Chapter Two
Sasha
The leaves are turning so early, Sasha notices as she sits on her front porch, wrapped in a long cardigan on a drizzly Saturday morning. She sips her coffee and watches the wind bend the tree branches of the old oak, shaking loose yellow and orange leaves that dance their way down to the wet sidewalk. A typical New England autumn, but she’ll never feel accustomed to the damp and cold even though she’s spent her whole life in it. Sasha was meant for a beach... or even better, the desert. Anywhere warm and less depressing.
The drizzle turns into a steady rainfall just as Drew runs out the front door, passing her without a word. He hoists his backpack over his shoulder and jogs down the drive to meet a car pulling up. A car she doesn’t recognize.
“Where areyougoing?” she hollers over the rain thundering on the roof of the porch.
“Out,” he says, pausing slightly but not stopping.
“With who?”
“A friend. Tom said it was okay.” As if that means Sasha has no say in the whereabouts of her sixteen-year-old. They’ve talked about this. Tom is not his father and all he’s supposed to say is “ask your mother.” That’s his only line. How hard can it be to remember? It’s not that Tom can’t parent him. Tom is literally the kindest person on earth, and he does a good job as a stepdad, but Drew is in a weird teenage phase and Tom deferring to her is just what they agreed would be best to do whenever possible. Better for everyone. She knows she could let it go this time, but she also knows it’s important to keep some semblance of control over her increasingly unknowable child, so she’s about to put her coffee down and go barefoot into the rain to make sure he’s aware of who’s boss—but then she sees a girl in the driver’s seat. She shields her eyes with her hand to squint and see who it is. To her surprise, it’s Andi’s daughter, Roxie, and Sasha is suddenly sort of thrilled he’s not only made a friend, but a friend who’s a girl. And one she sort of knows... one she would maybe go so far as to say she trusts.
She remembers them chatting by the lake at the Labor Day party. Roxie calls herself a “theater nerd,” so it makes sense that Drew would be drawn to her. The band and theater nerd worlds collide, so she could see it. And even though, of course, he wouldn’t tell her they’d become friends, because he doesn’t tell her anything these days, this is a good thing, Sasha decides, so she does not follow him and list the house rules and tell him to get his happy ass back inside. Instead, she brings her coffee into the house and puts the mug in the sink. Then she returns a missed call from Regan.
“A bomb threat? Jesus. No, I didn’t hear anything. You gotta be kidding. When?” Sasha asks as she sits at the kitchen table, feeling the blood drain from her face. She listens as Regan goes over what little detail she has about what happened, peering across the kitchen island and into the living room, where Chloe is watchingJunior Bake Offon the Food Network and mindlessly twirling the hair of a Malibu Barbie around her fingers. A bomb threat. My God. Sasha feels nauseated.
Regan explains that there’s a meeting at the school this morning—a few of the parents are demanding the school take it seriously and make a safety plan, so they’re all meeting there in a couple hours. Sasha says she’ll get ready and meet her there, and even though everyone is safe and they’re calling it a prank, she feels something stirring—an unease, a weight on her chest like a thumb pressing into her solar plexus.
When they hang up the call, she stands at the kitchen island and stares, taking in the back of Chloe’s head poking out above the couch. If she’s honest, she’s scared—scared something terrible is coming. Tom sits next to Chloe, eating Raisin Bran out of the box, and his father, Al, who is an absolute dear, sits on the recliner with a cup of coffee. He comes almost every Saturday with something for Chloe—today it was blueberry pancakes—and he always watches some kids’ show with her, and sometimes they go to the park or aquarium in the afternoon, especially when Tom has to be in New York for work on the weekend.
It’s a lovely routine, but right now Sasha wishes they were well on their way to the zoo, which is the plan today, because she wants Chloe shielded from all of it—from the school and safety concerns, even from the look on Sasha’s own face thatshe is very much trying to arrange into a smile. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.
“The buttercream is grainy,” Al says, pointing at the kid on the TV who’s mixing up something pink in a metal bowl.
“She didn’t sift her flour,” Chloe says.
“Rookie move,” Al says.
“Yeah,” Chloe giggles.
Then Tom turns around to look at Sasha. “Jesus. What’s wrong?” he asks, coming into the kitchen.
“Nothing.” Sasha stands, smiling at Chloe and Al as they turn to look. “I was just zoned out. Coffee?” she asks, then makes a gesture to Tom, telling him to drop it after Al and Chloe return their attention to the TV.
“Dad said ‘Jesus.’ He’s not allowed to say that, I thought,” Chloe sings, partly teasing him but too engaged in her show to pay any more attention to what’s going on as the cupcake judging begins.
Sasha pours Tom a mug and takes creamer from the fridge door.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing her back with his hand and giving her a concerned look. “You okay?”
“There was a bomb threat. At her school,” she whispers, pointing past him at Chloe.
“Jesus,” he says again. “You’re kidding. An elementary school? What is the world coming to?”
“I know,” she says, and he puts his arms around her.
“It was bound to happen,” he says.
“What does that mean?” she asks, but she knows what it means because the fact that the school has little security is a bone of contention in town. Sure, they could afford all the bells and whistles—face recognition, vape sensors, accesscontrol—but that would make people feel like they no longer live in the safe bubble they pay so much money to exist in. The school has the basics: a lock and checkpoint at the front doors, a sign-in system. But bars, clear backpacks, metal detectors? Those things aren’t necessary in a peaceful little community. Nobody wants them to be necessary. Folks want to drop their kids at the steps of the school and wave as their children happily run over to their friends like in a movie scene. They want to see hopscotch chalk on the sidewalk and backpacks in a pile on the grass and kids hanging on monkey bars. Nobody wants to watch their kid frisked as their bag goes through an X-ray machine like the place is a prison. Nobody wants the world to change like this. But it already has, and Cloverhill Elementary is behind the times.
“I just mean, the fact they’ve gone this long with no issue is surprising, but this will change things,” he says, pouring Chloe’s Count Chocula cereal into a bowl and plucking at the dry pieces.
“There’s a meeting for parents this morning. I’ll go if Al is still taking her to the zoo.”
“Yeah, of course, hun,” he says, looking for the milk in the fridge. “I have to interview a couple folks at the restaurant today for the hostess position, or I’d go with you.”
