could be the activities director’s intern. Or assistant. Margot, which sounds more impressive?”
“Assistant activities director,” Margot says.
“That does sound more professional,” I agree. “I’ve got a lot of ideas. Maybe I’ll stop by this week and pitch them to Janette.”
“Like what?” Daddy asks me.
“A scrapbooking class,” I improvise. “They have so many pictures and tokens and things that they’ve collected, I think it’d be good to bind it all up in a book so nothing gets lost.” Suddenly I’m on a roll. “And then maybe we could have a little exhibit, with all of the scrapbooks on display, and people can flip through them and see their life stories. I could make cheese puffs, there could be white wine . . .”
“That’s an amazing idea,” Margot says with an approving nod.
“Really great,” Daddy enthuses. “Obviously no white wine for you, but the cheese puffs, definitely!”
“Oh, Daddy,” we all chorus, because he loves it when we do that, when he gets to be the cheesy dad (pun intended!) and we all groan like we’re exasperated and say “Oh, Daddy.”
When we’re doing the dishes, Margot tells me I should follow up with the Belleview idea for sure. “They need someone like you to take charge of things,” she says, sudsing up the Dutch oven. “Fresh energy, new ideas. People can get burned out working at a retirement home. Janette will be relieved to have an extra set of hands.”
I mostly said all that stuff about Belleview to get everybody off my back, but now I’m thinking I really should talk to Janette.
When I go back upstairs, I have a missed call from Peter. I call him back, and I can hear the TV on in the background. “Did you talk to her?” I hope hope hope he believes me now.
“I talked to her.”
My heart thuds. “And? Did she admit it?”
“No.”
“No.” I let out a breath. Okay. That was to be expected, I guess. Gen isn’t the type to lie down in the street and die. She’s a fighter. “Well, she can say whatever she wants, but I know it was her.”
“You can’t get all that from a look, Covey.”
“It’s not just a look. I know her. She used to be my best friend. I know how she thinks.”
“I know her better than you, and I’m telling you, I don’t think it was her. Trust me.”
He does know her better; of course he does. But girl to girl, ex–best friend to ex–best friend, I know it was her. I don’t care how many years it’s been. There are things a girl knows in her gut, her bones. “I trust you . I don’t trust her . This is all her plan, Peter.”
There’s a long silence, and I hear my last words ringing in my ears, and they sound crazy, even to me.
His voice is heavy with patience as he says, “She’s stressed out with family stuff right now; she doesn’t even have time to plot against you, Covey.”
Family stuff? Could that be? I feel a pang of guilt as I remember how Chris mentioned that their grandma broke her hip and the families were discussing whether or not to put her into a home. Genevieve was always close to her grandma; she said she was the favorite out of all the grandchildren because she looked just like her—i.e., gorgeous.
Or maybe it’s her parents. Genevieve used to worry about them getting divorced.
Or maybe it’s all a lie. It’s on the very tip of my tongue to say, and then he says, wearily, “My mom’s calling me downstairs. Can we talk about this more tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say.
I mean, I guess it could be anything. Peter’s right. Maybe I knew her well once, but not anymore. Peter is the one who knows her best now. And besides, isn’t this the way one loses boyfriends, by acting paranoid and jealous and insecure? I’m fairly certain this is not a good look on me.
After we hang up I resolve to put the video behind me once and for all. What’s done is done. I have a boyfriend, a possible new job (unpaid, I’m sure, but still), and my studies to think about. I
“Assistant activities director,” Margot says.
“That does sound more professional,” I agree. “I’ve got a lot of ideas. Maybe I’ll stop by this week and pitch them to Janette.”
“Like what?” Daddy asks me.
“A scrapbooking class,” I improvise. “They have so many pictures and tokens and things that they’ve collected, I think it’d be good to bind it all up in a book so nothing gets lost.” Suddenly I’m on a roll. “And then maybe we could have a little exhibit, with all of the scrapbooks on display, and people can flip through them and see their life stories. I could make cheese puffs, there could be white wine . . .”
“That’s an amazing idea,” Margot says with an approving nod.
“Really great,” Daddy enthuses. “Obviously no white wine for you, but the cheese puffs, definitely!”
“Oh, Daddy,” we all chorus, because he loves it when we do that, when he gets to be the cheesy dad (pun intended!) and we all groan like we’re exasperated and say “Oh, Daddy.”
When we’re doing the dishes, Margot tells me I should follow up with the Belleview idea for sure. “They need someone like you to take charge of things,” she says, sudsing up the Dutch oven. “Fresh energy, new ideas. People can get burned out working at a retirement home. Janette will be relieved to have an extra set of hands.”
I mostly said all that stuff about Belleview to get everybody off my back, but now I’m thinking I really should talk to Janette.
When I go back upstairs, I have a missed call from Peter. I call him back, and I can hear the TV on in the background. “Did you talk to her?” I hope hope hope he believes me now.
“I talked to her.”
My heart thuds. “And? Did she admit it?”
“No.”
“No.” I let out a breath. Okay. That was to be expected, I guess. Gen isn’t the type to lie down in the street and die. She’s a fighter. “Well, she can say whatever she wants, but I know it was her.”
“You can’t get all that from a look, Covey.”
“It’s not just a look. I know her. She used to be my best friend. I know how she thinks.”
“I know her better than you, and I’m telling you, I don’t think it was her. Trust me.”
He does know her better; of course he does. But girl to girl, ex–best friend to ex–best friend, I know it was her. I don’t care how many years it’s been. There are things a girl knows in her gut, her bones. “I trust you . I don’t trust her . This is all her plan, Peter.”
There’s a long silence, and I hear my last words ringing in my ears, and they sound crazy, even to me.
His voice is heavy with patience as he says, “She’s stressed out with family stuff right now; she doesn’t even have time to plot against you, Covey.”
Family stuff? Could that be? I feel a pang of guilt as I remember how Chris mentioned that their grandma broke her hip and the families were discussing whether or not to put her into a home. Genevieve was always close to her grandma; she said she was the favorite out of all the grandchildren because she looked just like her—i.e., gorgeous.
Or maybe it’s her parents. Genevieve used to worry about them getting divorced.
Or maybe it’s all a lie. It’s on the very tip of my tongue to say, and then he says, wearily, “My mom’s calling me downstairs. Can we talk about this more tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say.
I mean, I guess it could be anything. Peter’s right. Maybe I knew her well once, but not anymore. Peter is the one who knows her best now. And besides, isn’t this the way one loses boyfriends, by acting paranoid and jealous and insecure? I’m fairly certain this is not a good look on me.
After we hang up I resolve to put the video behind me once and for all. What’s done is done. I have a boyfriend, a possible new job (unpaid, I’m sure, but still), and my studies to think about. I
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