Did I Say You Could Go Read online

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  For my beloved Mom Pod

  PART ONE

  RUTH

  Is that her ex? Over there by the apples? In the faded Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low over her eyes?

  Ruth Thorne ducks behind a banana display. The last time she saw her BFF was over a year ago at Rite Aid. Ruth had run in to get some dental picks, and there was Gemma waiting in line at the pharmacy. Ruth hid that time, too, in the toothpaste aisle, hoping she’d overhear the pharmacist murmur the name of Gemma’s medication. All she discovered was her co-pay was fifteen dollars.

  A wave of déjà vu rolls over Ruth. Did she dream this moment into reality? She’s thought of nothing but Gemma for the last week and now here she is, practically trembling with anxiety as her hand dips into the pile of Galas, searching for the unbruised gems.

  Ruth gets out her phone and refreshes the San Francisco Chronicle’s home page. The article is still the number one most-read story and has 998 comments. With Gemma standing only twenty or so feet away from her, she reads it anew, as if through Gemma’s eyes. Has she been obsessively refreshing the page for the last week like Ruth?

  Study Right, Oakland and Test Prep Center, Involved in Cheating Scandal

  Gemma Howard, the owner of Study Right, claims she had no idea that one of her most popular tutors, Julie Winters (Harvard, BA English, 2017), had a profitable side business taking SAT and ACT tests for nine of her clients.

  Gemma rolls her cart down the produce aisle and stops at the nectarines. Ruth knows her favorite variety are the Diamond Brights, but they’ve come and gone already; she’ll have to settle for the Honey Blazes. Gemma tears a plastic bag off the roll and tries to open it, biting her lip in frustration. Finally, she licks her finger, and the edges of the bag separate. Gemma glances up, doing a quick check. Has she been made?

  Ruth squats, her heart thumping wildly. Quads firing, she continues reading the article.

  “ ‘Julie Winters was a sole operator. A bad actor,’ said Howard. ‘I was shocked to find out she’d been running this kind of scam.’ ”

  Ruth mouths Gemma’s words silently. I was shocked. Julie Winters had pled guilty. And even though Gemma had been cleared of all wrongdoing, attendance at her test prep center had declined by nearly 50 percent.

  Ruth skims the latest comments.

  What a disgusting little cheat. Of course she was in on it.

  Lying scum. Burn the place down.

  She’s got a daughter. Whattya wanna bet her SAT scores are off the chart hahaha.

  Bitch. She should be thrown in jail.

  Jail? That’s taking it a little too far. Still, Ruth can’t help the smile that creeps across her face.

  Comeuppance. She’s always loved that word. Gemma Howard is finally feeling what it’s like to be exiled from a community. To be publicly pilloried, just as she’d been, seven years ago, when Gemma and her daughter, Bee, turned their backs on Ruth and her daughter, Marley. Tossed them aside like they were strangers. Like they hadn’t been allied since that long-ago kindergarten meet and greet party that Ruth hosted at her house. Gemma was a widow and Ruth was divorced. They were the only single moms in the class and they’d bonded instantly. Within months, they were like family. They became each other’s emergency contacts. They spent Thanksgivings and Christmases together. They were inseparable until the girls were in third grade, and then Ruth hooked up with Mr. Mann on Tinder.

  Mr. Mann was irresistible. A Stanford linguistics professor. Erudite and incredibly fit. He told her he did the Bar Method three times a week; she liked his long, lean muscles. They’d slept together twice before Ruth discovered Mr. Mann’s true identity: Barry Egan, father of Chance Egan, a boy in Marley’s class, very much married with three children, a wealthy contractor with a thesaurus in his back pocket. His opening gambit? Did she know the etymology of the word obsequious? No, she had not.

  At the same time Ruth had discovered Mr. Mann’s identity, his wife, Sal, discovered hers. The news spread like a virus through the Momonymous pods. Momonymous was an anonymous app for mothers. In order to participate, you either had to start a mom pod (taking on the role of moderator) or be invited to join. The pods were similar to sororities, each with its own rituals and vetting processes. Members were rabid about hiding their true identities. The moderator knew who was in the group, but once the members chose a username, she was in the dark, just like everybody else. The anonymity allowed for uninhibited speech. That was the whole point of Momonymous.

  In the best of cases, pods shared tips and complimented children, mothers, and teachers. In the worst of cases, the pods were cruel. They gossiped about the mothers who hadn’t been invited to join (Ruth!). About the scapegoats, the mean girls, who got their period first. Many of the pods were basically cabals. Cabals that threw Ruth Thorne to the ground and ripped out her throat.

  Ruth had begged Gemma to see her side of it. Mr. Mann had lied. He said he was single and did the Bar Method (in retrospect that was a glaring red flag—how had she missed that?). And what about his accountability? He pursued her. Why was she being slut shamed? Why did he get off scot-free?

  Gemma didn’t abandon them all at once. She and Bee pulled away slowly, which in the end was more painful.

  Gemma leaves the produce aisle and disappears around the corner. A minute later, Ruth follows her. She’s picked up her pace, trotting past the cereal, the cleaning supplies, the toilet paper, the soda. Ruth has to walk briskly to keep up with her. Finally, Gemma makes an abrupt turn into the wine and liquor aisle and puts four large bottles of Woodbridge sauvignon blanc into her cart.

  Ruth refreshes the page again. Nine hundred and ninety-nine comments. One thousand. Ding! Ding! Ding! “Buy low” is Ruth’s tenet. She sends Gemma a text.

  Come to dinner Saturday night. xx

  Ruth can hear Gemma’s phone chime, even though it’s buried in her bag. A clarion call straight from the Hobbit soundtrack; she’s had the same text alert for years. Gemma doesn’t pick up her phone but she startles at the sound of the notification. She hurriedly joins a line, readjusting her baseball hat so it covers her eyes completely.

  I bet she wishes she could go back to the Shire, Ruth thinks.

  GEMMA

  Nearly an hour has passed since Gemma got home and put away the groceries, and her anxiety hasn’t diminished, not one little bit. Adrenaline and cortisol continue to flood her nervous system; she’s still in fight-or-flight mode. Thank goodness she didn’t run into anybody she knew at Safeway. It just wasn’t worth the risk, she decides. Next time, she’ll use Instacart.

  Gemma sits down at the table with her laptop, and just for fun googles “crisis managers” and reels at their exorbitant fees, which she never could afford, especially now that she’s lost half her clients.

  She’d let Bee call in sick for her shift at the Juicery.

  “Mom, I simply cannot,” said Bee when the news broke. “I. Can. Not.”

  Gemma Can. Not. either, but she must. Her mantra? “Cleared of all wrongdoing.” She’d written that phrase on Post-it notes and put them all over the house. On the fridge, the bathroom mirror, and the TV. Bee thought they were ridiculous but Gemma didn’t care. She needed reminders to keep her sane and prevent her from falling into an abyss of shame�
��shame that she didn’t deserve. She didn’t do anything wrong except open her heart to that con artist Julie Winters.

  What was Gemma guilty of? Of being a bad judge of character. Of thinking the best of people. Of allowing herself to be manipulated and used.

  Also, she’d been seduced, as had all the parents who had begged her to assign Julie to their children. Julie with her coveted Ivy League degree and her sad, made-for-TV story. A foster child, shuttled from home to home. Barely making it in remedial classes. The kind teacher in high school who finally figured out she wasn’t getting Cs in school because she was dumb; it was because she wasn’t challenged. He helped her to apply to colleges. Paid her application fees. And finally, she got the Holy Grail—Harvard!

  She wanted to give back now. That’s what she had said, and Gemma had fallen for it.

  It was all bunk. Julie came from a wealthy family in Connecticut. Her father was an insurance executive. He bought her way into Harvard, donating a cool two mil, over the table, not under. He knew how the game was played. $500K got you nothing.

  Gemma gets her phone out of her bag and is shocked to see a text from Ruth Thorne. An invitation. Come to dinner Saturday night. xx

  Now authentic shame, shame that she wholly deserves, engulfs her.

  * * *

  Ten years earlier, Ruth Thorne had hosted the Hillside Academy kindergarten meet and greet. When Gemma and Bee arrived at 626 Buttercup Drive there weren’t any cars on the street. Did she get the time wrong? she wondered. Then a man in a black jacket ran down the stairs and waved at her. A valet.

  The house was the most exquisite example of a Craftsman she’d ever seen. Perfectly restored. Intricate stonework, the arches and beams gleamed, newly varnished.

  Parents and children milled about on the porch. Most of the girls were intentionally, charmingly mismatched. Striped leggings and polka-dot dresses.

  Gemma glanced in the rearview mirror and thought, Crap. She’d let Bee choose her outfit. She was wearing her favorite Old Navy tracksuit. Bright red jacket and matching pants along with a pair of beat-up Pumas. Her hair was smashed down in the back. Gemma had intended to wrangle it into braids, but detangling Bee’s thick hair was always such a struggle. She didn’t want to fight with her today.

  Gemma didn’t look much better. A faded denim skirt, an embroidered peasant shirt from her college days, and clogs. Was it too late to go home and change?

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the valet, standing at her window.

  Gemma got out of the car and handed him the keys.

  * * *

  “Come in, come in,” a woman cheerfully called out. She strode across the room to greet them.

  “I’m the host, Ruth Thorne.” She gazed down at Bee. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Bee.”

  “B-e-a? Or the letter B?”

  Bee made a face. “B-e-e, like the insect.”

  “All right, Bee like the insect. Why, aren’t you the most adorable thing ever.”

  Bee shrank back, unsure of what to make of this elegant, impeccably groomed woman. She smelled like caramel.

  Ruth wore a sleeveless black dress with espadrilles. Her arms were lightly muscled, like a dancer’s. Her hair was daffodil yellow and cascaded in loose waves down her back. That color can’t be real, thought Gemma.

  She looked at Gemma. “And you must be Mommy.”

  Gemma hated it when adults referred to her as Mommy. “Gemma Howard.”

  “Ah, Gemma.”

  Ruth smiled openly at her, and Gemma had the sense she was being gathered up. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

  “You know you look exactly like Ali MacGraw in Love Story. It’s remarkable. You’re literally channeling her.”

  “Oh, thanks, I guess. It wasn’t intentional.” Despite thinking Ruth’s compliment was disproportionate and not wholly believable, Gemma blushed. Maybe there was a grain of truth in there. She did wear her dark brown hair straight with a middle part. She did have a bit of a hippie preppie vibe.

  Gemma scanned the room. The men wore tastefully distressed jeans and untucked button-up shirts—the ubiquitous private school Bay Area Dad look. The women were in sundresses and bejeweled sandals. “I’m afraid I’m a little underdressed. We’re a little underdressed. We thought it was a picnic.”

  “Nonsense. You two are a breath of fresh air,” said Ruth.

  Did she know they were on full scholarship? Had they given themselves away? Gemma could never afford a school like Hillside on her own.

  A waiter approached with a tray. “Truffle Lobster Salad on endive spears?”

  Gemma and Bee declined. A few seconds later another waiter appeared. “Virgin Ginger Mojitos?”

  Valets? Waiters? Lobster? Mojitos? Well, it was one way to introduce yourself to a community. Showing your privilege cards this early—it was a choice. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Ruth Thorne didn’t know how all this was playing.

  Both Gemma and Bee accepted a drink from the waiter.

  “Oh, yum,” said Gemma.

  Bee took a taste, grimaced, and handed her drink to Gemma.

  Ruth laughed. “Bee, see that table over there? Pizza puffs. Mac and cheese. Bagel Bites. And see that girl in the corner? That’s Marley, my daughter. She’s shy. She’s not a big talker. Why don’t you go over there and introduce yourself? You seem brave for an almost-kindergartener.”

  “That’s because I’m not a baby. I’m almost six,” said Bee, sauntering off. Flattery was Bee’s Achilles’ heel; she accepted it as her due.

  There was an awkward pause. Gemma was about to make an excuse about needing to use the bathroom when Ruth said, “It’s not an original Craftsman, you know. I had it built from scratch. The exterior is textbook Julia Morgan. The hipped roof, wraparound porch, stonework, overhanging eves. But the inside—well, judge for yourself.”

  The interior looked like it came straight from the pages of Dwell magazine. A mix of carefully curated new and vintage pieces. B&B Italia couches. An arc lamp. A pair of Hans Wegner chairs. All the walls were white. The floors glossy and polished to a golden sheen. Sunlight poured in through the windows. It was the complete opposite of Gemma’s house. What she wouldn’t give to live in such a clean, curated space.

  “I love it,” said Gemma.

  “Really? That makes me so happy. Most people are confused when they come inside, and believe it or not, some of them are actually offended. They act like I’ve committed an architectural sin,” Ruth confesses.

  * * *

  Later, everybody gathered together. They made two rings. Children on the inside, parents on the outside. Then they went around the circle, the children introducing themselves and their parents.

  Whose stupid idea was this? It looked like every child had two parents but Bee and Marley.

  When it was her turn, Bee said, “I’m Bee, like the insect, and this is my mom, Gemma.”

  “Hi, Bee. Hi, Gemma,” everybody yelled. It was like an AA meeting.

  “My daddy’s dead,” said Bee.

  The crowd stared at her in a not-unkind silence. Two pink spots bloomed on Bee’s cheeks. She pressed her face against Gemma’s arm.

  “Why isn’t anybody saying anything?” she cried in a muffled voice.

  “They’re just being polite,” said Gemma, giving the group an apologetic smile. “Bee’s father was amazing. We miss him so much. He’s not a taboo subject. You can ask Bee about him. It’d be great if you did. We want to keep his memory alive. His name was Ash.”

  They continued to go around the circle until they got to Marley, who scurried behind Ruth.

  Ruth smiled stiffly, clearly embarrassed at her daughter’s refusal to participate. “This is Marley and I’m Ruth.”

  “Hi, Marley! Hi, Ruth!” the group echoed back.

  “No dad, I’m a single mother as well. But happily divorced,” said Ruth, winking at Gemma from across the circle.

  * * *

  After the circle broke up, a crowd formed aroun
d Gemma. Parents were extremely friendly. Overly solicitous. We are so thrilled to have Bee in the class and we will be calling soon for playdates! They were well meaning, but it was a little embarrassing.

  Gemma spied Ruth alone in the kitchen, drinking a glass of wine and clocking the scene. She nodded enthusiastically and gave Gemma a warm smile, and Gemma couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She was a single mother, too, but a wealthy divorcée, therefore nobody had sympathy for her. Gemma was a widow; that put her on the top of the single-mother food chain.

  But Ruth didn’t do herself any favors with this fancy party.

  Gemma skillfully extricated herself from the crowd of parents (one of her gifts, honed in the test prep business) and walked over to Ruth.

  “May I join you?” she asked, pointing at her glass.

  “I’d be delighted. White or red?”

  “White, please.”

  Ruth poured her a glass and frowned. “The kids are getting antsy.” She clapped her hands loudly three times. People stopped talking and gazed at Ruth expectantly.

  “Children,” she said loudly. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

  The kids cheered.

  “Marley, lead the way to the media room, please. Children, your choices are WALL-E or Beverly Hills Chihuahua.”

  Gemma cringed at the phrase media room. A few of the mothers rolled their eyes and gave each other knowing looks. Ruth seemed oblivious. Oh, give her a chance, people, thought Gemma. She followed Ruth to the media room in solidarity. The children hesitated, not knowing where to sit. Bee led Marley to the couch. Ruth pushed a button, and an enormous TV screen dropped from the ceiling. The children gasped. They oohed and ahhed. A quick vote was taken, results tallied, and WALL-E began.

  “You’re so generous to do all this,” said Gemma.

  “Mmm. I probably should have organized a potluck. I just wanted to do something nice. Start the class off with a bang. They’re going to be together for the next thirteen years after all.”