Cleo stared at MaryAnne’s Facebook profile picture and remembered how, for that internship their junior-year summer, just before her parents died, she gave MaryAnne bad advice on her essay, knowing full well that writing about the day her dog died was trite and clichéd and would never win her a spot in the mayor’s office. Just prior, MaryAnne had casually bragged that her parents were golfing partners with the mayor’s personal lawyer and that he was going to put in a good word for her. Cleo, feeling undermined and yes, a little less than, could not let that stand. She herself wrote about her relationship with her sister, how she felt like two people—one an only child and one a much younger sibling of a troubled sibling who had dropped out of college—she did not mention her arrest for weed possession—and the expectations this placed on Cleo, the good one, the best daughter they could have asked for. Cleo got the internship. MaryAnne did not.
Cleo inhaled and steeled her nerves as she scrolled down MaryAnne’s Facebook page. She was used to criticism. Any politician was. But these were people she knew, who knew her, and that made it different because that made it personal. She didn’t really want to know what they all thought of her in high school, not because she didn’t care but because she suspected that she actually might.
There were twenty-one comments below the op-ed (and MaryAnne’s commentary). Cleo didn’t recognize all the names at first until she realized that some of her classmates now went by their married names. She leaned forward, squinted at the photos. Their faces, though older, rang bells, loud bells, bells that Cleo didn’t really want to hear, to be honest. It wasn’t that high school had been traumatic, at least not until her parents’ accident, and obviously that wasn’t her classmates’ fault, but even Gaby had proposed that her campaign motto be “Only Forward” because Cleo wasn’t the type who took much delight in looking back or basking in nostalgia. She had repressed nearly all memories of Alexander Nobells; she had moved well past her one-nighter with Lucas’s father; hell, she’d made her peace with her strained relationship with Georgie.
The past was the past was the past. Which was at least half the reason that Gaby’s suggestion, to revisit her list, to right some of her wrongs, was so irritating. Who really was the better for logging hours on Facebook, posting photos for their former friends from two decades ago? Not Cleo McDougal, that’s for sure.
The messages were nearly all words of support for MaryAnne, which immediately raised the hairs on the back of Cleo’s competitive neck.
Susan Harris: I didn’t know Cleo well, but I remember once in biology, she just HAD to be the first one to dissect the earthworm, and I knew she was nasty then!
Maureen Allen: Word.
Beth Shin: I don’t want to dump on her for being smart and doing well in biology, but yeah, wasn’t she a bit of a bitch about it? Like, rubbing it in our faces how much better she was? I never liked her. I’d never vote for her either.
Christopher Preston: THANK YOU FOR SPEAKING UP! She always had such a sour look on her face. Never smiled. Amen.
Cleo didn’t remember rushing the dissection tray in biology, though it sounded like something she would do, and she didn’t even remember Maureen Allen at all! She knew she could drag out her yearbook and reacquaint herself with all those faces, all those names, but really, did it matter? Christopher Preston wasn’t wrong about one thing: people see what they want. Her face naturally pointed downward and generally did indeed appear sour, even if she were thinking delightful thoughts. Like, winning the White House or even just envisioning a glass of wine and a massage, which she hadn’t had time for in more than a year.
Instinctively, Cleo moved her hand to her shoulder, began digging into the knot that she’d assumed was more or less permanent. She kept reading.
Finally, a word of defense.
Oliver Patel: It seems to me that this is two decades’ worth of old history, MaryAnne, and maybe none of us was at our best at seventeen. Did you really need to air this on SeattleToday!? I mean, is it even a legitimate news outlet? I remember Cleo as determined and really, really smart and sure, maybe a little better than us, but so what?
Oliver’s post had five likes, which made Cleo’s heart leap a little more than she’d anticipated.
Below it, he added his own reply:
Oliver Patel: I should offer the caveat of . . . it’s not like I knew her well.
MaryAnne Newman: Well, that was my point, Oliver. Maybe none of us did. Even when we were supposed to be best friends.
FOUR
It was a Saturday, so Cleo had no idea why her buzzer kept ringing at . . . eight fifteen in the morning. As a rule, Cleo didn’t sleep late, but she’d forgotten to set her alarm last night, and there was no chance that Lucas would rouse her. He’d sleep until noon if he could. (Which he rarely could because of weekend soccer practice.)
She pulled on a robe that was discarded by the side of the bed. Her building had security, so it wasn’t like the media could be literally beating down her door. Besides, despite the now twenty thousand retweets of the op-ed (at least as of last night when she checked), Cleo didn’t think the story would stay front of mind for all that long. Political scandals tended to come and go, and granted, this was her first, but she trusted that someone else, likely a man if the odds proved correct, would step in it soon enough. Insider trading. Groping a breast. Affair with a housekeeper. Who knew? That list could be long.
The buzzer blared, this time unrelenting, as if someone’s finger had been surgically attached to the button. Such aggressiveness could be only one person.
Gaby was in her running gear, naturally, because Saturday mornings meant long runs for her marathon training.
“Did I wake you?” This was a valid question because it was also so surprising.
“I lost track of time last night. On . . . Facebook.” Cleo was embarrassed to even admit it.
Gaby welcomed herself inside. There was no posturing between them; they knew each other too well. Gaby didn’t care that she’d just run fifteen miles and reeked of sweat, and frankly, Cleo didn’t either. They’d seen each other much worse.
“So I’ve made a decision.” Gabrielle reached for a Keurig pod and a mug in one simultaneous motion, her arms swinging in opposite directions, her brain working on both sides. “And you need to pack.”
“What? We already discussed this. I’m not going back to New York this weekend. Lucas has a soccer tournament, and I’m on snack duty. In fact, shit, I’d better wake him.”
Gaby couldn’t have looked less interested or less convinced. Children were not for her. Not that she couldn’t pinch cheeks and buy birthday presents, but priority-wise? She’d made that decision years ago. And she wouldn’t apologize for it either. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she’d say whenever the subject arose about her marital status (single) or motherhood status (party of one, thank you). “If you don’t want to be a mother, you shouldn’t be.” Cleo would always stand beside her nodding (and often grinning) because who the fuck was anyone to tell anyone else what they should do with their life? Or their uterus? Or their DNA? Gaby’s decision wasn’t borne from a terrible childhood or mother issues. She simply didn’t want children. She didn’t feel the tug. She didn’t want to vacuum Goldfish crumbs and drive carpools and yell about washing hands after using the bathroom, and Cleo thought that was terrific. Not because Cleo didn’t love being Lucas’s mom—she did—but because Cleo thought that every woman should do exactly whatever the hell she wanted. (Which, she realized, should make her reconsider how judgy she was about MaryAnne’s country club presidency aspirations.)