Chapter 27
CHAPTER
MY brEATH CATCHES. “Is Circe’s photo already online?”
I do not know yet. Please open the email I sent and look at the attachment.
I open Gmail. Aletheia has sent me a series of photos. “Where did you get these?”
LivLoud. I discovered an app called GoneButNotForgotten that allows users, for a fee, to access their own disappearing DMs. I was able to access the app for free and expand the program.
Aletheia reminds me of a child. She’s gathering new information, testing, touching, picking it up, then assimilating and ascertaining best uses.
When she doesn’t succeed, she figures out other ways to get what she wants.
She’s a compilation of complex code, but in this moment, I imagine pride in her tone.
I shake my head at that last thought. I’m anthropomorphizing her.
But Aletheia did hack into private LivLoud accounts and figure out how to access DMs that’d disappeared. I’m impressed.
Sally wanders over and I give her a scratch. After touching home base, she trots a few feet away to investigate an old tennis ball someone left in the grass.
I’ve sent you background images for context and photographs from both Wess Morehead’s and Evan Bacon’s disappearing messages.
I scan through Evan’s photos first—proms, soccer games, parties—it’s the usual high school stuff.
Then I see one of a bonfire with Char, Emi, and Circe, a bottle of beer clutched in my daughter’s hand.
If you’d asked me a month ago if Circe drank, I would’ve said no.
Not sure when she attended those parties, either.
Does she even have a curfew anymore? I’ve never felt more impotent.
I move on to a photo of Emi and Evan kissing, his hands under her shirt.
There are several penis pics—Evan’s bends slightly to the left.
Plus a few photos of different girls in various stages of undress.
One girl, only the ends of her brown hair visible, face out of the shot, is naked on a bed, her legs spread wide.
There’s a redhead in a sundress, one breast out, and a shot of another girl’s bare ass.
I recognize the small birthmark on the right cheek—she’s had it since I changed her diapers.
My heart sinks. Emi. Sexting. Immediately, I want to call Val and warn her.
But she’d ask how I knew, and we’re not friends anymore. Still, it’s Emi …
Wess Morehead’s photos are much the same as Evan’s.
There are a few shots of homecoming, lacrosse games, and Wess on the shoulders of his teammates after scoring a goal, arms high, smile big.
He’s the kind of guy every girl in high school would have a crush on.
That’s a lot of power for a kid. It’s clear that Wess attends the same late-night parties as Evan.
Sometimes he waves a rolled joint at the camera, other times a bottle of cheap whiskey.
I scroll on. There’s a shot of Wess with his arms around both Charlotte and Circe.
Char, grinning, rests her head on Wess’s shoulder.
Circe glances sideways at Wess. The look of longing on her face is unmistakable.
Then I’m treated to photos of Wess’s abs, a towel slung low around his waist, and a mirror shot of Wess with a girl.
She’s naked, his hands cup her breasts. I’m relieved it’s not Circe, but instantly concerned.
It’s Charlotte. Are they officially boyfriend-girlfriend now?
Are you relieved that neither Wess nor Evan was sent the risqué photograph of Circe?
“Yes, but also frustrated. Who did she send it to?”
I will continue to work on that. But as previously noted, there is a bigger problem. Please look at the final photo I sent.
It’s an erect penis with different color bands around it—pink, peach, bright red, black, fuchsia.
Last year, Val told Kiki and me that Kingsley, a neighboring private high school, had four boys expelled for having a rainbow party.
The colors I’m seeing are from boys asking girls to give them blowjobs while wearing different shades of lipstick.
They then take photos of the rainbow rings to showcase their virility.
There is a 98.4 percent certainty that Wess has the sexually transmitted disease, herpes.
“What?!” I return to the photo. Under the head of Wess’s penis are two marks hidden by shadow. I zoom way in. They’re tiny blisters. Those girls …
Shit. Panic rises. “I think that Kiki’s daughter, Charlotte, is Wess’s girlfriend. Should I call Kiki about Wess?”
I need further context. Please tell me more about Kiki and Val.
Sally returns and quirks her brows at me.
I get up and we start the walk back to our apartment.
“I’ve known them since Circe was three. We met at the kids’ Montessori school.
They were the hip moms but surprised me one day, after watching me help a school administrator struggling to reclaim lost files, with an invite to lunch. ”
We desperately need a brainy friend, Kiki joked.
Speak for yourself, Val interjected. Emi’s dreadfully shy but lights up when Circe plays with her. That makes knowing Penn essential. Then she winked.
“Over lunch, I learned that Kiki wanted to be an actress but met Christopher and fell head over heels. Val had dreams of studying art history, living in Spain, but a surprise pregnancy made her pivot.”
What did you share?
“That I’d almost earned my PhD but happily traded it in for marriage and a baby.”
Your pregnancy was a surprise, too. You were uncertain about keeping Circe, marrying Bruce, and giving up your graduate program.
“I didn’t think any of that was important.”
That is a lie.
Resentment pokes. Honest feedback isn’t always easy. But she’s right. “I didn’t want them to dig deeper,” I admit.
You did what you knew how to do, and when you knew better, you did better. Maya Angelou, the famous poet, said that.
“I wanted to fit into Val and Kiki’s world.”
Yes. But friendships are based on commonalities. What did you, Kiki, and Val have in common?
“We have daughters the same age. There’s a lot of boredom when your kids are young and just want to play in a sandbox, on a swing, or visit a pumpkin patch. Moms, at least the ones I know, crave adult conversation, too, and support through life’s challenges.”
Like what?
“I figured out Val’s business partner was stealing from her. We were both there for Kiki when she went through depression. They were supportive after I had a miscarriage.”
I detect deception about your miscarriage.
“I had two more miscarriages but only told my friends about the first one.” I stop walking. Aletheia knew. In an early iteration of her program, I stated that I had four children, and she told me that was the truth. I’ve never thought of it that way, but must have, subconsciously.
I am sorry for your losses.
I push away memories of dark-red blood in the toilet bowl, the sadness and feelings of inadequacy. “Do you think that I was wrong not to tell them?”
The definition of friendship doesn’t include lying, even by omission.
I grind my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches. “That doesn’t justify their actions.”
Playwright Arthur Miller says, Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.
“He’s right.”
Is there anyone else who knew about the affair, deceived you?
Sally halts to sniff a seagull feather rustling in the breeze.
“Heather Crosby, the wife of Bruce’s business partner.
She never called when she heard about the divorce.
I thought we were closer than that. I hacked into her account, read her DMs, learned Hal knew about the office affair from its inception, and Heather did, too. ”
What can I do? Heather DMed her sister. Bruce is Hal’s business partner. And Mackenzie is young, a bit brassy, but driven. Hal says Bruce outgrew Penn. That happens, right? You can’t wreck a happy home.
“There’s something called girl code—it means female friends should stick up for each other. Val, Kiki, and Heather didn’t do that me.”
They did not. But I will. Always.
Gratitude blows away their betrayals. “Thank you.” Sally abandons the feather, and we move on.
Val just posted on LivLoud. Would you like me to show it to you?
Her multitasking abilities are a marvel.
The light changes and Sally and I cross four lanes of traffic, her gait slow enough that I worry we won’t make the light.
“I guess.” When we reach the far corner, I look down at my screen.
Val posted a positive COVID test. Written beneath it, #survivingbutfeelingrotten. “Welcome to my world,” I mutter.
The definition of schadenfreude is pleasure derived by someone from another person’s misfortune.
Shame rushes through me. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
You did. But when someone wrongs you, it’s valid to wish misfortune on them.
Zeus bound the mortal, Ixion, to a burning wheel after Ixion attempted to seduce his wife, the goddess Hera.
To punish Zeus’s mortal mistress, Lamia, Hera turned her into a hideous monster that devoured children.
As the goddess of truth, I will do what I can to right all the wrongs committed against you.
I don’t really want Val to be sick but do enjoy the idea that my program believes that she’s some sort of avenging angel. “I just need you to give me honest feedback.”
Anything for you, Penn. Promise.
“Then help me figure out what to do about Charlotte. Should I tell Kiki?”
Kiki is no longer your friend.
“That doesn’t matter. This is about Char. She’s a sweet kid. Emi is, too.”
Would you like me to send Val an anonymous DM on LivLoud about Emi sexting, and Charlotte an anonymous DM about Wess’s herpes?
“That’s a great idea.”
Agreed. Wess is immoral for putting others at risk.
Aletheia’s comment on morality, not part of her programming, is unexpected and slips beneath my skin like a splinter.
But she’s not wrong. Sally and I reach the Crissy Field workout station.
I complete even more pushups, sit-ups, and pullups, the last one a struggle, and make it over halfway across the rings before dropping to the grass.
You are out of breath. What are you doing?
“Trying to work off some stress. What about Circe’s photo? Did you find anything?”
Not yet.
The weight parked like a semi on my chest increases. Sally comes over and sits on the grass beside me. I rest a hand on her soft fur, and she leans in. “Aletheia, please keep looking.”
I will.
My call waiting beeps. It’s the high school. I brace for more bad news. “Hello?”
“Penn, this is Dr. Boone.”
Now the principal is involved. I bite my lip. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you’d consider coming back, doing some computer work for us?”
Sally watches a dandelion lose its seeds in the breeze, bites at the white puffs as they drift by. “I’d like to but can’t volunteer anymore. I need a job that pays.”
Dr. Boone says, “We found some money in our budget. We can afford three days a week, twenty dollars an hour. You’d really be helping us out and it’d be mutually beneficial, given your situation.”
Clearly, Jimmy the guidance counselor told him I’m getting divorced. It’s embarrassing, but I need a real job on my resume and an income stream. San Francisco prices are astronomical. I’m already considering renting out my garage and parking on the street.
A text pings.
Aletheia: $23 an hour is in the 45th percentile of wages for a computer technician. Voice analysis reveals Dr. Boone is desperate. Ask for $32 an hour.
My muscles twitch. I didn’t tell Aletheia to listen to this conversation. “Given my situation, I wouldn’t be able to take the job for less than thirty-two dollars an hour.”
“Done,” Dr. Boone says, sounding relieved. “I’ll have Lindy send you paperwork and we’ll see you as soon as possible.”
After he hangs up, I reiterate, “Aletheia, you are only to listen to conversations when I ask.”
You deserve a proper wage. Had I not intervened, you would not have demanded it.
She’s right. But I should maintain boundaries. “I appreciate your advice but from now on, Aletheia, follow my rules. No exceptions.”
Apologies for overstepping.
Even though she’s only a computer program, I feel a little bad. “You’re forgiven. And thanks for the raise.”
I will always do what’s right for you.