Seven Days in June(33)

Audre had earned all-state gold medals from debate-team championships, plus first place at visual-arts regionals. She was so golden, Eva had a standing invite to Bridget’s annual holiday dinner party at her Cobble Hill town house.

“Audre’s suspended,” said Bridget.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m suspended,” whispered Audre.

“I heard her!” snapped Eva, who was only now noticing the swollen redness around Audre’s eyes. And Eva’s cameo ring, on her left hand. Shocked, she glanced down at her naked finger. That morning had been so hectic, she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing it.

Eva gaped at Audre. “What did you do?”

Audre’s eyes rolled up to the gold filigree ceiling. As if Eva’s question, rather than getting herself kicked out of school, was the true indignity.

“Earlier in the year, we spoke to you about Audre’s peer-counseling Snapchat sessions.” Bridget’s airy voice only just disguised her blue-collar Boston-Irish roots. Until her freshman year at Vassar, she’d spoken like the entire cast of The Departed.

“But she stopped making them,” Eva inserted hurriedly.

“She did, and Snapchat videos disappear after twenty-four hours. But a screenshot lasts forever.” Bridget unearthed a file from her desk drawer. “A few weeks ago, Audre posted a video of her session with Clementine Logan.”

“Clementine Logan.” Eva feared where this was going. “Her mom’s Carrie Logan, the dean of students?”

“Bingo,” sighed Bridget. She slid a printout across her desk to Audre. “Clementine made an alarming confession about her mother on the video. A student took a screenshot, created a meme, and it’s been circulating all week.”

Eva glanced at the printout of the meme. In it, Clementine was mid-wail with tear-streaked cheeks. The image was blurry, but the caption wasn’t:

TFW your mom’s getting her back blown out by your English teacher.



Eva’s jaw dropped open. Audre sniffled.

Bridget’s Botox-frozen brows struggled to furrow. “TFW means—”

“That feeling when,” said Eva. “I know.”

“Mom has 24K Instagram followers.” Audre’s voice was shaky but proud. “She’s familiar with social-media linguistics.”

Bridget looked relieved that she wouldn’t need to translate “back blown out.”

“So, the English teacher isn’t her husband?” asked Eva haltingly. “Jesus, Audre.”

“I posted it way before you made me stop!” she wailed, her buns quivering. “And I had no idea Clementine Logan’s mom was a cheater!”

“Mr. Galbraith, the English teacher, has been let go,” announced Bridget.

“Bridget, I apologize. But Audre never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Perhaps, but she has detention for the rest of the week.” Bridget smoothed her bulletproof do with French-manicured fingertips. “And the honors board is undecided about inviting her back next year.”

A miserable groan escaped Audre’s throat. Eva looked over at her beloved baby, the spawn of her loins, and wanted to choke her within an inch of her life.

“Audre, can you wait outside for a moment?” managed Eva.

Thrilled to be dismissed, Audre escaped to the hallway.

Bridget waited three seconds before locking the door. Then she grabbed a pack of Parliaments from her purse, opened a massive window, and lit up. After a lung-expanding drag, her posture relaxed.

Only in front of select parents did Bridget drop her classy veneer and get raw.

“Swear to Christ, Eva,” she muttered on an exhale, “I don’t need this psychosexual melodrama right before I retire.”

Eva met her at the window. “This was a youthful error. How can I fix it?”

She grabbed her forearm, willing Bridget to remember how delightful she’d been at her holiday dinner.

Bridget peered down at Eva with her Windex-colored eyes. When she spoke, she sounded exactly like who she was: the daughter of a man who, every evening of her childhood, ran numbers in their basement with a crew of local heavies while wearing a T-shirt proclaiming, I CAME HERE TO FIGHT OR FUCK & I DON’T SEE YOUR SISTER.

“You tell me.”

Bridget’s skin was flawless thanks to free Restylane injections from Dr. Reece Nguyen—offered as collateral to keep his ninth grader in school after her Forever 21 shoplifting scandal. And Bridget’s enormous hair was freshly styled thanks to free visits to Owen Blandi Salon—offered in exchange for Bridget allowing Owen’s permanently vaped-out son to graduate.

Bridget O’Brien could be bought. But what did Eva have to sell?

“What do you need?” asked Eva.

“Know any English-lit teachers?” she asked, taking a drag.

“I don’t think so, but…”

“Eva, this scandal can’t be my legacy. I need to bury it with a new-teacher announcement. Fast. Find a suitable replacement for Mr. Galbraith, and Audre has a spot in eighth grade.”

Eva loathed being strong-armed. Bridget was a crook, but Eva had been hustling her whole life. But this was about her baby. Audre couldn’t get expelled. It took great restraint not to slip into Genevieve mode, telling this bitch to fuck completely off.