Page 4 of Considering Us

“And then you had to leave each other? This is excruciating.”

“It was pretty awful. We had shared this magical night, and suddenly, I couldn’t care less about going to DC. He left for the London School of Economics, and I went to American University. And I never talked to him again.”

“Oh my God, Dev! Did you try to reach him?”

The happy, warm feeling drained from me, and I found myself grabbing for a throw blanket even though it was ninety-five degrees outside. “I tried to get in touch about thirty times. Isent him emails. I sent postal mail, but I have no idea if it ever reached him. Once, when I was drunk, I spent twenty dollars calling various switchboards at his school, trying to find him. Even if I had connected with him, I would have sounded like a wacko stalker at that point. I finally gave up.”

“And you haven’t Googled him or anything? You could still try now. Who knows? Maybe he’s single and has been thinking about you for years, too.”

“I don’t let myself,” I conceded. It still made me sad. “That rejection was so intentional, so purposeful, I just can’t put myself through it again. He made a choice.” I sat up and tapped my watch, snapping out of my emotions. “You have about ten minutes to somehow get from Beacon Hill to the Seaport. What’s it going to be?”

Tam stood up and readjusted her outfit, even though she always looked newswoman-amazing. “I think I need to go. On the off chance that he’s my Kyle.” She grabbed her bag and walked over to hug me. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Eventually,” I said. “Thanks for being here for me tonight. Have a good time with Professor Plum.”

“With the candlestick.” She laughed.

“In the study. If he’s a total dork, come back here, and we’ll watchClueagain.” It was one of our go-to movies, even though it wasn’t technically a rom-com.

“Deal. And Dev? Seriously, think about the boarding school and talking to Andrea. It’s worth an email.”

3

The drive to St. George’s Island was easy. I almost wanted it to be annoying or difficult or riddled with traffic, so I would find an excuse not to pursue the job (and do what else—I had no clue). But on a sunny Monday morning in late August, I was going against any Boston commuter traffic and made it to the Portsmouth exit on I-95 in under an hour. Soon, I was crossing a tiny bridge onto St. George’s, a small island adjacent to its sister island of New Castle. Once on St. George’s, I passed a cute farmstand selling tomatoes and corn, a combination convenience store/tackle shop/post office/Dunkin’ Donuts, and an ice cream stand.Bingo. If I was going to even entertain this possibility, iced coffee and frozen dairy were necessities.

The wrought-iron gates to the Rockwood School were open, with a large green area and stately oak trees welcoming me. It felt a little like a smaller version of my alma mater, Norwell College, which was only half an hour west, except the students at Rockwood were as young as fourteen.I would have loved a place like this, I thought, shuddering at memories of my high school years with a mother who never really “got” me and a father too weak—both physically and emotionally—to say much of anything. Boarding school might have been fantastic.

Andrea had responded within thirty seconds of receiving my text two days earlier with even more enthusiasm than Bentley Preston had expressed for my Chicken Milanese, which wassaying a lot. We made plans to meet in her office at Rockwood at 11 AM on that Monday, and I followed her directions to the administrative building. I was expecting something in red brick and ivy, but instead, I found myself staring up at an old Victorian house with three floors and a gorgeous turret with the most charming violet-framed windows. If someone could fall in love at first sight with a building, it was me in that moment.

“Hello, Devon!” proclaimed a tall, lanky woman with curly brown hair and large, purple-framed glasses in a floral dress. She waved from the porch as I walked to greet her. “At least, I hope it’s you! Now, wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

“It’s me,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake. “Thanks so much for meeting with me today, Andrea.”

“Any friend of Sparky’s is a friend of mine. Let’s head up to my office.”

“Sparky? I hadn’t heard that one.” By up, she meant up several staircases to the third floor. Andrea bounded up the stairs, skipping random steps with her long legs while I may have been panting. Without Bentley Preston around anymore, I was going to have to find other ways to exercise.

“Ask her about the time she blew the circuit breaker with her million-watt hair dryer when twenty girls were getting ready for a formal. Tamara Sparks became Sparky forever that night.”

I sat opposite Andrea in her cluttered office, moving a stack of books off a chair to the floor to do so.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, gesturing to the stacks of papers and files all around her. “I assumed this role, shall we say, rather suddenly.”

“So Tam said.”

“Did she give you details?” Andrea asked, drumming her fingers together as if she couldn’t wait to spill the beans.

“No,” I said. I wasn’t sure if Tam knew what had happened to even tell me anything. All she had said was Andrea needed someone immediately.

“I was the Director of Admissions for the past five years. Before that, I worked in development at Exeter. It was my first job out of Yale. Anyway, I felt good in the Admissions Office. I knew what I was doing, and I had a great little staff. Everything was going fine until this.” She handed me a flyer with the headerThe Underground Stallion. There was a large black-and-white picture of a naked man and woman, with key body parts blocked out and stunned looks on their faces. The article underneath the image called for the resignation and/or removal of the Head of School and the Dining Services Director, with concern about the reputation of the school and worries that the scandal could affect students’ future college acceptances. Given everything I had just gone through, it felt hauntingly familiar.

“I’m guessing this was more than just a passing dalliance,” I said, handing the paper back to her.

“Yes, a full-fledged affair between two people married to other spouses, who were also employees here. One worked for me in Admissions.”

“And someone caught them and took this picture.” I felt a shiver up my spine. At least Adrienne Preston didn’t take any photographic evidence. Tweets, texts, and press statements were one thing. Images with nudity were another. “A student, I presume.”

“Indeed, at least we think so,” Andrea said, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’m not sure who writes forThe Underground Stallion, but I have my suspicions. Anyway, the Board of Trustees launched into full panic mode and didn’t want to go through the media attention that a firing and national search would entail. So, they asked both of them to resign, and I was pressured into assuming this position.” She sighed and lookedaround, almost as if she didn’t know where she was. “I’ll be honest; I really didn’t want this. But given everything that was happening, I didn’t feel like I could say no. Now, I am trying to figure it all out, plus hire for the vacant roles.”

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