The Drowning Girls (11 page)

I shifted in my chair, studying her.

“But that’s okay, right? I mean, counselors here handle personal issues, too.”

Right there, I could have walked across the lobby to Aaron’s office, rapped on his door, checked if he were available. We’d done that before, for one reason or another—a simple trade: this student for that one. He’d had a female student with an unrelenting crush on him; I’d had a parent accuse me of ruining her daughter’s life, never mind the seventeen missed assignments in English that meant she would have to take summer school. I could easily have handed Kelsey off to Aaron, citing a conflict of interests. On the other hand, knowing Kelsey personally might make me the best one to advise her. I remembered what Sonia Jorgensen had said at the Mesbahs’, her cool hand on my arm. It was wonderful to have another responsible adult in her daughter’s life.

“Of course,” I said finally. “I work with a lot of students on personal issues.” My glance went to the organizer bolted to my office wall, to the crisp, bright pamphlets with their bold headings: Overcoming Anorexia. Understanding Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Dealing with Loss.

She took a deep breath, exhaling through her tiny, perfect nose. “So...is this the same as talking to a priest?”

I blinked, laughing reflexively. “Well, no. I’m not here to give religious advice, of course.”

“But it’s still completely confidential?”

I considered her question, choosing my words. “I like to explain it this way, Kelsey. I’m not going to repeat what you tell me unless you give me permission to do that, or unless I become concerned for your health and safety.”

“So if I told you I had an eating disorder, you would have to tell a doctor?”

I smiled, thinking of all the meals Kelsey had eaten at our house, all the devoured Klondike bars and bags of Doritos. “That’s a good example. Yes—I would need to get other people who can help involved. Your parents, for example, so they could make decisions about your health.”

Kelsey went quiet. Finally, when I was about to prompt her, she said, “Actually, it’s not just about me. It’s about Danielle, too.”

I stiffened, trying to keep my voice even. “Okay.”

She chewed on her lower lip, working it back and forth between her lower teeth. “It’s about last weekend. Saturday. I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I’m worried, because she’s my best friend, you know?”

My heart was galloping, as if it were one of those mechanical rabbits being chased by a stampede of racing greyhounds. “What—”

“Well, I feel bad because I’m the one who suggested that we go over to Mac’s house. There’s never anything good to eat at my house, and we were bored...so yeah. We just thought we’d hang out at Mac’s for a bit.”

“You watched a movie,” I prompted, as though I were reading from a script.

“Yeah, some dumb road-trip movie. Mac was already watching it, so we didn’t even get to see it from the beginning. Anyway, we went down to his garage, where his dad has his poker nights, and they had this refrigerator full of beer—” Kelsey hesitated for a moment, glancing at my office door, open about a foot. My particular “open-door policy” meant that the door stayed open while I chatted with students, unless their parents were in the room or it was absolutely necessary to close it. You couldn’t be too careful, I’d always reasoned—although now that we were talking about my daughter I wanted to stand up and give the door a tidy, careful push.

I kept my voice low. “It’s okay, keep going.”

“Well, we had a few beers each, and I was starting to feel kind of sick. I mean, I’ve barely ever had any alcohol in my life. And then Mac had some weed—I mean, I don’t want to get him in any trouble, either—”

I didn’t realize I was holding a pen until I saw the blob of ink on my desk calendar, bleeding through to October. A
few
beers, not one.
Some weed.

“So, yeah. We smoked a joint, and then we went back upstairs to finish the movie, and I was feeling so sleepy, I just crawled into Mac’s bed. I guess I must have fallen asleep, because at one point I woke up and the TV was off and they weren’t there anymore.” She stopped, giving her dress a modest tug to cover a half inch more of her thighs.

“Where were they?” I breathed.

“I don’t know. I mean, I went through the whole house looking for them. I was getting worried—Mac’s kind of a player, you know? I didn’t want anything to happen to Danielle. So eventually I went out into the backyard, thinking they might be in the pool house, and that’s when I saw them coming in through the side gate.”

“Coming in through the side gate,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Danielle told me they had gone for a walk. They were being kind of weird, and I didn’t really want to ask about it. But then on Saturday night my mom told me about what happened in the clubhouse, and all I could think was—you know. But it’s probably nothing. I just wanted to tell you...”

Blood thrummed in my ears. “I’m glad you told me,” I said, the words coming although I wasn’t aware of forming them. Across the desk, Kelsey gave me a sad I-hate-to-do-this smile and adjusted her dress again.

She’s acting,
I thought suddenly. She’s rehearsed these words. She’s practiced the look she’s giving me. “Did you—did you tell this to your mom?”

Kelsey looked horrified. “No! I didn’t want us to get in any more trouble, and my mom would have killed me if she knew about the pot.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“Right, because I feel so bad. It’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t suggested that we go over to Mac’s house...and, I don’t know. I’m older. I should have known better. Danielle—she’s kind of naive and all...”

I straightened the stack of scholarship forms on my desk, the ones I’d been posting online when Kelsey came in, buying myself a moment. What in the world would possess her to come in here, to throw her friend under the bus? Even if her story was true, how could she justify the insinuation, the implied accusation, the resulting trouble it would mean for Danielle—all while excusing her own behavior?

“And also,” she continued, her words sliding smoothly into my thoughts, “I knew I could trust you, as a counselor and all.”

I raised my eyes to hers. “Property was damaged, Kelsey. We’re talking a lot of money—enough for it to be a felony. If I know anything about this, I need to come forward.”

She sat back, eyes wide. “But you don’t know anything for sure. I’m only telling you what I saw.”

The bell rang, a short beep followed by a long one, Morse code for the end of the period, the end of the day. I glanced at the clock—2:57 p.m. It felt like the longest conversation of my life. I stood, and Kelsey stumbled to her feet. It was the first time I’d ever seen her less than graceful, not in control.

“You did the right thing, telling me. I think you should let me take it from here, though.”

“I just don’t want Danielle to get into trouble,” she sniffed. “And she would know that I was the one who told on her. But I thought you should, like, keep an eye on her.”

I reached past her for the door, giving it the little push that was needed to open it the rest of the way, wide enough to usher her out of the room. “You’re a good friend, Kelsey,” I said, and watched her walk through the lobby and out the main entrance to the counseling office, one long leg in front of the other.

* * *

I drooped into my chair, feeling weak in the knees, sick to the stomach. On my monitor, Kelsey’s file was still open, minimized on the bottom of my screen. I clicked on it, bringing to life her As and Bs for this semester, and then I navigated to the tab for her 2013–2014 grades. She hadn’t been at Miles Landers last year, but her freshman grades from Ashbury were in the system. This was the kind of thing I did all the time, the kind of thing it was my job to do, and yet I felt uneasy. It was the Kelsey effect, the result of knowing her in so many facets and not really knowing her at all.

During her freshman year, Kelsey had a string of As and Bs: algebra I, honors English, biology, Spanish I, world religions, advanced computers. But in her second semester of honors English, she had an I, for Incomplete. My eyes automatically went to the bottom of the screen, where a note had been added:
Incomplete due to medical leave of absence.

I stared at that note for a long time. The Kelsey I knew, in all her types and mutations, was physically healthy. She ran around our pool with ease, ate what she wanted, didn’t pause to take medication or catch her breath. I’d seen enough of her body to know there were no major scars spanning her abdomen or crossing her wrists. And yet she’d had a medical reason serious enough not to finish a course? I remembered Sonia Jorgensen telling me that Kelsey’s friends at Ashbury had been bad influences—though what exactly they’d influenced her to do wasn’t clear. Was that what she was doing now, setting Danielle up as the bad influence while she could be the innocent but unlucky friend, the good girl who was sadly misled?

Half an hour later, they were waiting at my car in the staff lot. Danielle was complaining about a project for biology, something that would require floral foam and toothpicks. The complaining was for Kelsey’s benefit, I realized. It was part of the new Danielle. This was a project she would have thrown herself into wholeheartedly last year, putting in ten hours or twenty at the kitchen table, competing for the highest grade in the class.

I couldn’t believe, not for a second, that Danielle had gone to the clubhouse in the middle of the night and sprayed obscenities on the bathroom walls while Kelsey snoozed, innocent and oblivious. And even if I could let myself believe that it was true, or even possible—which would mean forgetting everything I thought I knew about my daughter, every moment accumulated over fifteen years—then I couldn’t understand Kelsey’s agenda. Was she a clueless kid? A scheming psychopath? Was she somehow, backhandedly, confessing her own involvement, wanting me to call her bluff?

It was a relief to drop her off at her house, to watch her disappear between the towering marble columns and let herself in, a lonely latchkey kid.

* * *

At home, Danielle went up to her room and I paced downstairs, eager for Phil to come home. I wanted to tell him about Kelsey’s visit and my growing certainty that it was Kelsey who had vandalized the bathrooms and was now, for a reason I couldn’t figure, throwing Danielle under the bus. Of course, we would have to sort it out, make a plan of action. We’d have to talk to the Jorgensens and the Sieverts, plan a sit-down meeting between the concerned parties, laying all our cards on the table. Whoever was responsible—even, yes, if that was Danielle—would be punished.

I checked my cell phone, intending to call Phil, and saw his text.

HOA meeting tonight at 7. Probably won’t come home for dinner.

The meeting could only be about the vandalism; it would be Myriam expounding on the general untrustworthiness of the construction crews, the background checks needed for gardeners and caddies and waitstaff. I’d been to one of the monthly meetings over the summer, at Myriam’s needling, acutely aware that I wasn’t a homeowner at all and deeply suspicious that I’d been targeted as some sort of personal improvement project. That meeting had centered around the adoption of “community-wide holiday decoration standards”—a plan to ensure that The Palms was not despoiled with inflatable reindeer or Santas, which would inevitably deflate into a plastic puddle during the daytime. After a spirited discussion, the verdict was in: only white lights, nonblinking, would be allowed, and door wreaths were encouraged. They had succeeded in stealing Christmas.

This meeting promised to be more interesting, although just as nauseating.

I called a goodbye to Danielle and headed out the door. In the clubhouse parking lot, I passed Ana, the Asbills’ nanny—a Colombian girl with wide hips and acne scars.
Just unattractive enough to be safe in the home
, I’d heard Janet Neimeyer quip. She was walking slowly, steering the double-wide stroller with one hand, texting with the other. Beneath their umbrella awning, the twins dozed, fat and blond. “Hello,” I called, and Ana looked up, startled. Maybe she had begun to think of herself as invisible in The Palms, like the gardeners, the men who stalked the parking lot with leaf blowers strapped to their backs. They were invisible until something went wrong, and then they were suspects.

Lindsey, one of the club’s afternoon part-timers, passed me in the hallway with a clipboard. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight the skin around her eyes was stretched along with it. “I think he’s got someone in there,” she said, gesturing to Phil’s office. “It’s been crazy today, one meeting after the other.”

I groaned sympathetically. “I don’t mind waiting for a bit.”

She smiled, edging past me.

I paused outside Phil’s office. As bad as my day had been, plagued by doubts and the unwanted sight of Kelsey Jorgensen in my office, his had no doubt been worse. Parker-Lane, I knew, would be livid that the alarm hadn’t been set; our neighbors would have been in here all day long, complaining and seeking reassurance. I pressed an ear against his door and heard, “I’m trying to figure out what I can do here to fix this situation.”

I backed away. Past Phil’s office, the hallway was roped off, a sign tactfully informing visitors that the bathrooms were under construction and temporary facilities were located in the parking lot. A crew had been scheduled to come in today to rip out the wainscoting, bloated and damaged from the flooding. It would be at least a week before the bathrooms could be reopened.

I wandered back toward the main entrance, pausing in front of the notices on the community bulletin board. There were bright, cheerful invitations to jewelry and candle parties, notices for the rival book clubs led by Helen and Janet and a men’s prayer breakfast led by Jeremy Bergland. Marja Browers’s “buddy walk” list was there, although the enthusiasm for it had petered out—a few weeks after the mountain lion scare, people had gone back to their solitary routines.

Beneath the bulletin board was a round table with a display of brochures and two comfortable chairs. I sank into one and thumbed through a brochure for The Palms. It was the sort of thing Myriam had no doubt shown the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society when she was planning the golf tournament. It was the sort of thing visitors picked up after a round of golf, enchanted by the view of the community from the greens, charmed by the hospitality of the waitstaff in the dining room. The pictures were glossy, no doubt altered and airbrushed to perfection. The home on the front of the brochure wasn’t even a photograph, but an artist’s rendition in subtle watercolors. Still, the message came across loud and clear: if you live here, you’ll be happy
.