I tell myself that I should probably get up and talk to him about what’s been going on with Amanda, but since I’ve learned to handle most parenting issues on my own, I’ve given up relying on him for advice or support. And I’m tired. So I stay in bed, wondering when I stopped getting up to greet my husband late at night. It was probably when I was a new mother, exhausted from nursing Amanda for half the night. At any rate, it’s been years, so he doesn’t expect it now.
Shortly before dawn, I dream vividly that I’m back in my parents’ house, but there are extra rooms that have turned the house into a maze. I find my way to the basement, which is packed to the ceiling with junk, and an eerie feeling comes over me, as if there are demons down there. Suddenly, I’m hurrying to the airport, but when I arrive, I discover my wallet isn’t in my purse. Assuming I left it at my parents’ house, I run back and find Scooter waiting in my bedroom. I’m so happy to see him I fall to my knees, hug him, and burst into tears. That’s when I wake up.
I sit up in bed and glance quickly at Nate, who’s sleeping soundly beside me. The memory of Scooter’s tongue on my cheek, licking my tears away, still feels real, but he’s been gone for years. I touch my face and try to hold on to the sensation, but it soon fades, as dreams always do.
I glance at my husband again. He’s lying on his stomach with the pillow bunched up in his arms. I bend to kiss him on the back of his head.
“Good morning,” he says, still half asleep, his words muffled in the thickness of the downy pillow.
“Good morning,” I reply, feeling better than I felt the night before, when my mind was racing with thoughts of Amanda and the bully and the chilling documentary I watched on television.
I really need to avoid drinking wine before bed.
I toss the covers aside and get up to make breakfast for the kids.
Chapter Eleven
Where Dreams Go to Die
It’s the Smiths’ turn to drive the boys to hockey practice after school, so I’m at home in the kitchen when Amanda walks through the door. She pulls off her snowy boots, removes her coat, and drops her backpack on the floor.
“How was your day?” I ask from the table, where I’ve been sitting for the past hour, doing some research on my laptop.
“It sucked.” She goes straight upstairs to her bedroom. Her door slams, and my stomach squinches. I shut my laptop, get up, and follow her.
I knock lightly on her door. “Can I come in?”
“Okay.” Her voice is weepy. It reminds me of when she was three years old and accepted, stoically, that she couldn’t have ice cream before dinner.
When I walk in, I find her curled up in a fetal position on her bed, hugging her furry pink pillow.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I gently close the door behind me and sit on the edge of her bed. “Did she call you again? Or do something else?”
Amanda doesn’t reply. She lies still, so I sit, patiently rubbing her back.
After a moment, she rolls to face me and speaks with outrage. “One of her friends posted a comment on my Instagram about the play.”
“The musical?” I think about the pictures Amanda had shared from rehearsals and opening night.
“She said I was desperate for attention. Then she took a screenshot of one of the pictures and photoshopped it with me ...” Amanda stops talking and rolls away from me again. “I can’t tell you.”
I touch her shoulder and encourage her to face me again. “What did she do?”
Amanda finally rolls onto her back, sits up, and hugs her knees to her chest. Her eyes are puffy and red. “She made it look like I was ... you know.”
“No, I don’t know. You have to tell me.”
“It’s that picture where I’m singing in the finale,” she explains, “and she changed the microphone ... she put a guy’s ...” She pauses. “She put a guy’sthingin front of my mouth. Then Marissa posted it too. All my friends saw it.”
It takes a few seconds for this to fully register in my brain as I stare at my daughter. When it hits me, my blood heats to a raging boil. “She didwhat?”
Amanda doesn’t bother to repeat the information because she knows it’s a rhetorical question, but she watches me with wide eyes when I rise to my feet.
“That’s it,” I say. “We’re filing a report. Do you have a copy of the picture? Is it still online?”
