Never Tell

Chapter Twenty

Ramona sat on the bench next to the playground south of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Though a sign labeled it the Pat Hoffman Friedman Playground, everyone in the neighborhood called this the Three Bears Playground because of the bronze statue of three bears—one sitting, one standing, one walking. She watched two little boys climbing on top of the sitting and walking bears, just as she had as a toddler. One of Ramona’s favorite childhood pictures showed her standing on the back of the walking bear, her hands held in front of her like paws to emulate the standing bear beside her, her mother hovering behind, waiting to catch her in case of a fall.

Today, she chose this bench more for its view of her own apartment building than for the bears. She stole another glance across Fifth Avenue. Nothing. She took a lick of the whipped cream on top of her Frappuccino.

She hadn’t planned to cut school. Her parents had offered to let her stay home, but honestly, the thought of staying in the apartment all day with her mom was unbearable. Her mother kept trying to convince her to talk about her feelings.

How are you feeling? How are you feeling? Tell me all about your feelings.

If she heard that word one more time, she was going to throw something. So she had put on her uniform with every intention of making it to classes. Then, on her way to Casden, she realized everyone would be talking smack about Julia—either pretending they were better friends with her than they were, or knew more about it than they possibly could, or saying she was the fucked-up head case who killed herself.

Before she knew it, she was calling the school from her cell phone, telling the headmistress’s secretary she was Adrienne Langston and that Ramona wouldn’t be coming to school today. No school. No home. Just walking through Central Park, thinking about that last phone call to Julia on Friday night.

Julia had picked up after half a ring: “Hey.”

“It happened again.”

“Your little visitor? How many times have I told you there’s a book about that you should read. Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. And then one day, when you meet a man you love and are ready to be married and have a baby—”

“Very cute. It’s my mom again. She’s acting weird.”

“Your mom’s not weird. Mine, on the other hand? Mindblow.”

“Seriously, she hasn’t been herself. If I ask her about it, she snaps at me.”

“You realize that no one else in the world would find this unusual, don’t you? Leave it alone, and consider yourself lucky.”

Ramona absorbed what Julia was trying to say, but she and her mom had always been more like best friends than mother and daughter—or stepmother and stepdaughter. That was exactly why the recent distance between them had been bothering her. She should have listened to Julia right then and there. She should have let it drop. But instead she’d gone on and on about how she and her mom were different from other relationships. What if the entire conversation had only served to remind Julia of how screwed up her own parents were?

“It’s not just the way she acts around me. She and my dad don’t seem—right lately. Maybe whatever’s bugging her, she doesn’t want my dad to know about it, either.”

“Oh, Jesus. George and Adrienne are like Ward and June fucking Cleaver. What do you mean, they’re not right?”

“My mom spends a lot of time on her own, holed up in her study. They seem sort of quiet with each other. Uncomfortable or something.”

“Seriously, your parents are, like, so perfect compared to mine. If you’re really worried about whatever Adrienne’s doing, go check it out yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Snoop. Go on her computer, look at her search history, read her e-mails—whatever.”

“No way.”

“Fine, I’ll come over and do it.” Julia had no qualms about reading diaries, opening medicine cabinets, and otherwise violating people’s privacy. As they were leaving Cynthia Lyons’s holiday party last December, she’d boasted proudly about searching the entire house. Not a speck of cocaine in sight. Apparently Mr. Lyons’s well-known stint in rehab had worked. “Or, better yet. Tell your dad. George will TCB.”

Ramona had never really thought of her father as a taking-care-of-business type. He was, after all, one of the partners who got squeezed out of his law firm during the downsizing.

“No, your dad would definitely TCB,” she said.

“Yeah, if you mean Take Care of Brittany, or whatever slut he’s banging lately.”

“You’re a sick, sick girl, Julia.”

“Just calling it like I see it. I learned a long time ago who my parents really were. Maybe it’s time you did the same.”

It was an uncharacteristically serious tone for Julia. It seemed as though lately all of their interactions were short, ironic quips. It was as if Julia had become such a strong personality that she could never be sincere. As if a moment of earnest compassion would literally melt the cool off of her.

Ramona had found herself wishing they were talking in person. She wanted to tell her that it wasn’t only her parents who hadn’t seemed right lately. She felt like something had been blocking the two of them. She missed her best friend. She wanted them to be the way they used to be, when nothing was secret and they really, truly knew each other, better than they knew themselves. She wanted to know why Julia wouldn’t come with her out to the Hamptons the next morning, insisting on staying in the city alone.

Instead, all Ramona had said was, “See you Monday?”

“Yep. Eleven o’clock at AJ’s. Maybe in the meantime George and Adrienne will get that extra boost they need in the boudoir. Oooh, George.”

“I hate you so much right now.”

Ramona had no idea those would be the last words she spoke to her best friend.

As she took another sip of her coffee drink, she finally spotted her mother rushing out the front door of their building. According to the clock on Ramona’s phone, her mom was running a few minutes late to her Pilates session.

Once her mother was out of sight, Ramona made her way across Fifth Avenue. She had rejected Julia’s advice on Friday, but it wasn’t too late to heed it now.

Inside her mother’s study, she jiggled the mouse on the computer. A password was required.

She thought about walking away. Her mother would never violate her trust this way.

She asked herself what Julia would do, then rested her fingertips on the keyboard to type.

R-A-M-O-N-A

Enter.

She was in.