And When I Die, page 5
Her mind groped for something to hold onto, something she could say to dazzle him while simultaneously hiding that she had yet to read the book. She cleared her throat and opened her mouth, hoping something brilliant would come out.
“Well, I think what the ranch, I mean, what the prison door probably really means in the larger context of the book, of the story is—”
Jordan’s hand shot up and Mr. Byrne pointed to her. “Hang on a second, Miss Mitchell. Miss Dean was just about to give us her thoughts on the meaning of the prison door to the story.”
“I was just going to say, Mr. Byrne,” Jordan said, plowing on, “that I think what the prison door represents in the story is the restrictions of this new world that the Puritans are in now. They have to be perfect, like role models almost. It’s all about judging other people. And everyone is judging Hester because of what she did, which goes against everything in this new society. And the rosebush is supposed to be the thing of beauty, but it’s in front of this super harsh door, which is all about punishment. Which is what Hester is being. Punished.”
Mr. Byrne nodded slowly, seemingly impressed. “Very good, Miss Mitchell. The two things are in direct contrast with each other and Hester is caught in the middle.” He got up and scribbled down bits of what Jordan said on the board. He turned around and tapped the chalk in the palm of his hand, his eyes finding Whitney again. “Anything you’d like to add, Miss Dean?”
“No, that was exactly what I was going to say,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder, her fingers trembling, hoping no one saw the flames of humiliation leaping across her face.
Mr. Byrne turned his attention back to the board as Carly leaned over, lowering her voice. “Her answer wasn’t that good. She probably read that online or something. She couldn’t even come up with something herself.”
Whitney shook her head, fuming as she watched Jordan return to doodling her slow circles in her notebook. “Yeah, probably.”
“Since we don’t have practice, we can study together after school, if you want,” Carly said. “I can catch you up. I’m almost done—”
“I’m fine,” Whitney said, louder than she intended. All eyes turned toward her, and Mr. Byrne stopped writing on the chalkboard and looked at her. Jordan smirked.
“What was that, Miss Dean?”
Jordan’s sneer ignited something in her. What she wouldn’t give to shove that smug bitch’s face in the dirt.
The bell rang before she could answer and she made a big show of shoving her notebook into her book bag and slinging it over her shoulder, her face on fire now.
“All right everyone, read the next five chapters by Friday.” He paused as he put his chalk down. “Miss Dean? A word?”
Carly gave her a questioning look and Whitney indicated she should wait for her outside. Whitney bit her bottom lip and tilted her head to the side as she approached Mr. Byrne’s desk. “My next class is on the other side of campus, so I really can’t stay,” she said, her voice breathy.
“All right then, after school. Three-thirty sharp.”
She smiled. “Yeah, sure. Three-thirty sharp.”
“It’s very important that you be here,” he said. “I can’t stress that enough.”
“Of course, Mr. Byrne. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
“What was that all about?” Carly asked as Whitney exited the classroom and they fell in with the other students moving by rote through the hallway to their next classes.
Whitney cracked her gum and smiled, about to answer, when she spotted Jordan halfway down the hall, heading toward what Whitney knew was chemistry. Fresh anger tore through her and she ran up behind her, flinging her around by the shoulder.
“What was that, trying to embarrass me like that?” she hissed.
Jordan looked her up and down. “You don’t need me for that. Mr. Byrne already knows you’re a complete fucking moron.”
“Why don’t you shut the hell up?”
“What are you going to do about it, bitch?”
Whitney opened her mouth to say something, but was distracted by a nervous-looking Carly sidling up next to her.
“Hey, Whit, we should get to class,” she said, tugging on her arm. “We don’t want to be late.”
Jordan continued standing there, cracking her own wad of gum, a smug smile on her face as Carly gently guided Whitney down the hall toward American history. The sting of tears buzzed behind her eyes. Was she about to cry?
“You okay, Whit?” Carly asked, frowning.
“God, I wish she would go away. I wish I could just get rid of her.”
“After school, we could go to Coffee City and hang out for a little while, talk about The Scarlet Letter.”
“I’ll be busy.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s really not a big deal—”
“I said, I’m busy.”
“Are you crying?”
Whitney blinked back the threatened tears, back in control. “Jesus, of course not. I’d never cry over that THOT.”
“Is she … I mean, is that…?” Carly asked, her face turning red.
“What?”
“You know.” Carly lowered her voice and leaned over to Whitney. “A ho.”
Whitney glanced over her shoulder to see Jordan had been swallowed up by the crowd. She pushed her lips into a thin line and stared straight ahead.
“Whatever you do, don’t trust Jordan Mitchell with anything. Ever.”
7
LAUREN
Lauren’s SUV whined as it came to a stop in front of the Mitchell’s house. House wasn’t the word for it really. Mansion, even, seemed to understate it, though castle was perhaps a bridge too far. With eight bedrooms and eight bathrooms, almost nine acres, and close to thirteen thousand square feet, currently worth fifteen million, a massive commission was what it could be. The city condo and Door County cabin she’d sold the Mitchells were tolerable consolation prizes, but if Jay ever put this one up for sale, she’d pucker up and kiss whatever he wanted her to for the listing.
And if she was being shamefully honest, some miniscule part of Lauren had bent to Erica’s whim about the party for just that reason. Yes, it was a good lesson for Whitney to learn—sometimes, you had to suck it up—as Steve had said when she called him last night to fill him in on their daughter’s predictable meltdown. But … piss off the wife, face the wrath of the husband. Of course, when you were a billionaire like Jay Mitchell, you could get away with it.
Besides, if she really thought it was that big of a deal, she wouldn’t be inviting Jordan. It was just a party.
She glanced down at the large purple envelope on the passenger seat next to her and sighed as she picked it up, tapping the sharp point into the index finger of her other hand. Lauren knew she was being over-the-top with Whitney’s party. It was because she’d never had a Sweet Sixteen. She’d never had much of anything. Not because her parents couldn’t afford to get her the best of everything. The two doctors in a thriving dermatology private practice were loaded. Misers, to be exact, buying the cheapest house they could, wearing the same ratty clothes year after year, driving their deathtrap cars into the ground. It wasn’t even that they were saving for something fun, like exotic vacations or unique, crazy experiences like skydiving or parachuting or ziplining like her girlfriend Emmy’s family did a few times a year. They just had a literal mental block against spending money. Her father refused to buy a washer or dryer, instead handwashing all the laundry in the bathtub, draping it over dirty lawn chairs in the backyard to dry. He stole condiments packets from fast food restaurants by the pocketful, squeezing the contents into the crusty, decades-old bottles of mayonnaise, ketchup, and mustard he refused to throw away, much less wash once in a while. Her mother stole paper products from public restrooms to avoid buying toilet paper, Kleenex, or rolls of Bounty. She even emptied sanitary dispensers of their cheap tampons and pads. Rinsing off dental floss after she used it and hanging the wet strings over the towel bar was a nightly ritual, changing out the stiff strands once a month.
And that was just the stuff Lauren told people.
She vowed to never be like that in her life, much less with her children. Truthfully, she’d probably gone a little too far in the other direction with indulging her kids. She wanted them to have the best of everything, showering them with designer clothes and shoes, throwing over-the-top birthday parties with Cirque du Soleil performers for Parker’s circus-themed bash when he turned six, or turning the backyard into a mini spa for Whitney’s fourteenth. Lavish vacations, enrollment in a million different activities through the years, each one seeming to cost more than the last: horseback riding, ice skating, tennis, pageants.
She knew it was too much, but she didn’t care. Her kids were good kids. Parker was charming, Whitney an all-around star. Both seemed appreciative of the opportunities they’d been given. Sure, Parker could be a little bratty, but he’d grow out of that. Yes, Whitney could be temperamental and a little snotty at times. However, she hadn’t given them any trouble, never falling prey to drugs and alcohol, or running with a bad crowd like Lauren had. She was just confident and let it show. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. At times, Lauren thought maybe she could learn a thing or two from her daughter.
She swung her car door open, clearing her throat several times as she made her way up the front steps, accompanied by the insistent chirp of birds and the aggressive mid-morning sun. She eschewed the heavy brass knocker in favor of the doorbell, peering over her shoulder as she waited, twitching a little at the blanket of pink parfait roses draped across the massive, rolling green lawn.
The front door flew open and she was face-to-face with a slightly frazzled, slightly askew Erica. Lauren found herself blanching a bit as she always did at Erica’s gaunt appearance. Petite and jittery Erica was as sharp, and thin, and angular as a wire hanger. Constantly clutching at her neck, her hair, her jewelry, her standard uniform of bland fitted t-shirts, cropped, skinny black pants and black suede loafers. In fact, Lauren didn’t ever remember seeing Erica wear a color of any shade. Painfully thin body, painfully white teeth, and a strained, clipped way of speaking. Everything about the woman screamed agony.
“Lauren,” she said, her voice sounding slightly surprised and distracted. “You’re here.”
“Yes.” She thrust the envelope toward her. “I brought Jordan’s invitation to the party.”
Erica looked down at it for a moment, something—Lauren wasn’t sure what—flickering across her face, before she carefully took the envelope from her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Jordan will be so pleased.”
“Just one quick thing.” Lauren gulped, gesturing toward the envelope. “There’s a QR code imprinted on each invitation. Jordan will need to show that at the door in order to be allowed in. You wouldn’t believe…” Her voice trailed off, uncomfortable, but grateful she’d stopped herself from ranting against the hangers on who’d petitioned her for weeks and months for an invitation.
“I’ll make sure Jordan understands,” Erica said, her gaze dropping to the ground before flicking back up just as fast. “Do you have time for a quick coffee?”
“Oh. I—” Lauren wracked her brain for an excuse to get out of this impromptu invitation. She could say she had a showing. The pretext was on the tip of her tongue when something in Erica’s eyes stopped her. It was one cup of coffee. She’d drink it fast.
“Sure,” she finally said. “I do have to leave no later than ten-fifteen, though. I have a showing at eleven in Highland Park. The Gilbert place.” That was only half a lie. She’d closed on that last week and the only thing left was to schedule the demolition the new buyers had requested as a condition of purchase.
“I’ve got a conference call at ten-thirty, so that’s perfect.”
Lauren gripped the handle of her red Birkin as she stepped into the foyer, overwhelmed as usual by the opulence of the house, which always smelled of an intoxicating blend of lavender and lemons and something exotic Lauren couldn’t quite place. Grand sweeping staircases, the banisters gleaming as if they’d been freshly polished that morning, which they probably had been. Venetian glass and imported Italian onyx sparkled across the house like jewels, with Erica’s seeming fondness for plush blue velvet couches dominating the living room. Each room dripped in crystal chandeliers, each floor shiny imposing marble, every window stretching floor to ceiling, offering expansive, gasp-inducing views of velvety green grass and the blue sweep of Lake Michigan. The décor, though beautiful, wasn’t Lauren’s taste, but she could appreciate the money behind its majesty. It wasn’t an intimate home, though it wasn’t austere and foreboding either, landing in some odd space in between.
She followed Erica into the near commercial size kitchen, outfitted in the requisite stainless-steel appliances and gleaming marble, sliding onto a bar stool as Erica rubbed her eye and blinked several times before she poured steaming cups of coffee for them both.
“Cream, sugar?” she asked.
“A little of each please, thank you,” Lauren murmured, watching as Erica tugged at her eye again. “You okay?” she asked.
“Hmm? Oh. Just an eyelash or dirt or something. At any rate, thank you again for bringing the invitation by,” Erica said as she placed a bottle of hazelnut creamer, which Lauren hated, and a jar of multicolored sweetener packets down on the counter in front of her.
Lauren poured a little cream into the coffee to be polite and stirred in one packet of raw sugar. “Of course.”
“I’m really hoping … well, I think this could be a fresh start for the girls, you know, get their friendship back on track.”
“Oh. Well. High school can be a brutal time.”
Erica scoffed. “You know I hear people say that and I don’t get it. I loved high school.”
Lauren tried to avoid wincing at even the tiny mouthful of hazelnut-laced coffee she’d taken. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Parties and football games and school trips? So much fun.”
“No wonder you have such good memories.” Lauren took another tentative sip of her coffee. “I was kind of a stoner.”
Erica plunked her mug down on the counter, a few drops of steaming liquid jumping over the lip. “I don’t believe it.”
She chuckled to herself, wondering what sixteen-year-old Lauren with her ratty, bleached blond mullet courtesy of dollar bottles of peroxide and orange-handled fabric scissors, ripped jeans, rotating supply of concert t-shirts with cut-off sleeves, and scruffy hi-top Reeboks would think of forty-four-year-old Lauren. Forty-four-year-old Lauren and her obviously expensive blond highlights streaking strategically through even blonder hair. French tipped acrylics. Bright white veneers. Couture her constant companion. The coveted red-soled pumps. Tanned. Toned. And a Black former football jock for a husband and two biracial children to boot.
Sixteen-year-old Lauren would probably shrug her shoulders before taking another drag on her joint.
“I was I guess what you’d call stoner-lite. I wasn’t a pothead—well, maybe a little bit of one. Okay, maybe a lot of one. I basically lived under the bleachers smoking and drinking every day. Gettin’ high, the latest Crüe album, and my boyfriend were about the only things I was thinking about in high school.”
“I never would have guessed,” Erica said.
“Well, with any luck, none of us are the same now as we were in high school.” Lauren looked at her watch and took another tiny slurp of coffee, her mouth itching for one of the Altoids in her purse in order to banish the hazelnut taste. “I’m sorry, but I really do need to get going.”
“Of course.” Erica slid off the stool. “Let me walk you out.”
The two women made their way to the foyer. Lauren opened the door before turning toward Erica.
“Thanks for the coffee and … tell Jordan we’re looking forward to seeing her next Saturday.”
“I will,” Erica said. “And thank you.”
Lauren grabbed her car keys from her purse and slid behind the wheel, her shoulders loosening a little as she started the engine. She was a lot less apprehensive about this whole situation after talking to Erica. As a mother, she could even see the situation a little from her side. It was a hard pill to swallow thinking your child is being left out of something, especially when it comes to her oldest friend. She couldn’t say she wouldn’t have done the same thing if the situation was reversed.
She popped a mint as she headed toward Green Bay Road, the lump of stone that had been sitting in her throat since yesterday at the gym dissolving. This would be okay. There were over two hundred people expected, a crush of people surrounding Whitney with love and light. Jordan could be a little on the bitchy side, God knows, but she wasn’t a troublemaker.
Lauren smiled, relaxed.
It was going to be a great party.
8
RON
Ron Byrne hoped the sigh of relief he felt as the last bell of the day sounded wasn’t audible as twenty-six bored juniors fled his classroom, not thinking about the fact they’d have to do it all over again tomorrow, only glad they were done for today. He quickly erased the blackboard and refilled his chalk holder with a fresh stick, before sitting at his desk to wait for Whitney as he wrote out his notes for tomorrow’s classes while he thumbed through his well-worn copy of The Scarlet Letter. He should really get a new one, having carted this around since his undergrad days at Michigan. Better still, maybe he’d finally jump on the e-book craze and make that his first purchase, a copy forever free from aging. However, this musty, dog-eared, disintegrating, pencil-scarred paperback was like an old friend. He wasn’t ready to give it up.
Four o’clock came and went with no sign of Whitney. He continued glancing up at the clock as the minutes ticked past, annoyed by her no-show. Thirty more minutes passed as he finished up with his notes and did a quick check of his school email on his phone, before gingerly placing the book in his briefcase and straightening up the papers on his desk. He took a quick look around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything before flipping off the light and closing the door.
