The Drowning Girls Read online

  “That’s above my pay grade.”

  “I mean, I thought maybe from the graffiti...”

  “You think they signed their names? It was all swearwords. ‘Fuck this, fuck that.’ Just your average senseless crime.”

  “Myriam says it’s someone from outside The Palms,” I said.

  Phil’s laugh was bitter. “Myriam says. Of course she does. That’s the only way the world makes sense to her.”

  The water stopped abruptly and I passed Phil a fresh bath towel, watching through the frosted glass as he ran the towel over his hair and then down his body. When he stepped out a moment later, the towel was tied around his hips. Water beaded on his chest. “What?” he asked, realizing I was waiting.

  I told him about finding Danielle at the Sieverts’ house, about grounding her for a month.

  He swore. “And the one night she’s unaccounted for, there’s vandalism in the clubhouse?”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking the same thing, but it couldn’t have anything to do with her. You should have seen how surprised she was when I told her about it. Besides, there was no paint on her, she wasn’t wet or dirty...” I followed him back into the bedroom, sitting on the bed while he pulled on clean clothes.

  “And I suppose it had nothing to do with Kelsey Jorgensen or Mac Sievert.” His face was away from me, but I heard the disgust in his voice, the splatter as their names hit the air.

  “Danielle says they watched a movie and fell asleep.” I thought of the beer bottles in Mac’s bedroom, lined up on the billiards table, the lazy way he’d come down the stairs in his shorts, bare-chested. “Yes, they’re overprivileged and entitled, but that doesn’t mean...”

  Phil looked at me. “It doesn’t?”

  I stopped, hearing myself. It was what everyone here told themselves, as if it were written into the HOA agreement, a credo for membership at The Palms. Other people, always, were the bad ones—the bad influences at Ashbury, the drywallers and cement pourers and bricklayers and roofers with questionable backgrounds. Even at Miles Landers, when the locker rooms were vandalized, when someone sprayed LOSERS in Roundup on the football field, we assumed it to be the work of the crosstown rival—an assumption that never proved true. Always, inevitably, it was one of our own students. But it was the same thinking at work: Why would we do this to ourselves?

  Phil shut the door of his armoire, hard, and I winced from the sound of wood hitting wood. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m going to lie down. I’ve had enough hell for one day.”

  * * *

  Kelsey was waiting in front of her house as usual on Monday morning, wearing a short black dress and silver earrings that fell to her shoulders—as if it were a Saturday night date instead of another day at school. She said hello to me and exchanged a knowing look with Danielle as she slid into the backseat. It had been a relief to have a break from her for the weekend, to lounge around the house in yoga pants and not bump into her every time I rounded a corner.

  The mood was more subdued than usual, and I turned up Morning Edition loud enough to drown out the silence. There were other things going on in the world. Syria. The end of the embargo on Cuba. Real, important things. It took me half the drive to realize Danielle and Kelsey were texting each other, that their thumbs were saying the things they didn’t want me to hear. In fact, they’d no doubt been texting all weekend—that’s what Danielle had been doing in her room, when I assumed she was being conciliatory, submitting mildly to her punishment.

  Shit.

  This was the sort of thing I would know if I’d bonded with the moms of Danielle’s classmates in the drop-off lane, if I’d kept up with them over the years, meeting for moms’ night pedicures and margaritas. Instead I’d waved and headed to work; at the end of the day, I’d stayed in the car when it was time to pick Danielle up, too tired to engage. Take note, Liz, I told myself. Next time, grounding includes the cell phone. It includes the internet.

  At school, I watched them walk off together, laughing and chatting as soon as they were out of my earshot. Well—I thought. At least I had a month without Kelsey in my home. That would feel like a minivacation in itself.

  * * *

  But it was a short-lived vacation. That afternoon, following a tedious administrative meeting and an hour of posting scholarship notifications to the school’s website, Kelsey appeared in the doorway of my office.

  For a moment I stared at her blankly, filled with the strange sense of two worlds colliding, school and home, business and personal. There were too many Kelseys: the girl in the backseat of my car, sprawled across my daughter’s unmade bed, stumbling to her feet in Mac Sievert’s bedroom. But Kelsey fell into my section of the alphabet—at this moment, she was just another student, and this was just another meeting.

  “Is this a bad time?” she asked, leaning against the door frame. Her hair was somehow as perfectly styled as it had been this morning, the ends still holding their loose curls. It was a feat I’d never been able to manage, despite two more decades of styling experience.

  I glanced up at the clock on my wall. Two thirty. “Not at all. Is everything okay?”

  She shrugged. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Of course, let me just...” I made a few clicks and saved my work before turning back to her.

  My office was just large enough for three chairs, four filing cabinets, two bookshelves crammed with yearbooks, binders on testing protocol and thick catalogs from college admission departments. Kelsey stood in the middle of the room, looking around as if she had been asked to give an appraisal. “This is cute,” she said, picking up a framed photo of Danielle in a plastic kiddie pool, her brown hair hanging in wet pigtails. She set it down and picked up the other frame from my desk, a photo of Phil, Danielle and me at Disneyland three summers ago, wearing matching hats with mouse ears. Danielle’s mouth was ringed with the red stain of a sugary drink, and she looked heartbreakingly happy.

  “We used to go to Disneyland every year,” Kelsey said, sloughing her tote bag from her shoulder and letting it drop to the ground. “My parents hated the long lines.”

  I smiled, imagining the Jorgensens waiting in line with the tourists in khaki shorts and sweatshirts, only Tim would be in a dark suit and Sonia in a patterned dress and heels, both checking their phones every thirty seconds. “We haven’t been back since we took that picture, either.”

  She approached the chair across from my desk. “Now my parents think I’m old enough for serious travel. Last year we went to Italy for two weeks, and before that my dad took me on a tour of all these Ivy League campuses. I was only thirteen, but I guess he was trying to make a point.”

  “Sounds like a smart dad,” I said lightly. Oh, please, I would tell Allie later. Thirteen years old? I remembered Danielle telling me about the Jorgensens’ trip to Italy last year, sounding awed. They went to Italy for Christmas. Just because.

  Kelsey’s gaze had gone over my shoulder, to the various things tacked to the wall behind my desk. I half turned, seeing what she was seeing. A picture of Aaron and me, dressed up as Thing 1 and Thing 2 for a school spirit day, a Mother’s Day card Danielle made me in second grade, my framed diploma from San Jose State. “Was I supposed to make an appointment to see you?” she asked suddenly. “I don’t know how this works. At Ass Bury there weren’t that many students, and we could just pop in whenever the door was open.”

  “Usually students make an appointment, but I’m free now,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. I tried to keep my voice friendly but professional, neutral. Kelsey settled into the chair, her black dress rising up as she sat, exposing a long line of thigh. I turned back to my monitor. “Let me do one little thing,” I murmured, typing her name into the student database. Only six weeks into the school year, there weren’t any official grades on file. Although MLHS teachers were required
to maintain an up-to-date online grade book, there were some liberal interpretations of “up-to-date” that resulted in the tool being only somewhat effective. Still, at a glance, I saw that Kelsey had four As, with Bs in world history and geology. Solid enough—although a bit lower than what I would expect from an Ashbury student.

  I minimized the screen and glanced back at Kelsey. “What can I help you with today?”

  She tilted her head to one side, twirling one of her long earrings back and forth between her fingers. “It’s not, um, an academic thing. It’s— I guess it’s personal.”

  I shifted in my chair, studying her.

  “But that’s okay, right? I mean, counselors here handle personal issues, too.”

  Right there, I could have walked across the lobby to Aaron’s office, rapped on his door, checked if he were available. We’d done that before, for one reason or another—a simple trade: this student for that one. He’d had a female student with an unrelenting crush on him; I’d had a parent accuse me of ruining her daughter’s life, never mind the seventeen missed assignments in English that meant she would have to take summer school. I could easily have handed Kelsey off to Aaron, citing a conflict of interests. On the other hand, knowing Kelsey personally might make me the best one to advise her. I remembered what Sonia Jorgensen had said at the Mesbahs’, her cool hand on my arm. It was wonderful to have another responsible adult in her daughter’s life.

  “Of course,” I said finally. “I work with a lot of students on personal issues.” My glance went to the organizer bolted to my office wall, to the crisp, bright pamphlets with their bold headings: Overcoming Anorexia. Understanding Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Dealing with Loss.

  She took a deep breath, exhaling through her tiny, perfect nose. “So...is this the same as talking to a priest?”

  I blinked, laughing reflexively. “Well, no. I’m not here to give religious advice, of course.”

  “But it’s still completely confidential?”

  I considered her question, choosing my words. “I like to explain it this way, Kelsey. I’m not going to repeat what you tell me unless you give me permission to do that, or unless I become concerned for your health and safety.”

  “So if I told you I had an eating disorder, you would have to tell a doctor?”

  I smiled, thinking of all the meals Kelsey had eaten at our house, all the devoured Klondike bars and bags of Doritos. “That’s a good example. Yes—I would need to get other people who can help involved. Your parents, for example, so they could make decisions about your health.”

  Kelsey went quiet. Finally, when I was about to prompt her, she said, “Actually, it’s not just about me. It’s about Danielle, too.”

  I stiffened, trying to keep my voice even. “Okay.”

  She chewed on her lower lip, working it back and forth between her lower teeth. “It’s about last weekend. Saturday. I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I’m worried, because she’s my best friend, you know?”

  My heart was galloping, as if it were one of those mechanical rabbits being chased by a stampede of racing greyhounds. “What—”

  “Well, I feel bad because I’m the one who suggested that we go over to Mac’s house. There’s never anything good to eat at my house, and we were bored...so yeah. We just thought we’d hang out at Mac’s for a bit.”

  “You watched a movie,” I prompted, as though I were reading from a script.

  “Yeah, some dumb road-trip movie. Mac was already watching it, so we didn’t even get to see it from the beginning. Anyway, we went down to his garage, where his dad has his poker nights, and they had this refrigerator full of beer—” Kelsey hesitated for a moment, glancing at my office door, open about a foot. My particular “open-door policy” meant that the door stayed open while I chatted with students, unless their parents were in the room or it was absolutely necessary to close it. You couldn’t be too careful, I’d always reasoned—although now that we were talking about my daughter I wanted to stand up and give the door a tidy, careful push.

  I kept my voice low. “It’s okay, keep going.”

  “Well, we had a few beers each, and I was starting to feel kind of sick. I mean, I’ve barely ever had any alcohol in my life. And then Mac had some weed—I mean, I don’t want to get him in any trouble, either—”

  I didn’t realize I was holding a pen until I saw the blob of ink on my desk calendar, bleeding through to October. A few beers, not one. Some weed.

  “So, yeah. We smoked a joint, and then we went back upstairs to finish the movie, and I was feeling so sleepy, I just crawled into Mac’s bed. I guess I must have fallen asleep, because at one point I woke up and the TV was off and they weren’t there anymore.” She stopped, giving her dress a modest tug to cover a half inch more of her thighs.

  “Where were they?” I breathed.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I went through the whole house looking for them. I was getting worried—Mac’s kind of a player, you know? I didn’t want anything to happen to Danielle. So eventually I went out into the backyard, thinking they might be in the pool house, and that’s when I saw them coming in through the side gate.”

  “Coming in through the side gate,” I repeated.

  “Yeah. Danielle told me they had gone for a walk. They were being kind of weird, and I didn’t really want to ask about it. But then on Saturday night my mom told me about what happened in the clubhouse, and all I could think was—you know. But it’s probably nothing. I just wanted to tell you...”

  Blood thrummed in my ears. “I’m glad you told me,” I said, the words coming although I wasn’t aware of forming them. Across the desk, Kelsey gave me a sad I-hate-to-do-this smile and adjusted her dress again.

  She’s acting, I thought suddenly. She’s rehearsed these words. She’s practiced the look she’s giving me. “Did you—did you tell this to your mom?”

  Kelsey looked horrified. “No! I didn’t want us to get in any more trouble, and my mom would have killed me if she knew about the pot.”

  “But you’re telling me.”

  “Right, because I feel so bad. It’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t suggested that we go over to Mac’s house...and, I don’t know. I’m older. I should have known better. Danielle—she’s kind of naive and all...”

  I straightened the stack of scholarship forms on my desk, the ones I’d been posting online when Kelsey came in, buying myself a moment. What in the world would possess her to come in here, to throw her friend under the bus? Even if her story was true, how could she justify the insinuation, the implied accusation, the resulting trouble it would mean for Danielle—all while excusing her own behavior?

  “And also,” she continued, her words sliding smoothly into my thoughts, “I knew I could trust you, as a counselor and all.”

  I raised my eyes to hers. “Property was damaged, Kelsey. We’re talking a lot of money—enough for it to be a felony. If I know anything about this, I need to come forward.”

  She sat back, eyes wide. “But you don’t know anything for sure. I’m only telling you what I saw.”

  The bell rang, a short beep followed by a long one, Morse code for the end of the period, the end of the day. I glanced at the clock—2:57 p.m. It felt like the longest conversation of my life. I stood, and Kelsey stumbled to her feet. It was the first time I’d ever seen her less than graceful, not in control.

  “You did the right thing, telling me. I think you should let me take it from here, though.”

  “I just don’t want Danielle to get into trouble,” she sniffed. “And she would know that I was the one who told on her. But I thought you should, like, keep an eye on her.”

  I reached past her for the door, giving it the little push that was needed to open it the rest of the way, wide enough to usher her out of the room. “You’re a good friend, Kelsey,”
I said, and watched her walk through the lobby and out the main entrance to the counseling office, one long leg in front of the other.

  * * *

  I drooped into my chair, feeling weak in the knees, sick to the stomach. On my monitor, Kelsey’s file was still open, minimized on the bottom of my screen. I clicked on it, bringing to life her As and Bs for this semester, and then I navigated to the tab for her 2013–2014 grades. She hadn’t been at Miles Landers last year, but her freshman grades from Ashbury were in the system. This was the kind of thing I did all the time, the kind of thing it was my job to do, and yet I felt uneasy. It was the Kelsey effect, the result of knowing her in so many facets and not really knowing her at all.

  During her freshman year, Kelsey had a string of As and Bs: algebra I, honors English, biology, Spanish I, world religions, advanced computers. But in her second semester of honors English, she had an I, for Incomplete. My eyes automatically went to the bottom of the screen, where a note had been added: Incomplete due to medical leave of absence.

  I stared at that note for a long time. The Kelsey I knew, in all her types and mutations, was physically healthy. She ran around our pool with ease, ate what she wanted, didn’t pause to take medication or catch her breath. I’d seen enough of her body to know there were no major scars spanning her abdomen or crossing her wrists. And yet she’d had a medical reason serious enough not to finish a course? I remembered Sonia Jorgensen telling me that Kelsey’s friends at Ashbury had been bad influences—though what exactly they’d influenced her to do wasn’t clear. Was that what she was doing now, setting Danielle up as the bad influence while she could be the innocent but unlucky friend, the good girl who was sadly misled?

  Half an hour later, they were waiting at my car in the staff lot. Danielle was complaining about a project for biology, something that would require floral foam and toothpicks. The complaining was for Kelsey’s benefit, I realized. It was part of the new Danielle. This was a project she would have thrown herself into wholeheartedly last year, putting in ten hours or twenty at the kitchen table, competing for the highest grade in the class.