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TWENTY-THREE

My plan had been for Duff Logan to be the next notch on my sexual conquest belt. When we were sophomores, he tailed me like a puppy dog, so I figured he’d jump all over me when I finally gave him the chance. Turned out I was wrong. Duff was gay. The only reason he followed me around was because he had the hots for Van.

The pickings were slim at Heartstone High, so I went back to the devil I knew: Johnny Rollo.

The sex was good, the weed was free, plus I liked Johnny. Under all his macho street-kid bullshit there was a certain sad sweetness about him. He also had some life skills that I was lacking.

That night after I bolted from the art show, we did the deed, hit the bong, and I told him how much I hated Connie.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but she’s probably not as bad as you think,” he said. “Your problem is that you have daddy issues. You’d hate any woman who went near your old man.”

“Not true! This one’s devious. Spend some time with her and you’ll see.”

“Good idea. Maybe I’ll run into her at one of those fancy art galleries I hang out at.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “you can come to Thanksgiving dinner with me and see for yourself. She’ll be there.”

“No way.”

“Please. Our Thanksgiving dinners are legendary. We have them at the restaurant after the last turn. It’s not just my family. A lot of the staff are there, and the food is incredible.”

“I don’t know. I was going to meet my mom for a turkey sandwich and a crack pipe, but hell, she won’t even notice if I don’t show up. I’ll do it if you just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” I said, ready to get down on my knees and pull down his pants.

“Promise me you’ll stop ragging about this Connie chick. I’ll be there, but if you even mention her name once, the deal is off.”

“I promise,” I said.

Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away, and I decided that the best way to keep my mind off Connie was to throw myself into my latest project—the senior class time capsule. Kids kept asking me what could and what couldn’t go in. There were no rules, so I made them up as I went along.

And then one night it hit me. The time capsule was the answer I had been looking for. I sat down at my desk and wrote a letter to my future self.

I poured my heart out about my plans for the future and waxed on about how I had my heart set on going to Penn—the one school I knew could help me realize my dreams. I wrote till two in the morning, put it away for a day, and then rewrote it the next night, and polished it the night after that.

And when I was finally finished, I printed out a copy, and I shared it with Lizzie.

“Why are you letting me read this now?” she said. “I thought it’s supposed to be sealed in that beer keg and not be opened for twenty-five years.”

“I lied. It’s not really going into the time capsule,” I said. “It’s the essay for my application to Penn. It lets me show them that I’m a leader in my class, I’m thinking about my future, and I’m passionate about getting into their school.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Admissions people like it when a kid is gung ho. I bet they eat this shit up. What are you doing for the other schools you’re applying to?”

I held up six more copies of the letter—all identical. The only thing I did was change the name of the school I was dying to get into.

“You’re a genius,” Lizzie said. “Any one of these places would be lucky to have you.”

The Saturday morning before Thanksgiving, Lizzie and I were working at the restaurant. Dad was supposed to be there by eleven, but we didn’t hear him roll up until twelve thirty. The two of us walked out into the parking lot to bust his chops about being an hour and a half late.

His bike pulled in, and he took off his helmet. Right behind him came Mom’s Mustang, sparkling clean, top down, Connie Gilchrist behind the wheel with her scarf, her kerchief, and her oversized sunglasses, looking like a poor man’s Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday .

“Dad! That’s Mom’s car,” I said.

“Connie’s Volvo is totally shot. The guys at the shop told her it would be cheaper to buy a good used car than to pay to have a twelve-year-old Volvo welded together.”

“So you sold her Mom’s Mustang?”

“No. I lent it to her till she can buy something on her own.”

“It’s been a week since she totaled her old one. How long does it take?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but cars cost money. Her husband may have sold yachts to rich people, but he wasn’t any good with his own finances. He left her with a lot more debt than assets. I told her she could use the Mustang till she gets back on her feet.”

“I thought one of us was going to get it.”

“A teenage girl doesn’t need a flashy car. It’s an asshole magnet. Right now, you and Lizzie are sharing the Acura. When the time comes that you need two cars, I’ll find a good, solid, age-appropriate used one. Now drop the subject. She’s coming.”

Connie had parked the convertible and was walking toward us, smiling and waving. She gave me a hug, then Lizzie, then grabbed my father by the hand, and they walked through the kitchen door of the restaurant together.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “First Mom’s earrings, and now her Mustang?”

“I think we’ve been over this before,” Lizzie said. “Mom’s not using them.”

“That’s not the point. The point is those things all belong to us.”

“No, Maggie, the point is that live women wear dead women’s earrings, they drive dead women’s cars, and they shack up with dead women’s husbands. Deal with it.” She walked through the kitchen door, leaving me standing there alone in the parking lot.

I lowered myself to the ground and buried my head in my hands. Nothing made sense. Connie Gilchrist was slowly destroying our family. Not only was she ransacking my mother’s treasures; she was driving a wedge between me and my sister.

Genghis Connie.