Friends Forever: A Story of Love, Friendship and Betrayal

by Bernadette Walsh

Genres: Women's Fiction; Love Triangles; Friendship

Synopsis

KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE -- AND YOUR FRENEMIES CLOSER

Successful attorney Molly Reid thought she had put the past behind her. But when the body of her flaky but lovable college roommate, Sarah, is discovered abandoned in a field, Molly is drawn back into the tangled incestuous world of Devereaux College.

At Sarah's wake, Molly confronts her ex-fiancé, a suddenly attentive former big-man-on-campus, the bitchy college friends who still treat Molly like the slutty wrong-side-of-the-tracks scholarship student she once was, and Sarah's mother, who forces Molly to take Sarah's rehab journals.

As Molly sifts through Sarah's scrawled journal entries, she discovers Sarah was not a lovable kook but rather an intelligent, but damaged, woman. The journals become for Molly a Pandora's Box of secrets. WILL SARAH'S SECRETS TOPPLE MOLLY'S CAREFULLY CONSTRUCTED FACADE?

Release date: May 15, 2015

Publisher: Bernadette Walsh

Print pages: 121

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 May 20, 2009

 

I tugged on the tight black wool skirt. Two years ago, when I turned forty and divorced my husband, I did the unthinkable and banished all black from my wardrobe. Silly, really, to imagine a Park Avenue lawyer could survive without such a staple but I’d been drowning in sensible black suits for years. At the time, Sarah applauded my new fashion plans. Of course Sarah would. Her New Jersey stay-at-home-mommy wardrobe was an explosion of color and sparkle. What would Sarah say if she knew she caused the breach of my no black edict? She’d probably roll her eyes and say, “O’Connor, do you need to make everything about you?”

I climbed out of the car and tugged once more the skirt found at the back of my closet, my stomach in knots at the prospect of seeing Sarah’s husband. Her brother. All the Devereaux College alums who’d inevitably show up. In and out. I’d pay my respects and then escape over the George Washington Bridge to my real life on the Upper East Side where I was a respected lawyer and mother of two. My real life where no one remembered Molly O’Connor, the slutty scholarship student. 

I was late, of course, the viewing room already packed with everyone I knew would be there. The gaggle of Sarah’s desperate housewife cronies whose names I could never remember. Mr. Reilly, his hair almost all gone now. Mrs. Reilly, dressed to the nines as I knew she would be. The kids, dear God, the kids. I hugged the oldest daughter, Elizabeth, but I hadn’t seen her in years and she probably didn’t even know who I was. Why would she? Sarah and I had devolved into twice yearly phone friends. 

Timothy Reilly, trailed by the wife who wore my ring, greeted me with a dry kiss beside the closed casket. His eyes were two hollows. The months of searching, of not knowing, made their mark even on the formidable Tim. 

The gruesome twosome, Beth and Donna, our freshman year suite-mates, cornered me outside the ladies room and pumped me for information but I was as clueless as they were about the circumstances of Sarah’s death. Beth narrowed her eyes as if she thought I was holding out on them, the same way they’d narrowed all those years ago whenever I wouldn’t tell her where I’d spent the night. My shoulders involuntarily hunched forward as if I was once again that skinny eighteen year old in a cheap nylon sweater reeking of the prior night’s beer. 

Beth and Donna looked like the Short Hills Mall had thrown up on them, both the image of tasteful and expensive mourning wear — high black pumps and matching designer bags. They’d probably gone shopping together and planned their outfits for the big event the moment they heard about Sarah’s disappearance. The gruesome twosome, as I had christened them freshman year, were sleek and coddled suburban wives, just as destiny intended. No doubt striking terror into the hearts of their respective PTAs. In my ill-fitting skirt and sensible flats, I was once again the odd one out.

“Aren’t you in touch with Tim? He must have told you something?” 

“I haven’t seen Tim in years and only found out about the funeral from the alumni email,” I said.

“Really?” Donna’s eyebrows shot up and almost cracked her frozen forehead. “Sarah always acted like you two were still best friends. Last time I ran into her at the mall, she said you two met in the city for lunch all the time.”

“It’s been a while since I’d spoken to her. Sarah and Chip had separated?”

“You didn’t know?” Beth asked.

“No.” I looked over at Chip Shields and unfortunately caught his eye. He ran his tongue over his thick fleshy lips and nodded in my direction. His heavy lidded eyes, still sultry though now embedded in a face that had run to fat, said, “I know you. I’ve tasted you.” The same look he gave me as I stood in my purple bridesmaid’s dress and caught his wife’s bouquet. And for not the first time, I regretted that night in his room sophomore year. Even after decades, I couldn’t forget the smell of sour sheets, the feel of his hot breath on my neck.

I escaped the gruesome twosome and spoke with the two young Franciscan monks from Devereaux College. The Reilly family had always been big Devereaux donors and Mr. Reilly, along with three of their five children, were alumni, which was probably why the college sent two of their dwindling number of Friars. Even in death, the Reillys made it to the front of the line.

The young Friars in their rough robes and clunky brown sandals transported me back to Devereaux College in a way the bloated faced of my fellow alumni could not. Just being near their fresh scrubbed faces made me think of mountain breezes and the solace their predecessors provided in the chapel’s dark confessionals when the sins of the weekend became too heavy to bear. Solace. Could these skinny monks, swallowed up by their coarse robes, bring solace to the forty-something alumni scarred as they were by divorce and disappointment and now death?

I looked at my diamond watch — a fortieth birthday gift to myself. I’d exceeded my originally scheduled time by thirty minutes. What happened to in and out, O’Connor? 

I knelt before the casket and placed my hand on its smooth mahogany. I mumbled the remnants of what remained of my Catholic training. An Our Father. A Glory Be. Anything to distract me from the fact that beneath my hands lay Sarah’s scattered bones. Big beautiful Sarah Reilly, with her long golden brown hair and even longer limbs. Sarah, who always had the best of everything, abandoned in a field, at the mercy of hungry carrion. Who on earth could’ve predicted that.

I’d stayed too long and a line had formed behind me. In my head, I said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry it ended like this.” I got up too quickly and stumbled. John Reynolds — of all people — caught me.

“O’Connor, you alright?”

Gorgeous John Reynolds, unlike his former roommate Chip, had conquered time. If anything the silver at his temples and the added heft to his six foot frame improved his already movie star good looks. And of course I fell into him. Just like I did about ten times in college, although back then I usually splattered cheap beer onto his expensive jeans. It was if even being within John Reynolds’ orbit unbalanced me. Me and half the girls at Devereaux.

I nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Without letting go of my arm, John led me to the corner. “Are you sure you’re all right, O’Connor? You’re pale. Do you need a drink of water?”

“I’m fine.” I stepped away from his grasp. “No one calls me that anymore, by the way.”

“Calls you what? O’Connor?”

“Yes. I go by Molly Reid now.”

“Some lucky man finally caught the slippery Molly O’Connor? I’d like to shake his hand. Is he here?”

“No, we’re divorced. I kept the name for the kids.”

“So you’re still slipping out of guys’ hands then, Molly?”

I refused to smile. We were at a wake after all. “Hardly. I’m too old for that.”

John’s blue eyes gazed into mine. “You look the very same to me. Still beautiful. Brilliant too, I’m sure. Are you still practicing law?”

“Yes, in the city. Securities litigation at Harper, Sherman & Reid. And you? Didn’t you go to law school?”

“Yeah, I took over my father’s office in Newark. Not exactly Park Avenue, but I do okay.”

“And your wife? Is she a lawyer?”

“Ex-wife. And no, she doesn’t work. She just had another kid with her new husband.”

“So it looks like we’re both a little slippery.”

John laughed. “You could say that. Hey, would you like to—”

Sarah’s mother walked up to me. “Molly, dear, would you mind coming out to my car? I have something for you.”

“Of course, Mrs. Reilly. John, it was nice seeing you again,” I said.

Mrs. Reilly said nothing as we walked out to the parking lot. She’d always made me nervous and, after Tim Reilly had broken off our engagement in the early-90s, had been very chilly the few times I’d seen her since. What on earth could she have for me?

Mrs. Reilly popped open the trunk and took out a box filled with notebooks. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here, Molly. If you weren’t I was going to burn these. I flipped through a few of them and, well, I don’t think Chip should see these. That’s not what Sarah would have wanted.”

“What are they?”

“Sarah’s journals. She left them in my basement when she was clearing out the house that bastard was forcing her to sell.”

“Am I the right person to read these? Surely her sister or one of her other friends....”

“Sarah’s friends are all a bunch of feather-heads, to be truthful, and I don’t think Sarah would want her baby sister to read these.  No, Molly, you were her one sensible friend. The only one who never wanted anything from her. I can trust you. Read them or burn them, I don’t care at this point. I know you’ll do the right thing with them.”

“Shouldn’t the police see these?”

“The police? Those incompetents? Please. I flipped through a few of the journals and I don’t think there’s anything helpful to the police in them. I want someone who loved Sarah, really loved and understood Sarah, to have them. Sarah and I, well, you know, we never saw eye to eye. I need to do one last good thing for my girl, and I think giving you these journals is it.”

“I, uh, I don’t know.”

Beneath her slash of rouge, Mrs. Reilly’s skin was grey. “Take them, Molly.”

And so I did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

August 21, 1985

 

 

By the time we’d reached Binghamton my mother’s nervous chatter had tapered off. Knuckles white against the wheel, my mother, who never drove her battered Chevy hatchback on the Long Island Expressway if she could help it, had navigated four hours of bridges and highways all the while her slight brogue strained with forced cheer. “Look at the hills, Molly, aren’t they beautiful? They remind me of home.”  “Have we gone a hundred miles already? Sure, that wasn’t so bad.”

But Binghamton conquered her. The half-way mark, my high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Koenig, had told us. Four hours of endless rolling hills along Route 17 to Binghamton. A short stop for gas and then four more hours to go. My mother’s latest perm drooped across her shoulders, her face an odd shade of green. I finally took pity on her and grabbed the keys after we gassed up the car. Since I’d gotten my license last year, I’d done most of the driving. I was, as my mother said endlessly, “a confident driver. Just like your father.”

I was a lot of things, “just like your father.” Impatient, brooding, could fix anything, and while I shared my mother’s high cheekbones and sharp chin, I’d inherited my father’s “black Irish” coloring — coal black eyes and thick dark curls. The way my mother spoke about my father, with a mixture of sorrow and affection, most people who didn’t know us well assumed he’d died. The church even included us in their annual “widows and orphans” Christmas cheer basket, to my unending shame. But Captain Jack O’Connor was very much alive and living in Queens near the firehouse with his second wife and their four kids. Although for the purposes of my non-existent college fund, Jack O’Connor was as good as dead. Which was why my mother and I found ourselves in our Chevy hatchback hurtling along Route 17 past hill after rolling goddamned hill to my final destination. Devereaux College. 

Not Georgetown or Notre Dame or Boston College or even Fordham, all of whom had accepted me and awarded partial scholarships. Partial wasn’t good enough. On her court reporter’s salary and my father’s intermittent checks, my mother had barely managed to scrape together the tuition to Our Lady of Angels Academy. Intellectually I knew this, of course. I knew my mother couldn’t, and my father wouldn’t, make up the shortfall to send me to Georgetown or Notre Dame or Boston College or even Fordham. It was either go someplace willing to pay full freight for a near perfect SAT score and a class Valedictorian or take the bus to Nassau Community College. I knew I was lucky to go “away” to college, I knew my mother had done all she could. But that knowledge didn’t stem the sour bile that rose in my throat when I saw all the rich OLA Academy girls who’d I’d beaten for four years pack their bags for Georgetown or Notre Dame or Boston College or even Fordham while I packed my bags for shitty Devereaux College. 

Route 17 ended and we took the left fork onto a winding two-lane secondary road where we passed yet more rolling hills and ramshackle farms. All the openness hurt my suburban eyes, raised as I was amongst the shopping malls and crowded sub-divisions of western Nassau County. The sharp pungent odor of what I would soon recognize as run-over skunk invaded our small car and my mother and I rolled up the windows.

We drove through a small two-traffic light town lined with pizza places, sub shops and four dive bars and then a mile and half later came upon Devereaux’s red-bricked campus, nestled in a valley surrounded by a ring of green hills. 

“Oh, Molly, Mrs. Koenig was right. It is a beautiful campus.”

I sighed. “Yeah, it’s nice. Where did they say we had to check in?”

“The financial aid office, in the administration building.” My mother pulled out the map that was included in the freshman welcome package and held it upside down. 

I grabbed the map out of her hand, tearing it slightly. “Let me look.”

I drove to the low slung administration building and we followed the signs to the financial aid office where we were greeted by a heavy-set woman with iron grey hair. My mother straightened her shoulders and adopted what I referred to as her “office” voice, where, with effort, her brogue was rendered nearly non-existent. “I’m Margaret O’Connor and this is my daughter, Molly. We were told to report here.”

“Oh, Molly O’Connor, our Devereaux Presidential Scholar! We’re so excited that you decided to attend Devereaux! Now let me find your paperwork.” The woman bustled away into another room. My mother patted my arm. I blinked hard to hold back the tears that threatened to burst forth. All summer long I’d been so busy waitressing, I’d refused to allow reality to sink in. That after all those years studying and hours carefully completing college applications, I was going to a third-tier college in the middle of nowhere. For some reason, the fat woman with her up-state twang made my banishment to this backwater all too real.

“Molly, I have great news. A last minute opening came up in a four-person suite in Falcone Hall and we assigned you there.”

“But I requested a double in Loughlan Hall.”

“I know, but Falcone is newer, and really,” the woman said looking at my mother, “more suited to our Presidential Scholar.”

My cousin’s friend had graduated from Devereaux last year and had told me to request Loughlan Hall, which was a “party” dorm. If I was going to be stuck in the boondocks for four years, I at least deserved to have fun.

“But...”

The woman’s bland cheerfulness was impenetrable. She handed me a room key along with my class schedule and ID card. “Good luck, Molly! I know you’ll love Devereaux!”

Once we got back to the car, my tears successfully kept at bay, I consulted the torn map. Falcone was in the center of  campus, not far beyond the student center and the library. We drove past Loughlan, the oldest dorm on campus, in silence. A few minutes later we reached Falcone. Falcone Hall, like all the campus buildings, was a red-brick building, yet unlike most, was modern with large windows. 

“This looks nice,” my mother said with forced cheer.

I didn’t bother to respond. I climbed out of the car and popped open the hatchback. My mother and I each took a suitcase, a graduation gift from my Aunt Mary, and in continued silence, entered Falcone Hall. My new home.

The suite was on the fourth floor. The door was already open to room 404. I didn’t look at my mother, who was a few paces behind me, but I could almost hear her straightening her shoulders as mine slumped forward.

A tall horsey-looking girl, who must have been over 5’9’’, stood on a chair beside the window and hung curtains. Her waist-length, light brown hair swung wide as she turned to face us. She smiled, exposing a slight overbite. “Hi! You must be Molly.” She stepped off the chair. “I’m Sarah. You’ll be sharing a room with me. Beth and Donna have the other bedroom but they’re not here yet. Do you need help bringing your stuff up from the car?”

I said “No” and my mother said “Yes” simultaneously.

Sarah laughed, reminding me of the perky cheerleaders at OLA who cheered for the nearby boys school, most of whom wound up at small no-name colleges like Devereaux. Sarah threw her arm over my narrow shoulders as if we’d known each other forever. “Come on, roomie. Let’s go.”

We met Sarah’s parents and younger sister as they walked out of the elevator, laden with towels and cases of diet soda. “Hey guys, this is Molly. Her mom’s in the suite — be back in a sec!”

Sarah emitted a constant stream of chatter. She was super excited to be finally going away. Her best friend from high school, Lisa, was supposed to be her roommate but she was accepted off the Boston College wait list, and while Sarah was super bummed not to room with her, she totally understood. Besides, college was all about meeting new people, right? She knew our suite was going to be rockin,’ what with all of us being Jersey girls.

I popped open the hatchback. “I’m from Long Island.” 

“You are? Well, that’s okay,” Sarah said, her near constant smile only slightly wavered. “That’s almost like Jersey. It’s not like you’re from a farm or, like, Buffalo. My neighbor from Short Hills spent her freshman year here with a townie. She said it was awful. The townie only washed her hair once a week and her townie boyfriend slept over almost every weekend. He snored too”

I handed Sarah a box. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Sarah winked. “Not yet. There are a bunch of rugby and hockey players living on the third floor.”

I slammed the hatchback shut. My head pounded with what I knew would be one of my killer migraines. Even though it felt like someone had jabbed a knife through my left eye, I forced a smile. “Cool.”

When we returned to the suite, everyone was in the tiny common area. Mama helped Sarah’s mother fill the small refrigerator with sodas while Sarah’s father and sister unpacked boxes. Sarah’s father, who was tall with thick dark hair slicked back like President Reagan, took the box from Sarah.

“Here, honey, let me get that.” He looked at me and smiled. He had big white teeth just like his daughter. “I’m Mike Reilly, Sarah’s father.”

Hello, Captain Obvious. Who else would you be? I smiled, although my mouth started to hurt from all this unaccustomed smiling. “I’m Molly.”

Sarah’s mother, an attractive petite woman with high-lighted blond hair and dark green eyes, held out her hand to me. “Hi, Molly. I’m Lorraine Reilly. I’m so excited that Sarah will be rooming with an Irish girl. My grandmother was from County Roscommon. That’s not so far from Galway, right, Peggy? Oh, Mike, we just have to take a trip to Ireland soon. I hear it’s beautiful and I’d love to research my family tree.”

I shot my mother a look as I shook Mrs. Reilly’s hand. Poor Mama was constantly bombarded with “my so-and-so was from County Whatever.” People would actually ask her if she knew a Jim Ryan or Mary Sweeney from Donegal, as if she knew the whole country. As if she hadn’t been living in New York since she was seventeen. But my mother always smiled sweetly and acted interested in their third cousin twice removed from Killarney or their grandmother from Meath. My mother was a much better person than me.

The pain behind my eye worsened but I managed to squeak out, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reilly.”

“Nice to meet you too, Molly. And your mother tells me you’re a Devereaux Presidential Scholar! That is so wonderful. Maybe your good study habits will rub off on Sarah.”

I inwardly groaned. My mother thought the scholarship was an honor and had spent the summer telling everyone about it. And I did mean everyone — the entire courthouse in Mineola, the family back in Ireland, the neighbors down the street, the mailman. My mother didn’t get it. She thought the scholarship was an honor instead of what it really was. 

An embarrassment. 

“Oh, Mom, please stop. Hey, Molly, come into the bedroom and see what I’ve done.” Sarah tugged me like a rag doll and dragged me into one of the bedrooms.

The room looked like a Laura Ashley catalog had exploded. Matching lavender comforters and an assortment of color-coordinated pillows covered the two single beds. White lace curtains hung on the room’s sole window and a deep purple throw rug separated the two beds. Matching brass reading lamps and purple alarm clocks sat on the side tables next to each bed. I ran my fingers along the comforter, its fabric soft, luxurious even, unlike the sturdy navy blue version my mother bought me the previous week on sale.

“Since Lisa and I were supposed to room together, our moms picked all this out. When Lisa told us she was going to BC, we just decided to bring it up. You like it, don’t you?”

“Um, sure.” I looked over at my mother, whose perma-smile had disappeared.

My mother’s “office voice” was in full force as she said through a tight smile, “It’s lovely. Thank you for organizing the room. How much do we owe you?”

Sarah said, “Four Hund—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Reilly said, interrupting her daughter. “I bought it on sale and it wasn’t much at all.”

Mr. Reilly nodded and I suddenly noticed how well dressed the Reillys were. Even though they were all in jeans, Mrs. Reilly’s jeans were designer. Mr. Reilly wore a Rolex. In that instant I saw my mother through their eyes — frizzy home perm, fussy black pumps and black pants, shiny from over-ironing. The absence of a husband. And I saw myself too, with my cheap sneakers and tight poly-blend t-shirt. 

“Yes, consider it our gift,” Mr. Reilly said with booming authority.

My mother’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She opened her fake leather purse. “I could write you a check.”

“That will probably bounce,” I thought.

Mrs. Reilly placed her hands on my mother’s thin freckled arm. “Please, Peggy. It would be our pleasure.”

My mother looked at me. I shrugged and sat on the bed, reluctantly granting her permission to accept the Reillys’ charity. 

My mother nodded and twisted her mouth in a forced smile. “All right then. Thank you.”

Sarah grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the bed. “Come on, roomie. Let’s finish unpacking so we can check out the guys on the third floor.”

I looked around at the smiling, toothy, well-dressed Reillys and knew I’d always hate them a little. 

**********

Beth and Donna’s families were much like the Reillys with well-groomed, fashionably thin mothers and hearty, prosperous fathers. Beth and Donna had matching blond perms and cruel smiles and the thought of spending the next year trapped in the small suite with them made my head pound. Mr. Reilly and Sarah’s younger sister drove to town and brought back pizzas and an assortment of subs for the group. My mother reached into her pathetic purse and produced a wrinkled twenty dollar bill which Mr. Reilly refused to accept. I wanted to die.

Later we all went to the student center and were subjected to hours of “meet your classmates” activities, all the while my mother sat on the bleachers and beamed as if she’d won the lottery. My suite-mates and their parents attended yet another party in the rathskeller but my mother and I begged off and went back to the motel. My mother was touched, thinking I wanted to spend our last night together alone. For once I wasn’t a complete bitch and let her think what she wanted.

The next morning, my mother insisted on going to the “Bye-Bye Breakfast” in the campus dining hall. Thankfully, the “roomies” table was full and I steered my mother to another table. She chatted on while I pushed an undercooked fried egg around my plate. We left before five seniors completed their skits.

My eyes filled with tears before we got to the car. “This place is awful, Mom. You can’t leave me here.”

“Awful, what are you on about, Molly? It’s beautiful here. I would’ve given my right arm to go to a college like this.”

“Did you see the people, Mom? They’re morons, all of them. I don’t belong here. I’ll go to Nassau Community and I swear I won’t complain. It’s got to be better than this.”

My mother stroked my hair. “I know it’s scary, love. It’s been just the two of us for so long but this is your chance to get an education and make something of yourself. Devereaux wasn’t your first choice but it’s a fine school. All the lawyers at the courthouse said so.”

“It’s a shit hole.”

Her hand moved so quickly that I felt the slap before I saw it. 

My mother’s normally placid blue eyes flashed with temper. “Let me tell you what’s really was a shit hole. Working in your grandfather’s farm, ankle deep in muck and miles from anywhere. You know where else was a shit hole, the bar in Sunset Park where I made sandwiches for two dollars an hour at age seventeen. You’ve had it pretty good, my girl. Maybe not as good as those prissy brats you went to high school with, but still pretty good. So stop your whining and for once in your life appreciate what you’ve got.”

“Mom!”

“It’s time to grow up, my girl. Next time you call home, I only want to hear happy, positive news. You owe me that. And don’t you curse in my presence again, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She climbed into the hatchback and I looked at her profile and noticed for the first time a little roll of fat lodged beneath her chin. My mother looked every one of her thirty-six years. I felt sorry for her.

**********

By November we’d settled into a routine of sorts. Sarah, Beth and Donna were undeclared business majors with morning classes on the east side of campus. I was an English major with a pre-law minor so I had afternoon classes in the older west side of the campus with the other liberal arts majors, or “freaks” as Donna referred to us. As a result of our differing schedules we thankfully didn’t see each other too much during the day.

It didn’t take Beth and Donna long to decide I was a “Long Island bitch” and a “backstabber,” whatever that meant. They’d spent the first few weeks rolling their eyes at everything I said and openly mocking every stitch of clothing I owned. They delighted in drinking my meager supply of orange sodas in the communal fridge and using all my hairspray. They needled me and needled me until one night in October I brought the blonde rugby player Donna had starting dating back to my room.  I made sure the headboard hit the thin wall separating our two bedrooms throughout the night. After that “boyfriend stealer” and “slut” were added to my list of crimes. 

At least they stopped drinking my orange sodas.

Sarah had started dating a rugby player named Chip in October and spent a lot of time in his dorm room on the third floor. But just because she had a boyfriend, Sarah told me, didn’t mean she didn’t want to “hang with her roomie.” Sarah was willfully oblivious to the fact that her “roomie” didn’t go out of her way to hang with her, but Sarah was like that. Only saw what she wanted to see and was like a pit bull when she wanted something. Sarah had some idea from watching movies that as freshman year roommates, ours was destined to be a special, almost mystical, friendship. At least once a week she found me in the dining hall for lunch and, whenever she could, she dragged me to the rugby team’s off-campus house for a kegger where we would both get drunk and Sarah would hang on my arm and tell me we’d be friends forever.

The week before Thanksgiving break, my mother called the suite while Beth and Donna were in class and Sarah was in bed nursing her latest hangover.

“Molly, sweetie, how are you?”

“Magnificent. Fantastic.”

“Are we back on that again?”

“You said you wanted positive....”

Mama sighed into the phone. Static filled the air until I said, “I’m fine. I have a bit of a cold and I was up late working on a paper, but I’m fine.”

“Don’t wear yourself out studying, love. Now, I have some news.”

“Really?” I asked, trying to drive the boredom from my voice. My mother’s “news” was usually less than thrilling — she got a pair of shoes on sale or one of the judges at the courthouse retired and they served cheesecake at the going away party. Real thrilling stuff.

“Mario and I are going away on a cruise.”

I spit out my orange soda. “What?”

“You know, Mario Roselli, one of the nice lawyers from work? I think you met him last summer at my office.”

“The short guy with the mustache or the bald guy?”

“The bald one.”

Thank God. The bald guy was at least nominally attractive and lower on the creepy scale. “Mom, you’ve never even been on a date for as long as I can remember, and now you’re going on a cruise?”

“I didn’t want to tell you in case it didn’t work out, but Mario and I have been dating since last June.”

“You’ve been secretly dating some guy named Mario since last June?”

“Yes. We’ve been friends for years, and his divorce  became final in June so we decided, why not?”

“And you’re telling me this now because.....”

“Because we’ll be away on the cruise for Thanksgiving. Mario says it’s supposed to be wonderful. They serve a full turkey dinner on the cruise and there’s gambling. Can you imagine? Me at a casino on Thanksgiving!”

“You’re leaving me alone my first break home from college?”

“Uh-oh. Aunt Mary warned me you’d be upset. Don’t be so dramatic, Molly. I’m not leaving you alone. Your father and Colleen invited you for the week’s break.”

“Dad? Are you kidding? I’ve never spent a week with Dad. I’ve never even spent two days with Dad.”

“It would be nice for you to spend time with your father. Either that or you could stay with Aunt Mary.”

“Aunt Mary and her smelly cats? No, thank you.”

“Molly, I’m sorry Mario planned this surprise for the week you’ll be home, but he doesn’t have any children himself and he didn’t think it through, I guess.”

“I’ll just stay here and study.”

“Molly, you can’t stay up at school by yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me. Enjoy your Thanksgiving.” I slammed down the phone.

Sarah wandered into the common area wearing one of her boyfriend Chip’s rugby shirts and sprawled on the couch across from me. “What’s up?”

“My mother and her new boyfriend are going on a cruise for Thanksgiving?”

“Who goes on a cruise for Thanksgiving?”

“Selfish people who don’t care about their children.” Tears welled in my eyes. “I can’t believe it. The only thing that got me through these past few weeks was the fact that I’d be back to civilization for Thanksgiving, and now I’m stuck up here in this hell hole.”

“You can’t stay up here. They close the dorms. I know, you can come home with me.”

“Maybe I can get an extra shift at the Black Parrot.”

Sarah shook off the remnants of her hangover and her eyes gleamed with the prospect of a new project — bring an orphan home for Thanksgiving. “My mother loves to have guests at Thanksgiving.”

“No, Sarah —”

Sarah joined me on the couch and put her arms over my shoulders. “Roomie, you’re coming home with me.”

Two weeks later I found myself riding shotgun as Sarah maneuvered her red Mustang down Route 17. Sarah drove like my mother: hands at a perfect ten and two o’clock position, knuckles white against the wheel, speedometer never rising about 55. The Mustang was wasted on Sarah.

“Gas is on the right, Reilly.”

“I’m driving the speed limit.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“No, why? Don’t you think I’m a good driver?”

I sighed. “By the time we get to New Jersey it’ll be time to turn around again, but sure, you’re a great driver.”

Sarah laughed. “Donna’s right. You are a bitch.”

“A Long Island bitch, thank you very much.”

“I don’t understand why they call you that.”

I laughed. “Really?”

“I’m serious, Molly. I thought we were going to have such an awesome suite. I mean, we’re cool and we have a good time when we go out, right? And I have a great time with Beth and Donna. I don’t know why the four of us can’t have fun together.”

“Some things weren’t meant to be. So, what’s going on with you and Chip?”

Sarah smiled, always happy to turn to her favorite topic. “I think we’re ready to take it to the next level.”

“Which means what exactly? Blow jobs?”

“Oh my God, Molly, you’re so gross! No, it means I think he’s the one.”

“The one?”

Sarah took a deep breath. “I’m going to give my virginity to Chip.”

“Will it be before or after a rugby game?”

“Oh my God, Molly, of course it’s not going to be on campus. Chip has it all planned out. We’re going to a hotel in Niagara Falls.”

“How romantic.”

“It will be romantic. It’ll be perfect.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

“How about you? I know, well, we all know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh no, was it listed under my picture in the freshman face book?”

“Stop it, I’m serious. How did you lose yours?”

In a deliberately bored voice, I said, “In the art supply closet in high school. Mr. Sheridan, the art teacher.”

“You slept with a teacher?” Sarah squeaked.

“Well, Our Lady of Angels Academy was an all girls school and Mr. Sheridan was the only male teacher, so it was the best I could do. My friend Diane said he was gay and I said he was not and she said prove it and so I did.”

“You lost your virginity to prove a point?”

I slurped the last of my orange soda. “I never thought about it like that, but, yeah, I guess I did. It wasn’t a big deal, though. I mean, it had to happen sooner or later.”

“It didn’t have to happen in a supply closet.”

“Not much worse than our couch.”

“Oh my God, who told you?”

“I’m not deaf you know.”

“Beth was drunk and she feels really bad about it.”

I laughed. “She should. John Reynolds sounded like he only lasted about two minutes. Not exactly the most memorable way to pop your cherry.”

“Ewww, you listened?”

“Believe me, I tried not to. Hey, I’m starving. There’s a rest stop at the next exit.”

Seven hours of not exceeding the speed limit later, Sarah pulled into the driveway of an imposing Tudor-style colonial. Baskets of bright orange mums lined the driveway. I thought about the broken pavement outside my mother’s two-bedroom rental house in Franklin Square and swore right then and there I would never bringing anyone from Devereaux back to my house.

We found Mrs. Reilly sitting alone in the kitchen, her thin freckled hands wrapped around a mug. Sarah ran like a puppy to her diminutive mother and engulfed her in one of her bear hugs. 

“You’re late, Sarah. I expected you hours ago.”

She released her mother. Sarah’s smile wavered. “We left right after my economics test.”

“You missed dinner.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I’m not running a diner here. You’ll have to make yourself something to eat.”

Sarah smiled even harder. “No problem. Do you want a sandwich, roomie?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Mrs. Reilly’s green eyes focused on me then. She walked over and wrapped her thin arms around my shoulders in a quick hard embrace, a slight whiff of whiskey on her breath. “Welcome, Molly. We’re so happy you could join us for Thanksgiving.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Of course, who wouldn’t want more children at the dining room table? I live to serve.”

Unsure of how to answer, I looked at Sarah who hadn’t stopped smiling. “Thank you, Mrs. Reilly. Sarah, where’s bathroom?”

“Down the hall. I’ll show you.”

The stench of cinnamon air freshener overwhelmed the small bathroom. I splashed water on my face and berated myself for allowing Sarah to talk me into this. Seventy-two hours of making small talk with strangers, being helpful, biting my tongue. I would’ve been better off with Auntie Mary and her cats. 

When I came back into the kitchen, Sarah had already made me a ham sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off. 

“Are you sure it was okay for me to come?”

Sarah smiled at me. “Of course!”

“But your mom seemed . . .”

Sarah’s smile disappeared. “My mom is fine. She gets headaches.”

“Where is she?”

“Bed.”

“I guess we should head off soon too.”

“Are you kidding me? Go to bed the first night we’re back? My brother told me about a party one his fraternity brothers is throwing in Summit. Eat your sandwich, change your clothes and then we’ll go.”

“I don’t know....”

Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Long Island bitch? We should call you Long Island wimp.”

“Is that a challenge, roomie?”

Sarah laughed. “You know it.”

I changed into the tight black sweater and acid washed jeans I’d bought last week with my Black Parrot tip money. I sprayed my hair, rimmed my eyes in black eyeliner and pouted into the mirror. For not the first time, I saw Jack O’Connor’s sultry black eyes stare back at me. Eyes I used to good advantage at the Black Parrot. Eyes that promised everything and gave nothing. 

I met Sarah back in the kitchen. She’d changed into a pink polo shirt and pulled her long brown hair back with a bow. 

Sarah bit her lip. “You know, you could borrow some of my clothes.”

I laughed. “Your shirt would go down below my knees. Besides, I wore this to the rugby party last week and it was fine.”

“Yeees, but Summit’s different.”

“Different how? Preppy different?”

“You could say that.”

“Preppy’s not exactly my style. If you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, this Long Island bitch can stay home.”

Sarah shook her head and gave me one of her big smiles. “I’m being silly. You look great. Let’s go.”

Sarah pulled the Mustang up to a three story Victorian house that looked like a real life gingerbread house. She broke away from me, ran to a group of girls on the front lawn and squealed, “Liiiiiiissssaaaa!” Sarah picked up a petite girl with long blond hair tied back in a ribbon and spun her around in a circle like a toddler.

The blond girl threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my God, Sarah, I missed you soooo much!” 

Sarah finally put down the girl and then proceeded to hug the other girls, who apparently were members of the Short Hills Cheer Squad, Class of 1985. 

It was gonna be a long night.

Lisa’s pale blue eyes flicked over me and, in an instant, took in my heavy makeup and cheap boots. “So you’re Molly. How’d you like the Laura Ashley sheets?” The corner of her mouth twitched as if she was holding in a laugh. One of the other cheerleaders actually did laugh.

Obviously the Reillys’ act of charity had been a topic of conversation in Short Hills. “They’re very.... purple,” I said.

Sarah bounced between the middle of us and, ever the peacemaker, boomed, “Oh my God, Lisa, the room looks awesome! You’ll love it when you come up in January. Now let’s go in and get a beer. Did you see my brother?”

“I think he’s in one of the bedrooms humping my sister,” Lisa said.

“Are they still at it? I thought they broke up. Gross,” Sarah said. “I think I need a shot to get rid of that image.”

“Yeah, shots!” shouted one of the other ex-cheerleaders.

I followed Sarah and Lisa, who’d linked arms like two little old ladies, into the house. The living room was a rainbow of pastels, with every girl in a pink or green or blue alligator shirt, and the guys in interchangeable button down shirts and boat shoes. I felt like a wasp among a flock of butterflies.

Sarah pulled me into a circle of girls and we all the did the obligatory shot. Sarah did two more vodka shots before I wandered into the kitchen where a group of fraternity brothers played quarters. In the adjoining hall, a tiny blond girl who looked like Lisa’s twin shouted at a tall guy who I assumed was Sarah’s brother, Tim. He looked like a younger version of Sarah’s father and had the same broad shoulders and shock of black hair. 

“If you really cared you would have...”

“Julie, baby, I’m sorry...”

“You really hurt...”

God, how sickening. Girls were pathetic. Out of boredom I joined the quarters game and sipped warm sudsy beer the few times my coin didn’t land in its cup. A red-haired frat brother kept bumping into me and trying to cop a feel of side boob. The last time he tried, I turned to face him and practically placed my D-cup in his hand. He almost passed out. 

Later, I wandered into the living room. Sarah’s hazel eyes were glassy, her voice a little too loud and she was in full hair flip mode. I knew from experience, she wouldn’t want to leave the party any time soon.

Even more frat brothers showed up and with so many preppy bodies pushed so close together, the house was sweltering. I escaped to the backyard and found a tire swing tied to an old oak. I lit up a cigarette, fell back onto the swing and looked up at the starless sky.

A male voice asked, “You got a light?” 

“Yeah.” I stopped the swing and held my cigarette out into the dark. “I can’t see a thing.”

He took the cigarette from my fingers and used it to light his. The small flare of the butt illuminated his face.

“Thanks. By the way, I’m Tim —”

“Reilly. Yes I know.” I made my voice deep. “I’m sorry, Julie. I’m an asshole for not calling but I was too busy drinking beer and watching football to make it to your homecoming dance. Please forgive me so we can make out upstairs in the guest bedroom.”

He laughed. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you its rude to eavesdrop?”

“Probably, but I never listen to my mother.”

“Never?”

I moved the swing back and forth. “Well, she always told me to wear clean underwear, so when I wear panties, I always make sure they’re clean. That was a helpful tip.”

“When you wear panties?”

“Yeah, which isn’t very often. They get in the way, ya know?”

“Get in the way of what?”

“This and that.”

I took the last drag of my cigarette and threw it on the ground.

He stopped the swing. “Are you wearing any now?”

I stood and the top of my head didn’t reach his chin. He smelled like cigarettes and beer and the same laundry detergent Sarah used. I took the cigarette out of his mouth and after a long drag, blew smoke in his face. “Would you like me to show you?”

He bent down and covered my mouth with surprisingly soft lips. I grabbed onto the soft clean cotton of his oxford shirt, pulled him close to me and returned his kiss. Tim’s lips left mine. He whispered in my ear. “Yes. Show me.”

He took my hand and led me to a child’s playhouse in the back of the property, far from the pulsating bass of the frat brother’s expensive German sound system. Tim took off his jacket and laid it on the playhouse’s wooden floor. I slipped off my stiff new jeans, took his hand and slid it along my bare ass.

“See. I didn’t lie.”

I laid down on his jacket. His khakis and belt made a small thump as they hit the floor. His calloused fingers were rough as they traveled my body and I remembered that Sarah had said her brother had worked in their uncle’s construction company in the summers. I dragged a finger along his back, the flesh firm and smooth beneath my ragged nail. 

We touched and kissed and sucked, for hours it seemed. Tim, trained as he had been by sweet sorority sisters like Julie, seemed unwilling to take things further.

I finally pushed him onto his back and straddled him.

“Um, are you sure? Is it safe?”

I slid him into me, irritated that once again I had to take the initiative with a college boy. Tim groaned but I no longer cared about him. I just wanted the heat, the release, the oblivion, his body could provide. He grunted, and clenched his teeth, in an effort not to come too quickly. I ground against him and got closer and closer. 

My legs tightened against his. Hot waves crashed through my body and, like always, my mind was a blank, my tangled thoughts quietened. For the moment, anyway. Tim, fueled as he was by buckets of beer and his own need to make these few moments of stolen pussy last, was rock hard. I climbed off him, my breath still jagged and raw.

“Hey, wait a minute. I’m, oh Jesus, I’m not done.”

I slipped on my jeans. “Yes, but I am. I’ll see you around, Tim. And thanks.”

Before I closed the door of the playhouse, Tim spat, “Cunt.” 

I laughed.

The party was still in full swing when I walked back into the kitchen. Sarah, Lisa and Julie huddled around the keg.

“Hey, roomie. Did you happen to see my brother? Tall guy with black hair?”

“Yeah, I saw him. He’s out back.”

“Out back?” Julie asked. “With who?”

I smiled. “With me. Excuse me, girls, I need to go to the bathroom and freshen up.”

When I got back from the bathroom, Sarah was hanging on the red haired guy from earlier and Julie was crying in the corner. I passed by Lisa and Julie without making eye contact on my way to the living room. “She’s a whore,” Lisa said, loud enough for me to hear. “Sarah says she locks her out of their room all the time. She even slept with a professor.”

I sat on the front steps and smoked another cigarette. Two frat boys tried to talk to me but they eventually gave up. I’d had enough dick for one night and simply couldn’t tolerate another “what’s your major” conversation with a horny guy trying to look down my sweater. Lisa and Julie walked past me and climbed into their father’s Mercedes. 

Would this night ever end? 

The red haired guy burst through the front door. “Hey Reilly!” he shouted. “Your sister’s puking. Has anyone see Reilly?” 

I stubbed out my cigarette and walked back into the house. Sarah was passed out cold on the bathroom floor, her long hair covered in vomit. I tried to lift her but she was a dead weight. “Come on, Sarah. Get up.”

She moaned. 

This was the worst Thanksgiving break ever. “Sarah, wake up.”

From the doorway, Tim said, “Shit. What the hell did she drink?”

“What didn’t she drink? Get over here and help me lift her.”

Sarah opened her eyes. “Hey, roomie.”
“Hey yourself, now sit up.”

“Molly, I love you.” Sarah’s eyes closed again.

“No, Sarah. Wake up!”

Tim crouched down next to me. “Wait a minute. It’s.... You’re...”

“Yes, Tim. I’m the girl you fucked an hour ago. Quite a memory you’ve got there.”

“And you’re... Oh, shit, you’re...”

“Molly O’Connor, Sarah’s roommate. I’m staying the weekend at your house. Happy Thanksgiving! Now let’s get out of here.”

“I came with Julie.”

“Don’t worry, I took Sarah’s keys after her second shot. I can drive.”

“That was very responsible of you.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular girl scout. Now can you please lift your sister’s head out of the vomit so we can go?”

“Um, sure.”

The next morning, Sarah had run five miles and showered before I’d even opened my eyes. Despite the occasional hangover, Sarah had the constitution of a horse. I had one shot and a few sips of warm beer and it was like I’d been hit by a train.

Sarah handed me a coffee. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“My mom’s cooked breakfast so you’d better come down. But take a shower first, you smell like cigarettes. And puke.”

“I smell like your puke.”

Sarah smiled and rubbed my head. “Have I ever told you you’re the best roomie ever? Now hurry up. My mom’s pancakes are awesome!”

Sarah didn’t lie. Her mother’s pancakes were awesome, and Mrs. Reilly served them with a warm smile. Petite Mrs. Reilly, surrounded by her throng of tall, toothy children, was in her element as she flipped pancakes onto their waiting plates — the sour woman from the prior night a distant memory. 

“Sarah,” she said when she finally sat down to eat her bowl of fruit, “I need you to run a few errands after breakfast.”

“Lisa and some of the girls are coming by later.” Sarah reached over across the table for another pancake.

Mrs. Reilly slapped Sarah’s hand. “That will go straight to your hips. Don’t think I didn’t notice all the extra weight you’ve gained. For God’s sake, eat some fruit. The pancakes are for the boys. And, of course, Molly.” Mrs. Reilly smiled at me, as if she’d just remembered I was there. “You look like a little refugee, Molly. Don’t you ever eat?”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “I eat plenty.”

“Some girls have all the luck, I suppose, while others have to watch it if they don’t want to turn into two ton Tessies. I’m sorry, Sarah, but you inherited your grandmother’s hips. Don’t blame me. The grocery list is on the counter.”

Sarah smiled hard at her mother. “Sure, Mom. No problem.”

“Timmy, honey, have this last pancake. You don’t want it to go to waste.”

Tim rubbed his sister’s shoulder and winked before Mrs. Reilly landed the pancake on his plate. 

I moved the remains of the pancakes around my plate and tried to be invisible. I’d had plenty of practice being the silent witness to other families’ dramas. After years of Sunday dinners at my stepmother’s crowded dining room table, I’d learned to smile and nod, not say much and always offer to clear the table. 

I carried my plate and Sarah’s to the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher. Sarah came out of the bathroom wearing a fresh layer of pink lipgloss. “Ready, roomie?”

Funny how such a large house could feel so claustrophobic. I forced a smile. “Sure. Let’s go.”

The local supermarket was packed and, of course, we couldn’t go through Sarah’s hometown without her pointing every point of interest in the story of Sarah: her nursery school, where she had her first kiss, the old lady’s house who taught her violin. By the time we got back to the house, we’d already missed Lisa and her posse.

“I am so bummed. Molls, let put the groceries away and then we can go over to Lisa’s.”

“You know, I don’t really think it’s a great idea if I go over there. You know her sister thinks...”

“That you slept with my brother? That’s so ridiculous. As if.”

“Yeah,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster. “As if.”

“We’ll go over and straighten everything out.”

I rubbed my forehead. “You know, I don’t feel great.”

Sarah laughed. “Seriously, O’Connor, you are biggest lightweight in in the world. Okay, you go take a nap. Everyone seems to be out, so it should be quiet. And then when I get back, we can make the pies. Pies are my favorite part of Thanksgiving!”

“Yeah,” I said as if I meant it, “mine too.”

I escaped into the Reilly’s guest bedroom and snuggled under the duvet with a paperback. The prior night’s partying soon caught up with me and I dozed off.

I woke to find Tim Reilly standing over me. He must have used a gallon of aftershave. “Hey, are you feeling all right? Do you need anything?”

I wiped a bit of drool off my face. “I was asleep.”

“Oh, yeah, um, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, of course. I only wanted, you know, to see if you needed anything.”

“You seem a little nervous, Tim. Do I make you nervous?”

He shared Sarah’s fair skin and blushed easily. “Of course not.”

I sat up. “Let’s cut to the chase, Timbo. You wanna fuck, or what?”

“Geez, I mean, that’s not why...”

I took off my t-shirt. “You sure?  Because I’m kind of bored. But we can watch TV if you want.”

I threw off the duvet and wiggled out of my panties so that I was completely naked. “Come on, Timmy. I promise I’ll let you finish this time.”

Tim took off his jeans and dove onto the bed. “Do you do this all the time?”

“What? Fuck my friends’ brothers?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean...”

I took his dick in my hand. “I know what you mean. Would you prefer if I made you take me out to dinner first?”

“No. I mean —”

“Tim, I like to have sex. Most people do, they’re just too uptight to admit it. You like to have sex, don’t you, when sweet little Julie gives you the chance?”

“Yeah, but...”

“So, I like to have sex too. I just don’t like all the bullshit that goes along with it. I don’t want have to pretend to like your friends or care about your major or watch football with you. I just want to fuck. Is that really so hard to understand?”

“No....”

“Stop thinking, Tim, okay?” I slid down the bed and took him in my mouth.

Tim moaned. “Oh, God, yeah. Okay. That’s okay. Don’t stop.”

By the time the rest of the Reillys came home, Tim and I had fucked in the guest room, and then when I was in the guest shower, he joined me there and we did it again. Thankfully, he kept the talking to a minimum. Later, he slept on the family room couch while I read my book at the kitchen table.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Reilly said when she saw Tim asleep. “I hope Timmy isn’t sick. He never sleeps during the day.”

Sarah joined me at the kitchen table and looked at me funny. I must’ve been the topic of conversation at Lisa’s. “That is weird.”

I shrugged. “There are lot of bugs going around this time of year. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Sarah, do you want to get started on those pies?”

I could see the conflict in Sarah’s eyes. But I was her roommate and we had to spend the rest of the break in close quarters, not to mention the rest of the school year. I’d only known Sarah a few months, but already I knew she’d do anything to avoid conflict. Anything to maintain the perfect picture of her life. I was her freshman year roommate so, by definition, I was part of that pretty picture. She smiled. “Sure. Let’s make the pumpkin pies first!”

Between grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, there were over thirty people at the Reillys’ Thanksgiving dinner. Like most families, the men drank and watched sports while the women bustled about and served food and drinks to the men and children. After three days in her house, Mrs. Reilly treated me less like a guest and more like the hired help. With such a crowd, my waitressing skills came in handy. Sarah, on the other hand, was easily distracted and all thumbs. She’d already burnt the dinner rolls which chatting with her cousin and had knocked over two glasses of wine.

“Thank God I can depend on you, Molly,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Not like that feather-head.”

Sarah stopped mid-sentence and looked like she’d been slapped. 

“Sarah’s always been the artistic type, Lorraine,” Sarah’s grandmother said loyally. “How is the singing going, Sarah?”

“Sarah did a solo in the school concert last week,” I piped in. “She was great.”

“She inherited my voice.” Sarah’s grandmother rubbed Sarah’s shoulders.

“Well, singing won’t get the dinner on the table. Sarah, can you get the milk out of the fridge and start mashing the potatoes? Surely you can manage that,” Mrs. Reilly said.

Sarah plastered a smile on her face. Only her trembling hands indicated what the smile cost her. “Okay, Mom. No problem.”

Sarah reached into the refrigerator and lifted out a half-gallon of milk. Her hands were still shaking. I was across the room and could only stand frozen beside one of the aunts as the carton of milk slipped out Sarah’s tremulous hand and hit the floor’s ceramic tiles with a bang. The carton split and showered Sarah and her mother with its contents.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, can you not do anything right? All over my clean floor. And look at my shoes, my new shoes!”

Sarah’s face turned bright red. “I’m sorry, Mommy. Oh God, I ruin everything!”

“You stupid, clumsy girl. Get out of my sight.”

Sarah’s father came into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Your daughter is ruining our Thanksgiving dinner, that’s what’s going on.” Mrs. Reilly poured herself a large glass of chardonnay.

“I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry.” Sarah ran out of the kitchen.

Mr. Reilly took the wine glass out of his wife’s hand. “Lorraine, come on now. Sarah’s only home for a few days. You said you’d try to be more patient.”

Mrs. Reilly’s voice shot up an octave. “So I’m the bad guy again? Of course, mean old mom. Well excuse me if I don’t enjoy eating Thanksgiving dinner off the kitchen floor. You know what, Mike, go back to your football game and leave me to clean up the mess like I always do.”

“Calm down, honey.”

Even I knew that was the wrong thing to say. 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Mrs. Reilly threw  a roll of paper towels at Mr. Reilly. 

I’d witnessed enough of my stepmother’s tantrums to know that once she cooled off she’d be embarrassed to have lost it in front of an outsider. In my case, that usually meant my stepmother would find a dozen reasons why her meltdown was my fault. The safest place for me was out of that kitchen so I slipped away and found Sarah sprawled on her bed, crying.

Sarah didn’t lift her head out of the pillow. “Get out. Leave me alone.”

I sat on her bed and rubbed her back. “Sarah, come on, you can’t cry over spilt milk.”

“Don’t try and make me laugh. It’s not going to work.” Sarah sat up and, in a tone of voice I’d never heard her use and without any hint of her deliberately bubbly self, she said, “I hate her. I know that makes me a terrible person, but I really hate my mother.”

“From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t make you a terrible person. It makes you human.”

“What kind of person hates their own mother. It’s just.... no matter what I do, it isn’t right. I mean, I can’t even eat breakfast without her criticizing me. How the hell are we going to last another three days here?”

“Why do we have to stay?”

“Hello, it’s only Thursday.”

“So what? Look, dry your tears, put on your big ole fake smile and get through dinner. Then tomorrow morning you and I will head back to school. Tell your parents you have a paper due, or I had to work. Tell them anything.”

“And stay where? The dorms are closed, remember?”

“The Black Parrot is an inn as well as a cocktail lounge. I’m sure they’ll have a room for us. My manager, Bobby, loves me.”

Sounding just like Beth and Donna, Sarah said, “I’m sure he does.”

“Now, don’t get all judgmental on me, Miss Reilly, otherwise I’ll leave you here with your family and the exploding cartons of milk.”

“Sorry.”

“So are you in or what?”

“I’m in.”

“Good. Wash your face and make sure you stay out of your mother’s way. I’d better get back to the kitchen. You okay now, roomie?”

Sarah smiled. “Yeah.”

I bumped into Tim outside Sarah’s room.

“So are you guys really leaving early?”

“Yes, Timbo. We are.”

“Good.”

“Good? Aren’t you sorry to see me go?” I tossed my hair mock-seductively. “What about the quickie I promised you in the laundry room?”

Tim’s face was serious and he looked even more like his dad than before. No evidence of the blushing boy who’d snuck into my room. “I’m happy Sarah’s getting out of here. You’re a good friend to her, Molly. You’re a good person.”

“Despite all evidence to the contrary?”

He touched my cheek. “You’re a good person.” Tim smiled and walked into his sister’s room.

Friday morning I drove the Mustang out of the Reilly’s driveway at seven before Mrs. Reilly could start her pancake rigamarole. With me at the wheel, we made it back to Devereaux in six hours. The Black Parrot was dead and almost all the rooms were empty so Bobby let us have a room for free. One of the waitresses also served us a free pitcher of beer and a plate of atomic wings.

“These are awesome. I wonder why no one ever comes here,” Sarah said.

“Are you kidding? Students never tip. That was one of Bobby’s rules before he hired me — I wasn’t allowed to bring my school friends by. Plus they don’t want the hassle with underage drinking. He’s only making an exception for you because it’s a holiday weekend and no one’s around. And also because I agreed to take a shift tomorrow.”

“So who does come here?”

“The professors. Some grad students. The doctors from the hospital and a few officers from the base nearby. It’s a mix, but believe it or not I’m making more tips here than I did on Long Island, so it’s all good.”

“And your mom doesn’t mind you working as a...”

“As a what?”

Sarah lowered her voice. “As a cocktail waitress.”

“You make it sound like I’m a hooker.”

“But, I mean,” she pointed at the waitress, “do you have to wear that?”

“Believe it or not, my uniform skirt is even higher, and my shirt even lower. What the hell do I care if I give the customers a little peek? So long as the tips are good, I don’t mind. Not everyone gets a check from daddy every month, you know.”

“I could never do that.”

“That’s because you don’t have to.” I sipped the draft beer.  “Sarah, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you always saying that I’m your ‘roomie’ and we’re such great friends when you clearly think I’m a slut?”

“I don’t —”

“Cut the shit, Sarah. You do. I know you told your little cheerleader friends all about me. I overheard them talking at the party.”

“I never —”

“And the walls in our suite are thin. I’ve heard you talking about me to the gruesome twosome. What time I got home, who you thought I was with. I know what you really think about me. Sure, I like sex. I don’t particularly want a boyfriend, but so what? I don’t judge you.”

Sarah jerked her head to the side and pursued her lips, and, for the first time, I saw a slight resemblance to her mother. “What would you judge me about? I’m a virgin.”

“How about the fact that I’ve carried your drunk ass home more times than I can count? You’ve puked on yourself, you’ve puked on me, but I’ve never judged you.”

“We’re in college. Everyone drinks.”

“Not like you they don’t. But you know what, I never said anything about it to you or to anyone else because it’s none of my business. You’re a big girl, if drinking’s your thing, then fine, it’s your thing.”

“But, how can you let all those guys touch you? Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”

“I have plenty of respect for myself. Who I don’t have a whole lot of respect for is you.”

Her voice rose an octave. “Me?”

“Be honest, Sarah. If you think I’m a whore, if you don’t want to sully your reputation by being my friend, then fine. Beth and Donna have made their feeling about me abundantly clear, and I haven’t exactly lost sleep over it. But if you say you’re my friend, then really be my friend and that means not judging me or talking shit about me. If you can’t do that, then let’s end all this roomie friends forever bullshit. Okay?”

Sarah’s defensive veneer evaporated, and with her pale face and clear hazel eyes, she looked about twelve years old. “I’m sorry, Molly. I do want to be friends. You’re so smart and pretty and funny and I guess I just don’t understand why you.... well, why you act the way you do. But you’re right, I shouldn’t have talked about you. I do want to be friends, if you still do.” Sarah raised her beer mug. “Friends forever?” 

Sarah smiled at me, a real smile, not the tight rictus she’d worn all weekend. I’d never had a best friend in high school. My mother and I had formed our own little two-person universe where we danced to Michael Jackson in the kitchen and watched movies together on our second-hand couch. For every night of my eighteen years, my mother had kissed me good night and whispered, “You are my everything.” There was never any room for another girlfriend in my life. But my mother was gone now, lost to the world of Mario Roselli and newfound couple-hood. I was alone, and, truth be told, I needed a friend. Sarah’s eyes met mine. I clinked my mug against hers and returned her smile. “Sure. Friends forever.”