Nineteen

Paige

The idea of a ransom first occurred to me when my sister, Evelyn, came home from college unexpectedly for the weekend. She wanted us to meet her boyfriend. This was declared a “very big deal” by my parents, and the entire house went into a flurry of excitement as if the queen of England had announced she might pop over for a social visit.

Mom rushed out to get everything to make her squash risotto (Evelyn’s favorite) with chocolate ganache cake for dessert (apparently the new boyfriend’s favorite). Dad popped his head into my room Friday night to let me know I was expected to cancel my Saturday plans to clean the house before the royal couple arrived and graced our sad, humble lives with their presence.

I’ve always known Evelyn was the favorite. I grew up listening to stories of how she slept through the night as a baby, learned to walk early, and had naturally perfect pitch. Teachers fought to have her in their class. Evelyn always got good grades, she made her bed in the morning before school, she never dyed her hair an unacceptable color, and she was never once late for curfew. And now she was dating the perfect guy.

Perfect being a matter of opinion.

I observed Charles as we made our way through dinner. The light from the chandelier in our dining room wasn’t doing much for him. His skin tone was fish-belly white, made worse by the fact that he had near black hair and was wearing a dark gray sweater. He looked like one of those Puritanical preachers from the 1700s who farmed their land, went to church when not raising a barn, and burned the occasional witch for not knowing her place. The kind of guy who talked about how minority groups should stop asking for handouts and didn’t notice the irony as he climbed into the BMW that his daddy had bought him.

“So Evelyn tells us you’re studying engineering.” My dad topped up Charles’s wine. He’d opened a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape from the cellar in the basement. He’d determined within minutes of meeting Charles that he deserved the good stuff. This was likely due to the fact that Charles shook my dad’s hand firmly and called him sir. I’d seen my parents exchange glances, like they could hardly believe their luck, when they met him. I tried to score a glass of wine, but my dad told me not to be ridiculous. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that he hadn’t counted the bottles, because I’ve taken more than one in the past.

“Yes, sir. I’m doing a dual major in computer engineering and business. Ideally I’d like to work in the aerospace industry after graduation.”

Dad’s eyebrows went up a millimeter. “Interesting choice.”

“My father works with NASA,” Charles explained.

I managed to avoid rolling my eyes. I could see my dad already envisioning his next campaign ad with an astronaut son-in-law-to-be at his side.

Charles took another sip of wine and then smiled at my mom. It looked to me like he bleached his teeth. “The dinner is amazing, Mrs. Bonnet.”

Mom blushed and waved him off with a flick of her pressed napkin. “It’s nothing.”

We ate in silence for a beat. Just the sound of the silverware tinkling against the Haviland china plates and the faint sound of soft classical coming from the speakers in the living room. We’d all dressed up for the occasion, and it felt fake. Like we were onstage playing a happy family having a fancy dinner party, only there wasn’t any audience. We were pretending just for ourselves, which struck me as even more pathetic than if we were doing it to impress anyone else.

I had this sudden urge to yell out something really vile. Maybe the C-word just so I could watch the shock in all of their faces. I wanted to stand up and sweep the bottle of wine off the table or chuck the bowl of salad at the wall. Let’s see how perfect Charles handles a bit of reality.

But I didn’t. Instead I carefully used the back of my knife to tap a tidy portion of risotto onto my fork the way I’d learned as a kid. I didn’t fit in, but I knew how to look like I did.

“I hear we may be mortal enemies come next year,” Charles said to me.

I dropped my fork onto my plate in surprise. My mom winced at the clatter. “What?”

Charles laughed. “Sorry. I just meant that Evelyn said you were planning to go to Michigan State next year.” He mimed boxing. “That makes us arch football rivals.”

I pressed my mouth into a shape I hoped looked something like a smile. “I guess so.”

“Oh, do you play?” Mom asked.

“No, ma’am. I played in high school, but not with Michigan.”

“Paige didn’t have the grades for Michigan.”

“Donald.” Mom’s voice was scolding. “You know that’s not true.”

“Oh, Paige knows I’m teasing her.” Dad winked at me, then turned back to Charles. “Both Ms. Bonnet and I went to Michigan as well. Paige is going to be the first Spartan in the family.”

“Guess we can’t all be Wolverines,” Charles said. “At least she’s not going to Ohio State.” The entire table laughed as if he’d said something remarkably witty. I imagined tossing my sparking water into Charles’s smug sluglike face.

Dad raised his hand. “Ah, this is one of my favorite pieces.” We all paused to hear the sounds of Ligeti’s Violin Concerto coming from the other room. Dad closed his eyes for a beat. All that was missing was him raising a conductor’s baton over his head and guiding the music in. “Charles, did Evelyn ever tell you that she used to play the violin?”

“Dad.” Evelyn blushed.

“No.” Charles nudged her softly. “Look at all the secrets I’m learning.”

“She really had a gift,” Mom added.

I could feel my spine stiffening. The risotto I’d eaten started to twist in my stomach. I prayed he wouldn’t ask.

“Why did you give it up?” Charles asked.

I winced even though I’d known the question would come. Evelyn held up her left hand, wiggling her pinkie finger. “I told you I had an accident, years ago.” The tip of the little finger was gone, not quite down to the first knuckle. It was the kind of thing you might not even notice about her until she started waving it around. “It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make it so I couldn’t play the really challenging pieces. Besides, no matter what my parents say, I wasn’t that good.”

Evelyn was right. She had been good, but I don’t remember at the time anyone in our family talking about her being Juilliard bound. After the accident, however, descriptions of her talent grew until she was practically a budding young female Mozart taken out in her prime.

Cut down by yours truly.

Not that I did it on purpose. It had been an accident. We’d been in the kitchen, helping my mom with dinner. I was eight and was thrilled to be in charge of chopping carrots. Evelyn kept saying that I was doing it wrong. Making the pieces too big. I kept insisting right back that I had it covered. She put her hand down on the cutting board to point out a piece that was the wrong size, and thwack. The tip of her finger came off before I’d even realized what happened.

I’d cried inconsolably at the hospital. I didn’t always get along with Evelyn, but I’d never wanted to hurt her.

“Daddy thinks this is all my fault,” I wailed.

Mom patted me on the back. “Your dad knows this wasn’t your fault.”

Even at eight, I’d known she was partially right. My dad knew it wasn’t my fault, but at the same time he believed it was. It wasn’t that my dad didn’t love me—he did—but he didn’t really like me.

I stood to clear the table. My dad passed me his plate without looking at me. He was deep in conversation with Charles on the merits of various golf clubs. And it occurred to me I was sick of feeling blamed. Sick of feeling second best. And if I couldn’t change how he felt about me—maybe I could make him pay. The plan to go missing was already in motion, but this would be a new wrinkle. That was the first time the idea came to me, but it had been brewing for longer than that. He had always underestimated me.