When We Were Bright and Beautiful(40)

I pick up my fork and dig in. In New Haven, I eat with gusto. Here, I eat tortillas. I eat eggs. I eat sausage. I eat provolone cheese, hash browns, and hot cherry peppers. I can feel my scrawny body filling out, growing healthy and strong. I feel alive. I eat, I eat, I eat.

*

Hours later, reading by the pool, I have a chance to practice my social skills. When I look up, a dark-skinned guy is pointing to the lounge chair two inches from mine. This is only significant because there are thirty other chairs around the pool, all empty.

“Taken?” His hair, also dark, is curly. His eyes are black as tar. He’s my age, maybe a few years older.

I consider flirting. Did you mean the chair, or me? Instead, I wave cheerfully. “All yours.”

He tosses down his pool bag, and I study his body. Awesome shoulders. Impeccable arms. Flat stomach. But what I like most is his towel. It’s a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers beach towel, circa 1993.

Settling in, he sighs. Above our heads, the sun is a fireball, beating down mercilessly. “Where is everyone?” he asks. “It’s a perfect pool day.”

“Too humid,” I reply. “But I like it this way, white-hot and wet.” As soon as the words are out, I cringe. White-hot and wet? Gross.

We sit side by side under the scorching sun. Soon, we’re both drenched in sweat. I’m desperate to jump into the pool but feel exposed in my skimpy bathing suit. Since when? I ask myself. I’m tongue-tied, not sure what to say, the right way to engage. All I know is how to invite him upstairs, slide off my bikini bottoms, let the afternoon unfold.

“My brother had those sheets,” I choke out. “Power Rangers.” For a second, I seize up. What if he asks me about Billy?

“The towel was a gift,” the guy says. “It’s vintage. Ebay, I think.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask about Billy. In fact, he doesn’t ask about anything.

For the next thirty minutes, I’m a wreck. How do wholesome people date? Finally, I decide to make a joke. We’ll laugh about our awkwardness, the horror of striking up conversation. But when I turn to speak to him, I realize that the whole time I’ve been spinning, he’s been asleep behind his stupid sunglasses.





23


I CHECK THE NEWS EVERY DAY FOR UPDATES ON BILLY’S case. My system is elaborate. I start with a Google search on my phone for any mention of my family. Then I read a hard copy of the New York Times I have delivered to my door. Back on my phone, I skim an app that aggregates stories from sources across the web. Finally, I scour every digital New Jersey paper, bulletin, and leaflet from Princeton down to Cape May.

The news is quiet so far. But on the last Friday of July, Lawrence makes a colossal blunder and the hits come so fast and furious the next morning that I have to call Nate.

My brother picks up immediately. We don’t bother with preliminaries. “You saw the news,” he says.

“I did, unfortunately,” I reply. “What happened?”

Nate tells me that Lawrence and Eleanor spent most of yesterday arguing. By late afternoon, Lawrence was fuming. The day had cooled down and the reporters were sparse, so he went for a walk. (“He just left the house?” I ask, stunned. Nate snorts. “He loves to bait the gods.”)

On the sidewalk, a stranger in a Mets cap sidled up to him. “Lawrence Quinn? I’m Raffi Alexander with PXN News New York—”

“No comment.” Lawrence turned back toward home.

“I’m on your side. What they’re doing to your boy is unconscionable.”

“No comment.”

“We all see what’s happening, Lawrence. Our sons are in the crosshairs. Every male over age twelve has a target on his back. Billy lost his future over a false accusation! Lawrence, what happened to innocent before proven guilty?”

Hearing this, Lawrence slowed down. “Thank you—what’s your name? Raffi?” He extended his hand. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No apologies. Reporters are ruthless. Your restraint is impressive, Lawrence. If it was my family, I’d be shouting in the streets.”

Flattered, Lawrence got excited; finally, someone saw how awful this experience has been, how hard it is to keep quiet. “Not all reporters are ruthless, Raffi. Most just want the story, which I can appreciate. As you may know, I was a media consultant for years, and have great respect for the news. But the reporters who spread lies? Who serve as judge, jury, and executioner? I’d love to give those guys a piece of my mind. Where does this end, Raffi?”

“Great question.” Raffi raised his camera. “Quick quote? If you could appeal to the press’s better nature, what would you tell them?”

“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Briefly, please. You’re in a position to make a difference, Lawrence. Unlike most men, you’re eloquent and persuasive. Lots of fathers and sons are suffering. Can you imagine how just a few words from a man like you will help? Please, Lawrence?”

And just like I had, Lawrence spoke up. “To members of the news media, I respect your profession, but I want you to understand that a boy’s future is at stake.” Making his plea for restraint, his smile was wistful. “My son is petrified. He’s just a kid, only twenty-two. I implore you to reserve judgment until all the facts are out and the truth becomes clear. You’ll see that this is a case of anger and revenge. A vindictive, irrational woman is bitter a brief affair has ended, and she’s retaliating by destroying my son’s future.”