My Life Next Door(86)

Suddenly, I get these pictures in my head of the way Nan’s sat in test after test I’ve taken alongside her, always with her backpack leaned to the side, her hoodie or sweater or whatever draping out. Memories click into place, like frames of a film slowly forwarding one after another, and I realize this is no isolated incident. Nanny, my always-head-of-the-class best friend, Nan the star student, has been cheating for years.

Good thing for me it’s a practice test, because I can barely focus. All I can think about is what I saw, what I know for sure now. Nan doesn’t need to cheat. I mean, nobody needs to cheat, but Nan’s only ensuring a sure thing anyway. I mean, look at her essays.

Her essays.

Those files on Tim’s computer that I looked at, that I…

That I blamed Tim for stealing. The realization freezes me in place. Minutes tick by before I finally pick up my pencil and try to concentrate on the exam.

During break, I splash water on my face in the ugly aqua-tiled bathroom and try to figure out what to do. Tell the proctors? Out of the question. She’s my best friend. But…

As I’m standing there, staring into my own eyes, Nan comes up next to me, squirting antibacterial lotion on her hands and rubbing it up her arms as though scrubbing up for surgery.

“I don’t think it washes off,” I say, before I can think.

“What?”

“Guilt. Didn’t work for Lady Macbeth, did it?”

She turns white, then flushes, freckled translucent skin so quick to show both shades. She glances quickly around the bathroom, making sure we’re alone. “I’m thinking about the future,” she hisses. “My future. You may be happy hanging out at the garage with your handyman, eating Kraft macaroni and cheese, but I’m going to Columbia, Samantha. I’m going to get away from—” Her face crumples. “All of this.” She waves her hand. “Everything.”

“Nan.” I move toward her, arms outstretched.

“You too. You’re part of it all.” Turning, she stalks out of the bathroom, stopping only to scoop up her backpack, from which the sweatshirt sleeve dangles uselessly.

Did that really just happen? I feel sick. What just went wrong here? When did I become just another thing Nan wanted to escape?





Chapter Thirty-eight



The hotel ballroom’s stifling and overheated, like someone forgot to flip on the air-conditioning. It would probably make me drowsy even if I hadn’t gotten up at five this morning, restless, thinking about Nan, and gone to the ocean to swim. Not to mention that we’re in Westfield, the other end of the state, a long, long drive from home, and I’m constricted in my formal blue linen dress. There’s a big fountain in the middle of the room, and tables of finger sandwiches and buffet food set up around that. Out-of-season Christmas lights twinkle around statue reproductions of Venus rising from the waves and Michelangelo’s David, looking as sulky and out of place as I feel at this fund-raising rally. Mom makes her speech at the podium, flanked by Clay, and I struggle to stay conscious.

“You must be so proud of your mother,” people keep telling me, sloshing their fruity champagne cocktails over tiny plastic cups, and I repeat over and over again: “Oh, yes, I am. I am, yes.” My seat’s next to the podium and as Mom’s introduced, I can’t help tipping my head against it, until she gives me a sharp jab with her foot and I jerk back upright, willing my eyes open.

Finally she gives some sort of good-night summary speech and there’s lots of cheering and “Go Reed!” Clay rests his hand in the small of her back, propelling her, as we edge out into the night, which isn’t even really dark, kind of tea-colored, since we’re in the city. “You’re a wonder, Gracie. A twelve-hour day and still looking so fine.”

Mom gives a pleased laugh, then toys with her earring. “Honey?” She hesitates, then: “I just don’t understand why that Marcie woman has to be at just about every event of mine.”

“Was she there tonight?” Clay asks. “I didn’t notice. And I’ve told you—they send her the same way we had Tim out counting the cars at Christopher’s rallies, or Dorothy checking on his press conferences.”

I know this is the brunette woman. But Clay doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pull one over on Mom. He sounds like he genuinely didn’t realize “Marcie” was there.

“Ya gotta ashess”—he pauses, laughs, then repeats carefully—“assess your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses.”

Clay trips a little on the pavement and Mom gives a low laugh. “Easy, honey.”