The electricity returns while I'm in the shower on Thursday morning. Last night was not a pleasant night at the Kilbourne house – but really is any night ever? The less said about it the better. There was, of course, plenty of yelling. Mom at me, Mom at Dad, Dad at Mom. And on and on. A few breakables were hurled around in the dark. Luckily, nothing hit anything but the walls. The rest of the evening was spent locked in my bedroom with my homework and a flashlight while Mom and Dad raged at each other downstairs. At least it was no longer directed at me.
Tiffany and I come straight home after school. Mom's been here all day supervising the workers sent by the cleaning agency, as well as calling the credit card and utility companies to ensure that I paid those bills. I can't remember. I haven't been keeping the precise records I used to. I have a lot on my mind. I can't be expected to do everything.
Mom sends Tiffany and I upstairs to change into fresh uniforms. She decided that we'll be best presented in our SDS uniforms – a reminder that we are private school girls from an affluent family. As if looking around the house the social worker might forget. My room is spotless and even Tiffany's is much less disastrous than usual. Throughout the house, the counters and tabletops and furniture gleam. On the outside, our home and lives appear perfect. If only the inside reflected the outer.
Dad took Maria away. She has no idea what's happening. We don't plan to tell her. Knowing Maria, she'll find a way to spoil it. Dad's supposed to keep her out of sight until all is clear. ,p>Mom positions Tiffany and I at our desks with our homework spread before us. We look very studious. We look the part we are meant to play. So does Mom. She's dressed in a peach-colored A-line skirt with an ivory white silk blouse. It completely covers her breasts. For once. She actually looks like a mother. She looks like the mother I used to have. I feel a faint pang when I see her, sweeping down the hallway dressed like that, practicing a false warm, motherly smile that once came naturally. She speaks to me in a false warm voice, too. It's sugary and sweet. I wish it were real.
The doorbell rings.
"Oh, God," Mom groans. "That's her! Or him. Or whatever idiot public servant they've sent. Stay in here, Shanny. Don't come down until I call for you." Mom bustles out of my room. I hear her repeat the same to Tiffany.
Mom's heels on the stairs, then clicking across the foyer tile. The door opens and Mom's voice drifts upward. It rings clear. It rings clear with false warmth and sincerity. A male voice answers, but I barely hear it. He speaks too low. I listen intently. The front door closes. More heel clicks on the tile.
"Girls!" Mom calls up the stairs. "Could you come down here please?"
I take a deep breath and push back my chair. Tiffany waits for me in the hallway. She's taken off most of her make-up. She looks the correct age. Fifteen. I wonder if I look as I should, too. Like a normal seventeen year old girl, not a girl who lies and deceives. Not a girl who has lain in a grown man's bed and made him promises she could not fully expect to keep. No, I look like who I am supposed to be. A real girl. The real Shannon.
Tiffany and I take the stairs together. A matched pair in our uniforms. Mom stands at the bottom, smiling, beside a young man with slicked back brown hair and bronze-rimmed glasses. He doesn't appear very old. Maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. Perhaps, he could be Mom's next conquest. He's just the right age. I bet he'd give us a favorable report then.
"Shannon, Tiffany," Mom begins, coming to stand near us. "This is Sammi Cleaver from Social Services. Mr. Cleaver, this is my eldest daughter, Shannon." Mom touches her hand to my shoulder. "And my middle daughter, Tiffany." Mom places her other hand on Tiffany's shoulder.
The social worker's name is Sammi? As in Sam? This does not bode well.
"Hello, Mr. Cleaver," Tiffany and I greet him in unison.
He smiles. "Hello, girls," he replies and looks down at his clipboard. "Now it says here there's a younger daughter. A Marie."
"Maria," Mom corrects. "Maria had to stay after school to work on a special project. I apologize that other arrangements could not be made. We only heard you would be coming yesterday afternoon."
"That's how things work sometimes," Mr. Cleaver says, lightly, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. "I only got handed your case a couple hours ago, so I apologize for not being too familiar with it. I can speak to Marie – er, Maria - another time, if necessary. Now is your husband home?"
"No, unfortunately Ted is in the middle of a very important trial and could not make it. Of course, we realize the importance of this visit, but it was simply unavoidable. Nothing is more important to us than our girls and clearing up these horrid accusations."
"Understandable," Mr. Cleaver says and makes a note on his clipboard. "Can you show me around?"
"Certainly," Mom replies, grandly, and leads him into the living room. Tiffany and I follow.
Mr. Cleaver looks around, jotting the occasional note on his clipboard. He asks Mom a lot of questions. He asks about Dad's job and Mom's job and how long we've lived in the house. He asks about the things we enjoy as a family and the places we like to go. It all seems like idle chit-chat. Mom answers perfectly each time.
Mr. Cleaver's checking out the photos on the mantle and entertainment center. "Hey," he says, brightly. "Someone's a Kathleen Turner fan!" He points at the videos lined on a shelf.
His back is to Mom, so he doesn't see her close her eyes in an exasperated fashion. She recovers quickly. "Yes," she says, breezily. "My husband is a huge fan. I think he may have a teeny crush on her." Mom chuckles.
Mr. Cleaver turns around and smiles. "I like War Of The Roses. What a vicious couple. It's hard to believe people could be so dysfunctional. Of course, I see all kinds of things in this job." He makes another note. Perhaps, this creepy Kathleen Turner fetish of Dad's has finally done our family some good.
Mom shows Mr. Cleaver the rest of the house and the backyard. He meets Astrid and Tiffany shows him where she keeps her garden in the spring and summer. Mr. Cleaver smiles and nods and appears perfectly satisfied with all our answers. After the backyard, we lead him upstairs, so he can see our bedrooms. We take him into Maria's room first. I show him Maria's swim trophies and math awards and some things she done with the entomology club.
Next we take him into Tiffany's bedroom.
"I'm sorry it's not very neat," Tiffany apologizes.
"Looks no worse than my room," Mr. Cleaver says. He flips a page on his clipboard. "Now you're fifteen years old and a sophomore at Stoneybrook Day?"
"Yes," Tiffany answers a bit hesitantly.
Mr. Cleaver looks up, curiously.
Mom jumps in. "Tiffany has had to repeat some of the freshman courses this year. She has trouble in math and English. However, she excels in the sciences."
"And languages," I add. "She speaks lovely French."
"And how are you doing this year?"
"Much better. I have A's in oceanography and French. I'm passing all my other classes with B's and C's. Shannon helps me with my homework almost every night and so does my boyfriend. Here, this is my boyfriend." Tiffany crosses the room and takes a framed photo of herself and Tyler off the dresser. She takes it over to Mr. Cleaver. "His name is Tyler. He's a junior at Stoneybrook Day. He's in Honor Society and French club, plus he plays third base on the baseball team. We've been dating for two months."
Mr. Cleaver nods and makes yet another note. "Now…" he begins. "There have been allegations made that you are…well, exchanging sexual favors for money."
"That's outrageous!" Mom roars.
"And gross!" Tiffany exclaims, wrinkling her nose, She appears convincingly offended. "I'm only fifteen! I'm not some skanky hooker!"
"I'm appalled that anyone would make up such vindictive lies about my daughter," Mom informs Mr. Cleaver, angrily.
Mr. Cleaver only nods and makes more notes. When he finishes, he glances up and smiles at me. "Why don't you show me your room?" he suggests.
"Of course," I say, leading him across the hall.
While Mr. Cleaver walks around the room, I point out all my awards and medals and certificates. My room does not look as if it belongs to a girl who sleeps with teachers. Mr. Cleaver checks out the Italian homework I purposely left spread out on the desk. He appears impressed.
"Shannon's top of her class at Stoneybrook Day," Mom says, proudly. I think that's as false as anything else. "What is your rank, Shanny?"
"I'm third in the class," I answer, promptly. Or at least I am until this semester's grades come out. Kristy Thomas will slide right past me. She's number five. I bet she'll take my spot. Like she's taken everything else. "I plan to go to Wellesley in the fall. Although Brown or Amherst will suffice. I'd like to study international business and foreign languages. I am fluent in Spanish and French, plus I'm in second-year Italian. This summer, Dr. George Dupree from the Religious Studies department at Stoneybrook University will be giving me private lessons in Greek." I manage to sound excited about the prospect.
"Hey, I took one of his classes when I was at Stoneybrook U. It was…different."
"His granddaughter is one of Shanny's oldest and dearest friends," Mom says, beaming, thinking that I've won us an extra point.
Mr. Cleaver nods. "Well, you sound quite ambitious," he comments to me. "Now…the allegation has been made that you are engaging in sexual intercourse with teachers at your school. Is there any truth to that?"
"Of course not!" I cry and am thankful that Maria and Mrs. Bryar didn't have their facts straight. I'm not even lying. For once, I am not lying at all. "I would never sleep with one of my teachers," I say, emphatically. Also, not a lie. I want to have sex with no one except Wes. "I'm disgusted that anyone would say such a thing about me," I add.
"Do you have any boyfriends?" he asks.
"No. I broke up with my boyfriend of six months in October. I'm not ready for another relationship. Plus, I don't have time," I answer, then list all the school activities I am involved in. Or am supposed to be involved in. I don't really attend meetings anymore.
When Mr. Cleaver is satisfied with all our lies and half-truths, completely convinced by our polished façade, the three of us walk him back downstairs to the foyer.
"Everything seems to be in order here," he tells us, brightly. "I'll be submitting my report to my boss in a few days, but I don't foresee any complications or a need for future visits. I am sorry for the inconvenience."
"Oh, it's no inconvenience at all," Mom assures him. "My husband and I just want this cleared up and for our lives to return to normal. You can imagine how upsetting it's been for the girls. That anyone would be so spiteful and slanderous to construct such vile lies about teenage girls, well, I am beyond appalled."
"Oh, well," Mr. Cleaver says with a nod, "bogus reports are made sometimes. Angry family members, disgruntled neighbors, but you understand we must check things out regardless. The children are what's important." He smiles at Tiffany and I.
We smile back.
Mom smiles, too. "Yes, and I thank you for being so concerned. I'm certain you're doing a wonderful job."
Mr. Cleaver appears flattered. "Thank you, Mrs. Kilbourne," he says and shakes her hand. Then he shakes Tiffany's and mine. "It was nice meeting you both. Good luck at Wellesley, Shannon."
"Thank you," I reply, still smiling.
Mom walks Mr. Cleaver onto the front porch. Tiffany and I stand in the doorway. We watch Mr. Cleaver walk to his car parked at the curb.
"What a pinhead," Tiffany laughs. "'Engaging in sexual intercourse'," she mimics and laughs again. "Did we get lucky or what? They sent us a moron."
Mom turns around and smiles, not the warm, motherly smile that she wore for Mr. Cleaver. This smile is cold and smug. "That," she says with unbridled glee, "was even easier than I anticipated! Good work, girls!"
Tiffany folds her arms and frowns slightly, but my pleasure matches Mom's. "That was so simple!" I cry.
"I know," Mom agrees. "I'm so glad those idiots at Social Services sent us a child. I was worried we'd get some ball-busting shriveled up old maid. Now it's over and that Brewer woman didn't get the better of us!" Mom spins around to look down the street at Kristy's house. "There she is now!" Mom exclaims.
I peer around the doorframe. Elizabeth's walking down her driveway dressed in a beige business suit, carrying a briefcase. She's headed for the mailbox and doesn't appear to have seen us.
Mom trots down the front walk with a kick in her step. She stops on the sidewalk, facing Kristy's house, and raises her fist. "Nice try, Elizabeth Brewer!" she hollers across the street. "Your lies didn't work! You can't destroy our family, you slandering social climber!"
Elizabeth freezes beside the mailbox and stares at us. Even at this distance, I can make out the complete and utter confusion on her face. She opens the mailbox, removes the mail, then turns and walks back up the drive.
"Yes, you walk away!" Mom calls after her. Mom whirls back around and starts up the walk. "See? She can't back up her lies. She can only make anonymous, bogus phone calls. She knew they were coming. See? She was trying to spy on us."
"I think she just got home from work," Tiffany points out.
Dad's BMW turns down the street and roars toward us.
"He was supposed to call first!" Mom growls and stalks toward the driveway.
Tiffany and I follow. Dad's BMW flies up the drive and into the garage. Maria isn't with him.
"Where's Maria?" I demand when Dad hops out of the car and saunters toward us dressed in his golf clothes.
Dad stops mid-step. At first, his expression is blank, but it turns to faint panic. "I left her at the club!" he cries.
"You left her at the club?" I shout.
"You forgot Maria?" Tiffany yells.
Dad looks confused. "What happened to her?" he mumbles to himself. "I played golf…she's a great caddy…I bought her something to eat…she went to find the restroom…I saw Phil Jardin…and…oh, I guess, I forgot to wait for her to come back from the restroom."
Tiffany's and my mouths gape in horror.
"Maybe someone should take Maria away!" Tiffany shrieks.
"Don't be ridiculous," Mom snaps. "Shannon will drive to Mercer and retrieve Maria from the club. Maria's fine. I'm sure she's having a grand time charging desserts onto our account."
I seriously doubt that.
Just then, Mr. Jardin's Jaguar squeals to a halt in front of our house. Maria's in the front seat. She glowers at us, nostrils flaring. Mr. Jardin points at Dad and laughs. Dad shrugs and chuckles. Then they begin making punching motions at each other. I can't believe this is my father.
Maria jumps out of the car, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. She stomps toward us, still glowering. "I'm not speaking to you!" she barks at Dad.
"I can't believe you left Maria at the country club!" Tiffany shouts and rushes after Maria.
"Really, Dad," I agree.
Dad doesn't listen. He jogs down the walk to talk to Mr. Jardin. They're still laughing.
"Your father is the stupidest man alive," Mom tells me, bitterly. "Now I have to go into the office. I've wasted the entire day with this nonsense. I'll be home sometime tonight." Mom walks back into the house, leaving me behind.
Tiffany and Maria lock me out of Maria's bedroom. I knock, but Maria refuses to let me in. How is this my fault? And since when is she not mad at Tiffany? Dejected, I wander back to my room and resume my homework. As upset as I am about Dad forgetting Maria – but honestly since when does he ever remember us? – I am also elated. Social Services will leave us alone. We fooled the social worker. Our lives will return to…to what is normal for us. My sisters won't go anywhere. I will regain control.
I hear Maria's bedroom door open and close. Then Tiffany's door closes. I continue my homework. Around six-thirty, I push away from my desk and walk downstairs. Mom's still gone. I don't know what happened to Dad. Did he ever actually come inside the house, or did he simply take off with Mr. Jardin? Oh, who cares. I walk into the kitchen and set a frying pan on the stove. I make a grilled cheese sandwich for Maria using cheddar and pepperjack, her favorite combination. I toast each side lightly, just as Maria likes it. When it's ready, I slide the sandwich onto a plate with a pickle and potato chips and pour a glass of apple juice. I carry them upstairs to Maria's room.
I knock. "It's Shannon!" I call out.
"Come in," Maria grunts.
I open the door and walk in, smiling. "I made you dinner," I tell her and set the plate and glass on Maria's night table. She's lounging on the bed, writing in a journal. Dear Lord. I hope she isn't documenting everything that goes on in this house! I turn my eyes from the journal and sit down on the end of Maria's bed. "I'm sorry Dad left you," I say.
Maria grunts again. "Yeah, and it was such a great day, too," she says, sarcastically. "I really enjoyed lugging his golf bag around the country club."
"Dad's an idiot, you know that."
Maria shrugs, then looks suspicious. "What were you, Mom, and Tiffany doing here without me? You got rid of me, I know it!"
"We weren't doing anything. Dad wanted to spend time with you," I lie.
"Yeah, right," Maria replies, glumly. She eyes me. "What, were you all having your boyfriends over for sex?" she asks.
"No! And you know I broke up with my boyfriend!"
Maria shrugs again.
"Did you finish your homework?" I ask her, pleasantly.
"Yes."
I don't know what else to say. I sit and watch Maria pick at her dinner. She eats a couple chips and takes a bite out of her sandwich. I should broach the topic of Aunt Mirabelle, but maybe it's not the right time. I should wait until tomorrow.
Maria sips her juice. "So," she says, breaking the silence, "I was talking to Mrs. Bryar – "
"Why were you talking to Mrs. Bryar?" I interrupt. What is Maria telling her now?
"Because I called her to see how she's doing. She's just fine. She told me to tell you thank you very much for mailing her her check and that the way you spelled her name made her feel like a porn star."
I narrow my eyes. What's wrong with Mrs. Bryar? Talking about porn to Maria! Now that I think about it, she always was rather odd. We really don't know anything about her other than that her husband left her and she enjoys filing highly inaccurate reports with Social Services. In light of recent evidence toward her true character, the former is not surprising at all.
"You are not to speak to that woman ever again!" I tell Maria, furiously. "Her or Elizabeth Brewer! Or any member of the Thomas-Brewer family!" I jump off the bed and storm out of Maria's bedroom.
I return to my bedroom. I sit down at my desk and stare down at my geology textbook. A strangled cry escapes my throat. I shove my books off the desk and bury my head in my arms. Things were all right two hours ago. Why must Maria insist on being difficult? Why can't she allow me to do what I know is best?
My phone rings. My heart still leaps each time it cuts into the silence. A part of me still hopes Wes will come back. Maybe he misses me, too. I pick up the receiver and put it to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Shannon!" Greer greets me.
"Oh, hello."
There's a short pause. "Are you okay? You sound disappointed."
"No. No."
Greer sighs. She knows. But she doesn't mention Wes. "What's going on?" she asks and I wonder if this call has a point. We haven't been on the friendliest of terms this week. I still haven't forgiven her and she still won't let up.
"Nothing. Just homework. What's going on with you?"
"Not much. Mom and I are just making our plans for the big Christmas party," Greer says. Every year, Mr. and Mrs. Carson throw an enormous party over the holidays. People come from all over Southern Connecticut to attend. It's a really big deal. "Mom reminded me to invite you. I hope you don't mind…but…we didn't send your parents an invitation this year."
"I'm not offended."
"Oh, good! But I forgot to invite you. You'll come, right? It's on Friday the twenty-second."
"I don't know," I say, hesitantly. I'm not at all in the Christmas spirit. We haven't even decorated our house or bought a tree. "Greer…" I start, a thought occurring to me. "Are the Ellenburgs going to be there?"
"Omigawsh!" Greer screams in my ear. "I didn't even think about them! I'll check with Mom. You can't come if they are. I'm sorry, I know it's rude to disinvite you, but I'm seriously afraid Mrs. Ellenburg may maim or disfigure you if she sees you."
"No, I understand," I say.
"They're probably not coming," Greer insists. "I bet they'll be out of town or something. So, say you'll probably come, please? You need a party. You need some holiday spirit."
"All right," I agree without any passion. I don't remember when the Ellenburgs leave for Miami. It really doesn't matter. I'm not going to Greer's party either way.
"Mark the date on your calendar," Greer chirps. "December twenty-second."
"All right."
Greer carries on a one-sided conversation for a few more minutes, then we hang up. I pick up my pen and lean over the desk to my calendar. I write Greer's party in the box for December twenty-second. I mark it, then stare at the calendar. I tilt my head and stare. My stomach tightens. I turn back to November. I turn back and begin to count.