Genuine Fraud(29)

“Okay.”

Jule hated this story. She hated, too, how she had never understood before that the reason Vivian and Brooke disliked each other was Imogen herself.

Brooke went on: “What I’m saying is, Imogen broke Vivian’s little heart, too. Later. And Isaac Tupperman’s. She led all these different guys on when she was going out with Isaac, and Isaac, of course, got all jealous and insecure. Then Immie was surprised when he broke up with her—but what did she expect, when she hooked up with other guys? She wanted to see if people would lose their cool and obsess over her. And you know what? That is exactly what you’ve done, and exactly what a lot of people did in college. That’s something Imogen likes, because it makes her feel awesome and sexy, but then you don’t get to be friends any longer. The other way to handle it is, you prove yourself a bigger person. Imogen knows you’re as strong as she is, or maybe even stronger. Then she respects you, and you go on together.”

Jule was silent. This was a new version of the Isaac Tupperman story, Isaac of the Bronx, Coates and Morrison, the poems left on Imogen’s bicycle, the possible pregnancy. Hadn’t Immie looked up at him with wide eyes? She’d been infatuated and then disillusioned—but only after he’d dumped her. It didn’t seem possible she had stepped out on him.

Then, suddenly, it did seem possible. It seemed obvious to Jule now that Imogen—who had felt shallow and second-rate next to Tupperman’s intellect and masculinity—would have made herself feel stronger and more powerful than he was by betraying him.

They kept walking through the woods. The sun began to set.

There was no one else on the path.

“You want to be like Immie, then be like her. Fine,” Brooke said. They had reached a walkway over a ravine. It led to wooden steps built up to a lookout tower that gave a view of the deep valley and the surrounding hillsides. “But you’re not Imogen, you understand?”

“I know I’m not Imogen.”

“I’m not sure you do,” said Brooke.

“None of that is your business.”

“Maybe I’ve made it my business. Maybe I think you’re unstable and the best thing would be for you to back away from Immie and get some help for your mental problems.”

“Tell me this. Why are we out here?” asked Jule. She stood on the steps above Brooke.

Below them was the ravine.

The sun was nearly down.

“Why are we out here, I asked,” Jule said. She said it lightly, swinging her backpack off her shoulder and opening it as if to get out her water bottle.

“We’re going to talk it out, like you said. I want you to stop dicking around with Immie’s life, living off her trust fund, making her ignore her friends, and whatever else you’re doing.”

“I asked you why we’re out here,” said Jule, bent over her backpack.

Brooke shrugged. “Here exactly? In this park? You drove us here.”

“Right.”





Jule hefted the bag that held the lion statue from the Asian Art Museum. She swung once, hard, coming down on Brooke’s forehead with a horrid crack.

The statue didn’t break.

Brooke’s head snapped back. She stumbled on the wooden walkway.

Jule moved forward and hit her again. This time from the side. Blood spurted from Brooke’s head. It splattered across Jule’s face.

Brooke collapsed against the railing, her hands clutching the wooden bars.

Jule dropped the statue and went at Brooke low. She grabbed her around the knees. Brooke kicked out and hit Jule in the shoulder, scrabbling with her hands to regain her grip on the railing. She kicked hard, and Jule’s shoulder popped out, dislocating with a jolt of pain.

Fuck.

Jule’s vision went white for a minute. She lost hold of Brooke, and with her left arm hanging lame, locked her right arm and slammed it up under Brooke’s forearms, making Brooke let go of the railing. Then she bent over and went in low again. She got Brooke’s legs, which scrabbled on the ground, grabbed them, got her good shoulder underneath Brooke’s body, and lurched her up and over.

Everything was still.

Brooke’s silken blond hair plummeted.

There was a dull crack as her body hit the tops of the trees, and another as she landed at the bottom of the rocky ravine.

Jule leaned over the railing. The body was invisible beneath the green.

She looked around. Still no one on the path.

Her shoulder was dislocated. It hurt so much she couldn’t think straight.

She hadn’t bargained on an injury. If she couldn’t move her dislocated arm, she was going to fail, because Brooke was dead and her blood was everywhere and Jule had to change clothes. Now.

Jule forced herself to calm her breathing. Forced her eyes to focus.

Holding her left wrist with her right hand, she lifted the left arm up in a J-movement, pulling away from the body. Once, twice—God, it hurt—but on the third try, the left shoulder popped back in.

The pain disappeared.

Jule had seen a guy do that once, in a martial arts gym. She had asked him about it.

All right, then. She looked down at her sweater. It was splattered with blood. She pulled it off. The shirt underneath was wet, too. She yanked her shirt off and used a clean corner of it to wipe her hands and face. She pulled off her gloves. She took the baby wipes from the backpack and cleaned herself up—chest, arms, neck, hands—shivering in the winter air. She shoved the bloody clothes and wipes into the black garbage bag, tied it shut, and tucked everything into the backpack.