Page 5 of Old Money

I have bits and pieces from the night of the murder.

“Flashbulb memories” is the term my first therapist used, but I never entirely agreed with that description.

Home-movie clips would be a closer analogy, but even that’s too tidy.

I remember the fruity stench of blood. I remember wet grass slipping through my toes as I ran across the hill. I remember the sounds she made.

***

“Ah-hah!” Caitlin called from inside her closet. “Found it.”

She stepped back, holding up the dress. It was cool white and shimmery, with a stiff, poufy skirt.

“I got it last year for Spring Fling.” She held it in front of her. “But then I had to skip it.”

She made a pouty face, rubbing the opalescent fabric between her fingers. Her nails were painted baby blue.

“Oh yeah, you got mono!” I said, my voice loud and chirpy.

Caitlin turned her head and gave me a sideways smile.

“Good memory.”

I shifted on my feet, cheeks prickling.

“Anyway, it’s not really me anymore. But...” Caitlin held the dress out at me, the skirt gently rustling.

“Oh. Um.”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it would be so cute on you.”

I stood awkwardly in the middle of her messy room—partly because there was nowhere to sit.

Every surface was covered in clothes, including the unmade bed.

The real issue though, was that I couldn’t sit in my own dress.

It was the same one I’d worn last July—a cap-sleeved shift that fit just fine a year ago—before my body turned so suddenly, horrifyingly pubescent.

I was somehow both longer and rounder, and my shoulders had seemingly widened by a foot.

After getting dressed that evening, I’d come out of my room crying, stuffed into the dress like a human wearing doll clothes.

Mom had insisted I looked lovely, but I knew she was just saying that because it was too late to find something new.

My face was still red when we got to the Dales’ house, and Caitlin whisked me to her room while she got ready.

“No pressure,” she said now, still holding out the shiny dress. “Totally get it if you don’t wanna change. My mom used to pull that with me all the time, and it drove me bananas .”

I looked at it, swinging on the hanger like a silver bell. A tiny smile crept over my face.

“Yeah?” Caitlin grinned back. “You sure?”

I nodded.

“I love it.”

“Yay!”

Caitlin ushered me into her en suite bathroom, leaving the door ajar—possibly by accident?

I wasn’t sure. Among the older girls at school, casual nudity seemed to be a signifier of cool-girl friendship.

I’d once seen Caitlin doing a crown braid for one of her swim-team friends, wearing nothing but her swimsuit, rolled down to the waist. I’d relayed the anecdote to Susannah, realizing as I spoke how creepy it made me sound—like I’d been spying.

But Susannah had grabbed my arm and whispered, “I know , Anna told me! That is bananas !”

***

That was Caitlin. She was the trendsetter on whom we all spied, picking up her mannerisms without even noticing.

“Bananas” was a Caitlin thing. So were crown braids.

That fad had picked up so suddenly that even she noticed.

(“It’s so embarrassing,” she’d told me at Thanksgiving, murmuring in a confessional tone.

“You know why I do my hair like that sometimes? So I don’t have to wash it.

It’s my gross-day hairstyle.”) I’d relayed this to my fellow sixth graders, and soon all of us were showing up with unwashed, floppy braids that looked nothing like the honey-gold crown on Caitlin’s head.

It wasn’t just us. Everyone was a little obsessed with Caitlin—teachers, parents.

Keep your eye on that one , they’d say. As if we weren’t already.

Caitlin was the one they trotted out for school tours and included in every Wheaton catalog.

Caitlin wasn’t an academic whiz kid like Theo, and she didn’t win every award.

But she was the unchallenged star of our school.

And that was before she started dating Patrick.

Allegedly dating, that is. They hadn’t gone public, but everyone knew.

It had started sometime after Christmas break, though we couldn’t pinpoint when.

Patrick had reportedly given Caitlin a ride home in January, and someone claimed they saw them making out at the multiplex later that month (this though was unsubstantiated).

The whole thing was just a rumor until February, when Patrick sneaked out of the senior section during assembly, and ducked into the junior rows, sitting in the seat directly behind Caitlin’s.

He’d held a finger to his lips, then leaned forward and quickly squeezed Caitlin by the shoulders.

She’d glanced back, guffawed at him, then rolled her eyes and faced forward, but with an enormous smile.

At that point, I don’t think anyone was looking at the stage.

The whole school remained riveted by Caitlin and Patrick’s public flirtation.

People turned to watch whenever they so much as walked down the hall together.

I’d even overheard two teachers discussing them behind me in the dining hall: “Did I hear that right? Caitlin Dale and—” “That’s what I’m told. Thought she was smarter than that.”

I’d been startled by the comment, especially from a teacher. I kept it to myself (and Susannah, of course), but I’d been dying for an excuse to tell Caitlin. And then to say something like: Can you believe that? What does that even mean? And then to ask her everything about her and Patrick.

***

“How ya doing, babydoll?” Caitlin called to me.

“Uh,” I answered. “Yeah.”

I was panicked. I’d wrenched myself out of my own dress, but it turned out hers didn’t fit much better. I’d gotten it on, but the zipper wouldn’t budge. The bodice gaped open behind me, revealing my whole back and the top of my (embarrassing, babyish) underwear.

I peered through the open the door, desperate for help, but unable to ask her.

Caitlin was bent over her vanity, applying eyeshadow with her ring finger.

Her own dress that night was a pearl-colored slip that swung about her ankles.

Her hair was loose—messy in the good way—and dappled with sunny highlights.

She fished through the tubes and pencils on the vanity, plucking out a tin of plummy lip tint.

She dabbed it lightly on her lips, pausing for a moment to smile at herself in the mirror.

“Is Patrick Yates your boyfriend?” I blurted out.

Caitlin jerked up, genuinely startled. I was too. Sometimes thoughts would burst from my mouth before I could catch them—usually the most embarrassing ones.

“Shit, Alice!” Caitlin cracked into laughter. “You sound like my mother!”

“What do you mean?”

She bent back down to the mirror, rubbing her lips together and giving her hair one last shake.

“Me and Patrick—she’s up my ass about it.”

“Okay,” I said, unable to stop myself. “But is he your boyfriend?”

“Ugh,” Caitlin gave an exasperated laugh. “Yes, but that’s between us. Do not tell my mom.”

I grinned. This confirmation was thrilling enough. Between us was even better.

“Of course not.” I straightened up, trying my zipper again. “Why?”

Caitlin breezed into the bathroom, sighing.

“God. I don’t know.”

She took me by the shoulders, turning me toward the mirror, and started working the zipper up.

“It’s not just her , y’know, it’s everyone. It’s just like—” Caitlin caught my eye in the mirror. “You know who Patrick is, right? His dad and his grandfather, and all that?”

I dropped my chin, and Caitlin laughed.

“Right.” She leaned back, considering the bodice, still mostly undone. “You’ve got swimmer’s shoulders, lady.”

I hoped it was a compliment.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I know everyone acts like they’re not impressed by stuff like that, but it’s bullshit. They totally are.”

“Totally.”

She glanced up, cocking an eyebrow at my reflection.

“You know his mother had the Lincoln Lodge torn down last month?”

My eyes widened in the mirror.

“No.”

The Lincoln Lodge was an old stone house on the edge of the Yateses’ property—so called because Abraham Lincoln once spent two months there, recovering from pneumonia. It was one of the village’s most treasured landmarks, not to mention a federal one.

“And...” Caitlin leaned down. “She put in a helipad.”

I gaped, speechless.

“That’s like a little airport, but for helicopters,” Caitlin added.

“I know,” I answered automatically—I’d never heard the word in my life. Helicopters? You weren’t even allowed to ride dirt bikes in Briar’s Green.

“But—how did she get permission?”

Caitlin smirked.

“Who says she asked?” She tugged the dress upward, trying the zipper again. “She could’ve replaced it with a burning cross and the whole village would be like, Oh, what a lovely barbecue .”

I swallowed, uncertain. Was I meant to laugh? Which part was the joke (or was she not joking)?

“I’m not saying they’re like that.” Caitlin held my gaze again. “But you know what I mean, right?”

“Totally,” I repeated, not having a clue.

“Good.” She smiled. “Breathe out, Alice.”

I did. In one quick motion, Caitlin pushed hard between my shoulder blades, using the other hand to yank the zipper all the way up. I lurched forward, gasping, then steadied myself. When I looked up, Caitlin was beaming at me in the mirror.

“I knew it.”

This time, I saw it too. The dress was too small, but still a hundred times better than my old one. I looked different. I looked mature—or nearly there.

“Okay, it’s official,” said Caitlin “You’re a babe.”

She pinched the back of my arm lightly, and I beamed, thrilled by the casual intimacy of it—like I was one of her real friends. Caitlin leaned down again, leveling her reflection with mine.

“Hey,” she whispered. “That thing about the lodge. I don’t mind if you tell your friends. But you didn’t hear it from me, ’kay?”

I nodded, still grinning. Caitlin put a hand on my shoulder. I remember the cool grip of her fingers. I remember the tiny chip in her baby blue polish.

“All right, babydoll.” She gave me an excited squeeze. “Shall we?”