Chapter 2

My wardrobe is an abyss. It's certainly nowhere near the size of some of my classmates' at Stoneybrook Day, and definitely not the entire second mansion that Greer's is, but my estimate is that a small child could still live inside quite comfortably. Some of it is clothes my mother bought in attempts to make me care more about fashion, back when she did things like that. Most of it is clothes I bought for various events that stack up over the years, where jeans and a t-shirt aren't acceptable for entry. I don't mind. I think it's important to maintain a professional vibe in every aspect, including appearance.

I pulled out a pale coral pink dress, inspected it, and threw it aside. It fell across my bed, joining the pile of other rejected pieces: a pair of dark grey slacks, a brown scoop-necked dress, and countless skirts and blouses.

My wardrobe is an abyss. But right now, it was yielding nothing.

It didn't help that a good portion of it was packed away into boxes and suitcases, ready to be shipped off to Paris along with myself tomorrow morning. I sorted though the hangers, my impatience mounting.

"Oh my God, what happened in here?"

I whirled around to find Tiffany standing in the open doorway, her eyes slightly wide. She had an empty pint of Ben & Jerry's in one hand and a spoon in the other; it was just like her to be eating ice cream early in the morning. I guessed that she had been on her way downstairs to clear it away and stopped at the sight of the monstrous piling of clothing on my bed.

I couldn't blame her for being surprised. My bedroom is always in order. It may get slightly cluttered at times during the school year when I'm too busy to properly clean it, but it never reaches the levels of chaos that Tiffany's does. A disorganized room is the sign of a disorganized mind.

"I'm trying to decide to wear," I explained, then laughed. As though it wasn't obvious.

"Clearly," said Tiffany, echoing my thoughts. Apparently she took my reply as an invitation for entry, because she bounded inside and threw herself onto the bed. I was mildly impressed that she had even found room to sit.

She put her spoon inside the empty ice cream carton and placed it on my desk. "So," she said, evidently gearing herself up for a nice gossipy talk. "What are you getting so dressed up for? Do you have a date?" Her eyes immediately brightened at the prospect.

Normally I wouldn't enjoy having Tiffany in my room while I was in such a state, but at this point I was ready to take anyone's advice. "No, I don't have a date," I said, patiently. "Don't be ridiculous, why would I go out with someone right before I leave for Paris? No, I'm choosing something to wear for dinner tonight."

I've never obsessed over an outfit so much before. But I so rarely have any chance to spend time with my parents. We never have family dinners like this. And I want it to go perfectly.

On hearing my response, Tiffany made a face. "And you're spending this much time over it? Why?"

I pulled from its hanger a deep crimson dress with an empire waist and looked it over critically. Maybe. "Because it's important," I said calmly, folding the dress neatly over the back of my desk chair. A simple black dress sat folded on the seat of the chair as the only other piece that had passed my inspection. "It's the last time I'll see my family for a year! Of course it's important. Now, what do you think?" I held up the two dresses for Tiffany's assessment.

"The red one," she said promptly. "But I meant, why bother?"

I put both dresses down. "What do you mean?"

"Why bother?" Tiffany began to shift through the pile of clothes that I had tossed aside. "You know Dad's going to cancel. Either that or he'll be reading briefs all night. And Mom…well, who knows." She held up the coral dress, wrinkling her nose. "Shannon, this is so Little Bo Peep. Why do you even own this?"

"He isn't going to cancel!" I said sharply, and instantly regretted it. My voice sounded defensive even to my own ears. I sounded childish and not at all the poised, Paris-bound scholar that I was.

I calmed myself, and started again. "I arranged this with Mom and Dad weeks ago, remember? They both marked it in their agendas. Don't worry." I took the coral dress from her and turned to hang it back up neatly. "And this was for a breast cancer awareness fundraiser. The one the Carsons held last spring."

"Hm," said Tiffany, unfazed. "You should put in the next batch of clothes you send to Goodwill."

"I'll keep that in mind." I reached for the scoop-necked dress and turned to hang that up as well. "Thanks for helping me choose. Do you mind leaving the room? I have to get ready for New York."

She shrugged and left the room with her spoon and her ice cream, leaving behind the mess of clothing on the bed. I put everything away myself until my bedroom is as before, then checked my watch. 8:30 AM. I was supposed to meet Greer at the Stoneybrook train station at eight-fifty sharp to catch the nine o' clock train.

I slipped into a summery white skirt and a sleeveless teal shirt, hoping that would help me survive the sticky humidity of New York summer. Before I left, I carefully laid the crimson dress across my bed. I would have just enough time after I returned from New York to shower and change.

"I'm heading out!" I called out to whoever might be listening as I descended the stairs. "See you later tonight!"

"Bye!" shouted back Maria's voice from somewhere in the house. I guessed she was still upstairs in her room. Tiffany didn't respond; I had no idea where she was.

To my surprise, Greer was already standing outside the train station waiting for me when I pulled up at 8:49 on the dot. She stood there, haughty as she always was, with her hair blowing in the light breeze as I parked and hurried over to her. I had to admit that I was impressed – Greer usually enjoys being fashionably late. Her flair for the dramatic tends to interfere with her ability to be punctual.

"Hi!" I said, swinging my purse over one shoulder. "Congratulations, Greer. I didn't know the laws of physics permitted you to wake up before ten on weekends."

"Shannon!" she said as though I had said something shocking. "It's the last time I'll see you for a year! Did you think I'd be late for this?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Never. Absolutely not."

"Good. Anyway, our housekeeper came in early and started vacuuming in the hallway. I've been awake for hours," she said with a sniff. I laughed.

Greer looped her arm through mine and began steering me into the station, keeping up a steady stream of chatter all the while. "I haven't been into the city for so long! I've planned such a fabulous day for us, Shannon. We have lunch reservations at Cilantro, it's this wonderful Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side. I thought I was going to faint right in front of Kevin when we tried the spicy habanero wings, but don't worry, there are things on the menu that don't make your mouth positively catch on fire…"

She went right on talking as we boarded the train and found seats in a small compartment near the end of the train. Greer occasionally wears on some people, but not me – we've been friends for years, and I love her.

"Oh, don't forget," I broke in as she started rattling on about evening plans. "We have to take the train back at six, okay? My family's having dinner. I made reservations especially." I'm not exactly sure why I bothered adding that last part; as a reassurance, perhaps. A reassurance that the dinner would happen, and go by without a hitch.

No, that was silly.

"Yes, Shannon, I'm aware," Greer said with a roll of her eyes. "You've brought it up several times. Now, as far as shopping goes, how much room do you think you have left to squeeze into your suitcase? Because I think…"

Eventually, our train came to a screeching halt at the Grand Central Station. Greer and I fought our way first off the train, then out of the station, through a herd of disgruntled-looking commuters, tourists, and city denizens. We passed a teenage girl who looked around our age sitting against a wall, playing an acoustic guitar and singing a lovely rendition of Angel of the Morning. We stopped to listen, although I got the distinct impression that Greer was dying to join in and upstage her. When at one point she began to open her mouth slightly, I quickly hurried her away, leaving a dollar bill for the girl.

Once outside, Greer threw back her head and inhaled the sticky New York air. "These little-town blues…" she sang, in her rich, future-Broadway-star voice.

I groaned, and then started laughing as she shoved me soundly in the ribs.

"So," Greer said, clasping her hands together. "We're two wealthy, beautiful girls released into the wilderness of the Big Apple. The whole city, Shannon, is our oyster."

We shopped. We talked. We ate. We laughed. Greer lost her heart to a pair of sleek, black leather boots on the fourth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue and immediately charged it on her credit card, much to what I imagined would be her father's dismay when the bill arrived. I remained much more sensible – at least, until we stepped inside Bloomingdale's.

Mrs. Carson was holding a charity benefit next week, and she had sent Greer out on a mission to find the perfect dress to embody the "kind, generous spirit" of the hostess's daughter. "Can you believe it?" she said with her very Greer sort of laugh. It reminded me of champagne being poured into a flute. "Honestly, I don't even remember what charity the benefit is for. Anyway, let's get on with it, any old rag will do, we don't want to miss our lunch reservations…"

I helped her scour the dress department of Bloomingdale's, although what separated a generous, kind-spirited dress from a regular dress I couldn't say for sure. Six minutes into my search, I had found it.

It was the little black dress that put all other little black dresses to shame. It had flutter sleeves and fell right below the knee, ending in a beaded lace trim. I looked at the price tag. And in spite of myself, I reached out for it.

Greer appeared behind me, at least five dresses wrapped over her arm. "Shannon!" she said in delight. "Have you actually gotten into shopping spirit? Oh praise everything that's holy. Let me see that."

I automatically handed the dress over to her, and within seconds, I was being jostled into a fitting room. "Come out when you've changed!" Greer commanded, and swung the door shut.

I changed. I came out. And Greer immediately pounced on me.

"You look amazing!" she announced. "You need to own this dress. How much is it? No, don't even look. You need it. I'll charge it if I have to."

At that moment I was very, very glad it was Greer who was with me. Had it been anyone else, I would have twirled twice in front of the mirror, slipped back into my regular clothes, and hung the dress back on the rack as though it wasn't a big deal at all. But Greer is irrepressible; a force of nature, if you will.

I barely inspected myself in the mirror. I could already tell by the way the fabric felt on my skin that the dress fit like a dream.

Greer didn't stop talking all the way up to the counter. And I walked out of Bloomingdale's with a shopping bag swung over my arm, thinking of the mess I had wreaked in my own bedroom that morning in my haphazard search. I had found it, finally: the perfect dress for the perfect family evening.

It was already seven o' clock when we arrived back in Stoneybrook – our dinner reservations were for eight. I was tempted to make a dash for my car when we finally stepped onto the platform, but my good manners held me back. "Thanks for a fantastic time," I said, hugging Greer tightly. "No tears, okay? Save that for the airport."

"Oh, agreed. I can't come home with my mascara running, my mother will think we got assaulted by some hobos in Alphabet City or something." She kissed both of my cheeks, twice, the French way. "I'll see you tomorrow. At the break of dawn." She made a hideous face.

I laughed. My flight was scheduled for six-fifteen; Anna and Greer were picking me up at five. "At the break of dawn," I confirmed.

The numbers 7:11 glare at me from my car clock as I pulled into my driveway. I don't curse on principle, but the temptation was strong as I stepped out of the car with my Bloomingdale's bag, slamming the door shut. I don't slam doors, either.

I had been counting on having at least an hour to get ready. That time was now slashed by more than half: it took twenty minutes to drive to the restaurant in Stamford, so we had to leave before seven-forty. I fished my keys out of my purse and let myself into the house, mentally crossing my fingers that Tiffany and Maria, at least, were ready to go.

They weren't.

I found Maria bent over Astrid in the kitchen, pouring dog food into her bowl. Her auburn curls didn't show signs of having met a hairbrush in days, and she was clad in blue jeans. "Maria!" I said, my tone a mixture of sharpness and anxiety. "Why aren't you dressed?"

"Oh, hi," she said, turning around. "How was your trip with Greer?"

"It was fine. It doesn't matter. Maria, we have to be in Stamford in less than an hour!" The words came out as more of a plea than the stern admonishment I had intended them to be.

Maria looked surprised. "I know! Don't worry. I already know what I'm going to wear. Tiffany's upstairs showering, I think."

"Aren't you going to shower?"

"No, I showered in the morning. Should I?"

I decided that it didn't matter. I left Maria with strict instructions to get to her room and get dressed, then hurried to my own bedroom. In the hallway I passed Tiffany's open door, and what I spotted inside brought me to a halt. "Tiffany. What are you doing?"

Tiffany was sprawled across her bed, the phone pressed to her ear. She covered the mouthpiece once she caught sight of me. "Hey!" Her eyes lit upon my Bloomingdale's bag. "Ooh, what did you buy in New York?"

"A dress for tonight," I replied, clasping the shopping bag closer to me. "And speaking of which, why aren't you getting ready? Maria said that you were in the shower."

"I know," she said blithely. "I was about to, but then Gregory called, so I stopped to talk to him and…"

I was vaguely tempted to take the phone and inform Gregory that Tiffany would have to call him back later, but I knew that that would make her refuse to speak to me during all of dinner, and perhaps even after I returned from France. Instead, I said, levelly, "Tiffany, can't you talk to Gregory after we get home for dinner? Or tomorrow, when I'm on a plane to France? Our reservations are for eight, you know. And it's in Stamford."

She made a face at me, but she said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. "Don't get so bent out of shape," she advised me, gathering up her clothes and sweeping out of the room.

I thought that I had been fairly calm, considering. Nonetheless, I headed to my parents' room to use their master bathroom. Tiffany was already using the second floor bathroom, and the downstairs shower had a tendency to leak.

Entering my parents' bedroom is like walking through an abbreviated timeline of their marriage. Small photos of them during their honeymoon and the early months of their marriage sit in frames on the large chestnut dresser – there was my father in a small Parisian café, my mother before a backdrop of clear blue sky, both of them standing in front of the ruins of the ancient Roman Forum. Mounted high on the wall across their bed is an enormous portrait of them on their wedding day.

Somewhere in one of the drawers is a photo album containing solely pictures of Maria, Tiffany and me together in our SDS uniforms, each picture taken at the beginning of each school year. At some point between Maria's elementary and middle school years, the pictures stopped being taken by Mom's steady hand and by the self-timer function on the camera.

Normally I like taking long, hot showers; it's one of the few times of the day that I have all to myself to relax. But time was short. I showered quickly, washing my hair with Mom's pear-scented shampoo. I usually prefer blueberry.

Once out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a big, fluffy white towel. I blew my hair dry at a lightning-fast pace, and almost singed myself in the process. Finally I headed to my bedroom, performed the fastest makeup job on my face that I ever have in my life, and checked the time. Oh, that wasn't good news.

Since I was now certain we were going to be late no matter what I did (I had yelled for Tiffany in the middle of applying blush, and I think that she had still been showering), I took my time dressing. I reached out and lifted my black dress out of the Bloomingdale's bag slowly, almost reverently.

I stepped into it and pulled the sleek fabric up around my skin, then zipped myself up. I rummaged for a few moments through my closet until I found a pair of suitable heels and slipped them on.

Finally, I paused to look over myself in the full-length mirror. For once when I did this, I smiled.

I slipped a silk shawl around my shoulders, grabbed my purse, and headed downstairs. "Maria! Tiffany!" I yelled.

"Yes?" Maria was already standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for me. She was wearing a floral print skirt and a deep green sweater, her hair pulled back in a matching emerald headband.

I smiled. "You look very nice," I told her. "Where's Tiffany?"

"Tiffany's here," Tiffany replied, coming into view at the top of the staircase. She was clad in the crimson empire waisted dress she had chosen for me earlier that day, struggling to put on her left heel as she hopped her way down the stairs.

I immediately made a beeline toward the staircase. "Don't do that!" I cried. "You're going to break your neck!"

"No I'm not," she protested, but she stopped long enough to put her shoes on properly and walk down like a normal person. "I saw that you weren't wearing your red dress, so I borrowed it. I hope that's okay."

"That's fine," I said, dismissively. "Now, come on. We're late."

"Hold on," said Tiffany, glancing around the foyer. "I think I might have lost my purse."

I groaned.

It was seven fifty-two when we finally pulled out of the driveway. I drove at a breakneck pace that was entirely uncharacteristic of me, but nonetheless, we ended up reaching the restaurant at eight-fifteen, a quarter of an hour late. The crowded state of the parking lot tacked another two minutes onto that total.

I couldn't help but feel grim as we walked up to the restaurant. I have absolutely no tolerance for lateness. And I hated being late on a night like this.

"Hello," I said to the maître d' as we entered. "Kilbourne, party of five? The other two party members should already be here."

The maître d' furrowed his brow. "Kilbourne?" he repeated as he tapped at the computer keys. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, madam. Your reservation has been canceled due to the fact that no one showed up to claim the table at eight o' clock. You are welcome to wait in line for a table to be free, of course."

I frowned. "What? That can't be," I said, thinking of Mom's note from the night before. "My mother and father should already be here. We just had some complications getting here. Are you sure?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, madam, but no one by the name of Kilbourne was here at eight to claim the reservation. Are you a party of three?" he asked, glancing at Maria and Tiffany. "Would you like to leave your name for a table?"

"No, we're a party of five!" I might have actually begun to argue with him right there if Tiffany hadn't pulled me away.

"Mom and Dad didn't show," she said to me, her tone very matter-of-fact. "It's okay." I nearly expected her to throw in an I told you so, but she didn't. "Do you want to stay and wait? I saw a Pizza Arcade across the street."

The idea of eating lukewarm pizza next to a horde of prepubescent boys playing air hockey was so absurd that I almost laughed. Instead, I stepped up to the maître d' again and said very politely, "I'm sorry, but may I use your phone for a moment?"

He looked taken aback. "Madam, it isn't quite restaurant policy – "

"Just for a moment. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't ask, except that I was supposed to meet my parents here at eight and I'm a little worried about them."

I can be very persuasive when I want to be. He let me use the phone.

I dialed the Rossums' number from memory, knowing that my mother had been planning on making a brief appearance at their dinner party before coming here. Mom met Julia Rossum during a yoga class a few years ago, and they've been close friends ever since. Mrs. Rossum has a son named Jake who's a sophomore at Connecticut College, and the two of us have been the unfortunate victims of our mothers' failed attempts to be matchmakers. I don't date. There's simply no time.

Mrs. Rossum's voice answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Rossum, hello." I shifted the phone from one ear to the other. "This is Shannon Kilbourne. I was wondering if my mother was with you."

"Shannon!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossum. "How are you? Tomorrow is the big day for you, isn't it? Your mother was just telling me all about it."

I almost forced my usual smile until I remembered that she couldn't see me. "I'm fine, Mrs. Rossum. Is my mother there?"

"Oh yes, she's here, darling. Hang on, I'll go fetch her."

A few moments passed, and then I heard my mother's voice on the other line. "Shannon…darling, hi…"

My heart sank. I've been to enough functions with my mother to recognize when she's had too much wine. From the sound of it, at the moment she was tipsy and bordering dangerously on drunk. "Hi," I said, my voice flat. "I'm at the restaurant with Maria and Tiffany."

"The restaurant…oh! Oh, darling! You wait right there. Oh, Lord! Now listen, Shannon, I'll be along in a flash…"

I sighed and pressed my lips together. "Mom, I don't want you driving after you've been drinking."

"I haven't been – "

"Mom, Maria, Tiffany and I are going to eat a nice dinner, okay?" I said. The maître d' was beginning to give me pointed looks. "It's all right. I'll see you…when we get home tonight."

"Well…I suppose if you think that's best…"

"I do. Bye, Mom."

I handed the phone back to the maître d' and thanked him, not even bothering to try getting ahold of Dad. I walked back over to Maria and Tiffany, who had both taken seats alongside some waiting customers. Maria looked anxious. Tiffany looked bored.

We didn't eat dinner at a Pizza Arcade. Instead, I drove along the freeway back to Stoneybrook until we found a place that looked halfway suitable for the clothes we were wearing. We ended up at a roadside diner when Maria began to complain of hunger pains. She ordered a cheeseburger and fries and seemed happy enough. I ordered spaghetti and meatballs and didn't eat a bite.

The driveway was empty when we finally got home. I couldn't say I was surprised.