The Perfect Family Page 4

  Viv’s head jerked toward me, and she looked like she wanted to stab a chopstick into my eye. What? Now we couldn’t talk about fitness, either?

  Tarryn came to her brother’s defense. “God, let him relax. He just got home.”

  “He’s been home for—”

  BANG!

  The sound that cut me off was the crack of a shotgun, the boom of a cannon, a meteor crashing to the earth. It made my heart lurch and I was on my feet, my chair tipped over behind me, in an instant. I looked at my family to see if someone had been hurt. They were shaken, their eyes wide, but they were fine. Everyone but Tarryn was standing.

  “What the hell was that?” Viv’s voice trembled.

  “Something hit the window,” Tarryn said weakly.

  “Stay inside,” I instructed, hurtling toward the front door with Eli on my heels. I should have stopped him from following me, but if someone was out there, my tall, athletic son would be a deterrent. And I wouldn’t let anything happen to him. I would protect him.

  “Be careful,” my wife’s voice called behind us.

  I yanked open the front door and rumbled down the steps, my boy behind me. We were both in sock feet, too full of adrenaline to bother with our shoes. By this time, I’d realized that we hadn’t been shot at, but that something had hit our sparkling-clean front window. And hard. Had it been a rock? A brick? And who had thrown it? It was still light out; the May sun wouldn’t set for at least another hour. If the perpetrator had lingered, we would find him. Or her. Or them.

  Our tidy front lawn was bordered by a few low hedges, but no one was hiding behind them. We hustled down the short driveway in our socks. I looked up the street, Eli down. There was no one in sight. The entire neighborhood was indoors, enjoying a peaceful dinner. Still, I paced the asphalt, peering around as my heart rate returned to normal.

  Eli walked onto the lawn, oblivious to the grass stains on his white sport socks. He looked up at the window he’d cleaned earlier that day, then down at the ground beneath it. As he bent to retrieve an object, I hurried to join him.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Eli stood up. In his palm was an apple, smashed to a pulp.

  Viv and Tarryn materialized on the porch. “What’s going on?” my daughter asked.

  Eli replied, “Someone threw an apple at the window.”

  “Should we call the police?” Viv asked.

  “For an apple?”

  “It scared us half to death. It could have broken the window.”

  “No, it couldn’t,” Tarryn replied with her usual eye roll.

  “It’s just kids. Just mischief,” I said, even though my pulse was still pounding in my neck.

  “Little brats,” Viv muttered. “Where are their parents? Why aren’t they home eating dinner?” Tarryn shook her head and went back inside.

  I turned to my son. “Hose this off before it dries.”

  “You’ll have to get the ladder and the squeegee,” Viv added. “We don’t want streaks and water spots.”

  I saw the irritation in Eli’s eyes, but I ignored it. His mother and I had worked all day, his sister had been at school. By all appearances, Eli had lounged around playing computer games. This was the least he could do.

  Viv and I went back inside before our dinner got cold.

  Eli

  THE SQUISHED APPLE came off the glass easily with the hose, but that wasn’t good enough for my parents. God forbid there were a few water spots on the window, or worse, streaks! I stomped to the back of the house to the small detached garage. No one ever parked in the single-car space. It was chock-full of bikes that we rarely rode, camping equipment that never got used, sporting goods left over from my high school career, and stuff for the lawn and garden. There was also a freezer full of five-year-old meat that would probably never get eaten. The ladder hung from rungs on the far wall. I’d put it back there this morning after cleaning the egg off the glass. If I’d known I would be using it again soon, I’d have left it near the door.

  I carried the ladder around to the front, still grumbling to myself. Was I the only person in this family capable of cleaning up these messes? Everyone else got to finish their dinner while mine got cold. And I was freaking starving. Propping the ladder against the window frame, I climbed up with the squeegee in hand. My family was at the table, finishing their meal. No one seemed to notice me hovering in the window like a ghost, even though they could clearly see me. They were too busy eating and talking, likely discussing the little vandals who’d been throwing food at the house.

  The egg assault had clearly been premeditated. The kids had to have swiped a carton of eggs from their parents’ fridge or gone to a convenience store and bought a dozen. But the single apple seemed spontaneous, as if someone was walking by, decided the fruit was too tart or too mealy, and threw it away. Hard. At our picture window. Maybe the two events weren’t even connected? Or maybe they were and, as my parents seemed to suspect, we were being targeted.

  When I’d scraped away the water, I climbed down the ladder and carried it to the backyard. This time, I propped it against the wall just inside the garage. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it anytime soon. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it at all. Despite my lack of effort, I’d gotten a call from the manager of a gastropub in Goose Hollow, inviting me for an interview. I felt ready now… ready to get out of the house, to meet some new people, to make my own money. A job in the service industry would be ideal. I could work nights and sleep during the day, thus avoiding my family completely. I wouldn’t be here to clean up after these brats who were attacking the house. And best of all, working at a bar would piss off my parents.

  They wanted me to get an internship at a bank or a brokerage. When I first got home, my dad had made some calls, passed on a few connections. “Send them an e-mail,” he’d said. “They’re looking for summer students.” But I hadn’t e-mailed. I wasn’t emotionally stable then. I’d needed some time to hide out and decompress, to try to process what had happened back at Worbey. And I didn’t want to work in finance for one of my dad’s golfing buddies. So, I did nothing. And the window had closed.

  He was pissed. “I went out on a limb for you,” he said. “How do you think that makes me look?”

  “That’s what matters.” I’d walked out of the room then, leaving him spewing and sputtering behind me. My parents were snobs, and they had no right to be. They were fakes, posers. They’d barely even gone to college, both stumbling into their careers, and yet, they expected my sister and me to become captains of industry, just so they could have bragging rights.

  As I was about to enter the basement door in back, my phone vibrated in my pocket. On autopilot, I pulled it out and opened Messenger. Maybe hunger had clouded my brain, or irritation had erased my memory, but for that split second, I forgot that I was screening. With that one tap, I had opened the group chat with my soccer team—sixty-two unread messages. And now they knew I was there, knew I had seen their conversations, knew they could get to me.

  I read only the messages sent today—seven of them. The first one was from Oscar, a cocky forward getting a business degree. Oscar could be loud and obnoxious when he was drinking, but we’d always gotten along fine at school.

  Eli, is it true that you’re dropping out of Worbey?

  How did he know? I hadn’t told anyone. But I hadn’t signed up for classes, hadn’t renewed the lease on my dorm room. Could Oscar have found out through the college’s administration?

  The next message was from Connor, a rich kid who lived close to Worbey’s Connecticut campus. He was a mediocre soccer player and there was speculation that his parents had bought his way onto the team.

  What the fuck bro? Why?

  Manny, a stocky defenseman studying economics like I was, cut to the chase.

  Is this about that night? You said you could handle it

  Oscar added:

  I knew you were a fucking pussy

  Pablo, another forward on a soccer scholarship fro
m Mexico, tried a different tack.

  Talk to us man. What’s going on?

  But Manny was aggressive.

  Don’t pretend you weren’t a part of it, Eli

  You did it too

  He was right. I hadn’t actively participated in the hazing ritual, but I had stood by and watched it happen. Even as the boy thrashed and screamed and begged them to stop, I did nothing. I was just as guilty.

  The final message was from Noah, who lived just a short drive away in Vancouver, Washington. He was less arrogant than the other guys, goofy and fun-loving. He seemed eager to please and fit in, but I didn’t hold that against him. In fact, I liked him. We’d even talked about getting together over the summer. But his message was not lighthearted. It was an outright threat.

  Keep your fucking mouth shut Eli. I know where you live.

  Tarryn

  I SAT IN my basement bedroom, listening to the house settle down above me. My parents went to bed religiously at eleven, but they were still wound up about the apple. Yeah, it had scared the shit out of us. Yeah, it was weird and annoying. But it was just a piece of fruit thrown by some kids. My parents were acting like a maniac had lobbed a grenade at us.

  I didn’t know who had thrown it, but I knew the type. There were plenty of kids at school who got off on bad behavior. Kids with divorced parents, kids whose parents worked a lot, kids who struggled in school—any excuse to be pissed off at the world. The culprits would be boys, in eighth or ninth grade, who smoked weed, cut class, and wandered the quiet streets at night looking to get into mischief. Suburban kids trying to be street. Some of them might end up in real trouble one day, but most of them were just trying it on. It wasn’t a big deal.

  My mom clearly disagreed. She’d had a third glass of wine while we cleaned up the kitchen, keeping up a running monologue about “lax parenting,” and the “epidemic of boredom and entitlement.” She wanted to call the principal at the middle school, but I talked her out of it. The attacks so far had to be random. If she snitched on the culprits, we’d become targets.

  When the dishwasher was loaded and the wok hand-washed, I escaped downstairs, leaving my mom and dad chatting on the sofa. It was rare to see them talking to each other in the evenings. They used to watch TV together after dinner, but now my dad mostly worked, and my mom watched design shows that didn’t interest him. My mom was pissed off at him, I could tell. She was cool and aloof, sometimes snappish. Dad never snapped back at her, so he must have done something wrong. But tonight, I could hear the steady buzz of their conversation. I guess being attacked by vandals was bonding.

  Finally, around eleven thirty, my dad’s heavy footsteps told me he was checking the locks and I heard the creak of the bottom step as he and my mom headed upstairs. It wasn’t easy staying up past midnight on school nights, but I had to make sure my family was asleep. There was no lock on my bedroom door and installing one would have looked suspicious. Eli was a risk—the loser couldn’t find a job, so he gamed into the night, and then slept late in the mornings. But he wouldn’t come down here. I’d been a complete bitch to him since he got home. He wasn’t about to join me for a late-night sibling chat.

  To build community—and make money—I had to be consistent. Even when I was exhausted, or I had an exam the next day, I had to show up. There was too much competition, there were too many options to become complacent. And I’d grown to need these people as much as they needed me. Not all of them. Some were randos, some were perverts. But I had a core group that I considered friends. They cared about me. They adored me.

  When the house was silent, I sat cross-legged on my bed with my makeup mirror. Winged eyeliner required bright lighting and a steady hand; I was getting pretty good at it. I paired the dramatic eyes with glossy, hot-pink lips. It was a sexy, burlesque kind of look that made me appear older… but not too old. Finally, I dug under my bed and pulled out the lavender hatbox I kept there. Inside nestled an auburn wig cut into a chin-length bob. I twisted my dark hair into a bun at the back of my head and placed the wig over it. Adjusting it in the mirror, I took in my reflection. My transformation was complete.

  It was just after midnight, and the house was silent. It was time. I was ready. With my blackout curtains drawn, I flicked on the two directional lamps that lit my set. I logged onto the website, and then I slipped out of my sweatpants and unbuttoned my top. Tonight, I wore a plunging, lacy fuchsia bra and matching panties.

  I turned on the webcam and smiled into it. “Hey, guys. Did you miss me?”

  Viv

  IT COULD HAVE been the extra glass of wine, or the stress of the hooligans throwing food at the house, but my husband and I made love that night. We’d stayed up talking well past our usual bedtime. I’d felt tense and on edge as we discussed the assault. “There’s no respect for personal property anymore,” I expounded. “Kids never have to work for anything, so they have no concept of value.” Tarryn would have argued with me, would have said I was generalizing, insulting an entire generation based on a few bad apples, but thankfully, she was in bed.

  Thomas took a sip of wine and smirked.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about the stuff I got up to when I was a kid.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you.” His hazel eyes were twinkling. There was an eternal youthfulness to my husband, that little-boy smile. No wonder other women found him attractive. Despite everything, I still did.

  I took a sip of wine. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”

  “You were a vandal?” He looked thrilled with the prospect.

  “It was a short-lived career. You go first.”

  He set down his wineglass. “First, let me say that my high school vice principal was a real dick.”

  “Oh my god,” I gasped. “What did you do to him?”

  “He’d suspended my friend Stephen for something totally stupid. I can’t even remember what, but we were mad. Mr. Mathers had to be punished.”

  “Tell me,” I urged.

  “We found out where he lived, just a few streets over from Stephen’s house. Four of us went there one night.” He shook his head at the remembrance. “He’d left his car window open a couple inches, so… we pissed into his car.”

  “That’s disgusting.” I laughed. “And a bit homoerotic.”

  “I feel bad about it now. But we got away with it, thank god.” He picked up his wineglass and gestured toward me with it. “Your turn.”

  “Mine is nothing compared to that.”

  “You still have to tell me.”

  I smiled at him, enjoying our banter and connection. “When I was about nine, they were laying a new sidewalk in front of our house. We were told not to touch it until it dried. But a few of us got Popsicle sticks and wrote our initials in the wet cement.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah… except I wrote my brother’s initials instead of mine. My parents grounded him for two weeks.”

  “That’s psycho, Viv. Seriously.”

  “I didn’t want to get caught.” I giggled. “And I never did.”

  We were having fun together, despite the tensions and secrets between us. And confessing our past bad deeds had placed the recent assault into perspective. Kids did stupid things for stupid reasons. Or for no reason at all. These attacks weren’t personal, they weren’t about us. They were just an annoyance, nothing serious.

  And then, when we went up to bed, Thomas kissed me good night. And I kissed him back. The next thing I knew we were touching each other, and he was so warm and comfortable; he knew how to please me, and I him. Soon, he was inside me, and it felt good and natural and right.

  When it was over and he lay spent on top of me, he whispered into my ear, “I love you. You know that, right?”

  I wanted so badly to believe him, and part of me did. But even if he loved me, I knew he was lying to me. I knew he was keeping something from me. And loving me didn’t mean he couldn’t
be in love with someone else, too. Men could do that—compartmentalize: the comfortable old wife at home, the sexy babe at the office.

  I should have confronted him then, should have questioned him. But instead, I murmured, “I love you, too.” Because I was afraid. Afraid of losing the man I had loved my whole adult life, the man I still loved. Afraid of starting over at forty-seven, with two unhappy children and a glorified hobby as a job. I wasn’t ready to know the truth and deal with the aftermath.

  And, as it turned out, I had other things to worry about.

  * * *

  THE E-MAIL CAME in on Friday morning, just in time to ruin my weekend. I was in my office, the spare bedroom between our room and Eli’s. I was costing some very cool rattan barstools for the ice cream shop when the ping of an incoming message distracted me. It was from my client, Alicia.

  Hi Viv,

  I won’t be needing your decorating services after all. I’ll be happy to pay you for your time so far, but I’ve decided to go in another direction. Please send an invoice for what I owe you.

  Regards,

  Alicia

  Even in an e-mail, the frosty tone was unmistakable. What was going on? Alicia was the one who had changed direction. She’d told me she wanted beach shack and then did a one-eighty to Miami chic. But I had promised her new mood boards by next week, had been perfectly pleasant. I’d been a complete professional. This had to be about something else.

  Oh god… the lipstick.

  She knew. Somehow. Alicia must have had internal security cameras installed to spot shoplifters or staff dipping into the till. She’d have seen footage of me reaching into her expensive bag and plucking out her lipstick. I was so stupid, so impulsive, so fucked up. Alicia had made me feel jealous and inadequate and I had lashed out in the most inappropriate way. And now… I would be ruined. My career, my reputation, my entire goddamn life! Thomas and the kids would be angry, disgusted, mortified.