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"I've come to get Emma and Amy," I said. My voice sounded parental even to me, and the boy
stepped aside to let me pass.
"I think they're in the back," he said.
"Fine." I started to walk past him authoritatively before I realized I didn't actually know how to get to "the back." A hallway branched off to the left, and I followed the sound of pulsating rap until I found myself in a dimly lit room.
The air was thick with smoke. Empty bottles were scattered around the floor along with what
looked like
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shards from a broken glass. On the sofa a girl was sitting on a guy's lap, kissing him. Her legs
were around his waist, and his hands were up the back of her shirt. In the corner, three guys and
a girl sat around a glass-topped table on which a ball of tin foil sat beside a razor blade.
The whole thing was so gross I felt sick. Was this what seventh graders were doing for fun
nowadays? What was wrong with a little spin the bottle?
Baggy Jeans came up behind me.
"We're just--" he started to say.
I held up my hand to stop him. "Save it," I said. "I don't want to know." He jiggled some loose change in his pocket nervously. "Just find my sisters and tell them to meet me by the front door."
When Emma and Amy met me in the entryway, they wouldn't look me in the eye. "See you,
Bobby," they said as we stepped outside.
"Yeah, see you," he said, closing the door and locking it.
"Hi," I said as soon as we were alone. Neither of them said anything; they just examined the
gravel at their feet. "Are you okay?" I asked finally.
They nodded, still not looking up.
Finally Emma spoke. "It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said. "It wasn't supposed to be just eighth graders." Instead of looking at me, she stared at the cab.
"Those were eighth graders?"
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Amy winced, misunderstanding my tone. "Are you mad at us?" she asked.
I said. "I'm mad at them." I turned toward the house. "They're all such ..." But remembering how Emma and Amy had cried into the phone earlier made me doubt they were in need of a major
anti-drug lecture. Maybe this was one of those times to leave well enough alone. "I'm not mad at
you," I said firmly. "And I'm glad you called me."
"Thanks, Lucy," Amy said. Suddenly she took a step toward me and threw her arms around my
waist. A second later, Emma did the same.
"We thought you'd be really mad," Emma explained.
"But we didn't know what to do," Amy added. "We didn't know who to call."
"Then we thought of you," Emma said. "We left you like a million messages."
"And then you answered." They both still had their arms around me. When I tried to walk, I felt
like I was in a three-legged race.
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Chapter Twenty-live
It had been a long time since I'd woken up on a Saturday morning without one of Co
perfect kisses from the night before ru
imperfect kiss, I found myself thinking about Emma and Amy. I was in shock--they had been so
... nice. Right before they went upstairs to bed, they'd each given me a huge hug, and Emma had
said, "You're the best, Lucy." Then Amy said, "Yeah, Lucy. We're so lucky to have you as a big sister."
I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on some jeans and a T-shirt, and headed to the kitchen,
actually looking forward to breakfast with my family.
The first thing I heard when I pushed open the door of the basement was Emma and Amy's dad.
"The only lesson you'll learn from that is how you can get away with doing whatever you want."
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I stepped into the kitchen. Mara was standing up, leaning against the sink. Emma, Amy, and their
dad were sitting at the kitchen table, Emma and Amy on one side, their dad on the other. Mr.
Gilman was wearing white shorts and a white-collared shirt, and as he sat there he bounced a
racket against his knee.
Emma's face was tear streaked. "No, Daddy, that's not true," she said.
You didn't have to be psychic to put two and two together. I wanted to help, but it occurred to me
that maybe the story they'd told their parents diverged from the truth; the last thing they needed
was me "defending" them by blurting out salient details they'd chosen to omit. I nodded hello to Mr. Gilman, went over to the fridge, and took out the orange juice.
"Lucy, I'd like to talk to you about this," said Mara. "The whole thing is quite upsetting to me."
I looked toward my stepsisters, but their eyes were down. I felt really bad for them. "Well, I
know it's none of my business, but I think you should go easy on them." I walked over to the
cabinet and got a glass. "They had kind of a rough night."
"That's very generous of you," said Mara. "But I think Amy and Emma need to pay for what
they've done. And I'd like to know more about the role you played in their little ... adventure."
I put the glass and the container down, totally confused. Why did I suddenly feel like a suspect
on CSI: Long Island?
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"I don't quite follow you," I said. "The girls told me you knew they were at the party," said Mara.
I was sure I must have misheard her. "Excuse me?!"
She repeated herself, carefully enunciating each syllable. "They said you knew they were at the
party. Apparently you even picked them up in a cab when it was over."
I looked down at my stepsisters. Clearly they'd decided trouble is like a pie--the bigger my piece,
the smaller theirs.
"Are you implying that's not what happened?" Mara asked. She tried to make it sound like she actually cared about my answer, which was a total joke. No way was she entertaining the
possibility that her precious angels were lying through their teeth.
It was a good thing I'd put the glass down on the table because if I hadn't, I might have thrown it
at her. Was it only a few minutes ago that I'd been happy about the prospect of a meal with my
family? Now I had the urge to leap across the room and strangle all of them-- Mara, Emma, and
Amy. No, wait. Maybe what I should do was strangle my stepsisters, then rip one of Mara's
expensive Italian leather boots off her foot and drive the heel like a spike right through her heart.
The refrigerator clicked on in the silence. As its engine whirred, I picked up the juice glass, put it
back
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into the cabinet, walked over to the fridge, and put the juice away. The whole time, nobody said
a word.
When I got to the basement door, I turned and faced my stepmother. "You know what, Mara? I'm
not implying anything."
I opened the door to my dungeon and pulled it shut behind me.
It was almost noon by the time the cab pulled up and I heard my dad walking into the house.
"Hello?" he called. "Hello, anybody home?" Mara answered him, but I didn't. I just lay on my bed, listening to Roxy Music on my iPod and thinking about how mad I was. How mad I was at
him.
It didn't take long before there was a knock at my door.
"Lucy?"
"Yeah?"
He opened the door and started downstairs.
"Lucy, I need to talk with you," he said, his foot hitting the bottom step. His voice sounded tired, and I remembered he'd spent most of the night in an airport.