Page 43 of Old Money
She waves me back urgently, still rummaging.
“Really,” I say. “I should get going anyway.”
“Ah! Bingo,” she says, pulling a small, half-crushed box from her bag. “Still got a couple.”
She opens the box and turns it sideways, showing me the pink packets left inside. But she doesn’t hand it to me.
“Perfect. Thanks.” I search her smiling face, glimpsing something behind it now. “Did you need anything else from me?”
“Nope,” Jessie says, her smile still hard and masklike. “Not unless you’d like your copies.”
“Of the records?” I ask, dipping my chin. “I think I’m good.”
The other officer shoves a drawer shut, looking through his remaining files. Jessie’s head turns toward him slightly, but her eyes stay on mine.
“You have a legal right to keep a set of copies, physical or digital,” she continues. “Personal use only, of course. They’re confidential, and not admissible in court.”
I look back at her suddenly unreadable face. What is she saying? What amIsupposed to say?
“Okay?” I say slowly. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure!” Jessie says, the strange tautness melting from her face. “You’ve got thirty days, no hurry. Oh, here you go.”
Jessie hands me the box of wipes.
“Go ahead—only two left. Looks like you might need them.”
I take it carefully, mindful of my stained fingers. Something slides against the inside of the box as I place it in my own bag—something small and hard.
I feel my own face change now. I see Jessie see it happen. She glances at the door, urging me out with her eyes.
“Happy to help!”
Chapter Twenty
July Fourth, 1999
The game began at dinner. I didn’t start it, but it was my fault. Everything that happened between dinner and the pool was my fault.
Through sheer luck I wound up sitting with Caitlin, at a different table than the rest of our group. At most parties, club protocol required guests to sit boy-girl-boy-girl, and never beside a relative—but July Fourth was meant to be “informal.” The dinner bell was rung at the end of cocktail hour, and everyone scattered from the yellow ballroom and into the green and blue rooms, hoping to claim one of the tables by the open terrace doors.
Theo had scurried ahead and managed to nab one for us. He beamed with pride as the rest of us followed, Caitlin whooping and Uncle Greg applauding, holding out a chair for Mom and then for Aunt Barbara. Only then did we notice the table was two seats short. The awkward moment passed in a flash as Caitlin took me by the hand, saying we needed some girl time anyway.
“Are you sure?” I asked as she walked us across the room.
“Bien sûr, babe.”
She squeezed my hand, pointing to a pair of open seats at the corner of a long table by the fireplace.
I felt like a contest winner. An intimate dinner with Caitlin—not just my incredibly cool older cousin, but the topic of endless, fawning speculation among all the lower-school girls. I would play it cool,obviously, but this was my chance to get answers to our many important questions. For instance, how did she make her hair look like that—messy but not dirty? And what face wash did she use? And was it true she shaved her legs with men’s BIC razors? Maybe she could show me how to shave mine if my mom said yes? And was she in love with Patrick yet? Did they have sex?
I took my seat, cringing at myself and my perverted brain.
“Hey,” Caitlin whispered—not sitting herself, but bending down. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Oh, uh-huh,” I said, my dream deflating before my eyes.
Caitlin was scanning the room—for Patrick, I realized. As if hearing my thoughts, she looked down and gave me a little wink. Then she turned to go, fluttering her fingers in a covert wave. Excitement bubbled up again, buoyed by the sort-of secret she’d sort of let me in on.
