Page 50 of The Ghostwriter

But I’m sidetracked again when I hear my mother say, “Hello, Lydia.”

Margot’s eyes lock with mine.

“Is Vince home yet?” Lydia asks.

“He’s supposed to be, but you know Vince. Feel free to come in andwait. There are some Diet Rite sodas in the fridge, and the girls are in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Taylor.”

“Did you just come from track practice?” we hear my mother ask. Lydia says something I can’t make out and then my mother says, “Well, lucky thing you have some time to tidy up. Feel free to borrow my lipstick if you like. It’s in the top drawer of the bathroom.”

I roll my eyes and Margot stifles a giggle. The front door closes, and Lydia wanders in.

“Hi,” Margot says, offering her a bright smile. I kick her under the table.

Lydia glances at us. “Hey,” she says.

When she turns to open the fridge, I gesture for Margot to follow my lead. “All I know is that the graffiti was already there in first period because Lana Simpson has PE first period and she said Mr. Stewart canceled their volleyball game and made them run laps instead. He wouldn’t even let them inside the gym.”

“So someone must have broken in either early this morning or late last night, because when I was there for basketball practice yesterday evening, everything was normal,” Margot says.

“What are you talking about?” Lydia asks.

I turn to her and say, “Someone broke into the gym at school and wroteFuck Youon the wall right by the PE offices.”

Lydia pulls the tab from her can and tosses it in the trash, taking a sip of my mother’s favorite no-calorie soda. I watch her, trying to see if this news surprises her.

“Were you training with Mr. Stewart this afternoon?” Margot asks her, her tone overly friendly. Almost suggestive.

Lydia looks at her, wary. “Yeah,” she says.

“Did he mention the graffiti to you?”

“Why would he?” Lydia says to her. “He gives me laps to run and I run them. We don’t really talk.”

“Uh-huh,” Margot says, taking another chip. She holds the bag out to Lydia. “Want some?”

Lydia shakes her head and takes another sip of soda.

“So who do you think did it?” Margot asks me, her question performative. We both know Vince did it, and we’re pretty sure we know why.

“Who knows?” I say. “Could have been anyone, really. Vince once told me that some of the kids in his class used to pry open the side door—you know, the one by the bike racks—and get drunk in there.”

Margot wrinkles her nose. “Gross. That place smells like an old shoe.” Then she glances toward the hallway, where Jimi Hendrix is blasting from Danny’s room. “Do you think Danny ever did that?”

“Nah, he prefers the oak grove. Always has.”

Lydia coughs, tears forming in her eyes, and I look at her. “Are you okay?”

“Bubbles,” she says.

Just then, the door of Danny’s room opens, and he comes out, wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt. Jimi Hendrix’s guitar blasts from his stereo and Margot and I stop talking.

Danny walks past us, grabs the bag of chips off the table, and shovels a handful into his mouth, winking at Margot, who blushes. She’s so obvious.

He barely glances at Lydia, still standing by the doorway, silent. He opens the fridge, pulls out one of our father’s beers, pulls the tab and drops it on the counter, where our mother is sure to find it, and strolls back toward his room again, the music fading as he closes the door.

“Why go through the effort of breaking into the gym when they could have just written it on the outside?” Margot says, picking up the thread of our conversation.

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