The Cheerleaders(32)

My mind swivels to the first anniversary of Jen’s death. That evening, my mom shut herself in her bedroom; I stood outside her door, listening to her murmurs, trying to figure out who she was speaking to on the phone. Tom had put a hand on my shoulder and steered me away; when I pointed out that Mom had been on the phone for almost an hour, Tom said, “She needs to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing.”

I slink out of my room and down to the end of the hall, listening for a break in the sound of the pots clanging and the oven timer beeping downstairs.

The door to the master suite is open a crack; I push my way in, the door purring against the carpet. The room is done up in cream—the paint on the walls, the carpet, the silky bedspread. It’s so bland, it’s disorienting. The only thing out of place is a pair of Tom’s jeans strewn across the chaise beneath the bay window.

Tom is not a chaise guy. The jeans on said chaise are from Costco. If Jen were here, she’d find the whole scene hilarious. She’d find this house hilarious.

My mother’s iPhone is on her nightstand, hooked up to its charger, where she always leaves it. I swipe a finger across the screen and enter her password—Petey’s birthday. Same as the security code to open the garage door. At least I know where I stand with my family.

I scroll through her contacts; I notice there is no one with the last name Berry or Steiger or Coughlin.

My mom may have lost touch with the other girls’ parents out of self-preservation, but Mrs. Ruiz wasn’t just a cheer mother. When Mrs. Ruiz came over to say goodbye before they moved, Mom clung to her and sobbed more than I’d seen her cry since Jen died.

And sure enough, at the bottom, there’s Tina Ruiz.

“What are you doing?”

I look up. Petey is in the bedroom doorway, index finger jammed in his ear, digging at earwax even though we’re always telling him that’s disgusting. I set Mom’s phone down. “What are you doing?”

“Telling you to set the table.” Petey cocks his head. “Were you on Mom’s phone?”

“Mind your own business.”

I know what he’s going to do the second his lips part. I rocket off the bed and cover his mouth with my hand, muffling his cry of Mah-OM. “There’s a twenty-dollar bill in my nightstand. Stay quiet and it’s yours.”

Petey shrugs out of my grasp and flounces into the hall. Moments later, I hear my bedroom door click open.

I shake my head and text Tina Ruiz’s number to myself from my mother’s phone, deleting the outgoing message when I’m done.



* * *



—

When the plates are cleared from the table, stray crumbles of taco meat scraped into the garbage, I head back up to my room. No one questions my antisocial behavior, and that’s fine. The more unpleasant my family thinks I am, the more likely they are to leave me alone to do whatever this is that I’m doing.

After I scratch out some answers to my pre-calc problem set, I sit cross-legged on my bed, palms damp with sweat. I rehearsed what I want to say, combed over every word, but it doesn’t make calling Mrs. Ruiz feel less wrong.

I stare at the number on my screen for a solid minute, my heartbeat mimicking a metronome. I swallow and hit the call button.

A woman picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Mrs. Ruiz?”

“No, it’s Maria. Who is this?”

Juliana’s sister, Maria, was younger than I was when Juliana was killed.

“My name is Monica Rayburn,” I say. “Can I talk to your mom?”

I wait for Maria to decide I’m a scammer, then lie and say that Mrs. Ruiz isn’t home. Instead she says, “One second.”

There’s shuffling on her end. I catch a faint “Who is it?” followed by Maria huffing, “I don’t know!”

“Hello?” Mrs. Ruiz’s voice is guarded. A go-away-if-you’re-selling-something voice.

“Mrs. Ruiz,” I say. “Hi. This is Monica Rayburn.”

Silence. The quick rush of breathing.

“Jennifer’s sister,” I add, feeling my insides shrink.

“No, of course. Monica. I’m sorry.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Oh, no, I was just putting the baby down. Hold on one moment.”

Baby?

The sound of a door clicking. I picture Mrs. Ruiz shutting herself in her room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Juliana’s photo staring at her from the dresser. I nearly hang up.

“You had a baby?” I say.

“His name is Matthew,” she says.

“Congratulations.” Matthew. The name means “gift from God.” It was my ex Matt’s favorite fun fact about himself.

“Thank you. We adore him. How are you, Monica?” Mrs. Ruiz sounds brighter. “It’s been a while.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have stayed in touch.”

“You were just a kid. It’s good to hear from you now.”

“I just— I wanted to see how you were doing.” I can’t bring myself to tell her why I’m really calling.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Mrs. Ruiz says cautiously. “Is there something else you wanted to talk about?”

Her voice is gentle, patient. As if she’d known that at some point she would get this phone call from me.