The Neighbor's Secret(28)

A social media post from Janine.

PSAT prep:

Fall Fest set up:

Time to curl up with a good book and a cuppa, ladies! #livingthedream #momentofcalm #bookclubmama!



PSAT prep?

Even though she was alone in the room, Annie shook her head. Katie was in middle school.

Childhood should be preserved, Annie always counseled parents, don’t tangle up your ambitions in their futures. Laurel was at the top of her class, but working hard, Annie had always believed, was an honest expression of Laurel’s identity.

Last week, though, Laurel had failed to turn in an English paper.

Annie only learned about it when Laurel’s teacher referenced it in the teachers’ lounge. He’d assumed it was a mistake. Questioned about it by Annie, however, Laurel had shrugged.

I’ll take the fail, she’d said.

With great self-control, Annie had managed not to spout clichés at Laurel, but they’d been right there on her twitchy lips: you’re not seeing the big picture, ninth grade is right around the corner and it COUNTS, these are the mistakes that IMPACT YOUR FUTURE.

And, ugh, the feelings that churned inside Annie for the rest of the night: disappointment and frustration bordering on hysteria. The sinking pit-in-her-stomach certainty that Laurel was perhaps like Annie after all.

Annie picked up the book again. Deb called this kind of novel dingbat lit.

The main character Fiona was so hysterical that she could barely make a pot of coffee without fainting. When she suspected someone of being a murderer, did she call the police?

No, Fiona went alone to visit the murder suspect, and Annie hated herself for caring when Fiona wound up chloroformed and bound in the trunk of a car. What did you expect, Fiona?

These are the mistakes that impact your future.

Some of Laurel’s recent decisions would fit well in a dingbat-lit novel.

Skipping off to the mall without telling a parent, her surly I’ll take the fail. And she had started to dress like Sierra. Teeny miniskirts. Caked-on eye makeup.

Well, that was a little dramatic. Laurel had worn that outfit once.

Fiona, Annie reminded herself, was a fictional character. Laurel was nothing like Fiona: she was smart, much smarter than Annie ever had been.

Well—Laurel was book smart, which didn’t mean she hadn’t inherited a self-destructive streak.

That was the flip side of Cottonwood: these kids were adored, but they were coddled house cats. For all of Annie’s complaints about the benign neglect of her own childhood, at least she’d had freedom to learn by trial and error.

Annie was so grateful to hear Hank’s footsteps in the hall that she didn’t even tell him to get back to bed.

“What’s up?”

“I’m too excited to sleep.”

The second graders always performed a few song-and-dance numbers at Fall Fest, and Hank and his classmates had been practicing since September.

He spread his arms wide. “I have the whole room to myself. I don’t really miss Laurel. At all.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“She can’t try to lock me out, and before bed, she won’t play that stupid song fifteen million times and she won’t wake me up at two in the morning either.”

“Laurel wakes you up at two in the morning?”

“She turns on her bed lamp and types all night.”

“What is she typing?”

“She said it was research.”

“Homework?”

Hank shrugged. He had a well-earned reputation for hyperbole. Laurel had probably woken him up once at ten. Nonetheless, the Perleys’ one big rule was: no screens in the bedroom.

“Want another tuck-in?” Annie asked.

“Okay,” Hank said agreeably.

She followed him into the bedroom, smoothed the covers over him with one gentle yank. Annie felt a tug of guilt about how small the room was.

Maybe Laurel’s recent prickliness was about lack of privacy. Annie had always told herself that Cottonwood Estates was worth any sacrifice in space. But an almost fourteen-year-old having to share to share a bunk bed with her seven-year-old brother wasn’t ideal.

“Did you invite Mrs. Meeker to Fall Fest?” Hank asked. “She’s really excited about my dance.”

Too crowded, Lena had said to Annie, and her eyes had begged for the conversation to end. “She can’t make it,” Annie said, “but we’ll send pictures.”

“She told me she’s going to buy me a skateboard.”

Annie sighed. “You have to stop asking her for things, Hank.”

“She said it makes her happy.”

“Even so.” Lena and her brother Ernie had done enough for the Perleys. Due entirely to Ernie’s connections and word of mouth, Mike’s restaurant was booked through next month. There’s definite buzz, Mike had said, buzz buzz buzz. Hank had pretended to be a bee for the entire rest of the night.

“At least try to limit your requests,” she said.

“I’ll try,” Hank said, in a tone of voice that made clear he couldn’t promise anything. “Night.”

“Night.”

Annie flicked off the light and, on her way out of the room, lifted the grab handle of Laurel’s backpack, which had been left by the door.

An eighth grader a few years back had—unbeknownst to her parents or therapist until the girl fainted in world history—spent hours each day studying evil websites that glamorized anorexia: how to abuse laxatives and count calories and binge and purge. She’d missed the entire rest of the school year. It always struck Annie how entirely clueless the parents had been.