All Eyes on Us, page 28
“He’s in custody, honey. You’re safe now.” She brushes my hair away from my forehead, and I notice her hand is trembling. “It’s three o’clock. You’ve been asleep for a while.”
“It’s Wednesday afternoon?”
She nods. “You went through a lot; your body needed the rest. Your father had a work call. He’ll be back soon.”
I sink into the pillows and try to take another deep breath, slower this time. It still burns, but I manage not to cough. Of course Dad had a work call that couldn’t wait. At least my mother’s here.
“Where’s Rosalie?”
“At home,” she says. “I assume. They discharged her late last night.”
I smile. I thought Rosalie had abandoned me, but she was calling the police, thinking on her feet. She came back for me.
“That girl saved you,” my mother says, echoing my thoughts.
“Are we at Mercy or Presbyterian?” I ask.
“Presby. I was not taking you back to Mercy, not now. . . .” She trails off.
“Not now that you believe me? That I was drugged at the benefit? That my life was really in danger?”
She presses a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. “I had no idea,” she whispers. “I should have listened to you.”
I push myself into a sitting position and adjust the pillow behind my back. My thigh throbs, and my hands are wrapped in bandages. I’m a mess, and in a different way, so is my mother. She may never be as vulnerable again as she is right now. My throat is burning and all I want to do is go back to sleep, but I have to know.
“I learned some things last night. About you and the museum and Winston Shaw’s antique collection. Carter says he has documents. He was going to send them to the media.”
My mother’s eyes get wide. “He was going to do what?”
“So it’s true.” Her face tells me all I need to know—Ben was right. My mother really was padding Winston’s antique gallery from the museum’s private collection in return for his help securing major donors. My heart sinks a little. “Does Dad know?”
“Amanda, let me explain. Your father and I, we each have our secrets. Sometimes, that’s how adult relationships work. They’re messy and complicated, and it’s important—”
“No, let me explain,” I say, cutting her off. “Because if I have this right, it’s really very simple. Winston was using his real estate network to hook the big money for you, and you got all the recognition on the board. In return, the museum would never miss a Restoration-era steeple clock here or a pair of Etruscan serving trays there. When I went to the police, you were scared shitless they’d start digging around. That’s why you didn’t want them to have my phone. That’s why you didn’t want them asking questions.”
“Amanda, honestly, I thought those texts were a prank. I would never—”
“But you did. You derailed the entire police investigation because you were so afraid your scam would get out. You put your reputation before my safety. You almost got me killed!”
My mind flashes to Winston, his boyish delight over his collection, how he had to keep the pilfered items in storage, the little exchanges with my mother that I’d read entirely wrong.
“One more question.” Because I can’t let this rest until I know everything. “N or V. You had an email from Winston in your purse. What do those letters mean?”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Neoclassical. Victorian. It was our code.” Then she bursts into tears, and part of me wants to fold her into my arms and tell her everything’s going to be okay. But then I think back over the last three weeks, the times I wanted nothing more than for her to hold me, take care of me. And she never did. I almost died because of her.
Someday, I’ll be the bigger person. I’ll forgive her. But not today.
40
ROSALIE
FRIDAY, JANUARY 26
Three days after Carter is brought into custody, I sit in the Flores’s living room with Paulina’s parents, an LGBTQ+ youth rights advocate, and my dad. Paulina is out for the evening; her parents thought it would be best if she wasn’t here for this meeting, and they’re probably right. This isn’t about my relationship with Pau, not specifically, although it feels strange and scary not to do this with her. This is about me and my family and taking this major step forward.
The last gasp of late afternoon light filters through the big window behind me. It licks the back of my neck and pools on the carpet at my feet. The cream fibers waver with light or heat or the sense that this is an ending but also a beginning. That my world is on the verge of shifting irrevocably, permanently, powerfully—it feels like I’m simultaneously behind the steering wheel and just along for the ride.
The couch cushion presses reassuringly against my thighs. Mr. Flores and Ms. Cuesta-Flores are to my left, and Cindy, the advocate, a warm yet formidable woman in her midthirties, sits in a chair to my right. Dad keeps standing and sitting back down in the armchair across from us. The second armchair next to him is empty. Pau’s parents left work early for this, but Mom couldn’t switch her shift to be here, which might be true, and might have been an excuse not to see me. Not to do this. I don’t really want to know.
My palms itch, and I rub them against my knees. The denim bites into the spots that are still tender from the bike chain, and I try to stop fidgeting. Try to be here in the moment, pay attention to what Cindy is saying. This meeting is important—is everything—but I can’t seem to stay focused on what’s happening in this room with the same barrage of images reeling again and again through my brain, all the events that led up to today: Carter swerving out of traffic in Bracken Hollow, his bandaged face through the phone screen, Amanda motionless on the gym floor, then the gleam of the shovel pressed against Carter’s throat. Paulina’s fierce smile, then the hurt in her eyes when I told her I thought she might have been Private.
And then me, stepping out of the officer’s car when she brought me back to Culver Ridge from the hospital Tuesday night, onto Paulina’s front lawn instead of my own. Enacting my choice not to go home. Never again.
“Families who provide a supportive environment at home can work to prevent health and mental health risks for lesbian youth like Rosalie,” Cindy is saying. So far, I’ve let her do all the talking. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to speak up, put my decision into words for my father directly. But I can’t find my voice, so instead I press my lips together tight and stare at the shimmering carpet fibers. After a moment, I force myself to look up, study my dad’s face. I can tell by the blank mask that’s settled across it that he’s hearing her, but not really listening.
It’s disappointing but hardly a surprise. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he left for work Tuesday morning, shortly before Lily and I made our last daily walk to the bus stop. On Wednesday, Ms. Cuesta-Flores called my parents to explain that I’m staying here. Mom threatened to call the police, but Dad agreed to this meeting even though he knew what it was, that the advocate would be here. I hold on to that fact like a tiny spark of hope. They’ve been driving Lily back and forth to school, deliberately keeping her away from me, but Dad’s here now. Someday maybe I’ll have a relationship with my family again. Someday maybe they’ll let me see Lily.
Lily. It’s only been three days, and already I miss her with every wild beat of my heart. But I’m safe here. I have to let that be the most important thing.
“Your child’s health and well-being is our primary concern,” Cindy says, echoing my thoughts. “I’m sure you agree, Mr. Bell?”
My father nods, one quick dip of his chin, but doesn’t speak. He’s sitting perched on the edge of his chair.
“When a home environment is not accepting and supportive, that’s when we step in.”
He leaps to his feet. “Rosalie has all the support she needs at home and in her church community. I don’t think you understand—”
“Mr. Bell,” she says, cutting Dad off, “Rosalie has expressed that she does not wish to return to the Fellowship of Christ. Given your church’s reliance on unscientific and frankly seriously harmful methods like conversion ‘therapy,’ and what Rosalie has shared with me from personal experience, we are intervening on your daughter’s behalf.”
“She’s a child,” he sputters. “It’s not your place to decide what my daughter needs.” The mask has gone. His face is now alive with fury, and I sink back into the couch cushions, press my body away from him.
“The Family Support Network provides pro bono legal services to the youth we advocate for.” Cindy stays seated, calm, doesn’t let herself be intimidated by Dad. “When a child is at risk of physical or emotional harm in their home environment, as we believe Rosalie to be, that’s where we come in. The first step is a meeting like the one we’re having today. If we can’t reach a safe and supportive resolution for Rosalie this afternoon, we will provide legal counsel on her behalf. Seeing as your daughter will turn eighteen in just over a month, I can assure you that the courts will be very much on Rosalie’s side in whatever choices she makes for her future. Frankly, Mr. Bell, you do not have a case.”
Dad sinks back into his chair, mouth slightly gaping. He’s been in the Flores’s living room for almost half an hour, and we haven’t exchanged a word beyond hello. I’ve waited long enough.
“Dad,” I say, the sound squeaking from my throat. I rub my palms against my jeans again, and every head in the room turns to look. “I want to stay here. For now. Until graduation. Over the summer, I’ll move to the city for college.”
When I arrived on their doorstep in the middle of the night, unannounced, the Floreses took me in, no questions. I’d never doubted the sincerity of Pau’s offers to stay with them, but I didn’t realize how much she’d told her parents. How vigorously they’d step in to help, the second I asked.
Until this moment, staying with them has felt temporary. A duffel bag with a few changes of clothes on the floor of Ramon’s old room. Eating meals in their kitchen. Smiling and laughing with them, everything out in the open and perfectly okay. It’s felt too good to be true.
“Come home, Rosalie,” Dad says softly. “Let us help you.”
Let us help you. He means let us try to change you. I can’t let that happen again.
“I’m a lesbian, Dad.” The words stick to my tongue, don’t want to roll free, but they do. Coming out isn’t something you get to do just once. It doesn’t matter that I already told him five years ago. It’s just as hard now, but it’s not the same. Then, I was terrified. Now, every cell in my body is coming to life. “It’s not a choice, not something I could change if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. This is who I am.”
“Rosalie—”
“Let her speak, Richard.” It’s Ms. Cuesta-Flores’s voice, and I turn my head to look at her. She’s holding her husband’s hand, and he places his other hand on top. “It wasn’t easy for us when Ramon came out. We’re Catholic. I understand how it feels when your faith says one thing and your heart says another. We weren’t perfect, but we learned from Ramon, and we were able to support Paulina from day one. Rosalie needs you, and that means supporting her decision to live with us right now. I promise we’ll take very good care of your daughter.”
She nods at me, encouraging me to continue.
“I’m not coming home, Dad,” I say. “I need to be away from the Fellowship, and that means taking some time apart from you and Mom. I love you a lot. I just need you to trust me right now.”
The words hang heavy in the air. I’m asking my dad to trust me, the way I should have trusted Pau. Instead, I sent the PI on a wild-goose chase to a basement club with loud music and no reception—Latin Night, all ages. Paulina had even invited me to come along, but somehow, I’d forgotten. She hasn’t totally forgiven me, and I don’t blame her. I haven’t forgiven myself either.
Dad stands again, but he’s not angry this time. I know this conversation is over. Cindy’s warning about family court chastened him, even though I’m not sure what she could do if he tried to drag me out of here. But he won’t. I can see by the slope of his shoulders that he’s defeated. I’ve won, but without Lily, it’s only half a victory.
I remind myself that I’m working on a plan. Wednesday morning, I sent two emails. The first went to Lily’s school account, my attempt to explain what was going on in a way she could understand.
Dear Lils,
Remember that time you asked me if I liked Carter? I didn’t give you a real answer, and I’m sorry. I owe you that. The real answer is no. I don’t like Carter, not like that, because I don’t like boys. The Fellowship says romantic love is only between a man and a woman, but sometimes even churches get it wrong. I like girls. The Fellowship says that’s a sin, but I don’t agree. I hope someday you can make up your own mind about that. I know this is a lot for you to process right now, but just promise me you’ll think about it, and keep thinking about it. Mom and Dad aren’t going to let me see you for a while, but I’ll find a way, soon. Promise. I want you to know that I love you so much, and I miss you something fierce.
Love,
Rosalie
For a whole day, she didn’t write back, and my heart pulsed like liquid lead in my chest.
Then on Thursday, I got a reply: I miss you too. Duh. Love, Lily
The second email went to Miss Larkin, the former FOC teacher at Lily’s school. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow.
Now, as Mr. Flores shows Dad out, as he closes the door, as Cindy slips her hand into mine, the reality begins to settle in. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Lily or my family next week or next year or in ten years.
But I’m safe. I got out.
41
AMANDA
FRIDAY, AUGUST 24
It’s our last Friday night of the summer, and we’re here, but really, we’re all already somewhere else. We’re in our usual booth at the Sunny Side, the big round one in the corner. Tonight the four of us could have fit around a regular table, but it’s tradition. To my right, Graham’s arm is draped across Adele’s shoulders, his fingers running idly through her freshly highlighted hair. Figures they’d finally get together at Bronson’s graduation party, now that we’re all about to leave for college. Next week, Adele’s off to join the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s newest crop of Badgers. She’s been sporting her new favorite red-and-white hoodie with little rhinestones bedazzled around the W nonstop since her campus visit in April. Graham’s staying on the East Coast to study political science at George Washington, so something tells me their love won’t last past Thanksgiving, but maybe I’m just cynical. Given my history, I’d say I have every right to be.
I glance to my left, where Trina is polishing off a basket of curly fries and scrolling through Instagram. In a week, she’ll be moving to Manhattan to start her BFA in photography at the School of Visual Arts. She got into all the top programs where she applied—SVA, RISD, UCLA—but I’m glad she chose New York over LA or Rhode Island. What’s even in Rhode Island?
“Holy crap, that’s gorgeous.” She holds her phone out to show me a series of pictures Bronson just posted to his feed. The University of Washington has some weird quarter system that doesn’t start until late September, so he’s hiking Angels Landing in Zion National Park with his mom and half sisters this week.
“Wow.” I scroll through. “Who knew Utah could be this stunning?”
“I need to get out there to shoot,” she says. “Trip over break?”
“For sure,” I agree, but it probably won’t happen. Next week, I’m leaving for Paris, and I’m not certain I’m coming home for winter break. I’m not sure I’m coming home ever again.
I look up from Trina’s phone, and at first I’d swear every eye in the diner is trained on the four of us, barely filling out our big, round booth. But I know better now. Sure, a few of them are looking at me, the girl who almost died. But mostly they’re looking at the empty spaces around us, taking in the ghosts of the people who aren’t here. Bronson and Alexander were going strong until last month, but Alexander said the strain of leaving for college was starting to get to them, and they split up mid-July. I think Alexander and I will still stay in touch.
And of course, they’re hardly the most conspicuous absentees from our booth. Ben graduated with us in June, but he’s been keeping a low profile while logging his mandated hours at an organization for impoverished kids in the panhandle this summer. He messages me a lot, and sometimes I even write back. I know he feels terrible about all the shit he helped Carter do to me, and I’m practicing this little thing called forgiveness.
David lost his job at the construction site, and I haven’t seen him around in months. I’ve been trying to find out when his sentence starts, but Ben says they don’t know yet. It’s just for six weeks; he took a plea. My mother says they’re both lucky. Kidnapping. Accessories to attempted murder. Ben could have easily been tried as an adult. They could both have been locked up for a long time. Thinking back on that night still sends chills down my spine, but I can’t spend the rest of my life being mad at them. The only person I really blame is going to be locked up in a youth reform center for a really long time. He should probably be in prison, but apparently there’s no limit to what Shaw money can buy.
Last week, the Shaws finally closed on their house. So when I’m home over break—if I’m home over break—no more Winston and Krystal across the street. They’re moving to Charleston, which is apparently a more centrally located headquarters for Shaw Realty, but please. Everyone knows it’s because staying in Logansville was hardly an option. Carter’s case was a leading news story for weeks. They have to start over. I’d almost feel bad if their son hadn’t tried to kill me.
Things at home have been tense, but better than they’ve been in a long time. My parents finally admitted to themselves that we’re deep in debt, and my mother fessed up to Dad and stepped down from the board of trustees. She got off pretty easy. Winston and Krystal will never tell for obvious reasons, and everyone else who knows about their scam is a criminal. She started a new position as a development officer for the symphony, and now that she has an actual paying job, things are looking up. Either way, it’s their problem to figure out, and I think my mother has finally accepted that I’m my own person, not her ride up the social ladder. I know she wants me to forgive her, but I’m not quite there yet. One pardon at a time.
