I wave the joint back and forth.
“Oh, my God. Are you smoking pot?” She sits up, cross-legged on her bed with wide eyes, staring at me, confused but almost sort of excited.
“Am I—What? No. Mia. I found this in the laundry.”
“You think it’s a good idea to smoke something you don’t know where it came from?” she asks matter-of-factly. “It could be laced.”
“What do you know about drugs being laced?” I say, much louder than intended.
“Uhhh, I’m seventeen, and I have a pulse. I think those are the only requirements for knowing whatlacedmeans. What, now I’m getting yelled at for knowledge I have no control over having?”
“I’m not yelling at you. I’m asking if this is yours,” I say.
“I thought you just said it was yours,” she says.
“Oh, my God, Mia...” I stop and take an exaggerated breath, then speak slowly, an annoying motherly habit I picked up somewhere along the line. “It is clearly not mine. I found this in the laundry. I am asking if this belongs to you.”
“You found it in my laundry? No way.”
“I found it inthelaundry. Can you just answer me, please.”
“So you assume it’s mine. I’m not the only one who lives here.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, keeping my tone controlled. “Last time I checked, your father and I don’t smoke.”
“Are you sure?” she says, propping herself against her headboard and picking up her phone again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, taking the phone out of her hand.
“It’s not mine. I don’t smoke pot. You wanna know why? Because pot makes you eat everything, and when you eat everything, you get fat. Are you calling me fat?” she asks.
I mutterOh, my Godunder my breath and give her her phone back.
“Libby Patterson became, like, a total pothead, and now she shops at Hot Topic and gained, like, a million pounds. Annie Brewer called her Libby-McSaturated Fatterson, instead of Patterson, during study hall, and the nickname stuck. And then someone left a stick of butter in her locker. You think I want that to be me? No way. You should be way more concerned about whether I’m drinking and let the pot thing go.” She gives me a look that somehow punctuates her monologue and goes back to her phone.
I don’t even say anything. I just stand there, trying to process it all. I turn and leave, knowing she’s telling the truth. And knowing what it means that she’s telling the truth. I throw the joint in the big garbage behind the garage and go back to finish folding the laundry. I missed finding out which twin Bianca Lovewright will choose, and I don’t even care.
Later that evening, I take a bottle of Pinot Grigio over to Paige’s, and we sit in Adirondack chairs in her garden like we do a couple times a week. Since her son’s tragic death, it’s become less often, but I make a point to still pop by, though I try to sense her mood before making myself comfortable. Paige never talks to me about Caleb. I mean, I know that she is certain it was murder and that she suspects all the neighbors and spies on everyone for clues, but she never talks abouthim. He’s in all the photos that line every bookshelf and mantel in the house: the tiny Caleb standing in tall weeds at dusk, holding a lightning bug in a jar; the Caleb who was gifted at art but didn’t want to pursue it, who drank Mountain Dew for breakfast and broke his left wrist jumping off a dock at Eagle Cliff Campgrounds; the Caleb who was a football star in high school but also watched reruns ofThe Golden Girlswith his mother; the Caleb who hated bullies and loved collecting Pez dispensers. This is the son she never talks about, at least not to me.
We silently watch a yellow cat named Arnie balance on the wood fence around the backyard. The neighborhood is quiet at dusk, as it always is. A wind chime made of seashells makes a hollow tinkling sound in the breeze, and a dog barks in the distance. I pour us two large glasses of cold wine and place the bottle on the cement pad next to my chair. I want to cry.
“I think he’s cheating,” I say to the trees, then take a deep breath and blow it out, hard.
“Oh, honey,” Paige says, looking at me.
“For real this time. I found a joint with lipstick on it in the laundry. And no, it’s not Mia’s. It was like a ballet slipper color. She hates pink. And I asked her, so, I mean, it’s someone’s. I’m not imagining it.”
“Cor, you don’t have to convince me. I believe you.”
“You do?” I look at her, feeling a flood of something. Relief, I think.
“Of course. Just because you haven’t caught him all those times you suspected doesn’t mean you’re wrong. You trust your gut. That doesn’t make you paranoid, it makes you smart.” She places her hand on mine and squeezes it a moment.
“Thank you,” I say and take a large gulp of wine.
“So tell me again why you don’t just leave the bastard?”
“Oh, no. He’s not a—I could be wrong. I mean, I really could. Maybe it’s me. And I don’t know, it’s just not...”
