Page 74 of The Ghostwriter

I leave, my entire body feeling like one giant bruise. I nearly run into Vince, standing just outside the door, and I hesitate, wondering how much he heard.

“What was that all about?” he asks.

I can’t look at him. Terrified if I do, I’ll tell him everything.

“Nothing,” I say.

He grabs my arm and yanks me down the hall, away from Danny. “What did he tell you?” he demands.

“You’re hurting me. Stop.” But his fingers only squeeze tighter, his expression intent.

“I have a right to know if it was about me,” he says.

I yank my arm from his grip, rubbing it. Wishing I were bigger. Stronger, so I could fight back. I’m sick of my brothers pushing me around. “You only wish it was about you,” I say, and then I push past him and out the back door again, hoping my camera isn’t completely ruined. Determined to put that film somewhere safe until I can convince Danny to tell the truth.

Vincent

June 11, 1975

I’m watching television with Lydia, the two of us sitting side by side on the couch pretending everything is normal. But inside, I’m vibrating. I can’t eat. For the past two weeks, I haven’t been able to sleep. I want to stand in the middle of the room and scream,What the fuck did you do?But instead, I sit here, pretending to watch a stupid game show.

It feels like it’s been a year since Danny had whispered,It’s common knowledge that the guy who takes a girl to get an abortion is usually the father, and since then I’ve been at a low simmer. Lashing out at Poppy. My parents. I’m barely able to look at Lydia.

Suddenly, Poppy bursts through the front door, dumping her backpack on the floor and heading into the kitchen.

My mother is at the dining room table, playing solitaire and nursing a mug of what she says isteabut is really wine. “Backpack,” she calls, but Poppy ignores her. My mother sighs, flipping over a card,and takes a sip from her mug. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into that girl. Hitchhiking into Ventura? She could have gotten herself killed.”

“She’s mad she lost her camera,” I say. Even to my own ears, I sound like a robot. Like I’m playing the part in some big production ofGuy Who’s Too Chickenshit to Confront His Cheating Girlfriend.

My mother looks up from her card game, shocked. “At that rally? Did someone take it from her?”

“No, I think it happened yesterday.”

My mother sniffs with disapproval. “I told your father she was too young for something so expensive, but he never listens to me.”

The front door opens again, and Margot enters, out of breath. “Is Poppy here?”

My mother gestures toward the kitchen wordlessly and Margot disappears, the two girls’ voices floating through the open doorway.

“I’m not going,” Poppy says.

“You have to,” Margot pleads. “Everyone will be there. It’s the last week of school and Mr. Stewart invited everyone.”

Lydia looks at me. “Are you going to Mr. Stewart’s end-of-year party tonight?” Her tone is cautious. As if one wrong word might launch me into a tirade. As if I’m a bomb that has to be handled carefully.

Mr. Stewart had invited all of us this afternoon while he washed his car in the driveway. “Burgers, sodas, a way to close out the school year. Everyone’s welcome.”

Without looking at Lydia, I say, “Can’t. I have to rewrite my term paper for world history, or I’ll fail the class.” I try to keep my tone casual and ask, “Are you going to go?”

She shrugs, looking unsure. As if my question might be a trap. “I might stop by,” she says. “I kind of feel like I have to. He’s been so nice training me these past few months.”

“You don’thaveto do anything,” I tell her.

***

Lydia and I finish the show we’re watching, the sky growing dark and the sounds of the party next door growing louder. Music floats in through the open windows and Poppy and Margot have disappeared somewhere. Lydia stands. “I’d better get home. Let you get to that paper.”

My mother has abandoned her card game and is now in the kitchen making dinner, the bottle of chardonnay now nearly empty on the counter. The front door swings open and my father greets us, his suit looking limp from the heat of the day. He sets his briefcase down by the door and hangs his hat on the hat stand. “Nice to see you, Lydia.”

---