Page 18 of What Boys Learn

“Come out here,” I called a few minutes later from the kitchen, confident Benjamin had been listening at his bedroom door. A small load of dishes from earlier in the day was sitting in the drainer. I put each clean plate and glass away slowly, trying to feel like a person who felt safe in her home, safe in her life, not standing on the edge of a cliff about to do something she could never take back.

He hadn’t done the latest few dishes, still in the sink, or taken out the garbage, either. Tonight of all nights, it wasn’t a battle worth fighting.

Izzy. Sidney. A stolen diary. And a week earlier—I could ignore it no longer—the underwear I’d come across. Maybe there were other things I’d missed. Maybe there were things I didn’t understand—like Chandra’s comment about Izzy being a bully to boys, and something about a photo.

Anyone who assumes you think your kid is either a perfect angel or a perfect devil has never had a kid. And yet.

Please tell me why you’d steal a dead girl’s diary.

I walked to Benjamin’s doorway. Whether or not he’d been eavesdropping before, he was wearing earphones now, staring at his laptop. Loudly, I said, “We’re going to talk after dinner. I’m taking out the garbage first.”

He nodded. I nodded back. Small wins.

Just as I was backing out of his room, I spotted a thin, shiny hardcover book on the floor, next to where he’d dropped his school backpack. It was the newest Summit yearbook, released a few days ahead of graduation so kids could collect signatures. Benjamin hadn’t wanted me to pay for it, but I’d insisted.

“Your yearbook. Can I see it?”

He tugged off his headphones. “I’ll bring it to you in the living room.”

I took a step forward. “It’s just right there. I’ll get it.”

“Mom.”

“Fine. Bring it to me in the living room.”

A few minutes later, he did as promised. The binding was still fresh enough to crack when I opened it. I scanned the inside covers, looking for signs of friendly last-week-of-school notes from schoolmates, but there were none. No “enjoy your summer” or “see you next year.” Not a single signature. I flipped to the student portraits. Summit was small enough that every student got a page—Benjamin, too, though his was sparer than most, because he hadn’t bothered to submit extra photos or add anything special to his page design. There was only his formal school photo—the same unsmiling mug shot that appeared on his school ID.

“Done looking?” he asked.

I could tell there was something he didn’t want me to see, but the only thing I noted was the fact that he’d dog-eared about a third of the student pages. He’d smoothed out the corners before letting me see the yearbook, but he couldn’t erase the faint creases. Most of the marked pages were for girls, a few for boys. Maybe these were kids he liked. Or actively disliked.

When he put out his hand for me to return the book, I hastened my search, flipping through the juniors until I found Izzy’s page.

He studied me, looking more uneasy the longer I stared at the yearbook.

I pulled out my phone and opened to the photo I’d taken just before picking up our pizza.

“Do you think this girl looks like Izzy?”

He squinted. “No way. That girl’s hotter.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Look at her.”

Where he saw “hot,” I saw a girl who looked anxious and miserable, with messy hair and a red wrist.

“Never mind.”

I looked back to Izzy’s yearbook page. In one corner, she’d included a family photo: parents plus Izzy and an older girl who must have been Talia, all of them standing in front of the Chicago lakefront, with the Sears Tower—I’d never get used to calling it the Willis Tower—in the background.

I asked, “Does Izzy have two sisters?”

“No.”

Benjamin stuck his hand out again. I relented, returning the yearbook.

“You’re being weird,” he said.