“Doing what? I didn’t say anything.”
By that point, I was on high alert; Cleo had already made some bad choices in the boy department. She was together in so many aspects of her life, but she had terrible taste in boys. Not Charlie, her one real boyfriend. He’d been very sweet, despite the whole Virgingate debacle. But Lance, Hunter, Aaron? They’d all been jerks who didn’t treat Cleo remotely the way she should have been treated. She was a knockout and that was all they saw. They didn’t appreciate her brilliance or her sensitivity or her humor. Or how she could be shy sometimes. They didn’t reallyseeher at all.
But my feelings about Cleo’s earlier boyfriends paled in comparison with my virulent reaction to Kyle and the entitled, obnoxious way he had about him. And I hadn’t even suspected he was an actual drug dealer at the time. Hadn’t known he would enlist Cleo’s help. Couldn’t have imagined she’d go along with it. And so I’d kept my mouth shut about him even when Cleo’s grades dropped. But when Aidan said that Cleo had told him about Kyle being a dealer, I’d jumped into action. It didn’t take much digging to figure out it was way more than a little dealing. Kyle wasthebiggest dealer at NYU, pills mostly—Adderall, Xanax, Oxy.
Cleo had been surprisingly good at covering her own tracks, though. I couldn’t confirm that she was actually involved until I got my hands on her unlocked phone at Thanksgiving and quickly scanned her texts. A violation of her privacy, sure. But a justifiable one. By then she and Kyle had been together a few months and it was clear from the texts that she was working for him. There were only carefully worded check-ins and oblique instructions, but it was enough.
I confronted her, even though it meant revealing that I’d been snooping. After railing against me for invading her privacy, Cleo had insisted she didn’t use herself. A fact confirmed when, in a rage, she’d taken the drug test I already had on hand. All she’d been doing for Kyle, she’d said, besides being his devoted girlfriend, which might have been the worst part, was dropping off pills and picking up cash.
“It’s like a paper route!” Cleo had squeaked, her voice as a little girl popping through her bravado.
She also refused to stop.
And so a couple weeks later I threatened to stop paying her tuition unless she cut off all contact with Kyle and started seeing a therapist. I wasn’t proud of making threats, but it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of options. Of course, the most questionable call of all was my decision to then pay a surreptitious visit to Kyle myself. But thathadworked. Or so I had thought until last night, when I’d seen Cleo emerge from the store on Christopherwithoutthe envelope she’d entered with. Sure looked like a drop for Kyle; maybe he had even been the one at the bottom of those steps.
At least I did know she was seeing the therapist. That was one good thing about paying the bills.
The phone on Advantage Consulting’s elegant mid-century modern reception desk chirped discreetly and the receptionist answered in a hushed tone. When she hung up, she turned to me and smiled. “Brian will be right out.”
I returned her smile tightly, like I was a woman unaccustomed to being kept waiting. Willing to suffer it only for her child. These kinds of details were essential in establishing my credibility as a potential client: the expression of poised irritation, the camel Agnès B sweater, the way I had myself perched on the edge of the couch, like I was not quite convinced of its cleanliness.
“Ms. Thompson?” When I looked up, there, in all his glory, was Brian Carmichael—chiseled features, gray eyes, thick silvery hair. Very confident. He indeed looked like he belonged fly-fishing knee-deep in an icy Montana stream. He strode across the room with an outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I forced another stiff smile and shook his hand, a bit awkwardly because I didn’t get up. But the woman I was pretending to be would make Carmichael lean in. She would wait for an official invitation before she stood.
“I’m sorry again about the delay,” he said. “I have this one student, incredibly bright and thoughtful, not to mention an Olympic-caliber swimmer. Great, great kid. But, wow, is he disorganized. He was supposed to have gotten me a draft of his Common App essay two weeks ago. Harvard wants him on the swim team, but there are some basic requirements. Let’s face it: Harvard is Harvard no matter how fast you can swim the butterfly.” He gave a rueful shake of his head.
“Of course. And you would know, right? I mean, you did go there,” I said smoothly, obediently taking the bait—the Harvard alum reminder, the evidence of his personal dedication to his students, his fundamental integrity. It was impressive how much Brian had packed into so few words.
“Let’s head back to my office, where we can chat,” he said.
As he turned, I set my phone to record and dropped it in my purse. Who knew what Brian Carmichael might admit, or how I might want to use it against him later? It was best to be very prepared, and extremely patient. This was always true. If only I could have exercised that kind of discipline when it came to Cleo.
Carmichael’s office was well designed and very expensive—all tufted leather chairs and curated objets d’art. Aggressively devoid of personality, though. He took a seat behind his desk and flipped through the documents in a folder there—presumably the doctored ones I’d supplied. Then he closed the folder.
“So, Sophia isn’t happy at Columbia?” he asked.
“No, she’s not,” I said. “The creative writing department isn’t what she’d hoped.”
“Columbia has a world-class writing program.” Brian raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s the problem?”
“Does the real reason she wants to transfer even matter?” I looked down at my lap, sighed—the fragile, upset mother. “Sophia and I don’t have the closest relationship, unfortunately, which is why she isn’t here,” I went on. “So, quite honestly, I can’t be sure why she wants to transfer to Amherst. She said it’s the writing program, but it could be something else. Regardless, I want to help her find a place where she can be happy.” My voice cracked, and I could feel my cheeks flush. That last part, at least, was true.
“You’re right,” Brian said gently. “The exact reason Sophia wants to transfer doesn’t matter, not unless it affects which new school she should head to.”
“She wants Amherst,” I said. “She’s done her own research and she’s quite sure.”
Brian rubbed his hands together. “Okay, then, let’s get down to work, shall we?”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Wearegoing to need Sophia’s help with this process, though,” Brian went on. “You’d be surprised how many parents think they can do this all on their own, without the student’s participation.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really,” he said with a small laugh. “I had one guy—an actual count from Spain—who wanted me to write everything, all the essays, personal statements. Apparently, his son was too busy selecting a suitable wife. He offered to pay quadruple the ordinary rate.” Brian paused, as though leaving time for this to sink in.
“I guess if you’re a count, you’re used to being able to bribe your way into most things.”
