Chapter 16
MUSIC PLEASE, MAESTRO.
On the first day of childcare, the FBI gave to me:
One squalling kid
One nervous mom
Two drooling dogs
One pissed-off dad
On the second day—it’s even worse.
When I pull into the driveway, I hear screaming.
The screamer turns out to be Hailey, age thirteen, Ben’s daughter from his first marriage—a gawky flat-chested beanpole who’s unfortunately inherited some of Ben’s worst features: his wide nose, his snarly grin, and, if this morning is any indication, his nasty personality.
In fact, Hailey is worse than Ben. At least Ben was civil to Amber. Hailey isn’t.
Amber herself looks like hell, yawning and exhausted. Like she’s had a rough night with Lily and doesn’t have the energy to take on a surly teenager. The kerfuffle has to do with driving Hailey to school.
“She missed the bus,” Amber tells me, trying to speak over Hailey’s screams.
“I want to take an Uber!” Hailey yells. Her bottom lip is quivering.
“Your father says no,” Amber tells her. She turns to me. “Ben says she’s been abusing his account—”
“I… have… not!”
“—with her friends, so he’s taken away her Uber privileges.”
Hailey is furious. She’s going to be late for school. Can’t Amber ever do anything right? She hates her. She hates living here. To her credit, Hailey doesn’t mention hating her half-sister, Lily. Though I assume that’s a given.
Hailey runs out of the room. Amber turns to me.
“Could you maybe drive her to school?” she asks quietly. It’s like a prayer.
“Of course,” I say.
“Carol will take you,” she calls to Hailey. We wait. Hailey returns, backpack on her shoulders. She refuses to look at either of us. The only thing she says is “Let’s go.”
I leave my suitcase in the front hall and head back outside. Hailey follows me.
“Crappy car,” she says as we approach it.
She’s right. When the FBI said they were giving me a car, I expected something new and classy. Or new and sporty. Or, at the very least, new. Wrong on all counts. I’ve been given an old Honda. Not quite banged up but clearly used, yet still roadworthy. Much like myself.
“Wait’ll you see the inside,” I tell her. “It’s even worse.”
I get in first so I can sweep away all the junk I’ve amassed on the passenger seat in just a couple of days: a Trader Joe’s receipt, an umbrella, a scarf, a leftover breakfast burrito, a cluster of used tissues. Hailey gets in and slams the door.
“My father won’t like this,” she says, looking around. “He’s a neat freak. Better keep your bedroom door closed.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Where’s your school?”
I didn’t think that would be a tough question to answer. I was wrong. For spite, Hailey isn’t telling me. We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Back out and take a left. It’s Chadwick Middle School,” she says at last. “And don’t bother asking if I like it.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m sure it sucks.”
I sneak a peek at her face. She looks surprised. Now the ball’s in my court, so I decide to run with it. “And when they tell you it gets better in high school? Don’t believe them,” I continue. “High school sucks too. But at least by then you’ll be old enough to drive.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I saw a tiny smile appear on her face. Then it’s gone.
“Oh, and by the way, my name is Caroline.”
“Amber calls you Carol.”
“Right. Well, Amber, uh, has a lot on her mind.”
Hailey begins rifling through her backpack, trying to ignore me.
“Not just Lily,” I say. “I mean, all the stuff that comes with being a new mom. It’s rough.
Hormones out of whack. Anxiety. Trying to do everything you think you should be doing but worrying you’re doing it all wrong and everybody will notice.
” I get a sudden burst of inspiration. “Sort of like middle school,” I add.
Now I think I see a real smile. But it’s like those disclaimers that pop up at the bottom of every pharmaceutical commercial warning you about possible side effects like death and projectile vomiting: It’s there for a second, then quickly disappears.
We pass block after block of luxurious homes, velvety lawns, streets with names like Upper Saffron Lane and Vermilion Crescent.
Nothing that remotely resembles a school.
The autumn foliage is beautiful. But beauty seems to be lost on Hailey, who wears baggy cargo pants with about ten unnecessary pockets, a worn-out T-shirt, and chukka boots with purple-and-orange-striped socks.
She looks like she’s on her way to a construction site.
“So are you going to give me some directions?” I ask.
“Use your GPS.”
“Don’t know how,” I say. Hailey looks shocked, like I just told her I didn’t know how to work a toaster.
“No rush,” she says, looking at her own phone. “I already missed the tardy chime.”
Tardy chime? Is that what her fancy private school calls the late bell? “Seriously, you have to tell me how to get there.”
She puts her phone in her backpack and gives me grimace number three. Or is it four? Hard to keep track. “Go straight. I’ll let you know when to turn.”
A few seconds later: “Turn left now!”
I brake and turn so quickly, her backpack falls off her lap.
“Damn,” she says. She picks it up, pulls out her phone to make sure it’s still okay.
Up ahead is a small red-brick building with several other straggling students milling around, high-fiving each other and seemingly in no hurry to enter the building despite having missed the “tardy chime.” One guy sees Hailey and rushes over.
He leans in the open car door to check me out. He’s not happy with what he sees.
“Hey,” he says to Hailey. “Where’s your hot new mama?”
Hailey might be angry and bitter, but, like Lily, she’s also quite advanced. She lets loose with a string of expletives I didn’t know till I was thirty.