“I know the vultures are circling,” she said. “But if you can slip out the back after nightfall, I’ll meet you close by.”
I agreed.
Maureen said to expect the article in two days. That didn’t keep me from sneaking out the next evening to grab a copy. I almost got caught by an enterprising young reporter who shone a flashlight my way, but I was already over the neighbors’ fence.
Most of the media left at sundown, which was also when Mom’s church friends came by to drop off casseroles and cookies. She insisted they were all on my side, but I knew that wouldn’t be completely true. While Mom attended a progressive church, there would still be whispering, and I hated that she had to go through it. I hated that she had to go through any of it. With any luck, theGazettearticle would make a difference.
I snuck out to get the paper on the proper day, and I caught a glimpse of my name on the front page. Resisting the urge to read it, I raced home and slipped through the back door, tiptoeing past where Mom was talking to Father Collins in the kitchen.
Normally, I’d pop in to say hello. I liked Father Collins. When Mom drove me home from New York after the scandal, I’d asked to stop for confession first. He’d taken mine, and I had felt seen and not judged, and that was what I needed. Right now, though, what I needed was to read this newspaper.
When a floorboard creaked, Mom called, “Lucy?”
I hid the paper behind my back and leaned around the doorway. “Hey, Father. Good to see you.”
“And good to see you,” he said, his lined face softening in a genuine smile. “How are you holding up, Lucy?”
“I’m managing.”
“I’m sure you are. You’re like your mother. Made of sterner stuff.”
Oh, I wish that were true, Father. I really do.
“If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me,” he continued. “But I’m sure this will all be over soon, and you’ll be back to Juilliard.”
“I hope so.”
“You will,” he said, with Mom echoing his nod.
People talk about faith as a religious concept, but it was more than that. Sometimes, that sort of faith bubbled over into a general faith that the world would behave in ways that were good and fair and just. Mom had that faith, and she held fast to it, no matter how hard it was tested, first through Dad’s death and now this. She believed, like Father Collins, that everything would be fine in the end. She needed it to be.
I retreated to my room and closed the door. Then I picked up Chopin, hugging him as I unfolded the paper. The first thing I saw was Maureen’s photo, which made me smile. She looked open and earnest, and when we’d met for the interview, I’d instinctively known I’d made the right choice.
Her byline read “special to theGazette.” That gave me pause. I thought that was used when the writer wasn’t staff, which Maureen said she was. It must just mean that the article was an exclusive.
The headline was a simple “Lucy Callahan Tells Her Story,” so I zoomed past that, and started to read.
Lucy Callahan is not what I expect. I’m standing on this dimly lit corner in Albany, feeling like a john waiting for his underage “date.” That’s what I expect. Callahan will be gorgeous and sexy, a teenage Lolita. Instead, my first thought seeing her is “She’s barely even pretty.” Red hair. Unremarkable pale face. Skinny. I should say “slender” or “lithe,” but she’s just skinny.
This was the girl Colt Gordon endangered his career for? I’m thinking the movie star is in need of glasses. Then she starts to talk, and that’s when I understand. For all her homeliness, there is a feral quality to Lucy Callahan. This is a girl accustomed to getting what she wants, a girl who got into Juilliard despite, as one fellow student said, her mediocre talents. This is also the girl who seduced Colt Gordon and now blames him for it. Blames Colt. Blames “too much champagne.” Blames everyone but herself.
I slid to my knees, hands pressed to my mouth, still seeing the words before me, as if dancing in the air.
What have I done?
Oh, God, what have I done?
Karla warned me, and somehow, I thought I understood journalists better than a celebrity manager.
I forced myself back onto the bed, and I read it to the bitter end, and bitter it was, the portrait of a girl who was ugly inside and out, a stupid, thoughtless slut who seduced Colt Gordon and blamed everyone else.
Again, I heard my mother’s voice, saying this wasn’t right, and there had to be a law against the lies this woman spewed about me, the way she’d twisted my words, every quote taken out of context.
Unlike my mother’s voice, mine took on a whine, the perfect tone for the girl in the article.
It’s not fair.
Why is this happening to me?
