“It hurts,” he says, “that you would judge me on the color of my skin.”
She stares at him.
“Seriously?”
She watches as he puts his glasses back on.
“Was there racism against Black people in the past?” he says. “Yes. No one’s denying that, but I think we can all agree it’s rare now. Individual cases, sure, but—”
She stares at him. He trails off, not wanting to get political. He’s done a lot of reading on the subject, however. How the Civil Rights Act was a success, followed by affirmative action, and now there’s equality. Baseline equality. I mean, sure, he thinks, people are struggling—Black people, white people, everyone—times are tough, but it’s important we teach our kids the truth, not a bunch of liberal talking points.
Imagine, he thinks, teaching innocent white children that they’re guilty of racism from the moment they’re born?
But this isn’t his therapy session. It’s hers, so he holds out his right palm, inviting her to talk.
“O—kay,” says Louise, making a mental note to keep her real feelings to herself from now on.
He smiles.
“And hey,” he says, “we feel how we feel. That’s your experience of the world, and I want to honor that.”
For some reason his smile—empty of meaning—reminds her of He Who Must Not be Named. This is the story her therapist really wants to hear, but no way she’s gonna tell it. The Wizard and the Troll. The guardian at the gate and the mansion on the hill. He’d take one listen and write make believe artist in his little book. But what is a tall tale if not a portrait of some larger truth?
You like to party? Because this is a party house.
Bowls of pills. All the vodka you could drink.
But first you had to get by the Troll.
Instead, Louise lists all her favorite cleaning products—Borax for scouring, 409 for light degreasing. She talks about the strengths and weaknesses of push brooms. She even talks about her mother on the sofa, one shoe on, the other foot filthy, like she’d hobbled through some muddy field to get here.
“And what would you say her biggest problem was?” the therapist asks.
Louise chews her lips. She doesn’t want to talk about this, any of this. She wants to talk about how, all around campus, kids are disappearing, how the ambulances have taken to showing up without lights or sirens, sneaking in through the dark gates at night, and in the morning all that’s left is empty rooms and sage. Ten kids in the last month, the cafeteria lines getting shorter. But instead, she says nothing, because what would be the point? No one here ever gives you a straight answer.
“She was a drug addict,” says Louise.
“Is that what bothers you? The drug use? I know from our sessions that you’ve experimented quite heavily yourself.”
Louise sips her tea. “Fine. You wanna know what her biggest problem was? Me.”
Click-Click
*
The Troll’s name was Evan, but Louise didn’t learn that until the Wizard named him. Outside the ivy walls, the Troll pushed the button, talked into the box. Yeah, it’s me, he said. I got one. The gate opened. The Troll pulled into an enormous cobblestone circle in front of a mansion bigger than anything Louise had ever seen.
The Wizard was waiting, gate clicker in his hand, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He was sixty going on forty-five, chiseled, polished, like a man who tans, who has a personal trainer and a personal shopper, a man who gets his slate-gray hair trimmed every week, who does yoga and eats only organic fruits and vegetables. Like a man who Gets What He Wants Always, who surrounds himself with acolytes and yes-men.
Like a billionaire. Which is what he was.
“Ice maker’s on the fritz, Evan-baby,” he said. “Be a doll and pick some up at the local you know.”
He handed the kid—Evan was what, nineteen, twenty?—a handful of hundred-dollar bills, like how much did he think ice cost? Ten pounds of frozen water? But Louise noticed. Shit must have been seven hundred dollars, as in keep the change. And given the size of the estate—fuck house, this was a palace with acreage, and in San Francisco—seven hundred dollars was monkey dick to this guy.
Evan said no problem-o, and jumped back in the Mercedes convertible.
“Be bad,” he told Louise, and pulled out of the circle and back down the long driveway.
Louise was wearing white shorts and a sleeveless button-down. It was late summer, but the first chill of fall was in the air. She had her backpack with her, because Evan said it was critical that Louise’s outfit scream schoolgirl. Inside was her Intro to Algebra book, her journal, and some colored pencils. Plus Purell in three different delivery vehicles （spray, lotion, and roll-on）。