Doreen (24 page)

Ugh! She wouldn't even care if it weren't for that damned picture! The picture was always watching. And she couldn't help but think of what it would look like now that she'd slept with Peter, destroyed Jane Vale, and more! There was Graham's virginity (captured), Chastity's hair (burned off). The time she made Brian Whitaker break up with Cynthia Stern because Cynthia supposedly told Whitney Owens that she thought Doreen was a snob. Or how she talked Alex Cummings into asking Madison Morrison to sit with him at dinner, knowing that she would reject him and it would make his stutter go bananas. Or how she'd gotten Mr. Bugiali to give her an A in choir even though she never attended a single class, rehearsal, or recital. It was her stage fright, she said, her eyes big, her eyelashes aflutter.

She climbed up the stairs to her floor, her head throbbing. The picture knew all about what she'd done. It frightened her to think of how it would look now, after every misdeed, every connivance, every time she used someone to get what she wanted. It was supposed to free her to do as she liked, and it had, but at what cost? Why did victory feel so foul? Back in her room, she collapsed on her bed, hugging Mopey tight. Was she lost? Doomed? Why couldn't she just be happy to have won?

If only she could tell someone. Confess her secret, bare her soul! Certainly she knew someone worthy of her confidence, someone to whom she might bring her story, to seek comfort in candor and companionship. Heidi? Biz? They were her friends, weren't they? They could offer her understanding. But then they would know. Everything she did would be subject to their judgment. They would think of her soul decaying into putrescence and so would she. No. It would diminish the gift. The only way for her to live this beautiful life was to endure the loneliness that accompanied it. It was the price she had to pay. Mopey would have to remain her soul confessor.

She threw her stuffed elephant off the bed and sobbed into her pillows. Small, grubby, pathetic Jane Vale had more than she did, more than she could ever have. She had love! And Doreen, despite how thoroughly she had trounced her enemy, felt jealous of her. Jealousy was the constant companion of her old life, and feeling it now put her right back in it.

Doreen turned to her reflection in the mirror. Even with tears in her eyes she looked flawless. No matter what was happening to her on the inside, everything she'd gone through had only made her more beautiful. She gazed at herself and allowed the sight of her own face to calm her aching heart. So she was lonely, so what? Anyone who possessed greatness had to feel a little solitary. It was the burden of excellence. And if she allowed herself to give in to despair, then there was no purpose to any of it.

Doreen straightened her back and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her old duvet. She felt herself returning. The whole miracle of the picture was that it could absorb any and all ugliness in Doreen's life. The least she could do was enjoy it. And to prove it to herself, she spent the rest of the afternoon devising a scheme to turn Misha and Miyuki against one another, just to see if she could.

It worked like magic.

When Jane finally left the bridge and walked back to Leaving Place it was with a heavy heart. Doreen's victory over her had demolished her momentum and emptied her life of purpose. For as long as she could remember, she'd seen her mother bear the weight of what their father had done to her like wet clothes, and Jane swore she would never give anyone the means to defeat her so utterly.

So she was guarded; she had few friends. She let her ambition for herself be her only concern other than the welfare of her brother. And that had been enough. Let him have the social life—the athletic glory, the dates to prom. Let him live enough for both of them while she focused on her future. But now? When he jumped off that bridge he sacrificed more than his body and his potential. He had sacrificed Jane, too. Who was she now? The Peace Corps was done. She could apply to college, but with Simon sick, she would have to go somewhere local and the prospects were dismal.

It pained her to admit that being the quarterback's sister had meant something to her. As much as she used to rib him about it, she was proud of his talent, the way he took charge of the field, how invulnerable he seemed. But no one was invulnerable, that's what this whole thing had taught her. Everyone could be taken down—everyone, that is, except Doreen Gray.

Jane saw her house and stopped. She wasn't ready to go in yet, to face her brother's neutral gape in the light of the old TV. Through the kitchen window, she could see her mother heating up dinner with the same disappointed expression she carried around day after day. Jane felt her body stiffen as if she was afraid to take one step closer, afraid of what it meant to belong here.

“I'm still young,” Jane said aloud. The wind dried the tears on her cheeks. “Anything could happen. I'm young. I'm still so young!” But she didn't feel young. She felt very, very old.

Black leggings. Black miniskirt. Black turtleneck sweater. Black boots. Hair tied into a low, messy bun. Clear lip gloss. Killer diamond earrings.

“Well, well, Elizabeth, look at you,” said Mr. Cameron. In the evening light the pictures looked different than they looked during the day. Biz wondered if anyone would even notice them—or if they did, what they would think. The opening was less than an hour away, and Biz was so anxious she felt as if she was moving in gauze. She was happy to see Mr. Cameron. One more minute alone with her work and things might have gotten ugly.

“Doreen did it,” said Biz. “I don't know. She said I had to make an effort.”

Mr. Cameron nodded approvingly. “You look serious, my dear, like an artist.”

Biz looked down. She liked the boots. They made her feel strong. “Really? Well, I guess that's good.”

“Of course it is!” Mr. Cameron pulled off his knit cap, tucked it into a pocket of his coat, and looked around at the installation. A large guy, despite his light mannerisms, with a full gray mustache, gray ponytail, and bald pate, Mr. Cameron was goofy the way that boarding school teachers are often goofy—a combination of overenthusiasm and limited time with the outside world. His arm on Biz's shoulder communicated a mother's pride and hope and fear. She breathed in his contact and tried to calm down.

“I'm not sure I should have allowed you to talk me into this,” said Biz. Everyone was coming—her mother, her uncle, Doreen and Heidi, the entire school and their connected parents. Seth Greenbaum told her he was bringing his mother, Eloise Peek, the famous gallery owner. Biz even went to the library to invite the girl in the funny sweater, but the librarian said she had quit. Maybe it was better that way. Already Biz was so nervous, she was afraid she might puke.

“Oh, you'll be fine. Just try to relax. And have fun! These things go by faster than you think.”

Heidi padded down the hall to the showers in a towel and flip-flops, weighing the pros and cons of attending Biz's opening. The problem, of course, was Roland Gibbons, the man himself. To Doreen's delight (and Heidi's disbelief) he'd showed up for Parents' Weekend, which meant he would be there, at the gallery. Roland Gibbons in the flesh.

The last time Heidi saw him he made it perfectly clear that she was never to make contact with him again, or else. Could it have been three years ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed, but also like she could click her heels together and be back there in a flash. In the shower, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

You'll get your education, my dear. You'll get your chance. Don't blow it. Oh, and don't contact me. If I hear from you again it's all over. Understand? Marvelous. I expect you can let yourself out.

Heidi watched herself in the mirror as she blow-dried her hair. She wished she knew if he had told his daughter about their arrangement. She had watched Doreen closely ever since she'd returned from Boston, and though she seemed more or less the same, Heidi was sure there was something different about her, a new distance, as if the girl was keeping a secret. Heidi piled the hair on her head as she paced around in her towel. Could Doreen know? Did her father spill? Heidi looked for signs obsessively, but she really could never be certain one way or the other. And then Doreen would be so sweet and attentive that Heidi would tell herself that nothing had changed between them, it was all in her head.

But even if Doreen was still in the dark, being in the presence of her and Roland simultaneously seemed like pushing it. Would he tell their secret there, in front of his family? And what if Doreen did know? Would she be able to contain herself when she saw Heidi and Roland in the same place? The whole school would be there. She could lose everything she worked for. Heidi knew the wise thing would be to skip the event altogether, lay low, hope it all blew over. She fell back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Yes, she decided. The thing to do was play sick, stay in bed. Skip it.

But then she turned and saw Biz's empty bed. How would she react when Heidi blew off her big opening? Biz practically lived at the photo lab for the entire semester. It would break her heart if Heidi ditched her now. And the moment at the Hamilton Inn when she was honest with Peter about herself marked the beginning of a momentous change inside Heidi. She craved honesty now. Biz had risen in her estimation for that reason. This was a girl who lived with integrity. Heidi wouldn't allow the sins of her past to get in the way of Biz's night.

Heidi pushed aside the covers and attacked her closet. Well, she'd say this, the evening would certainly be interesting. That was guaranteed. And Heidi could never stay away from interesting. Plus, she'd called in reinforcements. Peter was on his way and he would make it all better. Though, when they spoke on the phone earlier she thought Peter sounded irritated—and not for the first time. He was overwhelmed, she told herself. He was juggling a lot. And Heidi had been annoying about this event. It wasn't his fault he didn't know what was riding on it for her.

He mentioned something he wanted to talk about. In person. What was so important that he couldn't say what it was on the phone? It was probably about their future. Of course! He was going to tell her that he loved her! Finally! Heidi had heard the declaration many times from a variety of unworthy boys. But now at last she would get to say those magical words of reciprocation:
I love you, too.

That's why he'd been so moody lately. It was all a buildup to the big declaration. Giddy with anticipation, Heidi finished dressing in no time. She looked at the clock. The gallery would be opening soon. She wanted to go, get on with it, get it all started, but she knew she had to wait. The power move was to be the last one to arrive. She sat on her bed and opened a magazine. When she looked at the clock again, one minute had passed.

Desperate for an activity, students and their parents arrived in droves to see Biz's art. They milled around the large lobby turned gallery at Douglas Hall, clutching plastic cups of sparkling water and apple juice, happy to have something to distract them from one another. By the time Biz's family arrived, the place was packed.

“Isn't there anything stronger?” Mumzy asked, frowning at the soft drink handed to her by an underclassman.

“Oh, calm down,” said Roland. “You can get through one event without alcohol.”

“I can. But can you? Oh, hello, Elizabeth. Well done.” Mumzy kissed her daughter on both cheeks.

“Yes, very nice. Though I thought there would be a picture or two of my girl.” Roland put an arm around Doreen.

“Oh, Daddy,” said Doreen. She looked prim in a blue ruffled shirtdress and flats. She held tight to her father's elbow. “Great job, Bizzy. They are so good.”

“Pictures of Doreen are never in focus for some reason,” said Biz. “Except for one, but—”

“Hey!” said Addison, his mouth full of pretzels. “Hey, that's Peter Standish. What is he doing here?”

“What?”

“Pete! Pedro! Over here!” Addison waved madly over the crowd and Peter acknowledged him with a nod of his chin. He turned sideways and slithered through the swarms of people.

“I didn't realize he'd be here.” Doreen smoothed the front of her dress.

“Mother, you remember Peter Standish, don't you? A Harvard chum,” said Addison.

“Hello again, Ms. Gibbons-Brown.”

“Gloria, please. Lovely to see you again, Peter.”

“And uh . . .”

“Doreen Gray.” Doreen shook Peter's hand.

“You guys met at the dance,” said Biz. “You're bad with names, huh?”

“Of course. Doreen Gray. Doreen, yes. Uh, hello. Hello again.”

“Hello, Peter,” said Doreen softly. She introduced her father.

“What the hell are you doing at Chandler?” said Ad-rock with a playful punch in the arm.

“Hm? Oh. Well, this may be awkward.” Peter's grin was charmingly sheepish. “We seem to have a, well, a buddy in common.”

“Is Heidi coming?” said Biz. “I haven't seen her yet.”

“She told me to meet her here. I thought she'd have arrived by now.”

“Wait. You're with Heidi Whelan?” said Addison. “You old goat. Good luck with that. She's a piece of work, that girl.”

“Who now?” asked Gloria. She shook her head at a tray of sushi on offer. Addison grabbed a handful of California rolls. He popped them into his mouth one at a time.

“Heidi, mother. Heidi Whelan. My roommate,” said Biz with a roll of her eyes. “Heidi Whelan! You've met her like a thousand times.”

Roland began to cough uncontrollably.

“You don't have to take that tone with me, young lady. I don't know why you expect me to keep all of your little friends straight. Roland, are you quite all right?”

“Fine. Fine. I think I will get another drink,” he croaked. “Want anything, anyone?”

“Poor Daddy,” said Doreen. “Have you got a cold?”

“I'm just a bit parched is all. We should have brought some little bottles from the hotel.”

“You act like I have a hundred friends,” Biz mumbled.

“Ha! Now who can't get through an event without alcohol?” said Gloria.

“Will this help?” Peter fished his flask out from the inside pocket of his coat.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Roland reached his plastic cup out and let Peter fill it.

“Elizabeth, there you are!” Mr. Cameron approached the group. “There's someone I want you to meet. Hang on, is this your proud father?”

“No, my indifferent uncle. Roland Gibbons. And this is my mother, Gloria Gibbons-Brown. Mother, this is—Mom! Where are you going?”

“I need some sparkling, my darling. I will return shortly.”

“I'm coming with you,” said Roland. “What have you got in there, kid? Gasoline?”

“Dewar's. If I'd known . . .”

“No need to apologize,” said Roland.

“I wasn't.”

“Should I come with you, Daddy?”

“I'm Elizabeth's photography teacher,” Mr. Cameron explained to Addison, since he seemed to be the only one paying attention.

“I know, Mr. C. I was in your class, like, three years ago. Addison Gibbons-Brown. I made the series called
Animal Buttholes
.”

“Oh, oh yes. My apologies. How could I forget?”

“Animal what?” It was Heidi. She slipped up to Peter's side wearing a snug, emerald-green suit with a deeply plunging neckline and high heels. “Hello, babe,” she said to Peter and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Buttholes. Animal Buttholes.”

“You look nice,” said Peter.

“Hello, hello.” Heidi kissed greetings all around.

“Ad-rock was telling us about his own artistic explorations,” said Peter. “I don't understand. What were the pictures of, exactly?”

“Bizzy.” Heidi grasped Biz's wrist and looked straight into her eyes. “The installation is just gorgeous. I'm so proud of you.”