Easy Innocence

Chapter 13

LAUREN COULD always tell when her parents argued. There were no screams or shouts; her parents didn't yell. Instead a frigid hostility would permeate the air, like some unseen but deadly toxin. Her mother, the ice queen, had perfected the technique. She could rip your insides out with a few wintry words, then turn around and talk to a stranger on the phone, all warm and honey charm.

Her father was either too gutless or indifferent to stand up to her. Lauren had only heard him raise his voice once in sixteen years, and it had been at her, when she rode her bike into the side of his new Porsche and scratched the paint. Even then, she suspected the only reason he got so pissed was because her mother was.

She closed the door to her room, a little surprised her parents were home together at the same time. That didn't happen often. She went to her iPod and turned it on. Sarah McLachlan poured her heart out from the speakers. Her father said the singer reminded him of Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt. Lauren tried not to focus on McLachlan's first name.

***

A Sunday night in February. Lauren was twelve, and her parents were in Acapulco—they went to Mexico every winter for ten days. The Walchers' live-in housekeeper took care of Lauren while they were gone: cooking, cleaning, making sure she got to school. It was usually a quiet week, boring even, except when Uncle Fred took her to dinner.

That evening the doorbell rang promptly at six. Lauren skipped down the stairs and opened the door. Uncle Fred, a burly, bearish man with gray hair curling at the temples, gave her a cheerful hug. Tonight they were going to a Chinese restaurant in Wilmette, and Sara was coming with them. Lauren directed him to Sara's house, feeling very adult when Uncle Fred complimented her for knowing the way.

Sara was waiting in front of her house. She climbed into the back seat of the Pontiac and leaned her arms on the back of the front seat. They chattered about last week's episode of "Friends," the new movie with Brad Pitt, the basketball game their middle school team won against their archenemy. Then Sara handed Lauren a sweater she'd borrowed.

"Oh, just keep it," Lauren said. "I have plenty of others."

Sara shook her head. "My mom says I have to give it back."

Lauren shrugged and took the sweater.

At the restaurant, they sat at a table with a white tablecloth. Uncle Fred let them order whatever they wanted, and they splurged on egg roll, sweet and sour pork, chicken chow mein, and ice cream for dessert. They tried to put on their best manners and act mature, but when the main course came, Sara started giggling at something Lauren said and couldn't stop. That made Lauren giggle, too, and for the rest of the meal both girls erupted into periodic gales of laughter.

Uncle Fred, who was unmarried and had no children of his own, smiled but looked slightly puzzled, as if he wasn't sure what sort of species twelve-year-old girls were. Still, he gave them both his arm on the way out, and told them he'd never dined with such pleasant company. That prompted more peals of laughter.

Sara told her afterwards Lauren was lucky. She wished she had an Uncle Fred.

***

Lauren roused herself with a start. She must have dozed off. She pushed away the wispy memories and checked the time. Shit. She needed to catch up with Derek. They had to talk.

She got up and shuffled into the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she dug some dark lip gloss out of her cosmetics drawer and applied it carefully, resisting the urge to smack her lips. Next she pulled on her black Armani sweatshirt she'd worn last night. It still smelled of Black Cashmere. She loved the musky, cinnamon tang. Then she wriggled into a new pair of Joe's Jeans, the ones with the embroidery up and down the legs. Her long, dark hair lay straight today. Her zits were under control, too. All in all, not bad.

She checked the time again. Thursday night at the mall was tricky. You couldn't be sure about the crowds. People were gearing up for the weekend, buying a last minute pair of shoes or pants or just hanging out at the Food Court. Derek would be there; it was one of their regular haunts. Plus, she was hungry. She couldn't have cared less about the lobster bisque and chicken salad her mother brought home. She needed real food. Corner Bakery, maybe. Or Johnny Rocket's.

Before leaving, she checked her e-mail. She'd checked an hour ago, but you had to keep on top of things. It had been easy to set up. Everyone, especially girls, thought you had to be a geek to do it. Not true. She clicked on her email program. Nothing new.

She was just shutting down when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel. She went to her window and looked out onto the driveway. A car was rolling up to the house. In the fading light, she didn't recognize it. For a split second, she panicked. Derek wouldn't come here. She'd forbidden it. Then she remembered he didn't drive a Toyota, and now that the car had stopped, she could see that's what it was.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the driver climbed out. A woman. Blond hair pulled back. Wearing jeans and a blazer. The woman came around to the front of her car and looked uncertainly in both directions. The kitchen door was only a few feet away, but she trudged to the front door.