Lessons from a Dead Girl(23)

“You should see her now, honey,” Mrs. Greene goes on. “She thinks she’s going to be a model. I wish I had the pictures from her portfolio to show you. We had them done at a studio in Boston. The photographer told us she was a natural. So of course now she thinks she can just quit school and become the next supermodel.”

Just like Sam said, I think.

“Well,” she says with a sigh, as if it’s all too much to think about. “And what about you, sweetie? What have you been up to? Thinking about college yet?”

But she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Oh, I had such high hopes for Leah. For Brooke, too. You know about Brooke, don’t you, Laine?”

I shake my head.

“She’s going to go to school to become a court stenographer.”

“A what?” The doll feels heavier and heavier in my hand as I try not to remember that night.

Please, Mrs. Greene. Just go away.

“A court stenographer. It’s the person who types out what people are saying in a court case. You know. Like a trial. She’s really excited. Thinks she’s going to be able to witness all the interesting cases. I think it would be boring. At least she might meet some lawyers, though. You know, she really is pretty.”

I manage to smile, even though I desperately need to blow my nose.

“So, a touch of the flu? I hear something’s going around.”

I sniff.

“And here we are still standing!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I feel like a child standing in my pajamas with my blanket. When I move aside, she heads straight for the kitchen. I didn’t even know she knew where it was. I follow, my blanket trailing behind me, wondering what I’m supposed to do next. I’ve never spoken to Mrs. Greene for this long in my life.

“Can I make you some tea, Laine?”

In my own house? “Um … OK,” I say quietly. I place the doll on the kitchen table and sit down.

Mrs. Greene turns the doll so she’s facing me before she walks to the stove to start the kettle. She hums while she searches for and finds two teacups and the tea bags. She seems peculiarly happy. Like she’s trying too hard. Mrs. Greene was always so proud of how beautiful her girls were. Still are. Maybe too proud. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, she’d told them. But at what price?

We drink our tea while the doll watches us.

“Do you know why it’s called a nesting doll, Laine?”

I shake my head.

Mrs. Greene reaches for the doll and separates her. She pulls out each doll, lining them up in a row as she goes until she gets to the last doll. Then she puts them all back inside each other again. “Each doll nests inside the next biggest one. And the largest one of all keeps the others safe, like a mother hen.”

“That makes sense,” I say, taking a sip of the tea. It tastes better than the way my mother makes it — it has lots of milk and sugar. I wonder if she makes tea like this for Leah.

As soon as I finish, Mrs. Greene gets up to leave. When I thank her for bringing the nesting doll, she gives me a close hug. Her breasts smoosh up against me, but it doesn’t make me feel bad, like I’d imagined when I saw her do it to other people, though never Leah or Brooke. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hug them.

From the window next to the door, I watch her hurry across the driveway to her new white Cadillac. She waves as she pulls away. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

I go back to the kitchen and find the nesting doll still sitting happily on the table.

I hate that Mrs. Greene took her from Leah. I hate that Mrs. Greene must have found the doll and confronted Leah about it. It would have reminded Leah about that night and my broken promise. I can still see the strange glance between Sam and Leah when she took the doll from me the next morning. How he almost seemed to know she’d do it, and so it had really been a gift for her all along. But mostly I can still hear the sound of her quiet cries in the dark the night before.

I take the doll up to the doll closet and throw it inside. The doll breaks apart when it hits the floor. I shut the door before the pieces rattle to a stop.





By the end of my sophomore year, I pretty much give up on ever having any real friends. I’ll get through this torture they call school, and then I can go live as a hermit someplace.

Only just as I make up my mind to live my life in exile, Jessica Lambert comes up behind me and tells me I have a pen mark on my shirt. I try to cover the spot by holding my books in front of it.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says. “That happens to me all the time.” She smiles at me.

“Thanks,” I say, looking at my shoes.

I’ve known Jess, which is what everyone calls her, since grade school. But we’ve never been friends. Leah never liked her for some reason. Leah made all the decisions about who would be in our “group.” None of those girls ever felt like real friends to me. I knew they only talked to me because of Leah. And Leah knew it, too. Sometimes I think Leah liked it that way.

Jess and I both play the clarinet in band. For Christmas, my father gave me an old clarinet he found at a flea market. He fixed it up and insisted that I try to learn how to play. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of being a band geek, but once I tried playing, I liked it. I liked making noise without using my voice. Besides, if I’m going to be alone the rest of my life, who cares?