“No one is bribing anyone,” Carmichael said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Of course not,” I said, maintaining eye contact. “I just meant—”
“In an ideal world, every student would be evaluated properly. But the reality is that we live in a world of limited resources. Universities are making their best guess based on a fraction of the relevant data. Every child who goes on to be admitted with our assistance is always fully qualified. What we do is simply ensure a fair outcome.”
“Exactly, and that’s all we want for Sophia,” I said earnestly. “Fairness.”
But I could tell from the look on Carmichael’s face that his antennae were up. “How did you say you heard about us again?”
Giving him an answer that would claw back my credibility was the only option.
“Doug Sinclair,” I said.
His face lit up, no sign of the guilty conscience that might be brought on by, say, masterminding blackmail or murder.
“Are you and Doug close?” he asked.
“Acquaintances through work,” I said.
“Of course, well, yes, Ella. Now this makes sense. We were so glad to be able to help her with Amherst.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “That was a situation that did require a significant additional investment. But all’s well that ends well. Ella is now at Amherst and, as evidenced by his referral, Doug was satisfied with the way the process played out.”
A significant additional investment.Had Doug lied to me about making a payoff? I felt stupidly blindsided.
“Yes, and that’s why I came to you,” I managed, hoping the dismay didn’t register on my face. I had been so sure my instincts about Doug were right.
Brian Carmichael smiled as he rose to his feet. My allotted time was up. But he seemed completely at ease now. “Let’s take this one step at a time,” he offered. “I can put out some feelers at Amherst, see how many transfer spots they expect.” He smiled at me. “The most important thing is that Sophia is happy. That’s all any of us want for our kids, right—that they stay happy and safe?”
November 16, 1992
We wrote our first story today. The tutor guy said to base it on a memory from when we were little. All I kept thinking was: I don’t have any memories. It’s like my brain has decided I’m better off not remembering. Besides, in this shithole I’ve got to stay focused on the here and now. Eyes open, ready to jump.
But then, wham—one detail came to me. The sharp edges of the mail slot.
I’d been home alone for three days. I was four and a half. My parents had left me with a gallon of water and a loaf of Wonder bread. To this day I’ve got no clue if they planned to come back. The mailman found me when I heard him on the other side of the door and forced my hand through that sharp, narrow slot. So tight my fingers were left bleeding.
When I wrote the story, I made it about a seven-year-old boy. It felt more believable that way. And maybe less terrible, too.
The tutor even wrote a note at the bottom that said it was one of the best things he’d ever read. Afterward I was actually happy for a whole thirty seconds, until I walked out of class and Silas snatched the story out of my hands as he passed by in the hall. Dangled it in the air and made me jump for it. Watching my boobs the whole time.
I have never hated someone more in my entire life. I hate him so much that sometimes it scares me.
Cleo
SEVEN HOURS GONE
I sit cross-legged on my bed, chewing on my cuticle as I stare at my mom’s closed laptop. I felt so determined leaving the house with the computer in my bag. But as I rode the F train back to Manhattan, the fear crept back in. The blood, the broken glass—what, exactly, do I hope to find on her laptop that would make that any better? I think about the dating that I know nothing about, the profile picture that looks like a version of my mom I’ve never met. And behind it all, this new hideous stuff about her life at that hellhole Haven House … Was it really just bad luck that she’d been so old when Gladys adopted her?
With the clock closing in on 1:00 a.m., the laptop feels like it’s dragging me down to a dark place rooted in one awful truth: that whatever I find will inevitably lead to proof that she might already be—that the worst has happened. And so I’m left hoping that Iwillfind something on my mom’s computer and hoping that I will not.
Turns out my mom’s Facebook log-in is saved in this computer’s browser, no need for that password. I feel a little twinge of guilt: Detective Wilson wants the social media passwords. But what I said to my dad is true: I’ll turn the laptop over as soon as I’m sure there’s not something important on there.
My mom’s Facebook profile isn’t exactly a treasure trove of information anyway. Barely active, she has only 196 friends.Those 196 “friends” include the moms ofmyfriends andmycoaches and people atmyold dance school. And my dad’s family. So, it’s a padded 196. I have four thousand Instagram followers, almost all of whom I consider friends. Not good friends, of course not. Okay, maybefriendsis even the wrong word. But I do know all of them. Who knows only two hundred people?
But all my mom does is work. She’s always been totally obsessed with her job, which is one of the things I actually respect about her. And when she’s not working … well, I’ve never really thought about it. She hangs out around the house, I guess. She’s always been kind of an introvert, a few-close-friends kind of person.
I study my mom’s Facebook profile picture. Mainly it’s of me at five or six, riding piggyback on her in Cape Cod. I’m looking at the camera, laughing with my mouth open, but her face is barely visible under a big sun hat. Like I was the most important part of her.
I look away from the picture and swallow a burn that blazes up the back of my throat as I start scanning her page. Maybe she was selling something and someone came to pick it up? Although that sounds like the last thing in the world my mom would have time to do. And anyway, she hasn’t posted to her account in almost a year, and before that it was only requests for renovation recommendations—contractors, flooring, electricians. All the posts start withHi, everyone!as if she’s writing a letter.Oh, Mom, so cringe.
