I nodded. I felt my eyes well up. I was overwhelmed by confusion; I had heard it several times, I was sure of it. But why would she do it? None of it made sense. Libby moved to the stool next to mine and draped one arm around my shoulder. “Listen,” she said. “You’ve had a rough couple of weeks. The stress of school, the thing that happened the other day . . . it’s no wonder you’re giving everything a negative spin. I minored in psychology, you know. And it seems to me like you’re interpreting things wrongly. Hearing what you want to hear.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I felt too weak and confused to argue. Maybe she was right. If there was one thing I believed, it was that the mind could play tricks on you if you let it.
“Now stop trying to change the subject,” she said with a wry laugh. “Are you a virgin or aren’t you?” I didn’t know how to respond. The whole thing felt so weird.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about that,” I stammered. Libby’s jaw tightened.
“No secrets,” she told me. “I’m asking for a reason, you know.” Thinking back to the garage and how she’d stuck up for me to Walker, I decided she was right. No secrets. Even if I couldn’t possibly imagine what her “reasons” were for wanting to know such a thing.
“I’m not technically a virgin, but I think of myself as one,” I admitted finally. Now Libby’s laugh was more like a bark, loud and raucous.
“Don’t we all,” she said. “Or at least that’s what we try to tell ourselves when we’re your age.”
“It’s just that it was only one time,” I started—but Libby was already thumbing through a magazine, apparently disinterested now that I’d given her my answer.
“There was more,” I admitted finally, grasping for things that might please her.
“More?”
“Owen. He said some other things. He said his mom had tried to reach out to you and you hadn’t been that friendly.”
Libby took this in, her jaw stiffening and then relaxing rhythmically, as though she were clenching it tightly over and over.
“Well,” she said finally. “I guess I’ve been a little distracted, what with trying to build my business out here and having Jackson and all.”
“That’s just what I told him,” I said. “I don’t even know why he mentioned it, it’s ridiculous. His mom’s probably just a busybody or something.”
“I’m sure she’s perfectly nice. I suppose I’ll have to make more of an effort to reach out to the neighbors.”
“Libby, I—”
“No, no,” she said, silencing me. “There’s probably some truth to what she said. I haven’t made enough time for making friends, and it would probably do me some good. I’ll swing by their place today. Or, I know! I’ll invite them over for dinner. Would you like that?”
“I don’t know. I was pretty rude after he told me that.”
“There’s always time for an apology. And I appreciate you defending me. Remember, we’re on each other’s sides.”
“Thanks.” I smiled up at her. Libby really was amazing, and incredibly kind. A little quirky from time to time, that was all. Besides, who was I to judge what was normal and what wasn’t? I’d never had a reliable barometer for social graces. Maybe asking about my virginity was totally normal and noninvasive in Libby’s world. It really was a whole different culture, this sphere of wealth and good breeding. I was just a visitor, and she had welcomed me. I had no right to be critical. I didn’t deserve her.
“Why don’t you take the day off to rest?” she continued, unaware of what I’d been thinking. “It seems like maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe I’m pushing you too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I protested.
“I insist.”
“But what about Zoe?”
Libby glanced at Zoe in surprise, as though she’d forgotten about her. “Hmm.” She tapped one finger against the countertop, deliberating. “I’ll drop her at her father’s office. It’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let—”
“It’ll be fine,” she cut in, more sharply this time. “He’s her father, after all. Surely he can spend a day looking after her.”
“I’m going to Daddy’s?” Zoe asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.
“Yes. Now finish your food and go get your shoes.”
“I’ll drive her, I don’t mind,” I told Libby. “You’ve already taken up a half hour just talking to me. I don’t want you to
waste half your day.” I’d driven the car already a couple of times to campus, and I relished the feel of being behind the wheel.
“That would be great. I’ll just plug his address into the GPS.”
I put together a bag of books and toys for Zoe and packed her a lunch. I was so excited about driving Libby’s brand-new BMW around the city that I didn’t notice until after the fact that Libby hadn’t kissed Zoe goodbye. But Zoe hadn’t noticed either, thankfully—she was so excited by the prospect of spending the day with her dad, it seemed, that she’d temporarily forgotten about her mom. It was pretty obvious that Zoe favored her father, but that was normal for kids that age—the dad, rarely home, was the novelty. And Libby had her hands full with the baby. It was all completely healthy.
After I dropped Zoe off at her father’s architectural firm, I drove aimlessly through the city for a long time, following signs for the Marina District. The weather was gorgeous for fall. The marina was picturesque. People my age were tossing Frisbees and footballs in Tshirts and cutoffs by the shoreline, laughing and sneaking booze from their backpacks. San Francisco was a sleepy little town, as far as I could tell. It was so different from what I’d left in Detroit. I sighed. It was going to take a while for me to make friends . . . but I told myself I may as well start close to home. I knew I had to apologize to Owen; I just hadn’t quite figured out how. I thought it over for hours as I drove. I passed cable cars snaking through the streets and roadside musicians playing everything from the accordion to the saxophone to the kazoo. I drove aimlessly through Union Square, past Saks Fifth Avenue. I wanted to get lost in the city.
I drove through Chinatown, where short, crowded buildings jammed up against each other, each storefront displaying its wares prominently through windows and on little stands outside. I made a giant zigzag up Lombard Street, laughing because I’d seen it in pictures but had never dreamed of seeing it in person. I drove past the Alemany flea market, where dozens of vendors had set up stands under tents to ward off the heat wave.
I went to the Haight, a colorful little community that I immediately loved. Its houses were vivid pinks and blues and reds and greens, with elaborate trims on the houses. They reminded me of enormous, Faberge eggs. The alleyways and storefronts there were covered in graffiti, the kind that looks like art rather than vandalism. The Haight was my favorite part of San Francisco up to that point. I could have driven around for many more hours than I did—even stopped off and wandered by foot—but finally the threat of Libby’s suspicion was enough to keep me going, taking all the right turns back toward Belvedere Island, which had begun to feel a little bit like a stifling prison because of all the hours I spent working there.
sEvERAL dAys LATER, I was still mulling away. I hadn’t seen Owen, thank god; I didn’t want to see him before I’d devised a plan. Something that would show him how sincere I really was. I only had one more day to mull; he and his parents were coming over for dinner on Friday night. Problem was, I couldn’t focus. The damned door, or lack thereof, was like a gaping hole that taunted me. It made me feel exposed. It took me back to places I didn’t want to be. Every time I closed my eyes, there they were: the images I couldn’t get rid of.
Someone stumbles outside my doorway; my St. Christopher medal falls from my wardrobe to the floor.
My mother passed out in her room. Her loud snoring filling the trailer.
Dean’s hot, sweaty breath against my neck.
Panic.
I’d tried everything. I’d gotten rid of my bulky wardrobe, put a lock on my door. But it didn’t matter; none of it mattered. The day I put in the first lock, it was gone again by the time I got home from school. “What are you hiding, Annie?” That’s what my mother had said. “You doing drugs now? What are you keeping from me?” “No lock,” he’d said. “It’s the only way you raise a teenager.”
This room, in my head, in the dark of night when I couldn’t see anything and it could have been anywhere, was turning into that room. I hoped it wouldn’t be much longer. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t do anything but lie awake and pray for that door and its sturdy metal bolt to come back. I was so, so afraid. I hadn’t wanted to admit how leaving might affect me, how maybe I couldn’t leave my demons behind me after all. And during the day, I could pretend—but at night there was no hiding.
I must have lain there for at least an hour, drifting in and
out of a troubled sleep, before I heard the first cry. It was the kind of sob you hope a child will never experience—deep and hopeless. The kind I didn’t even know a child was capable of until then. But it was undoubtedly Zoe. I lay still, waiting for her mother to run to her—Walker was away for a few days on business, so it would have to be Libby that went to her daughter. I flipped on my bedside lamp and looked at the antique wall-clock that I’d slowly gotten used to. It was the vintage sort of thing, large and brassy, that ticked the time away second by second. It read four thirteen A.M.
Zoe’s shrieks became louder, and I realized she wasn’t caught in a dream anymore; she sounded fully awake and lucid. My heart began to pound as I wondered where Libby was. Wondered if it was overstepping my boundaries to go to the little girl in place of her mother. Finally, my fear that something was happening to her won out. They weren’t cries of alarm or terror, but I couldn’t stand to hear her sobbing for another second. It was possible, I reasoned, that Libby couldn’t hear Zoe from the floor below. But then why put a little girl all the way over here? Had she been crying like this all alone at night before I showed up? I couldn’t stop the thought, even with its glimmer of betrayal.
I stood up and pulled on my robe, switching the light off behind me as I padded down the hall toward Zoe’s suite. Her cries got louder and higher-pitched the closer I got, afflicting me with sharp bursts of fear so strong that I had to will my feet to move closer to the room rather than flee. By the time I reached her door, she’d already risen from bed. Her tiny form looked like a specter’s in the moonlit glow of her window, her wild curls askew and floating over her tiny, shaking shoulders; her nightgown floor-length and ghostly pale.
“Zoe, sweetheart?” I whispered. She flung her arms around me in response and buried her hot, sodden face in my shoulder.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
She couldn’t tell me for several long minutes. She was so distraught that she’d worked herself into a frenzy, hyperventilating and choking on her heavy, grief-laden sobs.
“What is it, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?” Zoe nodded yes.
“About Mommy,” she finally said.
“Oh no, baby, what happened to Mommy?”
“Mommy went away,” Zoe told me, her sobs quieting to hiccups.
“No, Zoe. No, no. Just in your dream, do you understand?” I took Zoe’s face in her palms and looked into her eyes. “Mommy’s just downstairs. Do you want to go see her?” Zoe shook her head and wiped at her nose with her hand. She seemed to be calming down; her eyes looked brighter and more awake. I led her to the bathroom that adjoined her room and held a tissue to her nose. “Blow,” I instructed, and she blew with all her might. Then I wet a washcloth and toweled her face off, blotting away her tears. Zoe let out a big yawn when I was finished. She still looked a little upset, but sleep had begun to take its hold.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go down the hall and find Mommy?” I asked.
“No,” she said definitively. “Annie, not Mommy.” I drew a big breath, touched but also a little bothered that she preferred me. It’s just because I’m here, I told myself. Because I’m here and I’m a novelty. Little kids were always like that, latching on to new babysitters with the infatuation and curiosity of discovering a new friend. Zoe had my hand in hers; she tugged me toward her bed and reached her arms out wide. “Hold you,” she told me in a plaintive voice. So I crawled in next to her and smoothed her damp, matted curls until she moved her thumb sleepily into her mouth and fell back asleep.
My LIT CLAss wAs sMALL, only twelve students in all. We met twice a week on Thursdays for two hours and fortyfive minutes. It was a more intense study of literature than I’d expected. We followed the Socratic method, and everyone was required to engage in conversation about the texts. But I’d been falling behind on my reading already—I was finding it difficult to balance the job and school. I was determined to do it all, but I needed to create a better strategy.
The other problem came in the form of my classmates. Everyone in the class was a little goofy and out there, outspoken hippie types. But they were all brilliant, serious students. I felt way out of my league among them, and I stood out both for my silence and for my mainstream look, my good-girl clothes, and the fact that I hadn’t been to any of their symposium parties yet. I didn’t quite trust myself at a party after what had happened my first week. But these symposiums were supposed to be something else entirely—it was rumored that the liberal studies majors (I was one of only two double-major kids in the program), used their parties as an excuse to drink wine, burn term papers, and philosophize. They did old-school drugs like LSD. They stayed up all night reading to each other and inventing brilliant new ideas.
They were the weirdoes of SFSU. The weirdoes and the geniuses. They walked in a pack and no one touched them. I didn’t quite fit into their pack—I was way too conformist, way too normal. I didn’t like to stand out. But I didn’t quite fit in at the rest of the school, where almost everyone partied and hung out when they weren’t in class.
“Annie?” asked Professor Malone. “Did you have any thoughts about the reading?” I did have thoughts. I thought the five-hundred-page Russian novel we’d been assigned was way too long to read in two weeks and simultaneously reach any level of comprehension or insight.
“I’m fascinated by the character of Alexei,” I tried. “I couldn’t stop wondering whether he was a product of his faith or whether his conflict with his father informed it.” I’d gotten this from CliffsNotes and prayed Professor Malone wouldn’t notice. Out of my periphery, I saw at least one smirk from someone who probably also had read up on CliffsNotes.
“Yes,” agreed Professor Malone kindly. “The age-old nature versus nurture debate. Anyone care to comment on Annie’s insight?” No one said a word. A few of the smarter kids adopted expressions of undisguised derision. I wondered for the tenth time whether I should drop the class. That was the only comment I offered. I suffered the following two hours in silence, watching the minute hand tick by.
“Okay, that’s it,” Professor Malone announced finally. “A little something lighter for next week’s reading. Or at least shorter, thought notably complex, I think you’ll find. We’ll be starting our fem lit unit. It’s a big change from Russian lit, but Charlotte Perkins Gilman is one of my favorite female writers of the nineteenth century. I think you’ll find her work rewarding.” I sighed inwardly and gathered my things. I’d checked out The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories when the curriculum was first assigned, and I was beginning to think Professor Malone’s taste in feminist literature drastically differed from mine. I’d expected to read the standard Virginia Wolff and Anaïs Nin fare that had packed the sample syllabus I’d studied before signing up for this course. But at the last minute, they’d brought on Professor Malone, a new teacher who had her own vision of what constituted the very best feminist reading.
“I know, right?” A blonde, gum-chewing girl said as she caught up to me in the hallway. “I was totally not expecting this when I signed up for this course.”
“There’s still a week to drop it,” I told her unsympathetically. I’d pretty much put my need for friendship aside when I’d accepted that my college experience wasn’t going to be a typical college experience, due to my job. Also, I didn’t want to get my hopes up after what had happened with Morgan.
“I’m Trista,” she informed me, walking quickly to keep in step with me.
“Annie.”
“Where are you from?”
“Texas,” I lied.
“Oh yeah? I’m from San Antonio,” Trista said excitedly,
nearly dropping her Starbucks iced coffee in her enthusiasm. “I’m from outside of Dallas,” I hazarded, already regretting
my lie.
“That’s so great. Did you drive up? I did. Maybe we can
carpool over breaks.”
“I don’t know,” I told her as we reached the front of Hastings Hall. “I don’t see myself going home a lot.”
“Oh,” Trista said, obviously disappointed. “Well, what are
you doing now? Wanna go out for coffee or something?” “It looks like your engine’s still full,” I said unkindly, gesturing at her cup. Trista blushed.
“Sorry,” she said. “Am I being annoying? I don’t mean to be
annoying. I’m just nervous. I don’t know anyone here. And my
roommate’s awful. She doesn’t even shower. Maybe, like, once
a week, tops. And she sprays this really gross cologne to cover
it up, and I’m really having a hard time with it. I never had to
share a room before, and—”
“Hey, Trista,” I interrupted, “I’m really sorry, but I have to
get home. Back to the place I’m staying, I mean. I’m off-campus, and we’re kind of having a get together tonight, so . . .” “A party?” Trista asked eagerly.
“No, no, nothing like that. Just some people over for dinner.” I began to feel guilty as she gazed up at me hungrily. She
seemed like the kind of girl who had been pretty dorky but well-meaning in high school. The kind of girl who was totally oblivious to social cues, but who was so naive you couldn’t bear to squash her. I gritted my teeth. “Would you . . . want to come?” I asked. “I’ll have to check with the family I’m staying
with, but—”
“I’d love to!” she gushed. “That’s so great! Thanks for inviting me. I had no plans, and I don’t want to sit in on a Friday,
and, I mean, this is just great.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll be the only teenagers there.
And Owen. But it’s not going to be very exciting.”
“I don’t care at all. I’m just excited to hang out. Who’s
Owen?” This girl was too much. I revised my previous assessment: maybe she’d been homeschooled. I’d been a loner in
high school, but I had one thing Trista didn’t have—my pride. It
figured that the only other girl in the liberal studies concentration who stuck out like a sore thumb wanted to be my friend. But I’d heard her talk in class, I reminded myself as I typed
out a text to Libby, asking if she minded if Trista tagged along
for dinner. She was smart. Really smart. Her eager personality
fell away when she was talking about our reading, and she
became someone different, someone confident and articulate
and poised.
I didn’t hear back from Libby right away, so I made the
decision that it would be fine. Surely she wouldn’t care if I
brought back a potential friend from college.
“I’m heading back now, if you need a ride,” I told Trista.
She followed me into the parking lot and whistled as she clambered into the passenger seat of Libby’s BMW.
“Nice,” she said admiringly.
“It’s not mine,” I said. “My housemate just lets me borrow
it sometimes. I’m picking out my own car next month.” Next
month was when I’d finally have enough money. I couldn’t
keep borrowing Libby’s car, no matter how much she insisted
she didn’t mind. It just didn’t give me the freedom I needed—
I felt guilty taking it out for anything other than classes, and
eventually I wanted to start taking advantage of the city more.
Maybe on fall break, when things slowed down.
“Holy crap,” said Trista when we crossed the bridge to Belvedere Island. “You live here?” Trista had talked on and on for
most of the ride—about her family, her dog, her love for jazz
dance. I hadn’t had the chance to explain my situation. “I live here, but it’s free. Kind of,” I explained. “I mean, I
work for the family that lives here. I babysit when I’m not in
school.”
“You’re, like, a nanny?”
“Yeah, like a nanny.” I gritted my teeth, trying not to sound
irritated.
“Cool.” I could tell she was being falsely diplomatic. I
sighed despite myself.
It was only as I was pulling into the driveway that Libby
pinged back: “No,” the text read. That was it. I didn’t know
what to do. Zoe was already running out of the front door.
Trista opened her car door and stepped out before I had a
chance to say anything.
“Oh, hi there,” she said to Zoe delightedly. “Aren’t you cute
in that flowery dress?”
Libby appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed over her
chest. Her mouth was set in a grim line.
“Hey, Zo,” I said, getting out of the car. “One sec,” I told
Trista, walking quickly in Libby’s direction.
“Libby,” I started, “I only just got your text.”
“Why would you bring her back here without first waiting to hear from me?” Libby’s voice was loud. Loud enough to
carry. I glanced over my shoulder at Trista, who had straightened up, looking confused.
“I just thought you wouldn’t mind,” I said quietly. “Can
she stay? Please?” But Libby ignored me entirely. Instead, she
stepped around me and approached Trista.
“Hello,” Libby said, her voice cloying. “I’m Libby. I’m so
sorry, but Annie didn’t tell me to expect any visitors. And she’s
on the job now. I’m afraid there’s been a miscommunication.”
I watched, my cheeks burning. I was mortified. As annoying
as Trista was, she was the only person who had bothered to
pursue a real conversation with me since the night of the party.
She was sweet, if overeager.
“Oh,” Trista stammered. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be on my way. If
Annie could just give me a lift back to campus . . .” “That’s impossible,” Libby interrupted. “I’ll call you a car.
Annie is on the job. She needs to look after my daughter now.
And she’ll have to help me with dinner.” Trista nodded as if she
understood, but I could read the confusion in her eyes as Libby
turned toward the house and marched past me without a word. “Listen,” I began.
“Don’t worry about it.” Trista’s voice was wooden. “You’d
better go inside.”
“Don’t you want to wait inside for the cab?”
“I’m fine out here,” Trista said from where she’d perched on
the brick steps that led to the front stoop.
“Then why don’t I wait with you?”
“Annie,” Trista’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “You
heard her. She wants you to work right now.”
“Yeah.” I stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before
Trista spoke up again.
“You know it’s going to cost me at least thirty bucks to get
back to campus,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I’ll give you the money.”
“Don’t bother.”
And so I turned and walked inside with Zoe at my heels,
shutting Trista—and my embarrassment—out of the house. “Why would you do that?” Libby hissed her words as I
entered the kitchen. She was busy pulling foil-covered platters
from two large paper bags with a “Vic’s Catering” logo on them.
She unwrapped each carefully and placed as many in the oven
as the oven could hold. But there was a certain rigidity to her
shoulders, a stiffness in the way she carried herself. “I just thought . . . you’re always encouraging me to make
friends,” I stammered.
“Let me be clear about something,” Libby said. “This is
not your house. You may not invite people here without first
checking, particularly not to a dinner I’m preparing. Maybe I’ve blurred the lines a little too much, Nanny. You’re our staff. I
don’t know what you were thinking.”
I took a deep breath, fighting back tears. Apparently the
relationship I’d seen developing between me and Libby—what
I’d thought was a sort of mentor-friend type of thing—had only
existed for me. My heart pulsed in my ears.
“Another thing,” Libby said, her voice getting louder. “I do
not want strangers poking around this house. Not now, not
ever.” Walker poked his head in the room as she was finishing her sentence. He approached Libby, adjusting his tie as he
entered. His eyes darted from me to her, taking us both in. “Sweetheart?” he said to her. “Annie. What’s wrong?” “Annie invited a stranger over—to dinner—without having
asked.”
“I asked,” I protested.
“You brought her here without my permission!” Libby’s
voice was cold and furious. Her normally porcelain skin was
even paler than usual, almost as if, in her anger, it had been
drained of pigment.
“Where’s the girl now?” Walk wanted to know.
“Outside,” I said. “Waiting for a cab.”
“A cab? That’s ridiculous. I’ll drive her. I’ll be back in half
an hour.”
“Walker! You most certainly will not,” said Libby, aghast.
“I’m sure the girl will be perfectly fine in a cab.”
“But the money, Libby. Why make her pay for a cab when
we can easily drive her?”
“I need you here,” she told him. “I need your help prepar
ing for our guests.”
“All right,” he sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine.
What do you need me to do?”
“First off, I’d love for you to talk with Annie,” she said, as
though I wasn’t standing right there. “I’m tired of having to
lay down all the rules around here, like she’s another child.” I
winced. Her words cut me deep.
“We can’t have strangers in the house, Annie,” Walker said,
turning to me. “At least not without asking us first. Even if
you were our child, that’s a courtesy we’d expect. We want to
include you in our daily lives—in dinners like this and days at
the beach—but you really need to ask about other things. You
can’t just assume that you can treat this like it’s your home.” I nodded, trying hard not to cry. “I’m really sorry,” I told
him. “I won’t do it again.”
“It’s fine,” he said, while Libby glared from the corner by the
stove. “It’s all fine. It’s over, so let’s just move on and enjoy the
night.” He looked extremely stressed out, as if conflict wasn’t at
all his strong suit. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, splash some
water on my face, do a shooter . . .” He paused. “Not funny?
Yeah. Okay. I’ll just be upstairs. Libby, holler if you need me.” “Please get cleaned up for dinner, Annie, and put Zoe in
something nice, too,” Libby said stiffly. I nodded and retreated
to my room. I wasn’t sure what had happened; I only knew
that I’d done something to profoundly upset Libby. Her anger
had never been so palpable. And now I was shaking all over, as if my body had experienced an intense shock. I gripped my hands together, trying to make them stop trembling. But I couldn’t. I was sweating, too. And now Owen was coming over, and I had to act normal. I didn’t know how I could pull it off. I hadn’t heard a word from him in days, not even a move on Words with Friends. He had disappeared. And now with Libby’s anger, I’d never felt more alone. I needed to cry, to scream, something . . . but I didn’t even have a door to slam or hide behind. The thought of acting normal, saving face—it was inconceivable. But I would have to find some way to hold
myself together.
One thing had become clear: I knew that I wouldn’t be
able to have a normal life here, or at least not the kind of life
other college kids considered normal. I went into the bathroom
that adjoined my room and closed that door. It was the only
place I could go to have privacy: my bathroom, my sanctuary.
I laughed miserably at that. Everything had turned into a nightmare, and it seemed like Libby hated me, and I didn’t know
how to fix it.
But then something occurred to me: it said something that
Libby hated the thought of strangers in the house, but she’d
embraced me. Me, whom she’d known for less than a month.
She trusted me. She cared about me. She had to. All of this
anger, it was because she knew I was better than I was behaving. I was letting her down.
I couldn’t let her down.
I blew my nose and wet my face with a cold cloth. Then I
walked up to Zoe’s room calmly and began rifling through her closet. I was flooded with conflicting emotions. Anger, confusion—but predominantly guilt. I didn’t want to be a troublemaker. All my life, I’d screwed things up. Not this time.