Jen regarded Laurel. Whenever she thought about the morass of disordered eating, she was relieved to not have a girl. Not that boys were immune, but they didn’t seem as targeted by a barrage of objectifying and confusing images: to be strong and sexy and muscled and waiflike and body-positive, a stance that was communicated by wearing crop tops.
“I’m not, like, scared of calories or anything,” Laurel said quickly. “I’m just mindful about how I fuel.”
“You’re really committed to running, huh?” Jen said.
“My dad ran”—Laurel shrugged—“so…”
“That’s so sweet,” Jen said. “I bet he loves training with you.”
“Does Abe’s school go up to high school?” Laurel had blurted this, shifted her weight against the kitchen counter.
“Yep. There’s a tenth grader there now.”
“It sounds amazing. The head teacher—”
“Nan Smalls?”
“Is she, like, a visionary?”
“She’s kind,” Jen said. “She cares a lot about the kids and the school.” And is very generous with psalms, if that happens to be your thing.
“I’d love to see it. Maybe I could go with you, and just, like, pick up Abe one day.”
“Definitely,” Jen said. “It’s very small though, certainly not for everyone. I’d be happy to talk to your mom.”
“She won’t go for it,” Laurel said sourly. “She thinks our school district is like the best in the country. Which it’s obviously not.”
“It’s very highly regarded,” Jen said, because it was true and because neighborhood mom code required her to Never Denigrate Another Parent’s Opinion. “Go on up to Abe’s room,” she said quickly, to stave off further discussion. “I’ll bring some fruit and popcorn.”
As she collected the snacks on a tray and climbed the stairs, Jen felt slightly guilty for ever suspecting Laurel Perley of being the vandal. Laurel was a complete improvement over Harper French, who had not only never offered to help Jen in the kitchen, but had once sent her on a wild-goose chase to three different markets for dill-pickle-flavored potato chips.
“Laurel.” Jen heard Abe’s yell down the hall. “You can’t duck the whole time. You have to aim at something.”
Jen bristled. If you didn’t know Abe, that might sound rude and bossy. But Laurel must know Abe, because she laughed.
“I suck at this,” she said amiably.
“You’re not that bad,” Abe offered. “Do you feel ready? We have one goal: defeating Holla123.”
“Who’s that?”
Jen held her breath. She burst into the room before he could explain it was a nine-year-old. “Snacks!”
Laurel and Abe sat side by side in front of the monitor. Abe was being a graceful host and had given Laurel the remaining beanbag chair and his favorite headphones.
Would a sociopath share like that, Scofield? No, he would not.
Jen put the popcorn down on the floor between them.
“Thanks, Mrs. Chun-Pagano.” Jen was relieved to see Laurel grab a handful of popcorn. “Who’s Holla123?”
“Our mortal enemy,” Abe said, mercifully stopping before providing a colorful explanation of why Holla123, homeschooled third grader, needed to be vanquished. “We will rain down terrors on him.”
“Okay then,” Laurel said.
“All right?” Jen said. “I guess I’ll go get some work done.” Since Laurel Perley had been coming over, Jen had finished the leatherback-turtle study and was halfway through the monarch butterflies. Her notes were organized, and all felt right with the world.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chun-Pagano,” Laurel said. “Abe, thank your mother.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
The vandal had been quiet, and as a consequence, so was the Scofield voice in Jen’s head. She shut the door behind them.
Walking back down the hall, Jen heard laughter. She smiled to herself, and the simplicity of it struck her: all it really took was a new friend.
People talked, before the body was found, about their friendship. Intense, was the consensus. Mercifully brief.
If anyone knows the exact nature of what happened between the two of them, no one’s talking about that.
We only know that it was unhealthy. A toxic combination that shouldn’t have been allowed.
Where were the parents? people whispered. How did they miss the red flags?
Obviously, they’ve forgotten how sneaky teenagers can be.