The Best Kind of People (4 page)

Clara, her angular face smudged with raccooned eyeliner, her salt-and-pepper bob slightly askew, pulled her older sister into a hug. An editor at a beauty and lifestyle magazine in the city, Clara described herself as “lucky to be a satisfied spinster” and liked to use the house as a refuge. She had her own suite on the second floor that served as a vacation property of sorts, with its own small kitchen and bathroom. Clara’s perfume filled the room before she did, a spicy floral scent hovering. She draped a long black coat over the living room couch and it slid to the floor like liquid.

Clara pulled away from Joan’s embrace, both women’s faces streaked with tears. Sadie, woken by the commotion, picked up the coat and hung it on the wooden rack by the entrance. Clara spoke dramatically, as though addressing a crowd. “I’ve taken a week’s leave from work, and I can take care of things while we figure this out,” she said, turning to Sadie and embracing her again. Andrew took his mom in his arms and hugged her.

“How was the drive?” she asked, as though it were any other visit. She didn’t know what else to say, how else to speak.

“My knees touch my chin in that car, and we drove like someone was chasing us with guns, but we’re here,” he said, pulling away from her embrace. “This will be over before it begins. They can’t have enough to hold him, and there has obviously been a mistake. Let’s just stay as calm as possible, okay?”

Clara nodded, sat in the reading chair — George’s ancient recliner he insisted on reupholstering in lieu of throwing out — and went to work unlacing her tall leather boots. Andrew was gaping at the curving wall by the front staircase — and that’s when Joan first noticed it too. The family photographs had all been taken, leaving light white squares of lack against the ivory walls that had darkened with age. He walked up three wooden steps on the carpeted liner and pressed his palm inside a square of white. “They’re fucking overreacting, aren’t they? What could they need with my graduation photo? Do they think it’s lined with heroin?”

He turned to survey the room. Sadie and Jimmy on the lounger and ottoman, eyes open again, like drowsy, cornered rabbits. Despite Joan’s best efforts, the mess was still everywhere.

“They do this to destabilize the family, to show they’re serious. It’s not as though they think they’ll find anything in our Kodak moments,” he said, returning to the living room, sitting cross-legged in front of the long antique coffee table. He pulled a laptop from his shoulder bag. “I’ve done some research on his charges. Is his lawyer still available by phone? We should talk to him right away.”

“He just left. Here’s his card. He’ll be back tomorrow morning,” said Sadie.

“Sadie, I think you should go to bed,” Andrew said. Joan nodded, grateful someone else could take charge in that moment.

“I’m not twelve anymore. I want to know what’s happening.”

“I just think it’s best. You need to sleep,” Andrew said, more softly.

Sadie scoffed. “Mom, my room has been torn apart. I think it makes more sense if I just go crash at Jimmy’s house tonight.”

A detective had emptied Sadie’s dresser drawers on the floor, fingering her bras and panties with what seemed like excess enthusiasm. Sadie had folded her arms across her chest and stepped aside as he nodded at her then descended the steep ladder staircase to the second floor. She’d gathered up the mess in her arms and then thrown it all down on the bed and left.

“No,” Joan said, “everyone has to stay together.”

“Mom, my room is a disaster. I just want to go to sleep. C’mon, it’s still my birthday, right?”

“Sure, sure. Let me just call his mother,” Joan said, getting up and heading towards the phone, hands shaking.

“She’s asleep,” Jimmy said. “But don’t worry, it will be fine. Sadie can sleep on the couch.”

Joan absorbed this lie easily, kissing Sadie on the forehead. “Everything will be figured out tomorrow, Sadie. This is all a strange misunderstanding. I’m so sorry to have ruined your birthday. We’ll fix this.”

“Of course it is. Of course it’s a mistake,” said Sadie.

JOAN GOT UP
to put on a pot of coffee. She pulled the bag of grounds from the freezer and pressed it against her face. Joan turned on the radio and heard the early morning broadcast.

“A high school teacher at Avalon Hills preparatory school, George Woodbury
III
, has been accused of alleged sexual misconduct with three female students, ranging in age from thirteen to seventeen, and the attempted rape of a fourth. All incidents are alleged to have taken place on a school ski trip this past February. The accusations have rocked the small town of Avalon Hills. Woodbury is the youngest son of the founder of the exclusive Woodbury Lake community, and a well-respected philanthropist, member of the town council, and leader at the Avalon Hills United Church. He is best known for having stopped a school shooting at the academy, garnering him an American Citizen Award for Bravery. The principal of the school could not be reached for comment but News Talk 1010 has learned that Woodbury was temporarily relieved of his duties yesterday and is currently being held until his bail hearing later. Stay tuned for more details on the official charges as the story develops.”

Joan left the radio blaring the early morning traffic, allowing it to sink in that George had lied to her; he’d come home knowing he’d lost his job, however temporarily, and didn’t say anything. He’d sat and eaten dinner and talked about Sadie’s birthday and their winter vacation plans as though nothing had happened.

WHEN SADIE LOOKED
at her phone in the car, she had nine missed calls, all from Amanda. Two texts. The first one read
Happy Birthday, my best girl
. The second:
I’m sorry.
Sorry for what? Sadie texted back. Amanda didn’t answer.

“She texted me too,” Jimmy said, reading, “‘Tell Sadie I’m sorry.’”

Jimmy shifted into reverse, edging the car back towards the gate, and pressed the remote control clipped to the visor that slid the iron gates to the side. There was a closet-sized booth where a security guard used to sit when Sadie’s great-grandfather had built the house. She used to love to play pretend games in it when she was a child. As soon as they were through the gate, as Jimmy was preparing to do a three-point turn into the road, a man appeared in front of the car, startling them. Strangers were rare on Lakeside Drive, especially at night. Jimmy auto-locked the doors, while Sadie gripped the koala in her right pocket. The man pulled out a camera and snapped their photo.

“He must be a reporter,” said Jimmy. She exhaled loudly and reached over and laid on the horn to get him to move, her fingers on the steering wheel vibrating involuntarily. Her phone, synced to the car stereo system, began to play automatically, and at a high volume, a Wu-Tang Clan classic that shook the windows. The reporter kept clicking, yelling out questions, mouth in motion, but they couldn’t hear him.

“We’ll drive to Amanda’s house,” Jimmy suggested, but the reporter blocked their way, in the middle of Lakeside Drive, peering down at his camera, scrolling through his photos.

“Get out of the way!” Jimmy yelled to the reporter. Sadie laid on the horn again and he moved.

“If there’s one reporter here in the middle of the night, there’s going to be a million tomorrow,” he said as he turned on the high beams, illuminating the tree-lined winding road, only recently paved, that bordered Woodbury Lake. Sadie’s great-grandfather, a reclusive but wealthy man, had originally owned the lake and all the property that bordered it. Her grandfather had developed it all when he inherited it, selling to twelve families in the 1970s, who all built their dream lakefront homes. Originally a rural area far from the town, it was now the most prestigious address in the township, the suburban sprawl reached its borders, and it was almost walkable from town. Woodbury Lake was quiet and scandal-free, and Sadie knew this was going to be big news for that reason alone.

When she drove, Sadie habitually watched for bright-eyed bunnies and deer poking their noses out into the road, beeping the horn before turning around the blind corners to warn any oncoming traffic. When she was young enough to still be in a car seat, her father hit a deer. They were alone in the car. Though he’d told her to keep her eyes shut tight until Daddy got back in the car, she’d been unable to stop herself from staring as he dragged the deer through the triangles of the car’s high beams, hauling it by its hind legs into the ditch. When he got back into the car, he reached back and grabbed her hand and squeezed it, saying, “It’s okay, honey. The deer needs to take a long sleep.” His hands were slippery and wet, and he was crying while he spoke, and for weeks she asked him,
“Is the deer still asleep? Can we go wake up the deer?” Her father was always a cautious, friendly driver, and she had inherited these traits.

Within minutes they were on the winding dirt driveway leading to Amanda’s house. It had originally been a log cabin, meant as vacation property for Amanda’s grandparents. When her parents inherited it, they’d moved in and renovated, adding several incongruous-looking wings to the house, all in a boxy modern style, with clean lines and tall, symmetrical grey surfaces. The blend of old and new was dizzying. Joan called it a “pretentious eyesore,” even though
Dwell
magazine had recently come to take photos of it. Sadie thought it looked as though it belonged to a group of committed off-the-grid activists preparing for the end of the world. Amanda’s father was an architect and her mother a painter. All of her mother’s paintings were of the same human-sized rabbits that looked like they were haunting the viewer. They had sold very well in New York in the 1990s, but now she couldn’t really do anything new. Amanda had told Sadie never to talk about it in front of her mother.

Jimmy parked the car beside one of Amanda’s father’s many oversized status vehicles. They got out wordlessly, shutting the car doors slowly to make as little noise as possible, and crept towards Amanda’s window at the side of the house. A fox darted across the lawn in the soft light of the full moon. Startled, Sadie grabbed Jimmy’s hand as they watched him retreat behind the smooth block of cedar hedges.

Amanda sat in her window seat, as though she was expecting them. Her thick brown hair was up in a messy high ponytail; she wore sweatpants and an old basketball T-shirt from their junior high team. She slid open her window and climbed outside.

“My mom cannot see you here, Sadie. She’ll fucking shoot you,” she said.

“What did
I
do?”

“Your father, apparently, came on to my sister on that ski trip last winter. It’s all coming out now. Apparently, four girls have filed charges.”

“It’s a lie. You know my dad. You’ve known him since you were a
baby
.”

“I know,” she said. “Maybe she’s lying. God knows she lies about everything to get her way.”

“Why would she do this, though? I don’t understand. Amanda, they came and took my dad
away. He’s in jail. This isn’t a joke.
”

“Sadie, I don’t know what to say to you. I’m not even allowed to talk to you. Apparently the cops said that.”

“Um, you’re my
best friend
. The cops can’t tell you what to do.”

“I think that if anyone can, it’s the police.”

“Who are the other girls?”

“I don’t know all of them, but apparently Miranda Warner is like the ringleader. She convinced everyone to call the police about the ski trip. My sister says she has the most convincing story, compared to everyone else.”

“Miranda Warner is such a mean girl,” Jimmy said, “no one will believe her.”

“Or everyone will,” said Sadie.

Above their heads, the lights in the long rectangular window of the living room flicked on. Amanda grabbed Sadie’s hand. “Get out of here, guys, or my mom will legit go crazy.”

They ran towards the car, then watched in the rear-view mirror as Amanda’s mother stood on the front porch, arms crossed, in her long red housecoat, the same one she had been wearing when she hugged Sadie’s young face to hers the first night she’d slept over, when she was seven years old, and Sadie was too scared to stay the entire night.

AT 4 A.M.,
Sadie sat curled on Jimmy’s couch with her laptop and typed in:
prison sentences for attempted rape
and
average prison sentences for attempted rape of minors.
She googled the definition of
sexual misconduct
, which could be just about anything, all of it varying degrees of horrifying. She scanned the list of potential articles without opening any of them. Then she typed in
why men rape
, before clicking her laptop shut. She volleyed between wanting to know everything and wanting to clip her own brain stem in order to remain unaware. She’d never thought about
why
before. It was just something girls were told to watch out for; she never thought of rapists as actual people she could meet or know in real life.

She re-opened her laptop, clicked on an essay, and read the first paragraph. Rape wasn’t about sex, it was about power. She rolled that around in her mind. Objectively, her father had more power than most people. He was respected, he was on several corporate boards, he had generations of family wealth and prestige. He flew first class, for pete’s sake. He didn’t really even
need
to work, but it was a passion. He won Teacher of the Year
every
year.

She felt blank.

It reminded her of a project she’d done on eating disorders. The disease is about control, not about being thin. This seemed too simple to her. After all, weren’t they willing to die to avoid being fat? It has to be a factor. How could forcing someone to have sex not be about sex?

Sex was so new to Sadie that she’d only told one person that she was no longer a virgin. She’d texted Amanda:
Dude, the deed is done
. Amanda had sent back laughter emojis, and then asked for the highlights. She wrote back:
Uncomfortable. Sorta good. Over quick.
She finally felt on equal ground with Amanda when they talked about boys; previously, Amanda had always had the upper hand.