I am going through the motions of my life.

How did this happen to me?

It's like some stranger has taken over my body and my real self lingers in the recesses of my mind, screaming out that I am misjudging and misstepping, ruining the perfect façade I have constructed. And I can't stop. I continue on, destroying myself over and over. I chip away at my own surface and I don't like what I find beneath.

I don't speak to anyone on Tuesday. Not Lindsey while she prattles on throughout European history and definitely not Sally White, who appears to have decided to ignore that yesterday ever happened. She spends most of microbiology carrying on a one-sided conversation with me about the best restaurants in Stamford. She picks up the conversation in Italian without missing a beat. She talks until Signore Chancey mercifully requests she shut up.

I'd like to speak to Tiffany. But how can I save her when I can't even save myself?

It feels like everyone's avoiding me. I know I've done it to myself. I haven't been much of a friend, so why should anyone be a friend to me? I stand alone on the steps after school, watching the other kids stream passed, talking and laughing, hurrying to their cars. I watch Kristy and Amanda Kerner climb into Amanda's Audi. Abby's nowhere in sight. I wonder what's going on with Abby. I wonder if Anna's okay. I haven't spoken to her since Saturday night. I haven't even tried.

I drive home to my empty house. Maria didn't leave a note again. Maybe she'll never write another. She's written me off like she's written off our mother and father. Another person to disappoint her. Mom, Dad, Tiffany, and I, a string of disappointments, falling in a line, like my string of lies. I wonder what will become of Maria. I don't think there's much hope for her now.

I search for Astrid, but she's nowhere like Maria. I return to the kitchen, pour a glass of apple juice, and make a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. I sit on the center island while I eat, staring at the refrigerator. Mom used to hang our pictures and drawings there, and notices from SDS. Now she says that's tacky. She's too preoccupied to care about those things anymore anyway. There are more important things to worry about in her life. Like the latest listings in Mercer and the size of her breasts.

Upstairs, I change into dark jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. I tie a sweater around my waist and grab my bag, then I'm out the front door. There's something that must be done.

I thought a lot about it last night and throughout the day, in-between fighting the urge to cry for Tiffany, Maria, and myself. Sam Thomas is a pervert. I don't want him near my sister ever again. Tiffany's only fifteen and Sam knows it. Wes and I, that's different. It's not the same. Wes is a good man. Sam Thomas pays for sex with teenage girls who are willing to pretend to be Stacey McGill. Sam is sick.

I am extremely selfish. Back when I was still myself, still a Shannon to be liked, I never thought of myself as selfish. I have terrible secret thoughts now. It occurred to me last night, as I lay in bed, in the dark stillness, that now I have something to throw in Kristy's face. And in Elizabeth's. They can't touch me. If they expose me, I expose Sam. I thought about that and felt such relief. I am an awful person.

I can't use Tiffany like that. As desperate as I am, as fearful as I am of losing Wes and of my own exposure, I cannot lower myself that far. I've hurt and disappointed Tiffany enough. I don't want anyone gossiping about her and laughing at her. My own reputation will soon be sullied. I must spare Tiffany the same disgrace. I have failed her again and again. The least I can do for her is shield her from judgment for her regrettable mistake.

I won't tell Elizabeth and I won't tell Kristy. I won't hold this over them. But Sam can't get away unpunished. There is someone who must know. She can punish him for me. And hopefully, she'll keep her silence. This time.

I pull through the gates of the Bainbridge Estates, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Stoneybrook. It's surrounded by a gray stone wall covered in ivy, crumbling in places, the homes almost fully obscured by ancient, massive shade trees. Most of the trees are bare for the autumn and reveal through their branches the sharp peaks of the old but well-maintained Victorian houses. I drive slowly, searching for the correct street. I've never been here. I had to look up the address in the phone book.

I turn onto Bertrand Drive and roll slowly, looking at the house numbers for 745. It's easier to find than I imagined. Janet's standing in the front yard at a low wooden fence, arguing with the elderly woman in the next yard. I pull into the driveway, parking behind Janet's Honda. Janet leaves the neighbor and walks toward me as I come around the side of the car. Her hands are on her hips, mouth in a straight line.

"Is there anyone you get along with?" I ask.

Janet frowns and glances over her shoulder at the retreating back of the neighbor. "The Porters' stupid rottweilers never shut up. They bark all night long and keep everyone awake. Then Mrs. McCracken across the street, her damn Pomeranian yips all day. There's never a moment's peace in this neighborhood," Janet answers, grouchily. "What are you doing here?"

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Yes?"

"I mean, in private."

Janet sighs. "All right. Come in." She turns and begins up the walkway to the front door.

"Sam isn't here, is he?" I ask, following her.

"No. He's at class. I don't think anyone's here. I just got home from work," Janet replies, turning her key in the lock. She leads me into the house, flicking on the foyer light. "My mom watches Amy during the day. They're probably running errands or something." Janet works in her father's office. Dr. Gates is an urologist and has an office at Stoneybrook General. "We can go up to my bedroom," Janet tells me and begins up the winding staircase.

I follow behind Janet. I notice her hair is clipped back with a black and tan-striped barrette. I wonder if she knows Kristy stole her green one. Janet leads me down the hall and into her bedroom and it's…not as I expected. There's a hot pink and orange tie-dye bedspread on the bed with matching curtains over the window. There are posters on the walls of Carson Fraser, Cam Geary, and Todd Byron. Stuffed animals line the shelves across one wall. It's strange. Janet always seems so…old.

"This is your bedroom?"

"Yes, it's my bedroom," Janet replies, dropping her keys into a hot pink bowl on the dresser. It's decorated with plastic butterflies.

"Sam sleeps in this room?"

"Why? What's wrong with it?" Janet snaps. "And no, he doesn't. He prefers to sleep in the guest room downstairs. If you must know."

I don't understand why she's snapping at me. She's the one who ratted me out to Elizabeth. She really has no right to get snippy.

Janet places her hands on her hips again. She stares at me, eyes narrowed, and runs her tongue across her bottom lip. She shifts her eyes. "Why are you here?" she finally asks. "If you've come to screech at me for telling Elizabeth, please save your breath. I am not apologizing for that. You've gotten way out of control. Has Elizabeth tracked down your boyfriend yet?"

"No," I reply, annoyed. "You've not spoken to Kristy?"

"No, I didn't tell Kristy," Janet says, irritably, misunderstanding the question. "I told a responsible adult and no one else. Don't worry, I have no intention of running around, gossiping about your sordid love life."

"I think you should be more concerned with people gossiping about your sordid love life," I retort. I can't believe all the times I defended Janet to Kristy. She's just as self-righteous as the rest of the Thomas-Brewers.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

I almost bring up Charlie, but think better of it. That's not why I'm here. "It means you're married to a pervert," I inform her.

"Well, that's really not news," Janet replies. "He's also a jerk."

"He paid my sister to have sex with him."

Janet blinks. "Come again?" she asks.

"Sam paid Tiffany two hundred dollars to have sex with him. I caught them in her bed. He was pretending she was Stacey McGill."

Janet purses her lips and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she walks out of the room without a word, hands still on her hips. A door slams out in the hall. Janet screams. Then the door opens and Janet returns, appearing completely calm.

"I don't goddamn believe this," she growls, walking passed me. She spins around to face me. "I'm going to kill him."

"I don't want people to know."

"The truth will probably come out after I murder Sam," Janet replies. She begins to pace the floor. "It isn't enough that he's a complete bastard, he has to be a child raping bastard, too? What the hell is wrong with your sister?"

"There's nothing wrong with my sister!" I exclaim. "Your husband is the sexual predator!"

"Your sister's a fifteen year old prostitute. I think there's something wrong with that."

"She isn't a prostitute," I snap, even though I accused Tiffany of exactly that last night. It's different coming from Janet. She has no right to judge Tiffany. Janet barely knows her. "Our mother told Tiffany she'll only have anything in life if she gets it by laying underneath a man," I tell Janet. It hurts to say it. The words burn and choke in my throat.

"Well, no wonder you're sleeping with a thirty year old man," Janet says. She scratches her head.

"He's twenty-six," I say, peevishly. "And that has nothing to do with my parents. He isn't paying me for sex. That's your husband and I expect you to keep him away from my sister. Please don't tell anyone what Tiffany's done. Please don't blame her. Don't tattle to Elizabeth like you tattled on me."

"I did not tattle to Elizabeth. Grow up, we're not kindergartners. I didn't say anything until you began going on weekend sex romps in the city," Janet retorts, then folds her arms. "I will take care of Sam."

"You promise?"

"Yes," Janet says, arms still folded. She stares at me a moment. "You and your sister need help."

"Neither of us is the teenage mother."

Janet frowns, eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you know why I had sex with Sam in the first place?" she asks. "Because I wanted him to like me. Remember that. Tell your sister."

"It's different for me," I tell her, then turn and leave the bedroom. When I'm halfway down the stairs, I hear the bedroom door shut. Then Janet screams again, followed by a loud crash, like she's swept everything off her desk and allowed it to smash to the floor.

I don't see how Janet can suggest we're anything alike.

When I get back into my car, I'm uncertain if I've done the right thing. Maybe I should have kept my silence. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

I drive downtown to the Tokyo House on Main Street. Wes and I are meeting here. I've planned carefully. We'll eat early in a restaurant that's always dark and hardly anyone ever eats at. Wes will get what he wants – to go out on a real date, and I'll get what I want – to remain hidden.

I'm early. I choose a booth in the far back and wait for Wes, stirring my hot tea with a spoon. I feel ill again. That's how I feel all the time now when I think of Wes and the mess I've made. I remember how it was in the beginning. Wes and I were so happy. He was sweet and made me laugh. I don't know what's happened. Oh, I do know. I know what happened. My lies grew into heavy burdens that now weight me down. The end had to come sometime and now here it comes, fast approaching.

Wes arrives on time. He waves at me from the doorway and smiles almost shyly as he approaches. I manage a weak smile in return. When Wes reaches me, he leans down to kiss me. I know he intends it to be light and fast, but I slide my hand to the back of his head, fingers in his hair, and keep him closer longer.

"Well, hello to you too," Wes says, sliding in across from me.

I offer another weak smile. "Hello," I say, softly.

Wes returns a quick smile then opens his menu. "This is nice, isn't it?" he comments, conversationally. "We haven't gone out for awhile. Do you know what you're ordering?"

I glance at the menu. "The orange chicken," I reply without giving it much consideration.

"I'll have that, too then," Wes says and waves over the waitress.

After placing our order, Wes and I are silent for a while. I stare down at my hands and Wes rearranges his silverware.

"Things have changed," I finally say.

"Yes, they have," Wes agrees. "I don't understand why. You're acting so strange these days. Have I upset you in some way? I'm calling too much, aren't I? My dad was right, wasn't he? I don't have to call so often – "

"You haven't done anything wrong," I interrupt him. I bite my lip and close my eyes. I breathe in. When I open my eyes again, Wes is watching me intently. There's something odd in his eyes. I think it may be panic. "It's me. It's all my fault."

"What is it?" Wes asks in this peculiar tone. "Oh, God. There is someone else, isn't there?"

I shake my head. "No, no. It's nothing like that. I just…I can't do this anymore, Wes," I tell him. I'm not even thinking. Or maybe I am. For the first time in weeks, I am thinking with my head. "We have to break up. I'm sorry." I begin sliding out of the booth.

Wes looks like I've slapped him "What!" he cries, panic rising in his voice. "You're breaking up with me? Just like that? You can't!" Wes reaches across the table and clutches my wrists. Not hard, not tight. He holds them gently, which is worse than if he squeezed until the bones shattered. "We can work things out. I really want this to work, Shannon. I love you."

I break free of his grip. "I'm sorry, Wes. I really am," I reply, quietly, then rush away, out of the restaurant and into the cold of the November dusk. I can hardly breathe. The air freezes inside my lungs and shudders out in gasps. I can't believe what I've done. I didn't mean to say the words. Just as I didn't mean to speak the lie that started this mess in the first place. I race to my car and jump inside before Wes follows, before he wears down my brittle resolve.

A few tears escape as I drive home. I brush them quickly away and win the struggle against the others that wish to follow.

Mom's car is in the garage when I pull into the driveway. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It's barely after five. We never expect her home this early. These days, we rarely expect her home at all.

"Has something happened?" I ask when I walk into the kitchen.

Mom's in there alone with her briefcase open on the table, shuffling through a stack of papers. She doesn't even look at me. "I lost some very important papers. Now I'm late for an important dinner meeting with Julian and a client. Damn it! I thought for sure I'd left them here." Mom presses her hand to her forehead and moans.

"Where's Maria?"

"I don't know."

"Has she been home?"

"I don't know."

"Where's Tiffany?"

"I don't know."

"Don't snap at me!" I bark at her.

Mom finally looks at me. "Excuse me?" she replies, archingly.

"Don't snap at me! You haven't been home in days! I have to do everything! You don't know what's been going on here. You have no idea!"

Mom gives me a withering look. "I know you were beating Sam Thomas with a tennis racket in our front yard yesterday. Mr. Papadakis phoned me at working asking if everything's all right at home. Honestly, Shannon, could you conduct yourself with a bit more tact? It's bad enough when that busybody Elizabeth Brewer calls me twenty times in a single week, I don't need the Papadakises doing the same." Mom turns her back on me and returns to her papers.

"It was a badminton racket," I correct, icily. "And aren't you curious as to why I was beating up Sam Thomas?"

Mom sighs. "I don't have time for your teen angst, Shannon."

"I caught him fooling around with Tiffany."

Mom sets her papers back into the briefcase and slowly turns to face me. "What?" she asks.

"I caught him fooling around with Tiffany. Upstairs in her bedroom."

"Really?" says Mom, flatly. She turns away again and snaps the briefcase shut. "I always knew Tiffany wasn't very bright. She should be fooling around with the unmarried brother, not the one already strapped with a wife and kid. Sometimes I worry about that girl."

"I worry about her all the time."

"Good," Mom says, lifting her briefcase. "It's a full-time job." Then Mom strides into the laundry room and out to the garage without another word. The door slams and shakes the walls of the laundry room.

I'm surprised to find Tiffany at the top of the staircase, leaning over the banister. I thought I'd have to drag her home from Frannie's in a few days.

"Tiffany…" I start, but don't know how to finish.

Tiffany stares at me, blankly. "She's screwing Julian, you know," Tiffany tells me.

"Julian who?"

"He was at her dinner party."

"That guy was like twenty-three years old!" I shriek.

Tiffany shrugs.

"We need to talk," I say.

"No. I'm not listening to your hypocrisy and your judgments anymore. You can't tell me what to do," Tiffany replies and lifts her chin, defiantly. "I'm going to be emaciated like Claudia Kishi. She came to my work a few weeks ago and told me all about it. She's been emaciated and now her parents can't tell her what to do."

"I think you mean 'emancipated'."

"Whatever," Tiffany replies. "I talked to Tyler at school today. He's trying to get back with me. He says I misinterpreted his cruel insult. I told him all about Sam Thomas. He cried." Tiffany whirls around and returns to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. A lock turns. She replaced it herself.

I walk up to my bedroom, feet slow and heavy on the stairs. Maria isn't in her bedroom. I enter my room and shut the door. The phone rings. I sit on the bed and watch it, listening to the shrillness break into the air. The machine clicks on. It's Wes. I reach for the receiver, hand hovering above, but I don't answer.