The chaperone, p.28
The Chaperone, page 28
A few of the people standing nearby laugh, and one man I don’t know raises his eyebrows. Zoey’s rebuke of the older guys in the mall pops into my head. The thought of Zoey helps me focus, reminding me there’s a world outside this buttoned-up formality and outrageous decadence. A world I’d almost forgotten. I need to remember that world. I need to remember why I’ve chosen to be here. To play my part.
“That’s sweet of you to say, Aunt Rach, but you’ve got a lovely behind yourself.” I tilt my head and peek at her butt, which, in truth, is perfectly shaped.
She contorts her neck as if she can see her own backside. I take the opportunity to pull out of her grasp, nearly running right into Douglas Jones, a cousin of Dad’s who works with him at Corvette.
“Hello there, young lady. Or should I say congratulations?”
“Thank you.” The words are barely out of my mouth when his wife spins around and clutches his arm.
“Oh, Stella. It’s just you.”
Who else she was expecting to find at my graduation party?
Mr. Jones ignores his wife. “Well, young lady. What are your plans? Heading off to college in the fall?”
“No, sir.”
The corners of Mrs. Jones’s mouth drop. “Oh, that’s a shame.” I wonder if she knows how rare it is for girls here to go to college. Bonita and Liv still haven’t heard about their applications, but Mateo found out he got in everywhere he applied back in April. I still don’t know one single girl in New America who’s gone to college.
“Did your daughter go?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Mrs. Jones takes a quick sip of her champagne. “She got married.”
Mr. Jones furrows his brow at his wife before turning back to me. “Planning a wedding then? Your father claims you have a suitor who’s been coming here for months.”
From his point of view, those are my two choices: go to college or get married. It’s time to start telling people the truth. “No, sir, I’m not getting married.”
“He didn’t propose?”
He assumes if I’m not getting married, it means no one proposed. He can’t even imagine I would turn down a proposal. I relish the idea of telling him the truth. “Oh, he told me he wanted to marry me.” I pause when the confused looks appear on their faces. “More than once.”
“He did?” Mrs. Jones’s surprise cannot be missed.
“Yes, he did.” They both stare, waiting for an explanation. “But I’m not interested in marriage.”
“You’re not?” Mr. Jones gapes at me like I’m covered in ants. The irritation in his voice tells me I’ve gone too far. Douglas Jones is almost as powerful as Dad, and I don’t need to push his buttons. I say what I have to say. What they told me to say. “If I marry, sir, I’d only be able to have so many children, but if I become a chaperone, I can help dozens of girls start down the path to motherhood. I feel like that’s the best way for me to help make New America stronger.” Now that I’ve said it out loud, I’ll have to tell Mom and Dad too.
Mr. Jones holds my eye. Can he see through me? I brace myself for an interrogation that never comes.
“I see.” He breaks away from me to look at his wife, whose mouth is twisted in disapproval. He shakes his head at her just once, making her scowl disappear, before turning back to me. “A noble choice, Stella. And not one many girls of your, well, of your upbringing would choose. I have to say I admire you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I genuinely appreciate it.”
It’s not a lie.
I do appreciate how easily I’ve fooled him.
* * *
A half hour later I’m done.
Just done.
I’ve had enough. Enough small talk. Enough answering questions about my future. Enough of being sized up. I sneak up the stairs without Mom noticing. I almost have the door of my room shut when I hear her. “Stella Ann Graham, you still have guests. Get back downstairs.” I open the door and come face-to-face with my mother’s pout. “Please.”
Give obedience.
I decide my best bet is to keep moving. I float from one group to another, picking up salmon bites and cheese puffs as I go. It works. I move from the living room through the dining room and to the kitchen without getting cornered again. Eventually I make my way outside where more guests await. The fountain is gurgling, and tiny string lights crisscross the courtyard.
Even I have to admit it’s stunning.
If only I cared. If only I didn’t want to be anywhere else. If only I had a place to hide.
That’s when I see my out.
The garage.
CHAPTER 110
Dad is the one who usually hides in the garage. Strange since he’s never been one of those fix-it kind of dads. Still, he spends most weekends and some evenings here. It’s where he was when Sister Helen died.
Three cars sit in front of Dad’s workshop: a navy Corvette Roanoke, a black Corvette Wilderness SUV, and Dad’s prized possession: a 1963 red Corvette Stingray convertible. The kind of car spies drive in the movies.
Even though in real life, they drive beat-up old Mercedes.
It’s a rare occasion when Dad takes the Stingray out for a spin. Almost no one in New America drives a flashy car. Dad keeps his hidden away, only taking it out early in the morning or late at night.
I stroll over to the Stingray and run my hand over the rough texture of the canvas cover. What it’s like to sit behind the wheel? I can’t wait to drive again at the conservatory. In real America, I fell in love with acceleration, the feeling I could escape simply by pushing my foot to the floor. I’ve only seen Mom drive once. The time she picked up Dad after he had too much to drink at the Corvette track.
I long to get behind the wheel, feel the leather against my back. It’s my graduation party after all. I want something more memorable than the birdcage full of checks waiting for me inside.
I pull on the cover, but it doesn’t fly away like I imagined. I have to yank on each corner to get it off. The red paint is so bright it hurts my eyes. Once the car is free, I relax into the driver’s seat like I belong there. Dad would kill me, but he’s too distracted by all the bigwigs in our living room to care. I lift my hand to the ignition and let out a little yelp of surprise when I feel the keys hanging there.
If my life were a movie, I’d turn the key, back out of the garage, and drive into the sunset. But this isn’t a movie. And I’m not going anywhere. Not yet anyway.
I pull the keys out of the ignition and examine them. Could I get them copied? There are three different keys on the keychain. Two of them—an oval one and a rectangular one—have the letters “GM” embossed on their silver surface, but the gold key doesn’t say anything. It’s not a house key. It’s smaller. Probably for a lock, not a door.
That’s when I lift my face and notice what’s right in front of me.
Dad’s shop.
My gaze moves along the wall until I get to the padlock that’s been hanging on the door in the corner as long as I’ve been alive.
I look at the small gold key in my hand.
It’s the key to Dad’s shop.
CHAPTER 111
I’m inside before I know what I’m doing, gently pushing the door behind me as if someone might hear. Why am I in here? What do I think I’m going to find? The truth is, I know exactly why I’m here. They trained me to do this. To investigate. To look for things. To find out everything I can about Dad.
Never in my life have I been inside Dad’s shop. He doesn’t ever leave it unlocked, nor does he invite us in. It’s his private space. Even more private than his office.
It isn’t what I expect. There are no tools. No beer fridge.
There’s a narrow Formica table sitting against the outside wall with bottles and jars along the back of it. A small wood desk sits at the far end of the space, but it holds only papers and a massive smart screen. Nothing that could be used to build things or do repairs.
I go right to the desk and start flipping through the papers. I pause when I see the word resistance.
Dad knows about the resistance? The Minutemen know about us?
I keep flipping, but there’s too much to read in just a few minutes. Soon someone will come looking for me. I have to get back to the party. I can investigate more another time. Now that I know where he hides the key.
I glance at the smart screen. What would Dad’s password be? It won’t be as easy to guess as Mom’s. I’ll have to try to figure out before I come back. Why is this happening now? Only a week before I move out?
I’ll be home on weekends. There will be time.
I move away from the smart screen. That’s when I see them. The glass jars sitting along the back of the table. I hadn’t processed how out of place they are. They look like they belong inside a medicine cabinet with cotton balls or Q-tips in them. I pick one up and inspect it. It has white coffee filters inside.
Coffee filters?
Why would Dad have coffee filters in the garage?
I reach for another jar. This one has a clear liquid inside with a powerful smell. Some kind of rubbing alcohol. The kind they use in doctor’s offices and hospitals. The next has a tiny bit of white powder on the bottom. Like confectioner’s sugar but with no scent.
Should I taste it?
I need to get back before people notice I’m gone.
My eyes move down the row of jars and stop at the last one. It looks like there are brown bugs in it. I move to the end of the table. When I lift the jar to my face, I can’t see them clearly through the glass. I unscrew the lid and peer inside. They’re not bugs.
They’re beans.
Brown and gray beans.
Have you ever seen any funny-looking beans around the house? Maybe in the kitchen. Maybe somewhere you wouldn’t expect. Castor beans. They’re brown and gray.
My entire body goes cold. It’s like I’ve been dipped in a bathtub full of ice. I see it all over again.
Sister Helen on the floor.
Clutching her throat.
Taking her last breath.
A shiver goes through me that shakes my entire body.
I gaze into the jar again. Are they really the same kind of beans…?
But that would mean… But how could…?
Unless…
Unless it was him…
Unless it was Dad who…
Unless he was the one who killed Sister Helen.
* * *
I try to screw the lid back on, but my hands shake too much.
That’s when I hear the door to the garage creak open. Is it Dad? What will he do if he finds me?
I try to close the lid again, but the beans cascade out of the jar, clattering to the table like firecrackers.
“Hello?” a muffled voice calls from the other side of the wall.
I look around the small space, searching for an escape, but there’s no way out and nowhere to hide. Another creak and then the door clicks shut. After that it’s dead quiet. I stand frozen in place and wait.
Just when I think the person might have left, I hear a squeak. And then another. Someone is walking across the garage. It’s not Dad. He doesn’t wear shoes that squeak. Dad wears shoes that tap-tap-tap on the floor.
I inch to the door of the workshop, barely cracking it open. My eyes roam over the space. No one is here. I start to push the door all the way open when a person steps in front of it, his back to the door. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
He’s so close I can make out the individual white-blond hairs on the back of his head.
Joseph.
I hold my breath, but he doesn’t seem to be listening as much as looking. His face swivels. He moves forward, tilting his head in between the cars as he slowly travels the length of the garage. At the Stingray, he studies the cover on the ground, rests his hand on the hood of the car, as if checking for a heartbeat.
Then, without warning, he spins around, dropping his hand to the gun at this hip. I pull back from the door, praying he doesn’t see me.
Please please please don’t let him see me.
“Who’s there?” His voice echoes through the quiet. “Stella? Is that you?”
My instinct is to pull the door shut and lock it—there’s a latch on the inside—but I can’t risk it. The blood rushing through my ears is so loud I’m not sure I’ll hear his footsteps if he moves again.
What is he doing?
I hear another squeak. And then another. He’s coming toward me.
The squeaking stops on the other side of the door. He’s right in front of me. He’s going to open the door. He’s going to find me.
“Stella,” he says through the door. “I want to apologize—”
He stops midsentence.
“Mr. Graham? Is that you? I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were Stella.”
I don’t say anything, and he continues.
“I’ll get out of your way, sir.”
His shoes squeak again, this time moving away from me. The door creaks open. Another creak and then the door clicks shut.
He’s gone.
I’m safe.
I look over my shoulder. Beans lay scattered across the table and the floor.
Until Dad finds out who I really am.
CHAPTER 112
When I step back inside the house, Dad is at my side.
Does he know what I found?
“Stella,” he hisses in my ear. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?”
My eyes land on Joseph. He’s staring at me from across the dining table. Did Joseph tell him someone was in the garage?
Dad goes on. “We need to do the toast, Stella. People are starting to leave.”
He doesn’t know.
“The toast? What toast?”
“To your engagement, of course.”
My engagement? What is he talking about? “But—”
He leans closer, cutting me off before I can finish. “Don’t start, Stella.” The smell of hospital crossed with aftershave hits me as he talks. Now I know where it comes from. The rubbing alcohol.
An artificial smile covers his face, but his head shakes the tiniest bit. He isn’t budging. He’s making me do this.
Waiters offer trays of champagne to the guests. A glass is put in my hand.
Mom walks up and passes Dad a flute of champagne. “We’re ready, Mitchell.” Dad leans down and whispers something in Mom’s ears that makes her blush. She turns to look at him, and their eyes connect for the briefest second. I flash back to Rose’s words. He worships her.
Dad breaks away from Mom and picks up a spoon from the table, clinking it against his flute. He doesn’t say anything to quiet them. He doesn’t have to. His mere presence commands obedience. Dad always gets what he wants.
But I can’t let that happen this time.
Dad clears his throat. “I want to thank you all for joining us on such a special day.”
Joseph offers me a satisfied smile and moves around the table until he’s standing next to Mom. That’s when I see the small turquoise box in his right hand. The ring box. The same one he had when he first tried to propose.
I have to do something. I have to stop this.
“It’s been a long time since she first started kindergarten, but the day has finally come when our eldest daughter has finished her education.”
Finished her education. He sounds so certain. So smug.
One person starts to clap, and the entire room breaks into applause. The two men standing on either side of Dad give him long handshakes. Are they Minutemen too? Are they all Minutemen? When the noise dies down, Dad turns to me with a smile.
“Stella Ann, I am so very proud of you.” My mother is standing by his side, but he doesn’t mention her, as if her role in my upbringing isn’t worth a side note. “I also have some news to share.”
If I don’t stop him now, it will be too late.
“It’s actually wonderful news.” Dad turns to Mom, doing the bare minimum to acknowledge her presence. “Mary Beth and I want to announce that Stella is going to—”
I jump in before he finishes. “There’s nothing to announce, Dad.”
Dad cuts me a look that says he could kill me. I shouldn’t be speaking at all. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Especially when he’s got the floor. I ignore his glower and continue before he stops me.
“What I mean is there’s no need for a big announcement. Enrolling in the chaperone conservatory is an honor, not an accomplishment.” Several people gasp out loud. Joseph tries to step forward, but Mom puts her arm across him like a child, holding him back. I keep going. “Besides you already congratulated me—”
I turn so I’m looking directly at Dad. But he’s studying the guests, evaluating their responses. I wait until he turns back to me.
When his eyes finally meet mine, I go on. “In the garage.”
The tiniest bit of concern flickers across his eyes.
“When we were in your workshop.”
His mouth closes, his smile creasing into a straight line.
“Remember?” He doesn’t say anything—he’s actually speechless—so I ask again. “You do remember, don’t you, Dad?”
His eyes never leave mine, but the joy that was there a few minutes ago has vanished. His pupils are completely flat. I’ve crossed a line I’ve never crossed before. This will change things between us. I can never undo it. It’s not the way I want things to go, but I have no choice. I came back to be a chaperone, and that’s what I’m going to do.
No matter the cost.
He holds my gaze another second before turning away from me and back to his audience. “That’s true, Stella.” An artificial grin returns to his face. “I did congratulate you already.” He closes his mouth and pauses an index finger over his lips. “And you know what?”
I have no idea what he’s going to say.
“You are absolutely right. It is an honor to attend the conservatory. Not because of anything you have accomplished but because of the accomplishments of the men who built our great society.”
