5

THE SHUNNING

May 1979

Sloan sat on a bench in the girls’ locker room and removed her shin guards and cleats. She pulled her damp jersey over her head and blotted sweat from her neck. She slid out of her shorts, removed her sports bra, and left both in a sodden pile on the floor. She headed for the shower, which was deserted by now. It was Friday afternoon, late May, and no one had spoken to her for weeks. She was the designated social outcast, the assumption being that she had written an anonymous note to the Climping Academy vice principal, naming Troy Rademaker and Poppy Earl as two students who’d been given answers to the California Academic Proficiency Test and had cheated their way to better grades. Word of this betrayal had spread through the school within a day. Sloan had been outspoken in her exhortations to Poppy to abandon the plan to cheat, so when the typewritten note arrived, Austin Brown had persuaded the entire junior class that Sloan was guilty of violating their trust. That Sloan was innocent was beside the point. She was judged to be guilty as charged and her heated denials sounded hollow even to her own ears. Sloan was a jock: tall and sturdy and well-coordinated. She was also smart, studious, and strong-willed. Even so, the isolation was wearing her down.

As she crossed the tile floor, she pulled the rubber band from the tip of the braid that extended halfway down her back. She shook out a cascade of waves, which fell across her shoulders like a cape. If she washed her hair, it would take hours to dry, but that was better than a sweaty scalp. As usual, the shower smelled of bleach, a scent she associated with winning as well as defeat. The hot water was healing and she didn’t regret having the space to herself. The effect of the shunning was already deadening and while she feigned indifference, she was acutely aware of the disapproval washing over her. No one addressed a word to her. No one acknowledged her presence. No one made eye contact. If she spoke to a classmate, she received no response. Even a few students in the freshman and sophomore classes had taken up the ban. In the main, the seniors abstained from participation, but she sensed that they viewed her with scorn, thinking she’d brought it on herself.

The cheating scandal was set in motion when Iris Lehmann had pulled the fire alarm bell and then waited until the halls and classrooms had cleared before she scurried into the school office and photocopied the test and answer sheet, which had been distributed to the faculty cubbyholes. The test had been administered on Friday, April 13, and shortly after the grades were posted, some three weeks later, the anonymous note had showed up on the vice principal’s desk. Originally, Troy’s score wasn’t suspect because his grades were usually good. Poppy did better than past performances warranted, so suspicion had already been aroused where she was concerned. In a misguided attempt to disguise their duplicity, Troy and Poppy had answered the same two questions incorrectly. Both were summoned to the vice principal’s office, where Mr. Lucas grilled them. Poppy might have talked her way out of it, but Troy had cracked under questioning and he’d implicated her.

Sloan had heard about their intentions in advance and she’d made her disapproval clear. She might not have gotten wind of it if it hadn’t been for the cluster of students all a-buzz with the news. Fully half the class knew what was going on and yet she was blamed for the leak. As much as she disliked the idea of cheating, she would never have turned them in. She and Poppy had been best friends since their first day at Climping Academy as kindergarteners. Sloan had always been the better pupil of the two, sailing through classes without effort, while Poppy pulled mediocre grades at best. Sloan couldn’t even count the number of times she’d tutored Poppy, working through English and math, quizzing her in history and social studies. The process didn’t seem to get easier for Poppy, and Sloan sometimes felt guilty because it all came so easily to her.

Once showered, she dressed, pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, and headed for the parking lot. When she reached her stepfather’s snappy red MG, she saw that the word SNITCH had been scratched into the paint on the driver’s side. She stared at the damage, realizing she’d be forced to tell Paul what was going on. She’d hoped to endure the ostracism in silence, but the vehicle was his pride and joy and any repairs would have to be billed to his insurance. No point in confiding in her mother, who was generally zonked on booze and the various prescription drugs she took for assorted ills, imaginary and otherwise. Her mother responded to stress by taking to her bed. If she heard about Sloan’s excommunication, her impulse would be to phone the school and lodge a long, rambling complaint, which would only make the situation worse.

Sloan and her mother had been close once upon a time, but that had changed abruptly. Sloan had been conceived out of wedlock, a quaint concept that Margaret had confided to her when she was five. Margaret told Sloan she met her birth father in Squaw Valley the winter after she graduated from a small Methodist college in Santa Teresa. She’d been looking for a change of scene and managed to pick up work as a waitress at a first-class resort. Cory Stevens was a ski bum in residence, lean, good-looking, easy-going, adventuresome, and kind. Margaret had assumed he came from money since he lived with no discernible source of income. They’d had a passionate affair, and at Christmas when Margaret learned she was pregnant, she was distraught, thinking Cory was unlikely to settle down. To her surprise, he seemed to take it all in stride. Though he wasn’t prepared to marry her, he’d sworn he’d stick with her until the baby was born and provide handsomely for the child. Two weeks later, he’d been killed in an avalanche. Margaret was left with a single photograph of him and promises he couldn’t fulfill. She’d moved to Long Beach, had borne her baby girl, and made the best of it.

As a single mother, she’d worked as a secretary for a series of construction companies, making a marginal income. She’d met Paul Seay at a trade show in Las Vegas in 1966. He was a custom builder, owner of Merriweather Homes in Santa Teresa. He was a blue-collar success: stable, down-to-earth, and devoted to her and her little girl. Margaret and Paul had married when Sloan was four and Margaret found herself back in Santa Teresa, where she’d gone to school. Paul had been married before and had two sons, now ages thirteen and fifteen. Justin and Joey lived with their mother during the school year and spent the Christmas holidays and summers in Santa Teresa.

As a child, Sloan had pined for the father she never knew. In the photograph of him, which had been taken at the ski resort, he was dark-eyed and tanned, with a flash of white teeth and ski goggles pushed up in his dark hair. While Sloan was growing up, his image had been the source of fantasies—hopes that he hadn’t really perished in the accident. Her mother told her his body had never been recovered and this fact had contributed to her belief that he might still be alive and well. Maybe he’d taken advantage of the avalanche to escape the responsibility of impending parenthood. Sloan wasn’t offended to think he’d abandoned her before birth. Instead, she immersed herself in ski lore, thinking that one day she’d go in search of him.

When she was ten and poring over a stack of old ski magazines, she chanced on an article about Karl Schranz, the Austrian skier who’d competed in the 1962 World Ski Championship. He’d won the gold medal in the Downhill, the silver in the Giant Slalom, and a second gold in the Combined. In the photograph that accompanied the text, the face was Cory Stevens’s. In point of fact, the photograph was a duplicate of the one she kept on her bed table. Sloan was dumbfounded. Was her father actually this medal-winning Austrian skier?

She had gone straight to her mother. “Is Karl Schranz my real father?”

Margaret’s expression was genuinely blank. “I don’t know anyone named Karl Schranz, Sloan. Where did you come up with that idea?”

Sloan showed her the two photographs side by side. “This is Karl Schranz and this is my dad. The two are the same and you lied to me! He’s not dead. He’s been alive all this time.”

Margaret had denied this at first, but Sloan had pushed and her mother finally broke down and admitted what she’d done. The story about Cory Stevens and the winter in Squaw Valley was completely fabricated. She’d clipped the photograph of Karl Schranz and framed it so Sloan would have an image to turn to whenever she needed the comfort of a father figure. Sloan’s real father, said Margaret, was someone she’d known in the past, but with whom she’d had little contact since. Sloan wasn’t sure what to believe. Confused and upset, she’d told Poppy the story in confidence, making her swear she’d keep the secret. Poppy had crossed her heart and hoped to die and two days later the story was all over the school. Poppy had denied telling a soul and Sloan had had no choice but to shrug the matter aside and live with the humiliation.

In point of fact, Margaret’s account changed each time Sloan pressed for information until she understood her mother had no intention of telling her the truth. The only fragment of the original tale that she insisted on throughout was that Sloan’s bio-dad was supportive of the pregnancy and promised generous financial support for the child. Beyond that, she refused to budge. Maybe money was meant as the consolation prize, but since it failed to materialize, there wasn’t much comfort there. Sloan’s fury and disappointment soured the relationship and the bond had never been repaired. Mother and daughter had agreed to an uneasy truce, but Sloan had never really forgiven her. She viewed her mother with disdain, rebuffing even the most well-meaning expressions of love and concern. Paul Seay had stepped into the breech and Sloan had transferred her devotion to him. In another couple of weeks, Paul and Margaret would be driving to Tucson to pick up the boys and bring them back for the summer.

•   •   •

When Sloan got home from school, her dog met her at the door, barking with joy as though he’d never expected to see her again. Butch was a Pyrenees Mountain dog, a hundred and forty pounds of loyalty, patience, and affection. He was two years old—white with a plumed tail and an overcoat of coarse hair that formed a ruffle at his neck. She gave his woolly head a kiss and rubbed his ears. As she hung her jacket on the hall tree, she glanced into the living room, where her mother was stretched out on the couch, a burning cigarette between her fingers. Sloan hated her mother’s smoking almost as much as she hated the faulty gait and slurred speech at the end of the day. This was late afternoon and Margaret was asleep, stoned to the gills. Sloan removed the cigarette stub, put it out in the ashtray, and then went upstairs to her room with Butch close behind.

She changed into sweats, retrieved Butch’s leash from the mudroom downstairs, and took him out for a walk. This was his favorite time of day and hers as well. Paul had given her the dog for her fourteenth birthday, an oversize bundle of fluff with a big loving heart. At night, he slept in her room at the foot of the bed. By day, he settled in the downstairs hall and waited for her to get home from school. The May sun was lingering a little longer each day and Sloan felt her mood lift as the two followed the road. Half an hour later, when they arrived back at the house, Sloan was startled to see Bayard Montgomery sitting on the front porch in the white wicker rocking chair. He had a big Styrofoam cup in hand, a sixteen-ounce soft drink that he sipped through an oversize straw.

Butch galloped to his side and greeted him with enthusiasm, panting happily while Bayard set his drink aside and gave his big noble head an affectionate shake. “How you doing, boy? Such a fine, great, big old dog!”

Butch was clearly nuts about Bayard, his tail wagging and his mouth open in the equivalent of a doggie smile.

Belatedly, Bayard looked up at her, saying, “Hey. How’s by you?”

“I can’t believe this. You’re actually speaking to me?”

Bayard studied her with mischief in his eyes. “I want to work for your dad again. He’s letting me run his bulldozer and his excavator, which is really cool. I thought it would be smart to butter you up.”

“Are you kidding? I’m a social leper. Austin finds out you’ve talked to me, he’ll consign you to the flames.”

“Oh my god!” he shrilled in a falsetto voice. He stuck the fingers of his right hand in his mouth, biting down in mock horror. The gesture was perpetual with him, offered in evidence of his irreverence. His hair was a shaggy mess, tufts sticking up in every direction. Like the finger-biting, his dark unkempt thatch was a signature look along with the devilish glint in his eyes. As was true with Poppy, Sloan had known him since kindergarten.

She could remember him in those early days. Bayard had been withdrawn, a lost little boy who kept his distance from everyone. He was an only child and his parents were in the process of a rancorous divorce. At the age of five, he was torn between the two, victimized by their tug-of-war as they vied for his loyalty. Within a year, his mother had won the point, whisking him off to Santa Fe and a better life, said she. That plan lasted until Bayard reached the age of twelve and began to rebel. Whether it was his conscious intent or not, he so alienated his mother that she deposited him back in her ex-husband’s life, surrendering all claim. Tigg Montgomery had re-enrolled Bayard at Climp, where the six-year absence rendered him exotic, a rakish misfit who still kept himself apart from the tight circle of his old friends.

Sloan sat down in the wicker settee, absurdly grateful to be in Bayard’s company. The dog settled at her feet. “Let’s not talk about Austin or school.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything. I heard your dad was sick.”

Bayard made a dismissive gesture and his tone was mild. “He’s not long for this world. I’m sure my mother will be thrilled. She’s hated his guts for years. Of course, my old man’s a shit, so why wouldn’t she?”

“I thought you got along with him.”

“I’m crazy about the guy and assumed the feeling was mutual. Shows how fucked up I am.”

“At least you know who he is, which leaves you better off than me. I’m a quote unquote bastard, which sounds ridiculous in this day and age.”

“What’s the story?”

“I have no idea. My mother refuses to tell me anything about my bio-dad.”

“How come?”

“It’s gotta be misguided loyalty or self-protectiveness. She lied to me the whole time I was growing up and when I finally found proof of it, she shut down entirely. Ask her now and she gets all teary and remote and then pours herself another drink.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know who he is. Maybe there were a lot of guys who could have been your dear old dad.”

“Not her. She’s not the promiscuous type. She’s careful with herself.”

“She might have been different back then. A romantic at heart. The guy might have been her one true love.”

“It doesn’t matter now. My stepfather turns out to be a great guy. Really he’s been incredible, especially in the face of her downhill slide.”

“When did she start to drink?”

“Who knows? He says she wasn’t drinking much when they met. A cocktail now and then, but she wasn’t perpetually shit-faced.”

Bayard shrugged. “Parents stink, you know that? My dad’s a magician. He gives with one hand and takes away with the other. Poof! Now you see it, now you don’t. Next thing you know, you’re screwed.”

“I don’t understand.”

He waved the question aside. “Not worth going into. Let’s just say now that he’s fading away, he wants to go back and make amends for stuff he pulled in the past.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“He can do anything he wants as long as he doesn’t take it out of my hide.”

“Why would his repentance have anything to do with you?”

“It doesn’t, to hear him tell it. He and my mother have batted me around for years. It’s like being a hot potato tossed from hand to hand. I’m tired of being shortchanged.”

“But you’ve been happy here, haven’t you?”

He shot her a cocky smile. “Who knows from happy? You gotta look after yourself. That’s all I know. No one else will do it, that’s for sure.”

He shook the ice in his cup, trying to determine how much of his drink was left. He took a long pull on the straw, draining half the contents. “You want some? Last chance.”

“What is it?”

“Bourbon and Coke.”

She made a face. “No, thanks.”

“Don’t blame you. Tastes disgusting, but it warms my heart, or what’s left of it at any rate.”

“You shouldn’t drink.”

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things, but here I am.” He set his cup at his feet, pulled his knees up, and rested his chin on his crossed arms. “Anyway, you’re the one who needs help.”

“I’ll survive. I’m already feeling better now that Austin isn’t sucking the life out of me.”

“Sorry turn of events, given you dated the guy. Aside from suffocating you, I bet he tried to get in your pants.”

She laughed. “How’d you know?”

Bayard’s tone was light. “He and I had a ‘thing.’”

Sloan said, “What do you mean, ‘a thing’?”

“What do you think I mean? Austin goes either way. He doesn’t care for the niceties. He likes the chase. He likes seduction. Then he gets bored.”

“That’s why I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

“Smart girl. He took up with you when he was done with me.”

“I’m sorry, Bayard. I had no idea. That must have been hurtful.”

“Hurting people is what he does. Are you wondering if I’m queer?”

“Don’t say that. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“It mattered to my mother. That’s why she washed her hands of me and dumped me on Daddy’s doorstep.”

“Shit. Does he know?”

“Oh god, no. That’s all I’d need. My dad’s a homophobe. He’s rabid on the subject. If Austin lets that cat out of the bag, I’ll be out on the street. Let’s not even talk about Dad’s money. He’d make sure I never got a dime. Which Austin well knows.”

“He’s threatened to tell your dad?”

“Sure. He says, ‘One phone call, Bayard. One phone call is all it takes.’ Then he holds up his finger like this and he doesn’t have to say another word. You know what’s pathetic? I’m still hung up on him. Just look at Fritz. He’s got a crush on the guy as well.”

“But if he outed you, wouldn’t he be implicating himself?”

“No one would dare say a word. The guy’s bulletproof. Kids are scared to death of him.”

“Hey, well, me too if you want to know the truth.”

“Sloan, I’m telling you, you’re stronger than he is. He hates you because he can’t dominate you. But here’s the point. He could be bluffing. For all we know, he’s a toothless old blowhard. A dickless wonder, so to speak.”

“Don’t look at me. I’m not going up against him.”

“Have you told your parents what’s going on?”

“I don’t have a choice. Someone scratched the word ‘snitch’ in the paint on Paul’s car. I’ll talk to him, but I don’t want to be labeled a tattletale as well as a fink. Same thing goes with school. If I tell Mr. Lucas or Mr. Dorfman, it’ll look like I expect them to step in. I might as well cut my own throat.”

Bayard dropped his gaze. “I can give you a way out.”

“How?”

“Ask Austin about the tape.”

“What tape?”

Bayard picked up his cup and rattled the ice. “He and Fritz and Troy had a little wingding with Iris, who was drunk and stoned. They screwed her brains out and put it all on tape. She’s lolling on the pool table, dead to the world, while Fritz and Troy horse around, sticking a pool cue up her twat. Your pal Austin was there, of course. He didn’t participate, but it was his idea. Ever the voyeur.”

“When was this?”

“Last weekend.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“I didn’t hear about it. I was there. Who do you think did the camerawork?”

“You didn’t intervene?”

“I was behaving like a journalist, recording reality without imposing my will or my point of view. I captured the action for posterity. What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, please. You’re worse than they are.”

“I’m despicable,” he said with an impish grin. “Anyway, she did it to herself. She’s a needy little girl who’d do anything for attention. Why do you think she stole the test? To curry favor with Poppy. Besides which she has the hots for Troy.”

“She does not. Does she?”

“Of course. She’s all over him.”

“But he and Poppy are going steady. He gave her his class ring.”

“There’s a lot Poppy doesn’t know about the guy. The thing about Iris is she flirts with any guy.”

“Oh, Bayard.”

“Oh, Bayard, my ass. Take my word for it. The tape is dynamite.”

“What would I do with a sex tape? It sounds gross.”

“You can use it to make Austin back off. Hard evidence, as it were,” he said. “Tell him you’ll turn it over to the police.”

Her expression was skeptical. “You said he didn’t participate.”

“He’s the one who set the stage, egging the others on, which makes him every bit as guilty, don’t you think?”

“He won’t see it that way.”

“Maybe not, but how can he take the risk? What if his parents find out? That’s the crux of it right there.”

She shook her head. “Why fan the flames? I defy him and things will only get worse.”

“Not so. You need leverage so you can put the squeeze on him. If you have the tape in hand, you can put an end to this.”

“Where is it?”

“McCabe’s house. He’s pondering additional ‘edits.’ Like it’s a major motion picture and he’s up for an award.”

“Fritz won’t just hand it over to me. Why would he do that?”

“Of course not. You’ll have to find a way to lift it without his knowing. Shouldn’t be hard to do. The kid is clueless.”

“It doesn’t feel right. I can’t afford more trouble than I’m in.”

“Wrong attitude. This is just the opposite. This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You know your problem? You really don’t understand what guys are about. You think you can be all nicey-nice and everything will be fine. Austin plays rough. You gotta hit him where it counts. He’s a gamesman.”

“I don’t want to play games.”

“Why not? He goes after you, you gotta knock him on his ass. Otherwise you’ll never gain his respect. Right now, he’s got you where he wants you.”

“He can’t keep it up forever.”

“Are you kidding? He’ll escalate. You think you’re miserable now. Wait until he ups the ante. Don’t you want to beat him at his own game?”

“All I want is to have this bullshit over with.”

“Exactly. Go to Fritz’s house and get the tape. If he figures it out, all the better. He can carry the tale to Austin. It’ll make Austin sweat, which would be good for him. Reveal any weakness and he’ll know he’s won.”

“I feel weak.”

“Then get a grip on yourself. You’re taking a one-down position, which is all in your head.”

Sloan stared at him for a long time and then lowered her gaze. Bayard had a point. Maybe it was time to stop playing victim and take control of the situation. She got up, snapping her fingers at the dog. “I hope this works. If not, I’ll have you to blame.”

“You surely will,” he said.

She clipped the leash on Butch. The dog rose to his feet and trotted dutifully at her side. Bayard watched as she moved down the drive toward the road. Idly, he removed the lid from the cup and finished his drink.