Tell on You Read online

  He scrubbed it off in the bathroom as soon as she’d left, wishing he could wash away his humiliation along with the ink.

  A rap on the car window snapped Jeremy back to the present. He lowered it and took his credit card and receipt from the attendant. He pulled out of the gas station, filled with gloom. Where the hell to now?

  Home, he realized with a sinking heart. Nowhere else to go. He had no job, no income. His future rested in the hands of a lawyer paid for by his father-inlaw. Jeremy had no choice, no vote.

  Craving the balm of Nikki’s voice, he pulled over and took out his cell phone, but settled for her voicemail. “It’s me,” he said. “Call me later. If you want, I mean,” he added, as if that made it better.

  SIXTEEN

  “HEATHER!”

  Her music blasting, Heather had missed her mother’s perfunctory rap on the door. When her mom materialized at her bedside, Heather nearly jumped. Still that edgy.

  She yanked out her ear buds. “What is it?” The look on mom’s face told her something was up.

  “I just got off the phone with that woman from Protective Services,” her mother replied.

  The pit of Heather’s stomach chilled.

  “We’re going to have to talk with them again tomorrow.”

  Heather’s gut emitted an ominous growl. “She’s coming back here?”

  Mom shook her head. “No, we have to go there. To the DCPP office.”

  “All the way to Trenton?” Heather had never even been down there, but knew that was where all the state offices were.

  “No, the local office, in Cranford.”

  “Oh.” Heather wrinkled her forehead. “Why do we have to go there?”

  “I have no idea.” Her mother rested a hand on the doorknob. “She said it’s the usual procedure.” She sniffed. “Whatever that means. Honestly, you’d think I answered enough of that woman’s questions after you ran out of the room yesterday.”

  Heather caught the rebuke in that remark.

  “Anyway,” her mother added, “we have to be there at ten.”

  “But what about school?”

  “You’ll be excused. They’ll give you an official note.”

  “Ohhh,” Heather said. This sounded serious.

  “Listen,” her mother went on, “your father is going to be late tonight. You want to wait and have dinner at seven thirty, when he gets home? Or should I make you something earlier?”

  “Seven thirty, I guess,” Heather mumbled. All this going on and yet her father couldn’t even bother catching an early train. “I’m not really hungry, Mom.”

  “Okay, then.” Her mother started to close the door behind her, then turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. That investigator said you’ll have to be examined by their doctor.”

  “Huh?” Heather looked up, startled. “How come?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Procedures. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find some of that horrible man’s DNA on you.” She shut the door without waiting for a response.

  Heather gulped. This whole thing kept getting worse. Desperate for moral support, she picked up her iPhone. “Hey!” she said when Nikki answered. “Want to come over? Crazy stuff going on.”

  “About time you called,” Nikki replied. “Be there in ten.”

  As she ended the call, Nikki’s phone chirped to announce a voicemail. She played back Jeremy’s brief message and smiled. She’d call him later, after she got the scoop from Heather. She slipped on her shoes and headed out the door. Good thing Heather lived within walking distance, since Mom had taken her car keys.

  Twenty minutes later she sat in Heather’s bedroom, poking a finger at her pet guinea pig in greeting. “Cute. What’s his name, again?”

  “Pretzels,” Heather said.

  “That what you feed him?” Nikki made a clucking sound at the fluffy rodent, which sniffed her finger.

  “Nah. He mostly eats lettuce.”

  Nikki eyed Heather’s round midsection. “Guess you’re the one who eats the pretzels, huh?”

  Heather flushed. “Not so much.”

  “So what’s the story?” Nikki demanded, cutting to the chase.

  “It’s—complicated.” Perched on her bed, Heather drew up her knees to her chin, resembling a teenage fortress.

  Sprawled beside her, Nikki stared with distaste at her friend’s fuzzy, five-toed red socks. Such a dork. If not for her tech skills, Nikki wouldn’t waste her time on Heather. “Look, you called me over here. Will you kindly tell me WTF is going on?”

  Heather slumped forward, lowering her face to her knees. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “All right, I get it!” Nikki snapped. “It’s complicated and embarrassing. Want me to make it easier for you?” She sat up and stared Heather in the face. “It has something to do with Mr. B, right? And your paper.” Nikki smirked as Heather’s face turned red. “So how about you pick it up from there?”

  Heather gulped. “I wrote some stuff on my Gatsby paper.” She spoke without looking up from her knees. “And Mr. B gave me a crappy grade.”

  “What did you write?”

  “Some stuff about him.” Heather hesitated. “And me.”

  Nikki snorted. “Get out! Let me see.”

  Heather looked up, her eyes like saucers. “What? My paper?”

  “Show me.” Nikki stared at her, stone-faced.

  A command from an alpha girl—the only one who’d ever deigned to notice her—and Heather had no business refusing. Biting her lip, she lowered her feet to the floor, and scooted over to her desk. Retrieving the paper, she returned and reluctantly passed it to Nikki.

  Her blue eyes revealing only boredom, Nikki scanned Heather’s essay until she hit pay dirt. A half-smile curled her lips. In a loud, melodramatic voice, she read, “I’m waiting for your green light to shine for me, Mr. B.” She hooted. “Not consistent with acceptable standards of scholarship.” Nikki chuckled. “Doesn’t look like he was too impressed.” She looked up at Heather, who averted her gaze. “Why’d you write this stuff?”

  Heather shrugged. “I dunno. I thought…” Her voice trailed off.

  Nikki rolled up the essay and bopped Heather on the head with it. “You thought what?”

  “I thought he had a thing for me.”

  “A thing for you?” Nikki echoed. The nerve of this twit! “What gave you that idea?”

  “It’s—he looked over at me in class a lot. And I had this feeling…” Heather drew a breath. “Anyway, then my mother saw the paper.”

  “You let her see it?” Nikki drawled. The girl was positively feeble. “God, Heather! Why’d you do that?”

  “She always looks at my grades.”

  Heather reached over for her paper and Nikki drew back her arm, keeping it out of her grasp. “So then what happened?”

  Heather’s empty hand dropped into her lap. “I had to tell her something. I explained about him looking at me, but she kept asking ‘What else? What else?’ So I sort of—added some stuff.”

  “About Mr. B? What kind of stuff?” Nikki demanded.

  Heather mumbled a reply.

  “What? What did you say he did, Heather?” Nikki leaned forward, practically in her face.

  “I said he touched me.”

  Nikki stared at her in silence. Un-fucking-believable.

  “And then my mom e-mailed the principal.” When Nikki still didn’t reply, Heather added, “So now there’s this Protective Services investigation going on.” Her eyes welled up. “And I have to go there tomorrow. They’re even gonna have a doctor examine me. God, Nikki, I don’t know what to do!” A sob broke from her throat.

  Nikki shook her head. “You really screwed up, kiddo. Big time.”

  Heather cried, wiping snot from her face with her sleeve.

  “You know, you got Mr. B into all kinds of trouble.” Disdain filled Nikki’s voice. “And he’s a really popular teacher, too.”

  “I know,” Heather mewled.

  Nikki ruffled the pages of Heather’s
paper, letting her stew for a while. “Boy, I’d hate to be in your shoes if this stuff got out there—say, on Facebook.” Heather’s look of horror told Nikki she’d scored a direct hit.

  “Facebook! Why would this get onto Facebook?”

  Nikki’s eyebrows rose in mock innocence. “Oh, you never know. But if people found out you made up stuff about Mr. B, and ruined his reputation…” She trailed off, letting Heather imagine the awful consequences. To make sure, she added, “People will think you were totally desperate for attention or something, Heather. You know, not everyone is as understanding as I am.”

  Now in for the kill.

  “I can tell you this…” Nikki paused for effect. “None of the other girls would ever speak to you.” I’ll see they don’t, she mentally added.

  “Oh, god, Nikki!” Heather wailed. “What should I do?”

  Nikki crumpled up Heather’s paper and tossed it onto the bed, with a tsk! of disapproval. “I don’t know, Heather. But if I were you?” She stared into Heather’s wide, frightened eyes. “I’d think twice about what I told that investigator tomorrow.”

  SEVENTEEN

  JEREMY PULLED INTO THE development, nearly dark now, and parked. He looked around for Melissa’s Ford Escape. A gift from her parents for her last birthday, the sight of it never failed to annoy him. But now, unable to find it, Jeremy worried. Had she returned to her parents’ house? Then he remembered: Melissa had left her car there.

  Relief was instantly replaced by the thought that she’d called her father to come get her. That scenario posed more drama and grief than Jeremy knew what to do with. Anxious now, he hurried up to the second-level apartment.

  He tried the door. Locked. Reached for his key. As he inserted it into the lock, the door jerked open. He stared into the swollen, tear-streaked face of his pregnant wife, whom he’d left alone while he’d gone off mooning after a teenage girl.

  “Mel!” Flooded with a mix of guilt and relief, he reached for her. “Honey, I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk.”

  She buried her face against his shoulder, sniffling. “You frightened me—leaving like that.” Her voice sounded high and strained, like a scared little girl’s. He felt touched, even if her erratic hormones might be the cause.

  “Shhh. I know.” He stroked her thick brown hair, smoothing the messy waves. “I shouldn’t have left you alone without your car.” He nuzzled her ear, surprised by his feelings of tenderness. “Especially now.”

  “Oh, Jeremy!” Melissa turned her head, dampening his neck with fresh tears. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch. You’ve been going through hell and all I did was make it worse with my princess-y crap. I’m sorry. I got scared. If you’re not with me on having this baby, then I can’t—” She broke off. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Shhh.” He drew her closer. She needed him. How long since that had happened? A twinge of arousal awoke in him. “I’m right here,” he said, voice husky. “I’m in this with you, Mel.”

  She squeezed him, then pulled back from his embrace and gazed at him with red, puffy eyes. “I shouldn’t have pressured you about those houses. This isn’t the time to think about that, is it?”

  He flashed her a grateful smile. “Not the ideal day.”

  “Okay.” A smile. “Discussion tabled.”

  “Thanks.” He exhaled. He felt lighter, almost giddy with relief and gratitude. And suddenly ravenously hungry. “Speaking of tables—is there anything to eat?”

  “Huh!” Her grin widened and she rumpled his hair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As she turned toward their tiny kitchen, sink piled high with dishes, a wave of desire swept through Jeremy. He caught Melissa’s arm and drew her to him, his other hand already tugging at his jacket buttons. “If our baby wouldn’t mind, maybe twenty minutes from now would be even better.”

  She giggled and yanked her sweater over her head. He took in the sight of her breasts, already fuller, rounder. Perhaps not small and perfect, as Nikki’s might be, but Jeremy got hard looking at them. His jacket dropped to the floor beside Melissa’s sweater.

  Later, in the darkness, Melissa asleep beside him, Jeremy lay awake, uttering a silent prayer to the cosmos, since he didn’t believe in a god. Please. Please make this thing with Heather go away. Spare me and I promise to be good.

  His cellphone chirped on the night table beside him. Rather than disturb Melissa, Jeremy scooped up the phone and tiptoed into the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the light.

  A text from Nikki:

  It’ll be OK. Trust me.

  A sign?

  PART TWO

  “She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young…”

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

  EIGHTEEN

  HEATHER SAT BESIDE HER mother in the waiting area of the Division of Child Protection and Permanency office the next morning, playing out the options in her mind. None of them good. Admit she’d lied about Mr. B and face the wrath of her mother, DCPP, the Forrest School and maybe the law. Or keep lying and go viral as an untouchable among her peers.

  She chewed a fingernail. Her mother glanced at her, then took hold of Heather’s hand and pulled it away from her mouth. Mrs. Lloyd lowered her daughter’s hand to her own lap and held it tightly. Until that moment, Heather hadn’t realized her mother was nearly as nervous as she was. Had Mom guessed she’d lied?

  The clatter of footsteps coming down the hall preceded the appearance of a woman—kind of old, but pretty cool-looking. Cropped gray hair framed a friendly, lined face. She wore large, turquoise earrings, a long black skirt and a print tunic top.

  She approached and extended her hand, first to Mrs. Lloyd, then Heather. “I’m Sylvia Wolfe, a social worker here. Thank you both for coming this morning.”

  Like they’d had a choice.

  Mrs. Wolfe smiled at her. “Please come inside.”

  Heather stood, her legs rubbery. Her mother got up, too.

  “Oh, not you, Mrs. Lloyd,” Mrs. Wolfe said. “I’m going to need to talk with Heather alone.”

  Alone? She hadn’t expected that.

  “I’d prefer to sit in while you talk with my daughter,”

  Mrs. Lloyd declared. Mrs. Wolfe regarded her coolly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Wolfe told her mother, “but that’s the law in these situations. If you’ll please have a seat, I’ll talk with you afterwards, Mrs. Lloyd.”

  Her mother clenched her jaw and sat back down.

  “This way, Heather.” Mrs. Wolfe headed toward a door at the end of the hall and Heather followed, casting a helpless glance back over her shoulder at her mother. Mrs. Wolfe led her down a corridor lined with offices. When she stopped in front of an open door, Heather nearly crashed into her.

  With a slight smile, she motioned Heather into the room. “Please take a seat.” This was it. A roaring sound filled Heather’s ears as she entered the room, as if she were passing beneath a waterfall. Mrs. Wolfe followed her inside and closed the door behind them.

  Heather’s eyes darted around the office, taking in the minimal furnishings. A desk over by the window. A table in the center of the room, with two chairs. Pens and a notepad on the table, along with a carafe of water and a stack of plastic tumblers.

  “Have a seat, Heather,” Mrs. Wolfe repeated. “Would you like some water?”

  Heather nodded, her throat too dry for speech. She pulled a the chair away from the table and sank into it. Mrs. Wolfe passed her a glass of water. Heather gulped down too much too fast and coughed.

  “You okay?” The social worker looked at her as she sat down in the opposite chair.

  “Uh huh.” Heather inhaled, patting her chest. The spasm passed. She sipped more water, slowly this time. Mrs. Wolfe filled a second glass for herself.

  “Um.” Heather c
leared her throat.. “I—uh—already told that other investigator everything yesterday.”

  “Yes, I spoke with her,” Mrs. Wolfe said. “That was a preliminary interview. Today we’ll need to cover some other things.”

  More stuff? Heather’s pulse raced. What if they made her take a lie detector test, or something? She eyed the social worker. So far the woman had been friendly and nice, which made Heather feel bad about lying to her. Her mom always insisted she tell the truth. But mom wasn’t here now, which meant Heather needed to think for herself. She had limited experience with that.

  “All right.” Mrs. Wolfe smiled at her. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Please answer as best you can.”

  “Uh huh,” Heather mumbled. Her heart pounded really hard. Maybe she’d go into cardiac arrest or something. They’d have to stop the interview for that, wouldn’t they? They’d have to get her mother. She took a breath, trying to calm down.

  “Heather, can you tell me today’s date?”

  “Huh?” Didn’t this woman have a phone, or calendar? Heather stammered out the date.

  “Can you tell me where we are?”

  What kind of retarded question was that? Maybe a trick? “We’re at the DYFS office—oh!—I mean the Division of, uh, Child Protection.” That must have been the trick, to see if she remembered the name change.

  “Can you name the President of the United States?” Mrs. Wolfe asked.

  Did the woman think she was retarded?

  The social worker continued asking weird, dumb questions. Heather had to spell a word backwards and hoped she’d gotten it right. No, she didn’t hear voices in her head. She began to wonder if one of them was crazy when Mrs. Wolfe shifted gears.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said. “How do you like to spend your time?”

  Heather shrugged. “I dunno. Doing stuff on the computer. You know, games, Facebook. Listening to music.”

  “Mmm hmm. Do you like school?” the social worker asked.