“Are you drinking?” she asked, very gently.
He froze, the floss halfway to his mouth. “I had a drink,” he said, precisely. “Just one. It’s fine.”
Daisy didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. She climbed into bed, and, after a moment, Hal got under the duvet and put his arms around her. She could smell his familiar scent: laundry detergent, Colgate toothpaste, dandruff-fighting shampoo. Her familiar husband; everything the same. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been under the gun at work, and then, with Bubs dying, and Beatrice getting kicked out of Emlen. It’s all been…” He gave a scoffing laugh. “A lot.”
“It’s been hard,” said Daisy. “I know.”
“I just want Beatrice to get off on the right foot. It matters, you know?” He gave her a look, part imploring, part imperious. “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
“You scared her,” said Daisy. You scared me, she thought.
“I know,” said Hal. His voice was tight. “I feel terrible about it. I gave her a tip—”
“I know,” Daisy said. “I saw.”
“But I’ll send her a note tomorrow.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
He gave her a perfunctory kiss, said, “Sleep tight, birdie.” Then he rolled onto his side and was instantly asleep. Daisy lay awake beside him, knowing she wouldn’t sleep. As the hours ticked by, she thought of the cleaning she’d have to do in the morning; about the silent auction bids to tally and the clipboards to return, about being the only woman in the room without either a college degree or a notable job; trying not to think about what Hannah, or Diana, would have made of the night’s events, if Hannah had been alive or if Diana had been invited, or about a saying she’d heard more and more these days: When someone tells you who they are, believe them.
20
Beatrice
Beatrice was walking toward the school’s front door when she heard a car’s horn beep behind her. She jumped, turned around, and saw Cade Langley behind the wheel of a sporty black sedan.
“Hey, Beebee!”
That was what Cade had started calling her, him and his friends. Beatrice still wasn’t sure if she liked it, if Beebee was the kind of cutesy nickname you’d give a little girl, or if, instead, it called to mind a BB gun.
She waved. Cade rolled up alongside her, keeping pace with her as she walked.
“You’re going to be late,” she told him.
“I’ve got a free.” Cade was a junior, and upperclassmen at Melville were allowed to spend two periods each week off campus, with their parents’ permission. Most of them, as far as Beatrice could tell, only went to the Starbucks directly across the street from campus. The really daring ones made it all the way to the burrito place next door.
“Hey,” said Cade, “I like your outfit.”
Beatrice smiled. She was especially proud of her day’s look. She’d found an honest-to-God 1950s housedress at a thrift store in Philadelphia. It was blue cotton, with shiny black buttons and a round Peter Pan collar and a tie at the waist. She’d hand-washed the dress, stitched up a rip under the armpit, and ironed it before confirming the perfect fit that she’d seen in the dressing-room mirror, twirling around to make the skirt swish, thinking that she looked like Lucille Ball. She’d tied a pink-and-white polka-dotted kerchief over her hair, and instead of her Doc Martens she’d found a pair of black canvas Chuck Taylors that she thought looked just fine.
“I like your car.”
Cade grinned and patted the dashboard. His hair had gotten longer in the few weeks Beatrice had been at Melville. It stuck up from his head in a way that reminded her of a poodle. His cheeks wore their usual flush, and his teeth looked very white beneath them. “My sixteenth birthday present.”
“Lucky you. Happy birthday.”
“It was in December. Don’t worry. I didn’t not invite you to my party.”
“I wasn’t concerned.”
“Just in case you were.”
This was how it went with Cade. He’d banter and tease her, always, it seemed, finding ways to let her know that she was the new girl, that he knew more than she did—more people, more teachers, more about Melville, more about everything.
“You want to go for a ride?”
She stared at him. “I’ve got Latin.”
“Amo, amas, amat,” Cade recited. “Come on. It’s only five demerits if it’s your first cut.”