This Is W.A.R. Part 8

And that's when she heard the sirens.

Chapter 17.

Back to the drawing board. 9 2morrow. Same place.

Sloane read Madge's text over and over again, the words swimming in front of her eyes. She wondered what a drawing board looked like. Obviously, she knew that Madge was referring to a theoretical drawing board and not an actual, physical board, but the question sort of got stuck in her brain. Like when one of her uncle's old school records got a scratch and kept playing the same snippet of a song over and over again. Sloane's brain was like that. Sometimes it just got stuck.

And her stupid, scratched, stuck brain couldn't stop imagining a drawing board for the War. Would there be pictures of the Gregorys with bull's eyes printed over their faces? Or maybe pictures of Willa. Her school picture, the snapshot of her and Sloane in Aruba, the sun glinting off Willa's blonde hair. Or maybe even a picture of her when they pulled her out of the lake that night. Sloane hadn't wanted to look, hadn't wanted to see, but she was there when they fished her friend from the dark water. She remembered.

Willa's body, bloated and blue from her time under the surface, was another mental sink hole. Sloane dug her fingernails into her palms, worked to switch the image, tried to conjure up Aruba, white sand, Willa's crooked smile, and the sparkling water-but no matter what, she was only ever able to see death. The scratched record in her head played on. As she walked toward the secret entrance to the Club's attic she thought about songs and how supposedly soldiers used horrible pop songs to torture terrorists in remote island prisons. Sloane imagined playing a manufactured pop song over and over again for the Gregorys, while at the same time forcing them to see the image of Willa, still and cold. That was a revenge she could wrap her head around.

Sloane knew the girls' original plan was doomed. The doubt had already taken root and grown like a th.o.r.n.y vine, tightening around her so that the key she wore every day felt more like a noose than anything else. These were Gregorys. They couldn't be damaged by naked pictures and drugs. Nothing could end their reign at Hawthorne. But she never quite found the right moment to tell the girls. Or really, to tell Madge. She saw the determination in her eyes, knew what happened when she set out to win. And she was scared for her. But more than anything, she wished Madge would grieve for Willa like a normal person. The truth was Sloane didn't really understand how destroying the Gregorys was supposed to make them feel any better about losing Willa. In fact, so far, this whole revenge scenario had only made Sloane feel worse.

But in the end, it didn't matter what she thought or felt. This was the central reality of her life: Sloane knew she was dumb. She said dumb things all the time, did dumb things. She'd learned to compensate for being an idiot by shutting up and agreeing with whatever everyone else said or did.

Getting by was so much easier that way.

Sloane made her way up the stairs, counting them one by one in her head as she ascended, a childhood habit that she could never quite kick thanks to parents who attempted to make every second of her life a teachable moment of some sort. Her earliest memory was of the time her mother forced her to read Corduroy out loud at one of the many social gatherings her parents hosted. Each memorized word slipped from between her lips, her voice loud and strong. She knew enough to change her inflection on certain words and to read slowly as though she were truly sounding out the words for the first time, decoding the secret message. But it was a good thing she knew the book by heart because as she "read," the story distracted her. The little girl, Lisa, claimed she loved Corduroy just the way he was as she fixed the strap of his broken overall. But Sloane didn't buy it. Lisa didn't want to make Corduroy more comfortable; she wanted him to look good. Lisa was embarra.s.sed by her beat-down bear in the same way her parents were embarra.s.sed by their dumba.s.s daughter. Even as a little girl she noticed her father flinch when she stumbled over a word. Her parents wanted to parade her around like some kind of trophy they had received for being geniuses. But those genius genes hadn't been pa.s.sed on. She knew it. They knew it.

And Willa knew it, too.

Sloane had been running late, as usual, when she'd walked into her room to find Willa staring at her PSAT scores that she'd accidentally left out on her desk. Yet another dumb mistake.

"I thought you were a National Merit scholar?" There was a trace of fear in her voice, the same slight quiver she heard in her parents when she said something outrageously stupid.

If Lina had seen her test results, she would have pretended that it never happened. But Willa was never one to pretend. She always spoke her mind. She always asked really annoying questions. It was one of the things that Sloane hated the most about her dying. All of these people, they remembered Obituary Willa. The real Willa was more than an angel. She was the one who'd busted Sloane for lying about her PSAT scores and called her on it-to help. The one who stayed Sloane's best friend even after she knew Sloane was a fraud. The one who helped Sloane keep her secret.

m.u.f.fled voices drifted from beneath the attic door. She hoped she was just late enough. Not so late that she made people worried or annoyed, but the kind of late where you rushed in seemingly frenzied, and the project or the lab-or, in this case, the doomed plan-was already underway: responsibilities a.s.signed, leaders established. For Sloane, running behind was a lifestyle. It cemented her role as a follower, and being a follower minimized her chances of looking like a jacka.s.s. If anything in her life came close to an art, it was tardiness.

With a deep breath, she turned the aged bronze handle. "Sorry I'm late, guys." One by one, she examined their faces. Lina's dark eyes softened ever so slightly. Not annoyed. Rose, whom Sloane still couldn't get a read on, smiled when she saw her. Not annoyed. Madge smoothed her perfectly straight hair and avoided making eye contact. Semi-annoyed. But then again Madge was pretty much always semi-annoyed. "What'd I miss?"

"We were just discussing these," Madge said, turning toward Sloane. She wore a crisp white T-shirt. Weird. It must have been brand-new because there were still creases along the center and sleeves. She'd never seen Madge in a T-shirt. "They're for sale in the pro shop."

"Why would anyone want to buy a T-shirt?" The only T-shirts in Sloane's drawer came from random 5K races and Round Robin golf tournaments. Rose shot her an is-this-girl-for-real? kind of look just as her brain caught up with her mouth, and she realized she was talking out loud. "Wait, I mean, what's on the front? I can't see it."

Madge pulled the shirt taut across her chest, smoothing out what was emblazoned on the front. There was Trip, naked and grinning, the words WHAT HAPPENS AT THE CLUB STAYS AT THE CLUB in block letters.

"All the money from T-shirt sales goes to the children's hospital," Madge grumbled. "Mr. Freaking Packard had one on."

Mr. Packard was at least ninety years old and was one of the original members of Hawthorne Lake. He spent the bulk of his days in the Club gym, hands behind his head doing these awkward and inappropriate-looking hip exercises. Sloane wondered if he even knew what he was buying. She was pretty sure he was legally blind. He also seemed like the kind of guy who would buy a T-shirt just to buy a T-shirt, so she wasn't sure the fact that he was wearing one proved anything. Either way she really didn't know what to say. Their plan had obviously backfired, and she wasn't sure where that left the girls. She wondered if maybe they should admit defeat and move on like everyone else.

"We're trying to think of our next move," Rose said as Sloane plopped down next to her.

So much for moving on. Sloane wanted to like Rose. Whenever she'd see her around the Club in past summers, Rose would have her nose stuck in a book-walking and reading, camped out under a tree and reading, sipping a drink and reading. Sloane avoided girls like her because they almost always asked her questions about her favorite book or wanted to know details about her AP cla.s.ses in school. They made immediate a.s.sumptions about her purely based on appearance, and it drove her insane.

But maybe she'd been wrong about Rose. Like Willa, she seemed smart, but not judgy smart. There was a big difference between the two. Still, as much as she wanted to accept Rose, she couldn't. Not completely. Not when Lina's scorn for the girl had suddenly transformed into a twisted sort of friendship.

Sloane's eye caught on Madge's knee, shaking compulsively. Her eyes fixed in s.p.a.ce, lost in whatever plan she was trying to develop. Her mouth moved from side to side, lips closed around a mint. She always sucked them these days, and Sloane wondered if maybe she should pick up a habit of her own. Sucking mints seemed to help Madge develop plans. Maybe chewing gum would help Sloane sound smart.

Just as she was about to ask if anyone had a piece of gum, Madge smoothed her dress and stood.

"We have to take a step back." Most people would give up after a failure like the gala but not Madge. It only made her more determined to win. That was the difference between people like Sloane and people like Madge. Sloane would definitely have given up; in fact, she never would have tried in the first place. "We need to strike at the peer level. Hit them where it hurts."

"In the b.a.l.l.s?" They were the first words in Sloane's head, and they just sort of flew out of her mouth. It was like she'd taken truth serum or something. G.o.d, she wished she had a piece of gum.

But Madge laughed. "Exactly." She let the smile linger on her lips for a beat but then got that faraway look again concentration twisting her features as though she were cramming for the exam of her life. The intensity worried Sloane. She wanted to say that out loud but had no idea how to tell her friend that yes, they needed to take a step back, but without stepping back in again.

"Maybe the Captain is secretly p.i.s.sed about the pictures. I mean, we don't know for sure it didn't work," Sloane offered meekly. Of course, it was the wrong thing to say.

"I think it's pretty clear where we stand," Madge said to n.o.body in particular.

"The pictures actually helped them," Lina murmured. She'd been so quiet since the gala, and Sloane knew her friend was hurting so much more than she ever let on. She'd seen the new tattoos carved into the thin skin along Lina's inner wrists like scars. She wished there was something she could do. "We need something better, something that will force the Captain to cut their sorry a.s.ses off for good."

Sloane considered Lina's suggestion. If she could just come up with a way to embarra.s.s the Gregorys maybe then her friends would come back. But how could you destroy the most popular boys at Hawthorne Lake?

"We could spread rumors," Rose suggested.

The group sat silent. A non-starter.

"How about ..." Sloane and Lina began at the same time. Sloane's mouth clamped shut.

Lina shook her head. "Oh sorry, Sloaney, you go first."

"b.o.o.bs." Sloane said the first thing that came to her mind and regretted it immediately. It was as though the air had been sucked from the already stuffy attic. Madge's eyes narrowed, and she was up in a flash, her body bent in half over Sloane.

"Do you think this is a joke?" Madge asked, breathing heavily.

"No ... I ... um ... Jack what's-his-face ..." Sloane stammered.

Lina jumped up from her seat in a tattered velvet chair. "Madge, back off!" She started smiling. "Jake Horvatz. Right? Jake Horvatz and his man b.o.o.bs!"

Sloane couldn't remember a time when Lina had been so excited, and she wished she could jump up and get excited with her friend. Lina got it. She took Sloane's ridiculous "b.o.o.bs" and translated. She wanted to kiss her.

"Hormone therapy, am I right?" Lina said. She started pacing back and forth in front of Madge. "I have no idea if it would even work, Sloane?" Lina raised her eyebrows at Sloane as though she'd be in some position to weigh in on the topic of hormone therapy and whether or not it might make teenage dudes grow b.o.o.bs just because her parents were successful doctors. Um ... no.

"I could ask?" Sloane said, sounding like she needed permission.

Rose shrugged her shoulders. "I can pay off the busboys to slip something in their morning drinks."

"Well, as long as we have enough money left to cover all of this." Madge shot Rose and Lina a meaningful look that Sloane didn't even attempt to interpret.

"We have plenty of money, and oh my G.o.d, if they even come close to good old Jake's tatas, it will be a huge success." Lina smiled wickedly. "They can wear Trip's new T-shirts in the pool."

Madge c.o.c.ked her head. "It's not bad, and it's not like we have a lot of options left given our recent expenditures."

Sloane wasn't entirely sure how b.o.o.bs would get the boys disinherited. She was only sure she was missing something. (Maybe it was a two-stage plan?) Actually, that wasn't true. Sloane was sure of something else: Willa would have loved this. One time she'd sent them all personal letters from the Captain informing them of a new dress code at the Club that required single young women to wear ankle-length skirts at all times on the Club premises. She, Madge, and Lina actually showed up looking like Amish girls before they figured out that Willa had forged the letter. And then before she could stop it from happening, Sloane saw Willa's ghostlike body on the sand. If it weren't for her eyes, open and unseeing, she might have been sleeping, dreaming about her last year of high school before college.

Her eyes, her eyes, her eyes.

Sloane's brain stuck on the image for a moment. She knew from experience that the more she tried to make it go away, the more clear the image became, that the sooner she let it consume her, the sooner it'd be over.

"I think it's a great idea," she said blankly.

Maybe if she went along with the plan, Willa wouldn't have to haunt her anymore. Maybe she'd be able to forget how her friend's beautifully clear blue eyes had turned solid white. How they seemed to scream silently into the blackness. Willa's eyes told Sloane that she had fought until the final moment.

Her eyes, her eyes, her eyes ...

Maybe the record scratch wasn't a bad thing this time. It reminded Sloane that she owed it to her friend to fight the same way now.

Chapter 18.

Sloane arrived even later than usual to the hospital in hopes that her parents would eat without her or at least discuss her academic standing before she got there. She could never be late enough. There they were. Waiting. At the same table with the same disgusting hospital food that smelled like disinfectant mixed with canned vegetables. Of course, she had gotten used to the smell of hospitals a long time ago. After all, she had practically grown up in their antiseptic halls. Sloane's parents were OBGYNs who specialized in high-risk pregnancies. Women came from all over the world, reeking of hope, to be treated by her world-famous parents.

When she was little, her nanny brought her and her little sister to the hospital every single night so they could eat dinner as a family. Except for Sundays. On Sundays, the Lius ate at home. Mail was cleared off the kitchen table, place settings arranged, and dinner cobbled together by Sloane and her mom. But after a while it got kind of annoying to have someone interrupt every five seconds with a page or a phone call, so Sunday dinners were transferred to the hospital like everything else. Family time on doctor's terms. Her parents loved having their hospital Jell-O and eating it, too.

"Hi, honey, was traffic awful?" Sloane's mother asked, hopping up to squeeze her in a tight hug. Her mother always blamed her lateness on traffic even though traffic was pretty much non-existent. She just couldn't process Sloane acting like anything less than the perfect daughter. And perfect daughters were on time.

When Sloane was accused of cheating on a Spanish test, they insisted that her private school pay for the teacher's eyes to be tested. Turns out she was nearsighted. A week later she was unemployed.

When Sloane missed curfew because she pa.s.sed out behind the boathouse at the Club's Summer Swing, they were sure Sloane must have narcolepsy. She didn't, but that hadn't stopped her parents from putting her on some crazy drug. Not Xanax, but some scary sounding X-name. Willa was the one (of course) who finally convinced Sloane that they were making her a zombie. Too scared to admit to her parents that she'd quit taking them, she'd started secretly giving them away to some busboy at the Club-a kid named Rory who claimed he needed them for his sister. It was like charity. Or something.

But when Sloane ended up with a 900 on her SATs, her parents were at a loss. Sure, they discussed the test being biased against minorities, a hot-b.u.t.ton topic in the Liu household. But she was freaking Chinese. Asian kids always aced standardized testing. For a while they went with the whole, "the test doesn't really measure your intelligence" approach and did a bunch of IQ testing-but they never showed Sloane the results and quickly changed tactics. Presumably she'd managed to pull in a score roughly equivalent to her dress size. After running out of excuses, her parents were left with no choice but to take action and hire a tutor.

"So, Sloaney, how's test prep going? Dr. Yang's son swears he never would have gotten into Yale without his private tutor."

Sloane stabbed some wilted salad with her fork and pretended it was Jude Yang's face. He was such an arrogant little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She needed to piece together some type of intelligent response, but the truth raced through her head, another broken record.

Test prep sucks because I'm dumb. Test prep sucks because I'm dumb. Test prep sucks because I'm dumb.

You're wasting your money; I want to give up. You're wasting your money; I want to give up. You're wasting your money; I want to give up.

I am not the daughter you really wanted. I am not the daughter you really wanted. I am not the daughter you really wanted ...

"Sloane?" Her dad's brow furrowed. For a second Sloane worried that her thoughts had somehow dodged her filter and exploded out of her mouth again.

"Is Dr. Harvey not doing a good job?" her mother chimed in. "Because if you find he's moving too slow for you, I'm sure we can get a new tutor, someone with more credentials? Honestly, we probably should have done it from day one, don't you think, honey?" She looked at Sloane's father expectantly and he nodded.

"Absolutely, absolutely. Whatever it takes to get Sloane a score that won't reflect poorly on her stellar academic record."

Right. The stellar academic record that she'd managed to maintain by cheating. At this point in the conversation, it occurred to Sloane that she hadn't said a single word since she arrived at the hospital. As usual her parents spoke over her and around her. Always a.s.suming the best, never acknowledging the worst.

"So, I have a question." Sloane blurted out the words before she lost her courage.

Her mother dropped her spoon on the table. Her father choked on a hunk of bread. Shock was a good sign. She'd be more likely to get an honest answer. She barreled onward. "What kind of hormones would give a guy ... b.o.o.bs?" A fierce blush swept across her cheeks. When you spoke as little as Sloane did, saying the word "b.o.o.bs" out loud was kind of mortifying-especially in front your parents. She'd said the word twice today.

"Is this the kind of subject Dr. Harvey is having you study? If so, I think it is highly inappropriate." Her mother's delicate features twisted into a scowl.

"No, Mom, it's not that. I'm just ... curious."

Her mother's eyes flashed to her father. They must have come to some unspoken agreement that he should take it from there.

"Well, it's certainly possible for men to develop b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but it takes a lot of time and a lot of drugs with a variety of side effects."

"Like what?"

"Loss of s.e.xual arousal is common."

Sloane's parents were the type who took pride in always answering their daughter honestly. Too bad they were so good at lying to themselves.

"Like how long?"

"Months, sometimes years. Why do you ask, Sloaney? Is everything okay? This isn't like you." Her father's voice was heavy with concern. Sloane was struck how the very act of asking a question sent her parents completely off balance. She was so pa.s.sive, so good at pretending to be the perfect Stepford Asian daughter that they had no idea how to react when she was her real self. And to add insult to injury or as Sloane said, injury to insult, the War couldn't afford years or even months. The disappointment must have shown on her face.

"Honey, if you are confused about your s.e.xuality, you can talk to us." Her mother looked so earnest, Sloane couldn't bear to look at her. She was trying so hard to do the right thing. And failing. Miserably.

"It's natural for a girl of your age to want to look a certain way, but you are so proportional, so beautiful the way you are. Did Lina put this idea into your head?" As usual her father was trying to deflect blame, to do whatever it took to keep his perfect daughter perfect. Even if she only existed in his eyes.

Sloane thought about telling them the truth. Her parents hadn't been at the Club when Willa was killed and had only rushed to the beach after the fact. They were so busy with work and so focused on Sloane that they were completely oblivious to the rumors that swirled around about the Gregorys. Maybe if she told them the truth, they'd help her do something to fix this mess.

"Oh honey, we're so proud of you and your choices. You're smart and beautiful and you're going to ace the SATs this fall. I just know it."

"We're always here for you, Sloane. Just keep making us proud. Okay, honey?" Her dad tugged on her ponytail fondly and smiled broadly at her mother.

So. That conversation was over before it even started. Probably all for the best.

Even though it hurt her cheeks to do it, Sloane smiled back.

Chapter 19.