“What? The police can’t help me, and I need help.” I sound brash and defensive, but everything I am saying is true. “I need to find out who is trying to ruin my life. And I think he can do it. In fact, he’s already started.”
Daisy raises one eyebrow. “How so?”
“C’mon, Mommy!” Cole yells from the back seat. “We’re gonna be late!”
“He’s the one who figured out that Mark hired a private investigator.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind that Dustin is smart and can do what he says, but…”
“But what?”
“Leah would kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but he got in trouble last year. There was a teacher whom he had it in for, and he went to town on her. Made a fake Twitter profile and had her tweeting all sorts of inappropriate stuff. She got fired, Allie. It was all sorted out in the end, but not until the damage was done.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know the details. She’s teaching at a different school now. Private.”
“And Dustin?”
Cole pounds on the rear window with his fists.
Daisy shakes her head. “I don’t know the details. There was some level of punishment. He finished last spring semester at home, which practically killed Leah. Had to stay off computers for like six months, something like that. Anyway, I think you should be careful is all.”
44
I ease the car into the parking lot, my head fuzzy. Although I didn’t drink much more than one mug back at the house, I’m having trouble concentrating. I’m not used to champagne. Apparently, it makes me loose-jointed, like a marionette with slack strings. I’ll have to be careful. The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself on International Night in front of every parent at Eastbrook Elementary School.
Once I get some food in my stomach, I’ll feel better.
I peer at myself in the mirror. A quick swipe of lipstick helps, but not a lot. I pull at my short hair. My mother is right: I do look like a deranged elf.
“Mommy, why aren’t we going in?”
“Just a second.” I glance at Cole in the rearview mirror. My mini-Mark. I cannot reconcile the Mark who hired a private investigator with the trusting man I married. He always acted as though he loved me so much that my past didn’t matter. He never wanted to discuss it. This just doesn’t make sense.
“I want to go! Ava is waiting for me.”
Once we are out of the car, Cole rushes to the front door without me. I lag behind, struggling with the two platters of shortbread. I focus on not tripping on the uneven pavement in the dark. I can see other parents pass by in my peripheral vision, but I keep my head down and avoid eye contact.
Mark will be here. He’s meeting us straight from work. What will I say? I want to ask him about the envelope I found in his dresser, but I don’t want to seem confrontational or accusatory in case he really is just trying to help me.
A trio of women in Japanese kimonos standing just inside the front door turns to appraise me. I keep my chin up and ignore them, but I wonder who knows what. Who has seen my Facebook page with that nude photo of me? The buzzing fluorescent lights are like little electric needles in my brain.
Cole and I enter the all-purpose room. During the school day, the cavernous room serves as lunch hall, assembly room, and indoor gymnasium. But tonight, it has been transformed into a miniature Epcot.
When Mark was selling me on the move back to Bethesda, he would trot out certain key facts: its population is the most educated in America; the proximity to the nation’s capital puts it minutes away from great museums, landmarks, and historical sites; and finally, its immense international presence. Because many of the foreign diplomats and World Bank officials in the D.C. area live in Bethesda, Cole would be attending school with children from around the world.
The result is International Night on steroids. If my own elementary school in Connecticut had a similar event, it would probably mean mostly white moms nuking some egg rolls and enchiladas purchased at Trader Joe’s. Not here at Eastbrook.
The din crashes inside my brain like cymbals, making my head ache. Chinese pop music blasts from the front of the room. What look like professional dancers are swirling around with scarves. Then I remember an email I read saying that somebody’s father who works at the Chinese embassy had secured dancers to perform the traditional lion dance.
Punctuating the loud flute music are the shrieks of children and laughter of parents. Mingling together in an unholy cacophony, these sounds bounce off the linoleum floor and reverberate in my brain. Cole has complained that he can’t finish lunch at school because it’s too loud to eat. Now I understand what he means.
Someone has gone to great lengths to hang regulation-size flags from different countries on the painted cinder block walls. These are no paper printouts but the real deal. I locate the Union Jack and begin picking my way across the packed room to the United Kingdom table, sandwiched between the Jewish table and Bolivia.
As I pass Nigeria, someone grabs my arm. It takes me a moment to recognize Janelle from book club. She’s traded in her austere pantsuit for a turquoise robe and head wrap.
“I’ve been wondering about you,” she says, offering what looks like a plantain on a toothpick to Cole and one to me. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show tonight.”
“Well, I did.” I take the food from her, unsure of how to gauge her concern. I can’t tell how much she knows or whether she is sympathetic or not.
“Don’t let that queen bee get under your skin.”
“Vicki,” I say. “You’re talking about Vicki Armstrong.”
She shakes her head. “I mean Karen Pearce. She thinks she’s a better mom because she’s the school room–parent coordinator
