“You tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I have a friend at the phone company. Roger called me from that booth over there. I have reliable witnesses who can place him there at the right time.” That was more than an exaggeration, but Myron went with it. “He threatened me. He called me a bastard.”
“Roger wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t want to get him in trouble, Maxine. What’s going on?”
Another customer came in. Maxine shouted something out in Chinese. An elderly woman came out of the back and took over. Maxine gestured with her head for Myron to follow her. He did. They walked past the tracks of moving hangers. When he was a kid, the metallic whir of the tracks had always amazed him, like something out of a cool sci-fi movie. Maxine kept walking until they were out in the back alley.
“Roger is a good boy,” she said. “He works so hard.”
“What’s going on, Maxine? When I was in here the other day, you were acting funny.”
“You don’t understand how hard it is. To live in a town like this.”
He did — he had lived here his whole life — but he held his tongue.
“Roger worked so hard. He got good grades. Number four in his class. These other kids. They’re spoiled. All have private tutors. They don’t work a real job. Roger, he works here every day after school. He studies in the back room. He doesn’t go to parties. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Other parents hire people to write their children’s essays. They pay for classes to improve their boards. They donate money to the big schools. They do other things, I don’t even know. It’s so important, where you go to college. It can decide your whole life. Everyone is so scared, they do anything,
“I do, but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“I need you to understand. That’s what we have to compete with. With all that money and power. With people who cheat and steal and will do anything.”
“If you’re telling me that college acceptance is competitive in this town, I know that. It was competitive when I graduated.”
“But you had basketball.”
“Yes.”
“Roger is such a good student. He works so hard. And his dream is to go to Duke. He told you that. You probably don’t remember.”
“I remember him saying something about applying there. I don’t remember him saying it was his dream or anything. He just listed a bunch of schools.”
“It was his first choice,” Maxine Chang said firmly. “And if Roger makes it, there is a scholarship waiting for him. He’d have his tuition paid for. That was so important to us. But he didn’t get in. Even though he was number four in his class. Even though he had very good boards. Better boards — and better grades — than Aimee Biel.”
Maxine Chang looked at Myron with heavy eyes.
“Wait a second. Are you blaming me because Roger didn’t get into Duke?”
“I don’t know much, Myron. I’m just a dry cleaner. But a school like Duke almost never takes more than one student from a specific high school in New Jersey. Aimee Biel made it. Roger had better grades. He had better board scores. He had great teacher recommendations. Neither of them are athletes. Roger plays the violin, Aimee plays guitar.” Maxine Chang shrugged.
“So you tell me: Why did she get in and not Roger?”
He wanted to protest, but the truth stopped him. He had written a letter. He had even called his friend in admissions. People do stuff like that all the time. It doesn’t mean that Roger Chang was denied admission. But simple math: When one person gets a spot, someone else doesn’t.
Maxine’s voice was a plea. “Roger was just so angry.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not. I will talk to him. He will apologize to you, I promise.”
But another thought came to Myron. “Was Roger just mad at me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Was he mad at Aimee too?”
Maxine Chang frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because the next call on that pay phone was to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. Was Roger angry with her? Resentful maybe?”
“Not Roger, no. He’s not like that.”
“Right, he’d only call me and make threats.”
“He didn’t mean anything. He was just lashing out.”
“I need to talk to Roger.”
“What? No, I forbid it.”
“Fine, I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them about the threatening calls.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
He would. Maybe he should. But not yet. “I want to talk to him.”
“He’ll be here after school.”
“Then I’ll be back at three. If he’s not here, I’m going to the police.”
CHAPTER 32
Dr. Edna Skylar met Myron in the lobby of St. Barnabas Medical Center. She had all the props — a white coat, a name tag with the hospital logo, a stethoscope dangling across her neck, a clipboard in her hand. She had that impressive doctor bearing too, complete with the enviable posture, the small smile, the firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.
Myron introduced himself. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Tell me about the missing girl.”
Her voice left no room for arguments. Myron needed her to trust him, so he launched into the story, keeping Aimee’s last name out of it. They both stood in the middle of the lobby. Patients and visitors walked on either side of them, some coming very close.
Myron said, “Maybe we could go somewhere private.”
Edna Skylar smiled, but there was no joy in it. “These people are preoccupied with things much more important to them than us.”
Myron nodded. He saw an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask. He saw a pale woman in an ill-fitted wig checking in with a look both resigned and bewildered, as if she was wondering if she’d ever check out and if it even mattered anymore.
Edna Skylar watched him. “A lot of death in here,” she said.
“How do you do it?” Myron asked.
“You want the standard cliche about being able to detach the personal from the professional?”
“Not really.”
“The truth is, I don’t know. My work is interesting. It never gets old. I see death a lot. That never gets old either. It hasn’t helped me to accept my own mortality or any of that. Just the opposite. Death is a constant outrage. Life is more valuable than you can ever imagine. I’ve seen that, the real value of life, not the usual platitudes we hear about it. Death is the enemy. I don’t accept it. I fight it.”
“And that never gets tiring?”
“Sure it does. But what else am I going to do? Bake cookies? Work on Wall Street?” She looked around. “Come on, you’re right — it’s distracting out here. Walk with me, but I’m on a tight schedule so keep talking.”
Myron told her the rest of the story of Aimee’s disappearance. He kept it as short as possible — kept his own
