of time on my hands. So that’s not a threat, Mr. Woodhouse, it’s a promise.”

Kate hung up before Woodhouse could say anything else and stared down breathlessly at the phone in her hand. She’d never threatened someone like that in her entire life. Certainly, she’d never leveraged her position at Slone, Thayer in that way. She really had no actual proof that Woodhouse had harassed Amelia either. The e-mails were suggestive of something, but they weren’t in and of themselves inappropriate. Kate had found no mention of Woodhouse anywhere else in the texts she’d gotten through either, not even in Amelia’s conversations with Ben. Lew had checked Woodhouse’s background, too, and it was pristine.

Of course, that didn’t prove he
hadn’t
done something this time. And there were still many more texts for Kate to go through. She hadn’t even read all of those between Amelia and Ben. Still, Kate had her doubts. She just had to hope that Woodhouse came around before she had to make good on her threat.

Kate was still holding the home phone in her hand when her cell phone rang. This had to be Lew, she thought as she rushed over. But it was Jeremy. He never called her on her cell phone unless there was some kind of work emergency.

“Is everything okay?” she answered, without saying hello.

“Yes, yes, absolutely,” Jeremy said, attempting his usual breeziness. But there was something tight in his voice.

“Is it Victor?” Kate asked. “You don’t have to protect me. I can handle it.” Not that she’d necessarily rush back to the office to help. Her days of compromising Amelia for her job were over. “Is he angry that I’m unavailable? I can’t say that I’m surprised. Maybe you really should have given the case to Daniel. Honestly, I think you—”

“No, I shouldn’t have,” Jeremy said matter-of-factly. “And I’m not calling about Associated anyway. Something’s come up, something personal.”

“Personal for whom?” Kate asked.

“For us,” Jeremy said.

“What do you mean for—” As the words were coming out of Kate’s mouth, a hole opened up in the bottom of her stomach. “Oh.”

She’d pushed the memory so far from her mind that there were times it ceased to exist. Almost. She and Jeremy had certainly never spoken of it again, and for years that had been enough to erase what had happened. Until now.

“It’s terrible timing, I know,” Jeremy said, sounding uncharacteristically troubled. Disturbingly so. “But I just didn’t— I think you have to know.”

“Know what?” Kate felt sick.

“I think we should talk, in person,” Jeremy said. “Maybe we could meet somewhere for drinks in your neighborhood around six p.m.”

“Jeremy, I’d really rather if you told me now,” Kate said. “I’m not sure I can handle waiting for more bad news.”

“I know, Kate, and I’m sorry.” His voice was somber, almost unrecognizable. It was that tone more than anything that made Kate stop arguing. “But I really think it’s best.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s meet at the Thistle Tavern at six p.m.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you there,” Jeremy said. “And Kate, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

It was late afternoon by the time Lew came back, after three p.m. when Lew and Kate were on the way up the steps to Dylan’s front door.

“You’re sure you’re going to be okay in here?” Lew asked, pausing halfway up. “Because the closer we get to the people who were actually involved in what happened to Amelia, the more worried they’re going to be about protecting themselves. No one’s going to be watching out for your feelings.”

Kate tried to hold her face perfectly still. “I know,” she said. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Of course, the real answer was no. No, Kate would not be okay. Was not okay. Because she’d already read through every text between Dylan and Amelia. She knew that her daughter had loved this girl and had been desperate to keep her. That Dylan had broken Amelia’s heart, though the bits and pieces she’d gathered hadn’t explained why.

Lew looked at Kate sternly, waiting for her to crack. When she didn’t, he took an exasperated breath and turned back to ring the bell.

An attractive woman with high cheekbones and long auburn hair answered. She was older than Kate, late forties maybe, but striking and meticulously maintained. She looked familiar, too, though Kate couldn’t place her.

“Can I help you?” she asked, with a large frozen smile.

Lew flashed his badge, which only served to stiffen her more.

“I’m Lieutenant Lew Thompson, and this is Kate Baron. We’d like to ask your daughter a few questions about the student who died at Grace Hall a few weeks ago. Amelia Baron? Kate is her mother.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said, with a big, dramatic sigh, then reached out two hands and clasped them around Kate’s forearms, pulling her closer. “
What
a horrific tragedy. Unspeakable, really. Come in, come in. I’m Celeste, Dylan’s mother.”

Inside, the brownstone was full of dark, polished woods, lots of ornate Victorian furniture, and heavy brocades. All of the original details of the home were intact, including pocket doors, stained glass windows, and a tin ceiling. There were lots of small decorative items, too—a collection of snuffboxes in a glass case, small vases, old pictures in heavy frames—covering every available surface. All of it was nicely arranged, but the sheer volume was overwhelming.