You Will Know Me(56)

Now, before the bolted BelStars entrance, here was five-year-old Ashlee Hargrove, cracking her spine into a back bend, her tiny body like a table, shoulders pushed out over hands.

It came to Katie, that feeling. One she had known before, but it was so much stronger now. A nagging sense of some irrevocable wrong.

What have we done to them?

What have I done?

Always there, like a flicker in the corner of her eye, she’d learned to ignore it. But now it was, quite suddenly, right in front of her. It was everywhere.

She shut her eyes.



“Katie! Katie, where’s Eric? Does he know about this?” Becca Plonski said, her hands pressing down on little Dominique’s shoulders. “Can you call Eric?”

Everyone was assembled around the handwritten sign on the door.

GYM CLOSED TODAY—NO PRACTICE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE—





THE MGT




“What do we do?” Cheyenne Chu asked. Her elfin fingers touched the sign as if it might give her a deeper knowledge. “What do we do?”

“He might have given us some notice,” Kirsten Siefert said, chewing gum forcefully. “I cut a conference call short to get Jordan here.”

“Unacceptable,” whispered Becca, just under her breath. “This is completely unacceptable.”

“Even if Teddy can’t be here,” Kirsten said, more loudly, “does that mean the gym can’t run? We paid for that staff. We pay for those lights to be on.”

Katie didn’t say anything, scanning the crowd for Devon.

Devon, whom she hadn’t seen in three days.

She felt a hand on her arm. Turning around, she saw the strained face of Molly Chu.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said. “So where’s she getting her private lessons?”

Katie stared at her a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Come on. No one believes the scarlet fever thing and Hailey’s locked up, so why else would Devon keep missing practice?” Then, moving closer to Katie, lowering her voice. “But, listen, don’t be greedy. Just give me the coach’s name. I don’t want Cheyenne to lose the month before qualifiers either.”

“Wait,” Katie said, “are you saying Devon hasn’t been at practice?”

Molly scratched her brow nervously, just like Cheyenne on the beam, her torso shaking. Which was why Cheyenne would never go Elite.



Molly wouldn’t say another word until they were nearly to Katie’s car, Cheyenne gazing after them forlornly, shivering in her nylon shorts by the gym’s doorway.

“She hasn’t been to practice for the last three days,” Molly whispered, even though they were yards away from anyone.

“Oh.”

“Neither has Lacey, by the way. People were guessing Gwen hired a private coach for her. Do you think so? What does Eric say?”

“She’s been staying with Gwen,” Katie said. “Devon has.”

Molly’s face stiffened and she paused, as if calculating something.

“Well, then. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

“I don’t think so,” Katie said, quick and pointed.

“Well, it’s not like Gwen kidnapped her.”

“Molly, you’re telling me you haven’t heard anything at all? You talk to Gwen twelve times a day. All of you do.”

“All of who?” Molly said, tilting her head.

“The booster klatch.”

Molly looked at her, blinking. “I’ve told you what I know,” she said, her voice newly clipped. “And aren’t you part of the so-called booster klatch? Don’t we all want the same thing? No practice, not even open gym, this close to qualifiers is unacceptable.”

“I don’t care about that right now,” Katie said, her own voice sounding so insistent, grinding up her throat. “I care about my daughter. I’m trying to find out why my daughter’s not here.”

But something in Molly’s face had changed. A veil, a mask dropped over it.

“We all know Devon’s the big gold dream,” Molly said coolly. “But there are other gymnasts here too. Other girls count too.”

Katie recognized the tone. From school events—the college fair, the Mother’s Day fashion show. The other parents, their under-the-breath comments, the looks they exchanged if Katie or Eric asked a question—it only demonstrated how distinct and special Devon was. Long ago, she’d learned, Eric had shown her; you had to own it.

“Well,” Katie said, finally. Jaw set. Voice steady. “Only one counts to me.”



The man in the God’s Little Acre polo shirt and cap pushed the neon-yellow machine across the lawn, punching holes in the dewy grass.

He was whistling as she walked swiftly past him, up the long curving drive studded with sacks of peat moss. Punch-punch-punch.

Standing at the knotty-pine door, by the dripping fig ivy, she clapped the dragonfly knocker, which didn’t seem to make any sound.

She clapped it again. Punch-punch.

“Don’t think anyone’s home,” the lawn man called out, turning off the aerator.

The whirring stopped, the quiet swallowing everything.

Somewhere a cicada thrummed.