The Neighbor's Secret(14)

Before she’d sent Sierra back to class, Annie had tried to explain to her that the rules of fashion were not written to benefit teenaged girls, but rather to objectify them. I remember that feeling of power, Sierra, and it’s a ruse.

Sierra had nodded gently and unconvincingly, as though Annie was the lonely local curmudgeon known to yammer on about how great life had been before that dang rock ’n’ roll music ruined everything.

Only once did Sierra’s eyes, heavily lined in turquoise pencil (when had that come back into style?), flick desperately to the door.

Annie had been tempted to grab her by the shoulders and bark that sex was evil.

Wasn’t life just hilariously ironic, because teen Annie would have rolled her eyes so hard at such out-of-touch advice from a grown-up.

(Nor did Annie truly believe that sex was evil. It was fantastic, at least until you were a grown-up and really thought about how young pubescent kids were, how underdeveloped emotionally. She would never understand why biology handed out hormones to the young. Might as well send paper dolls to fight wildfires.)

“So,” Deb said. “Do I need to pick up my little fashion victim?”

“I gave her a pair of Laurel’s sweats and sent her back to science. There was some big finger-pricking blood lab that she didn’t want to miss.”

“Bless you, Annie, because I have to show a house in half an hour. Are we done with the boring stuff?”

What had Annie expected from Deb? The woman had once worn a crop top and leggings to book club.

“It’s not boring, Deb, it’s—”

“Yes, I know, of premium importance. How ever can those poor, weak boys learn while our daughters’ outfits distract them? So”—Deb’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone—“are you visiting Lena Meeker again today?”

The day after that first visit, Annie had returned to Lena’s with paint thinner and Lena had invited Annie in for some shortcake granola cookies. There had been two more visits after that, always with baked goods. Hank had tagged along on the last one and Lena had given him cupcakes and let him draw all over her patio with sidewalk chalk.

“You’re a good person,” Deb said. “She must be so lonely.”

“I enjoy her,” Annie said simply. And although there was more to the situation, it was true. “Math club was canceled tomorrow, so I’m taking Laurel up.”

Seriously? Mike had asked. Again?

I don’t pull up a chair and start confessing things, Annie had assured him. But she understood his raised eyebrows.

“Great idea,” Deb said. “Older people love being in the presence of youth.”

“Lena’s not old.”

“Isn’t she? Anyway, I picked up some cute plaid fabric for the girls’ Halloween costumes, but,” Deb teased, “those skirts are far from dress-code-compliant. Postage-stamp-sized. I’ll check with Laurel before I cut the fabric.”

Annie laughed.

Deb still frequently told the story about how during their toddlers’ play group, Laurel had waddled over to Sierra, who’d been happily eating dirt from a bucket. “No, no,” Laurel had said with a grab of Sierra’s hand. “Dirty!”

Designated hall monitor right there, Deb had said. She’ll keep ’em on track during high school.

“Thanks, Deb,” Annie said. “Just let me know what I owe for the fabric.”

“Pish,” Deb said blithely. “It’s like fifty cents. Talk later.”

As Annie hung up, she tapped the eraser against the notepad again.

When Laurel was a newborn, it had occurred to a horrified Annie that this pure and perfect infant would probably make some of the same mistakes Annie had: trust the wrong people, run headfirst into danger.

Thank goodness Laurel turned out to be more risk-averse than Annie had been. It was better to be a rule-follower, wasn’t it?

Although, sometimes Annie also thought that she would have at least understood a daughter like Sierra. Deb and Sierra Gallegos were besties—for Christmas they had gifted each other BFF necklaces with real diamonds. Even with all of the love between Annie and Laurel, Annie sometimes felt—

Not even a wedge. A hint of a wedge between them.

Does Laurel seem joyless, Annie sometimes asked Mike. Heavy?

In graduate school, Annie had learned about Jung’s collective unconscious and the theory that stress in one generation could alter the DNA of the next.

Laurel sees right through us, Annie would whisper to Mike. She knows my sins.

Mike knew his job in that moment was to bring Annie down to earth. She’s an observer by nature, he’d say. People are who they are.

Annie was willing to bet that Mike had forgotten where he’d first heard that little nugget of wisdom, but she never would. Thirteen years before, their labor and delivery nurse had been a woman who seemed to derive a large part of her identity from being a redhead. When she spotted Mike, sitting in the guest chair, she’d squealed with such glee that Annie assumed they’d grown up together.

“Fellow ginger,” she’d whooped, holding up her hand for a high five. Mike shot Annie a confused look and hesitantly returned the slap.

In a stage whisper, the nurse said, “Don’t tell anyone I said this, because I’m not supposed to play favorites, but there is nothing cuter than a red-haired baby. Nothing.”