“No,” I say. “The police said it was about September thirtieth. So it’s from last year.”
“Virginia,” Shannon says quietly. “This isn’t about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you well enough to know that you’ve been beating yourself up ever since they left the apartment. This is Byron’s problem, and Byron will have to deal with it. You have to keep living your life.”
“I wish you were here,” I whisper.
“I’m always here for you,” Shannon says.
I almost say Not this summer, but I press my lips together and remind myself to be a good friend.
By ten, they’re still not home. I grab the bag of Thai food and throw it down the garbage chute. Then I turn off my ringer and get into bed.
At midnight, I’m lying awake when I hear voices in the apartment. My parents, for sure. I listen for Byron. Nope. Just Mom and Dad.
7
I wake up with a neck cramp. It’s pouring rain outside my window, and the sky is steely gray, definitely not driving-practice weather. But it’s not like I’m even happy about that anymore.
My parents are talking in the other room. Their phones keep ringing and chiming. I press my thumb into my neck to massage a knot. I want to find out what happened to Byron, but I’m not ready to deal with my parents yet. I reach for my phone on the bedside table. Several texts came in while I was sleeping.
A half hour ago, Alyssa wrote, Hey to you in CT. I’m up at the crack of butt. Final review sheet for math is brutal. Text when you get home on Sunday so we can do it together. And remember, no hitting anything with your car!
I don’t write back. I’m not sure how to tell Alyssa that I’m still in the city. If I went for the truth, my parents would kill me. They’re really private about not airing our dirty laundry. Mom frames it as a loyalty thing, but I think it’s more about protecting the perfect Shreves image. They’d kill me if they found out I told Shannon that Byron got arrested last night, but Shannon knows everything about me so I’d take death over lying to her.
I can see that Shannon texted at three in the morning, midnight in Walla Walla: Thinking of you, Virginia. Hang in there.
At two in the morning, Froggy wrote, Hello from Minecraft Marathon hour 10.5. In survival mode. xoxo
I frown at the xoxo. Often he adds a heart, too. Good thing there’s not an emoji for taking off someone’s jeans. Okay, that’s gross. I can’t believe that a few days ago that was my biggest worry.
Just then, Mom turns the knob on my door. I quickly stash my phone under my covers.
“You need to get up,” she says. Her hair is blown out and she’s done her makeup. Weird. On Saturday mornings that we’re not in Connecticut, Mom lives at the gym.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “What happened to Byron last night? Is he home?”
Mom opens my closet door and pushes through my hangers. “I don’t get it,” she says, ignoring my questions. She’s slamming my clothes from right to left. “I’ve gotten you so many nice things to wear. Where are they? All your new clothes look so cheap.”
I roll over in bed and look out the window at the rain splattering onto the grayish Hudson River. There’s a barge plodding toward the George Washington Bridge. If I were to answer Mom with a list, I would say:
NICE THINGS IF “NICE” MEANT “HORRIBLE”
The Nice Things you got me were not nice. They were beige and shapeless.
You would never talk to your patients like this. Though I bet the girl who didn’t get into ballet camp wears pleated skirts and sweater sets.
You bought me those Nice Things last fall and, hello, teenagers grow. Also, teenagers discover awesome stores like Torrid that acknowledge that style comes in shapes other than string bean.
As to the location of the Nice Things? Sorry, but I donated a heap of them to Housing Works back in March.
“This will do.” Mom plucks out a beige blazer and a knee-length skirt. She got them for me to wear to a friend’s daughter’s bat mitzvah last summer.
I reach under the covers and squeeze my belly. I doubt the skirt still fits, and my boobs have definitely surpassed the girth of the blazer.
“Dad will rush it to the dry cleaner,” she says. She takes a white blouse off my hanger. “At the very least they can steam these things. And your hair appointment is at eleven. Talia is doing me a favor by fitting you in. We leave at one.”
Before I can ask where we’re going at one, Mom walks out of my room with the blazer and skirt. I pull my covers over my head and close my eyes.
“Virginia!” Mom bursts back into my room. “Don’t you get the gravity of this? Get up and let’s have breakfast. The last thing I need is additional stress. Mark says we should be at the arraignment by two.”
As Mom about-faces into the hallway, I glance at my phone. It’s twenty minutes later. I must have fallen asleep. I wriggle up in bed and google “arraignment.”
A formal reading of a criminal-charging document in the presence of the defendant.
A shiver runs up my spine. So it’s true. My brother has been arrested.
This, by the way, is only the beginning of Mark Says.
As I’m walking toward the dining area for breakfast, I stop short. Dad is on the phone with Mark Levy, the criminal-defense lawyer who called last night. Dad’s shirt is rumpled and he’s unshaven, with shadowy creases under his eyes. He’s sipping coffee at the table and saying into the phone, “Yes, Mark. Yes … got it.” Pause. “Yes … yes … okay, Mark.” Pause. “Okay … yes.”
Mom is staring intently at Dad, her nails clicking on the tabletop. She has a new manicure, pale peach with squared tops.
As soon as Dad hangs up, Mom says, “What did Mark say about SORA?”
Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t ask.”
“Come on, Mike—”
Dad cuts her off. “For now we’re just talking about the arraignment. Mark says we should take this one step at a time.”
Mom picks up her phone. “I’m calling him back about SORA. That’s the one thing I told you to ask. SORA could negatively impact Byron for his entire life.”
I take a step backward into the shadows, slide my phone out of my pocket, and quickly type in SORA. After a few clicks, I realize that SORA is the Sex Offender Registry Act.
“Phyllis,” Dad says, his voice rising, “we’re going to need Mark on our side. We don’t want to alienate him now.”
“I told you we should have sued Columbia after they suspended him,” Mom says. “I said they were making an example out of Byron. You disregarded that, and now it looks like we conceded.”
“Don’t start second-guessing our decision,” Dad says. “We always knew there was the possibility she could press criminal charges. We didn’t want to make it worse by suing Columbia. Since Byron doesn’t remember much about that night, we didn’t have a case. It was her word against his.”
“Don’t tell me not to second-guess our decision. This is my son! Don’t you care that he might end up in jail? Or have to register as a sex offender?”
“Our son,” Dad says.
“Well, I don’t feel like you’re protecting him,” Mom snaps.
“And I don’t feel like you’re being rational,” Dad shoots back.
I’m frozen in the entryway, my eyes pinging between the two of them. They never fight in front of me, and I rarely hear them argue in private either. I slowly back down the hall, but then knock into a side table, causing them to whip their heads in my direction.
“Come on, Virginia!” Mom shouts. “It’s not like we have time to spare.”
“Why do I have an appointment with Talia?” I ask, reluctantly sitting down with them. I fork a few nectarine slices into my bowl alongside a dribble of Greek yogurt. Mom and Dad are obsessed with Greek yogurt, but I find it thick and disgustingly sour.
Talia is Mom’s temperamental hairstylist. I usually go to Supercuts, but for my birthday Mom gave me a gift certificate for a cut a
nd deep condition with Talia. That was the month that my hair was pink. Talia spent the entire time lecturing me for coloring my hair and said I was stripping it of its natural luster. There is no way I can deal with her today.
Mom shakes her head. “Do you have any idea how busy Talia is? She’s coming in early to take care of you. I texted her this morning. Mark says we need to present the image of a wholesome family at the arraignment.” Mom picks up a slice of nectarine and sets it down again.
“What wholesome thing has to happen to my hair?” I ask.
Mom presses her lips together and, in that pause, I know. She’s making me get rid of my purple and green. Which is not happening.
“No,” I say.
“You’re going back to blond,” Mom says. “Your natural color. If the judge looks at our family, we don’t want him to think we let you guys run wild.”
I push my bowl away. “What about your ‘Purple Hair and Piercings’ book proposal? It was all about how you like my hair. Also, I don’t see how having a daughter with purple-and-green hair is in the same category as having a son who’s been arrested for rape.”
Mom looks away like she’s been slapped. Dad clears his throat.
“If it’s going to be a fight,” he says to Mom, “let it go. Virginia’s hair color is not going to make or break this.”
“You’re undermining me,” Mom hisses to him. To me she says, “I can’t believe you’re challenging me at a time like this.”
I wipe at my eyes. “Mom—”
“That’s enough,” she says sharply.
I stare into my lap, trying to think of a comeback that will show how irrational she is being.
“Phyllis,” Dad says. “You need to conserve your energy for what’s ahead. A world war over hair color won’t help this morning.”
This may be the first time in my sixteen and a quarter years that Dad has had my back.
Mom grabs her phone. “Fine. I’ll text Talia and cancel. Don’t you care that your brother could go to jail?”
A meteor-sized lump has lodged in my throat.
Mom pushes back her chair and storms into her office.
I cry quietly into my hands. Dad pretends not to notice. When he leaves the table, I carry my bowl to the sink, filling it with water. Tiny blobs of Greek yogurt float to the surface. In my shorts pocket, my phone buzzes.
Alyssa has texted again: I came to Brooklyn to cheer on Froggy and Hudson. Total Minecraft geekdom. Froggy says, “Hi, babe.” How’s CT?
In town this weekend after all, I write back. I ignore the Froggy/babe part and head into the shower.
A few minutes later, I’m wrapped in a towel and walking to my bedroom when I nearly collide with Dad. He’s coming out of Mom’s office.
“Thanks for backing me up about my hair,” I say quickly. I feel instantly awkward in a towel in front of Dad.
“You’ve really upset your mom.”
“It’s not like I did anything,” I say, wishing I had a bigger towel or a bathrobe or, better yet, a floor-to-ceiling parka. “Byron is the one who—”
“Virginia,” Dad says, and his voice is low and cold, “this is not all about you.”
Then he brushes by me and closes his door.
At 1 p.m., Dad calls for a car. As we ride down in the elevator, I’m humming the Funeral March in my head because that’s what this feels like, somber and depressing.
Random fact: The Funeral March was written by Chopin.
I know this because Alyssa and I are on the planning committee for Mr. Mooney’s tribute. He was our prehistoric math teacher. He always used to sing to us in class. Last winter he had a heart attack and died over winter break. At Brewster Field Day on Thursday afternoon, which is also the last day of school, we’re having a ceremony in Central Park in Mr. Mooney’s honor and releasing balloons and playing his favorite songs. Our playlist skews more to old-timey folk than Chopin funeral sonatas, though.
“The driver’s name is Rosalie,” Dad says, looking up from his phone. “She’s out front.”
“What kind of woman drives a taxi?” Mom asks.
Dad shrugs. “Strange career choice.”
I want to say that the kind of woman who drives a taxi is similar to the kind of woman who is a Tree Man, and Dad had no problem with that.
As we walk wordlessly through the lobby, Alberto leans out from behind the doorman desk.
“Looking good, Shreves family!” he says, reaching out to high-five me. “Where are you headed all dressed up like that?”
I stumble in Mom’s one-size-too-small heels that she’s forcing me to wear and twist my right ankle.
Mom says coolly to Alberto, “Family obligation.”
I blow my bangs out of my face, high-five Alberto, and limp to the sidewalk.
A black SUV is waiting at the curb. Dad climbs into the first row of seats. He gestures for me to squeeze through the four-inch space to the way back. If I were a prepubescent gymnast, this would be a cinch. But I’m not. Not to mention that my linen skirt is too stiff for acrobatics. Not to mention that the blazer is pinching my armpits and the blouse is popping at my boobs, revealing a peep show between button two and button three.
“Let’s go, Virginia.” Mom has produced a massive umbrella, and she’s standing behind me, sheltering her perfectly styled hair from the drizzle. “I’m not getting any drier.”
I angle sideways and heave myself into the back. Nothing rips, but my ankle is throbbing from when I tripped in the lobby. Mom climbs into the row in front of me, buckles up, and the driver steers us to the West Side Highway.
As we’re cruising downtown, I lean forward in my seat. “Is it true that Byron could go to jail today?”
“Consider where you are right now,” Mom says quietly. “Is that really appropriate?”
Location: In a car going to see my brother get charged with a crime.
Mom gestures her chin toward the driver.
Oh, my bad. There’s Rosalie the Taxi Driver who doesn’t even know who Byron is and doesn’t give a damn if our family is perfect or not.
Dad turns in his seat. “We’re prepared to make bail. It should be fine. Now that’s enough.”
I swallow hard. No one says anything for twenty blocks. As we pass Chelsea Piers I think about how Shannon and I once came here to play laser tag.
“Shannon isn’t coming home until August now,” I tell my parents. “That means it’ll just be me working at Ciel Media. I’m pretty bummed about that. Not about Ciel, but that I have to wait two extra months to see Shannon.”
“Uh-huh,” Dad says but doesn’t look up from his phone.
Mom doesn’t say anything.
After a minute, she gets on her phone and, in a chirpy voice, cancels her private golf lesson for tomorrow. When she hangs up, I make one more attempt at conversation.
“The reason Shannon isn’t coming home,” I say, “is because she and her parents are hiking the PCT. Isn’t that crazy?”
No response.
“That’s the Pacific Crest Trail,” I add.
Still nothing. I stare out the rain-splattered window for the rest of the drive downtown.
As we’re nearing the city court buildings, Mom rotates to the back. “Mark will meet us outside and fill us in on the protocol,” she says to me. “What I need you to keep in mind is no drama. Only speak when spoken to. Basically, be invisible.”
The car comes to a stop at a massive concrete building. Criminal Court is etched into the stone on the front.
I suddenly can’t breathe. My brother is inside that building.
“Do you understand?” Mom presses at her hip, unbuckling her seat belt.
No drama. Only speak when spoken to. Be invisible.
I nod. That should be easy because it’s basically the story of my life. Or my life story if Mom wrote it.
8
No one seems to notice my purple-and-green hair as we go through the security clearance and enter the lobby of the criminal courthouse. In fact
, no one seems to notice us at all. People are gathered in small groups, frowning and whispering into their phones. There’s an ATM machine with a hand-scribbled sign taped to it that says out of order and industrial-sized fans blowing stale air around. Alyssa and I have walked past this court building a bunch of times on our way to Chinatown, but I never knew what it actually was until today.
“There’s Mark Levy,” Mom says, collapsing her umbrella and walking quickly toward a short guy wearing a pinstripe suit. He smiles stiffly, revealing a horselike gap between his front teeth, and shakes my parents’ hands. As I nod at the lawyer—only speak when spoken to, only speak when spoken to—I realize he’s really short, like five-one. Mom is five-three, and she’s taller than him.
“I’ll start with the bad news,” Mark says. He rises onto his toes like he’s trying to make himself appear taller. He’s also pudgy, built like a cardboard box. “We have Judge Harrison today. She’s tough on sex crimes and tends to set a high bail.” When he says that, Mom jabs my arm. I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell me so I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Bad idea because my right ankle is still hurting a lot.
Mark continues. “But Judge Harrison can also be fair if she’s having a good day, and I’ve never known her not to set bail for a sex crime unless there are extenuating circumstances involved. I’ve talked to Byron and explained all this. He hasn’t been brought out yet, but it’s looking like they’ll call his case within the hour.”
Mom jabs me again. I look at her like what? but before she can say anything Dad clears his throat.
“How’s he doing?” he asks.
“As can be expected—” Mark starts.
Just then, Mom holds up a finger and leans close to me, frowning hard. Her breath smells like cinnamon Altoids, which she chain-chews when she’s stressed.
“I’m trying to tell you to go over there.” She points to a bench on the other side of the lobby. “Wait until we call you.”
I limp across the lobby in Mom’s shoes. A lot of girls at school have been prancing around in heels since they were toddlers, but not me. For one, I look stupid in heels, like I’m faking the part of a girlie girl. And for two, I hate the double standard that men are allowed to walk around like regular humans in regular shoes while women are expected to wince and wobble on their tippy toes.