The Good Sister (9 page)

But some of the houses in this neighborhood have stood for well over a century, many with a single last name on the mailbox for decades. Countless small factories that thrived here in her childhood have long since closed, but Jen drives past a number of flourishing locally owned businesses that, like the funeral home, have been run by the same family for generations. Sgaglio’s Market, Mackowiak’s Polish Deli, Louie’s Bar on the corner of Redbud, where generations of neighborhood kids learned to hold their liquor . . .

Rounding the corner onto Wayside Avenue, Jen spots one of the few brand-new houses in the neighborhood, one that would be far more at home on a suburban cul-de-sac. The white center-hall Colonial, an architectural anomaly on a block lined with close-set homes dating to the early 1900s, spills over the small lot like a fat man in a middle airplane seat.

The house was built to replace the Arts and Crafts bungalow that burned to the ground a year or two ago, tragically killing the female owner.

“That was Joe and Betty Bardin’s daughter Sandy,” Jen’s mother, Theresa, said when it happened. “She was your sister Madonna’s age, but she went to Griffin. She boarded there even though it’s only fifteen miles from her house. They were always trying to be fancy, the Bardins. Remember?”

Jen did, but only vaguely.

Now she pitied the poor woman Maddie and her friends used to call Snobby Sandy. What a horrible way to die, trapped inside a burning house.

“She’s going to be laid out at Cicero’s,” Theresa Bonafacio reported, and asked Jen if she wanted to accompany them to the viewing.

She declined. It seems her aging parents are always telling her about wakes and funerals these days, or talking about their own.

“When my time comes . . .” her mother will say.

Her father is less delicate. “When I croak,” he’ll begin, and proceed to give explicit directions—usually involving his belongings. He’s convinced that his daughters are going to fight over his wheat penny collection or autographed Connie Francis albums.

Jen’s parents will be at the wake today.

“You know, if this had happened years ago,” her mother said, “there wouldn’t have even been a wake or funeral. But the church has softened its views on suicide, thank goodness.”

That was exactly what Jen had told Carley. The difference is, Carley wouldn’t accept it.

Jen does. There’s no way that a merciful God would keep a troubled child from going to heaven. Absolutely no way.

Her mother agreed, and added, shaking her salt and pepper head, “It would have killed Ro if her granddaughter couldn’t have a Catholic burial. It might kill her as it is.”

Mom and Debbie’s mother, Rosemary Quattrone, go all the way back to when they attended Sacred Sisters together many years ago. That schoolgirl connection was the first in three generations of female friendships between the two families.

Carley and Nicki used to push their dolls around in baby carriages talking about how their “babies” would grow up to be best friends, too.

And now . . .

Jen swallows hard as the familiar yellow brick facade looms up ahead. The building rises two full stories atop an elevated foundation with low basement windows where the science labs, locker rooms, and custodial quarters are located. On the two main floors are symmetrical rows of tall, paired windows framed and paned in peeling, white-painted wood.

The sight of her alma mater has always filled her with fond nostalgia. But seeing the school for the first time since she learned what’s been happening to Carley there, she feels sick to her stomach.

Especially today, seeing the brick-pillared signboard that lists events for the month of March. Prominently featured in big black block letters alongside next Saturday’s date on the glass-fronted panel: “42ND ANNUAL SPRING FLING.”

Carley has to look at that every day. Why, oh why didn’t she agree to switch schools? Why didn’t Jen insist?

It’s still not too late to pull her out of Sisters; not too late for her to make a fresh start far from the girls who tormented her. But now that Nicki is gone, Jen can’t bear the thought of transferring Carley to Woodsbridge. There are plenty of other private schools around, though . . .

The last time she brought that up to Thad, he said they can’t afford to pay additional tuition this school year. He said that if Carley is willing to stick it out at Sisters, they should support her decision.

With a sigh, Jen turns into the parking lot and pulls up alongside the walkway to the main entrance, putting the car into park. Glancing at the dashboard clock, she sees that she has at least another five or ten minutes before Carley gets out of math class.

Seized by an impulsive idea, she shifts the car back into drive and pulls back around, into an empty parking spot marked “Visitors.”

Before she can change her mind, she steps out and hurries toward the door through the falling snow, her somber black pumps tapping hollowly along the slush-slicked concrete.

13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

Staring blankly at the algebraic equation, pencil in hand, lump in throat, Carley can’t stop thinking about Nicki.

About what she did.

It’s impossible to imagine Nicki even holding a big, sharp knife, much less . . .

The Nicki that Carley knew was always squeamish about—well, everything. When they were little, she cried when she lost a tooth or scraped her knee because she couldn’t bear the sight of blood. Even as a teenager, she shied away from the vampire books and dark movies the other girls loved.

Had she changed so much in these past few months that she had been able to take a sharp blade and press it against her own skin, pressing, cutting, slicing . . .

That’s what Carley heard: that she slit her wrists.

Mom and Dad didn’t tell her that part. She saw it on Peopleportal, the social networking Web site more commonly known as Peeps. Not on Nicki’s own page, because Nicki removed Carley from her connections list and blocked her when they had their falling out.

But all Carley had to do was search the social networking site for Woodsbridge High School students, scanning through the wall posts on the pages of Nicki’s classmates who didn’t have their settings set to private.

Carley’s own page is private, of course. She’s not one of those girls she and Nicki used to call “connection collectors” because they gauge their own and others’ popularity by the number of Peeps connections they have. Collectors write public, provocative posts solely to attract attention and accept Peeps requests from total strangers just to send their number of connections into the desired thousand-plus range.

Carley, who has less than fifty, knows better than to post provocative thoughts or personal business on the Internet for anyone to see—not unless she’s guaranteed some kind of anonymity.

That’s why her user name on the bullying forum is QT-Pi—a tribute to Cutie Pie, the beloved kitten she had to give up thanks to stupid Emma and her stupid allergies.

On Peopleportal, she’s just Carley Theresa. No last name.

“How are people supposed to find you that way?” asked her sister, who recently created a Peeps page—without private settings—under her full name, Emma Sue Archer.

“That’s the point. I don’t want anyone to find me—including Mom and Dad.”

Her parents had never specifically forbidden her from online networking, but something tells her they wouldn’t approve.

“You shouldn’t use your name, either,” she warned Emma. “They would kill you if they found out.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous. Everyone knows that. You have to be really careful what you put out there.”

“You’re so paranoid, Carley. And anyway, I
am
careful.”

“Really? You posted the other night that you were psyched to have the house to yourself while I was babysitting and Mom and Dad were out. That’s like an open invitation to any creep:
Here I am, all alone—come and get me!
If Mom and Dad found out you did that . . .”

Emma shrugged. “They’re not going to find out because
they’re
not on Peopleportal, and you’d better not tell them I am.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

That day, Emma changed her Peeps settings so that her sister could no longer see her page. Whatever. Carley had other things to worry about.

She still does—now more than ever.

Nicki . . . oh God, Nicki . . .

How could she have done it? Especially knowing she wasn’t going to go to heaven . . .

Mom had tried to convince Carley that wasn’t true, but she’s not a nun or a priest or God Himself.

Mom’s just doing what she always does, trying to make things easier by saying things she doesn’t know for a fact. Like when she tells Carley that the trouble at school will blow over, that things will work themselves out, that she’ll eventually have plenty of friends and be able to put all this behind her . . .

Yeah. Right.

Tears flood Carley’s eyes and she wipes them on her sleeve, hoping no one noticed.

“Ladies, please keep an eye on the time.” Strolling up and down the aisles, Mr. Sterne cuts into Carley’s reverie.

Never was a person’s name more suitable than his. Tall, dark, and gaunt, Mr. Sterne has thick black eyebrows that always make him look as though he’s scowling, even when he’s smiling. Which Carley has seen him do maybe a couple of times all year—most memorably, when he announced that there would be a major test on the first day back after Christmas break.

“You’re in high school now, ladies,” he said in response to the groans after that announcement. “You don’t want to leave your brains to idle thought—or worse—for two weeks.”

“Worse . . . like what?” Kendra Hyde, who sits across the aisle, leaned over and whispered to Carley.

She shrugged. “Sex, drugs, rock and roll?”

“I know, right? It’s like he thinks we’re all wild, partying sluts or something. Speaking of which . . . want to come to my New Year’s Eve party?” Kendra grinned.

Carley was surprised—and pleased—to be invited.

Kendra doesn’t talk much, and she’s not cliquish like the other girls. When she found herself invited to her party, Carley thought they might wind up good friends.

“I can’t,” she told Kendra reluctantly. “I already have plans for New Year’s Eve.” She didn’t specify that they were the same plans her family always had: to ring in the holiday at her grandparents’ house, surrounded by family and a couple of priests from the neighborhood parish. That suddenly seemed lame.

“No big deal. Some other time,” Kendra said with a shrug.

But there would be no other time. After the others started ganging up on Carley, Kendra stopped talking to her, just like everyone else.

Now, whenever Carley is in math class, she keeps her head turned straight at the board, or bent to focus on her work. She doesn’t dare look to the left, at Kendra, or to the right, at Melissa Kovacs, queen of the mean girls, or at any of the others. She knows they’ll only glare, or smirk, or mouth nasty things.

“You have fifteen minutes left,” Mr. Sterne announces, strolling up the aisle, his scuffed black shoes making squeaking noises on the tile floor. “If you’ve finished, use the remaining time to double-check your work.”

Finished?

Carley has barely begun the test.

Miserably, she tries again to concentrate on the algebra problem before her.

13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

While math has always been her most difficult subject, she’s managed to stay on top of it by working extra hard. Ever since all the trouble began with the other girls, though, she’s had a hard time focusing on schoolwork at all. She told her mother she has an 87 so far this term, but that was before she missed three homework assignments—all resulting in zeros—and failed a quiz last week.

She really needs to get a decent grade on today’s test. It’s the only reason she’s here at all. Mom told her to stay home and not worry about algebra, but . . .

Mom doesn’t understand that it’s not just about that. She doesn’t understand the seriousness of her situation, or that if Carley makes things easy on herself even just this once, she’ll be tempted to do it every day.

That’s what Angel said.

force urself to keep showing up evry day becuz if u dont then they winnnnnn

Angel was talking about the other girls, of course—the ones who have been tormenting her.

When Carley told her about Nicki, and about Mom wanting to let her skip school today to go to the wake, Angel didn’t think that was a good idea, either.

u dont want to fall behind what if u flunk mathhhhhh

Angel was right, of course. Carley told her so last night.

im alwys rite listen to me and u will b fine lolololollllllll

“Ten minutes, ladies,” Mr. Sterne announces.

Carley chews the eraser tip and stares miserably down at the problem.

13 + (b × 12) – 18 = 271

A teardrop splashes onto the test paper. And then another.

Again, she wipes her eyes.

Maybe, just this once, Angel was wrong. Maybe she should have stayed home.

Something hits her on her leg beneath the desk. She looks down to see a piece of paper folded into a triangular football.

Uncertain where it came from, she looks around. The other girls are studiously bent over their work. Mr. Sterne is at the board, writing out a series of problems for his seventh period juniors.

Glancing down again at the wad of paper, Carley sees that her name is written on it.

Certain it’s some kind of trick, she reaches out her leg and is about to kick it away when Mr. Sterne suddenly turns around and looks right at her.

“Carley? Is there a problem?”

“No. I was just . . . trying to figure something out.”

“You have nine minutes and thirty seconds to do it.” He turns back to the board.

She thinks better of kicking the note away. Who knows what it says? The last thing she needs is for Mr. Sterne to come across it later and find a reason to dislike her even more.

Surreptitiously, she bends to pick it up instead. She’s about to put it into the pocket of her skirt when curiosity gets the better of her. Instead, she quickly unfolds it on her lap.