Beware That Girl (19 page)

Nothing.

When her father excused himself to prepare for Brazil, Olivia swept off to her room to “freshen up.”

She didn’t, though. She waited.

Mark wanted her. She was sure of it. She knew that look. Was she wrong? No. It was there. It was. She was always right about that kind of thing. But what if she was wrong? She felt nauseous.

Well, Olivia had wanted to
feel
things. Mark had done that. She’d known he would, and she was right about that. She’d been right about Kate too. And she was right about this. Sure, there would be blips, but Olivia knew what she was doing.

She checked again. She couldn’t appear too needy, too clingy, too
too.
That would be the kiss of death for someone like Mark.

But she
was
all those things. So she texted again.

Home safe & sound. Can’t wait to see you. What time?

Olivia stroked her arms. Waiting. There was a hopeful hopelessness about waiting. She smiled. Kate had got her through Samuel Beckett’s
Waiting for Godot.
But she really got it now. Waiting was a tragicomedy. There was this whole absurdist, endless, excruciating quality to it. We distract ourselves in a million different ways to delude ourselves into thinking that we’re not “waiting,” because waiting is unendurable. Waiting has demands. It percolates with fear and potential rejection, and threatens you with despair. That’s the “tragic” part that looms in the waiting, whether you’re on hold with Bloomingdale’s or waiting for your mother to die. There’s always a wisp of hope in the hopelessness—the attendant will come back on the line and have your order, or your mother will recover, or he will text you back. She sat on her bed. Where was the “comedy” part? She checked the phone and then lay down.

Olivia slowly ran her hands up and down her body. It had been easier before.
Everything has a price.
Waiting cost her now. Why didn’t he answer? In the cupboard of her new sensations, she felt like she was spinning in ever-tighter circles. She checked again.

“Olivia, I’m off, honey. The car’s here.”

She jumped off the bed, still clutching the phone, and went to her father. She, Bruce, Anka and, more shyly, Kate all bid him farewell.

“Hey, come on.” Kate motioned toward the living room. “I’ve poured you a glass of wine. You can debrief me on the odiousness of the Yardley clan while you show me the pictures.”

Kate was prepared with a hundred amusing Chinatown stories. Thank God for Kate.

“Hey, guess what? I saved the best for last. You are absolutely not going to believe it, but one of the times I was in Chinatown, I saw Serena
with
Mark Redkin
and
he had his arm around her! What did I tell you? He casts a wide, wide net, that boy.”

The room spun. Serena? Olivia’s head filled so quickly she felt as if it would explode. “Really?” she managed. “
Our
Serena?”

Olivia was certain she’d responded in the appropriate tone. Surely she’d gasped or giggled—after all, she had years of practice under her belt. Years of pretending. She swallowed an Ativan with her wine. She knew that Kate was watching her; she felt it. They looked at pictures and laughed about the Yardley girls, but she did so under an Ativan blanket. Later, when it was safe and Olivia didn’t have to pretend anymore, she drifted off to the windows. It was dark and the lights of the city did their trick. And then, after she’d been home for hours, she finally felt her phone vibrate. She inhaled sharply, braced herself and then glanced at the screen.

Not tonight. Don’t text ever. Not safe.

Olivia clutched the phone to her. She knew there would be blips.

Kruger was glowing. It was the same stupid glow that had been radiating off Draper for months. Kruger, however, was married. I kind of got the thrill of flirting, but…

The possibility filled me with a tar-filled dread. Kruger knew
everything
—my whole sorry, sick mess.

Who else had he ensnared? Draper and Serena, for sure. Serena was getting weirder by the minute. The guy was all over the map on the age range. Redkin was going for power, information and amusement. What a trifecta. Maybe it would keep him too busy for Olivia. I had to keep her as clear as possible. Let’s face it—she was my meal ticket and the roof over my head. I didn’t much care who he had seduced before. Didn’t pay close attention, wasn’t alert enough. But now, as I examined Kruger, it became clear that his playground was dangerously close to mine.

He had my full attention.

I felt bad about Serena, but I swallowed it. Pity was a sign of weakness.

I faced my counselor. Kruger looked good. She wore a killer silk blouse. Oscar de la Renta, this season. She’d definitely upped her fashion game.

“What a beautiful scarf, Kate. Was it a gift?”

I stroked the scarf, which lay on top of my coat. “Olivia.” I’d worn it to school today for a reason. Everybody noticed, and Olivia loved that everybody noticed. She carried her fuchsia Chloé bag today. Everybody noticed, and I too loved that everybody noticed.

Dr. Kruger and I rolled through the holidays, chatting about Christmas, the gifts, the schoolwork and how I was coping with all the “adjustments” thrown at me this year. That smelled like it was going to be the topic du jour.

“Hey, it’s me. I thrive on
adjustments.
And let’s face it,
adjusting
to living in a penthouse with your best friend is pretty sweet.”

Kruger didn’t look impressed. She should have. It was an impressive assurance. Instead, she was flipping through pages in the red file.

“And the memories, Kate? The flashbacks?”

Oh. We hadn’t danced to this song in quite a while. I shrugged, which was stupid. It’s what bored, defensive teens do in TV shows when they’re being confronted with something uncomfortable. I knew better.
Get your gear on, Katie.

“In control,” I finally said. “I mean,
under
control. Totally.”

Kruger clasped her hands and leaned forward. Her nails were freshly manicured. Not her regular OPI Samoan Sand, but a pale gray-blue shade. A youthful look?
Trying too hard, Dr. Kruger. Bad move. He’ll smell it.

“Kate, we both know that there are triggers: exhaustion, loneliness, stress…”

“Well, yeah, sure, and I think we’d both have to admit that I’ve managed those triggers well. Not least by landing in my current situation.”

“Yes, Kate.” She smiled and leaned forward even more. “But stressors come out of nowhere. As a clinical psychologist I can’t prescribe, but should you ever find yourself in need of medication, well, I know the appropriate—”

“No drugs.” I thought of Olivia. Every so often I’d catch her off guard and watch her float around, detached from the world in front of her. Maybe less so lately, but it was still there. “Not interested. Not necessary.”

“Kate, your father’s—”

“Yes, my father. Glad you brought that up. I think I’m going to change the focus of my exit thesis from students to dear old dad. I mean, not him, but his issue—whatever it was. Kind of a forensic exercise look-back. It might help me, you know. That cathartic thing.” I knew she’d lap that up.

Dr. Kruger raised both eyebrows. “That’s an excellent focus, Kate. And it’s one that could indeed aid you in moving forward.” She turned to her bookshelf.

The bookshelf. I’d been staring at Kruger’s back wall for months—her books, the locked file cabinet, her pathetic knickknacks—and it never clicked until now. There it was, perched on three books lying horizontally on the very top shelf: the golden cup with the intricate Middle Eastern design. I’d even seen her drop her office keys into that little cup once before, and only now did it dawn on me that it must be where the key to the cabinet also lived.
Got ya!
I just needed the time alone.

Dr. Kruger reached for her copy of the DSM-5. “I feel positive about your interest in coming to terms with it.” She handed the book over to me. “I’m afraid you’ll have less than half an hour tonight, though, because I have to go soon and there’s only Mr. Redkin in the office. And I believe he also has a meeting to attend to shortly.”

I’ll just bet he does.

“That’s cool. I’ve already tried to look through it, and the DSM is kind of confusing on the topic of what I’m thinking his, um, issue was. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just use Miss Shwepper’s computer and print off my gut hunch to start. I’ll still keep borrowing both the printer and the DSM-5 in the next few weeks after school as I burrow in deeper.”

She placed the book back on the shelves, right under the golden bowl.

“I promise not to abuse the privilege.”

“Of course!” She logged off the computer. “I trust you completely.”

What a fool, and in so many ways.

I gathered up my things. “Thank you, Dr. Kruger, that means a lot to me.”

I had barely got to the website when I heard Mark open his office door. I did not turn around.

“Glad to have you back and researching, Kate. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

It was said with a lightness, just the right tone, and yet it was as if a steel claw had gripped the base of my spine. I knew that feeling. I knew to respect that feeling.

“Thank you,
sir.
”

He sighed and returned to his office. I continued scrolling. There were some decent sites about Sociopaths, but it’s a pretty controversial label and diagnosis. Shrinks seem to argue about it all over the place. Still, there were some okay sites including one that had an excellent “Profile of the Sociopath,” which talked about superficial charm, manipulation, pathological lying and lack of remorse. But I wanted the official one, and the mother ship was the National Institute of Mental Health. There! I printed the relevant page and got bundled up to go, but I didn’t turn off the computer. It would look as if I’d forgotten. Redkin would check before he turned it off. He would for sure search my history and then…bam! It would give him pause. Hey, I’ve seen this movie, had a starring role. It was why I reacted to him the way I did. My body remembered, but I didn’t pay enough attention. Mark Redkin was a familiar species. Yeah, they were different in a hundred ways—education and polish, no substance abuse—but there was enough the same for me to pin him. Mark Redkin hid it better, but I’d bet my life on it. He was just like my old man.

ABOUT ANTISOCIAL PERSONALITY DISORDER

Antisocial personality disorder is defined by the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition (DSM-IV) as “…a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood.” People with antisocial personality disorder may disregard social norms and laws, repeatedly lie, place others at risk for their own benefit, and demonstrate a profound lack of remorse. It is sometimes referred to as sociopathic personality disorder, or sociopathy. NIMH—National Institute of Mental Health

I collected the printout, tucked it into my backpack, and headed for the door. I did not exit the site. My heart was pounding way too fast. What was I doing? I should turn it off. I glanced back at the computer. No. Redkin needed to know that I knew. He needed to know to keep away.

Something was coming, but I didn’t know how to duck and cover. Cover from what? I couldn’t decipher the most credible threat. There were so many potential yet vague launching pads.

I was pretty solid on the home front, even though Olivia had weirded out when I told her I was going to continue to work at the market. She seemed to take it personally. It is absolutely impossible to talk to the rich about some stuff—like not being rich, for example. I might as well have been addressing Bruce.

“Why? What for? What do you need? Just tell me. You’re not paying room or board, you’ve got that stipend thingy
and
you’re still working in the stupid office every morning. I mean, whoa already! We can’t even walk to school together as it is.”