I Don't Forgive You

I try to remember what Trip does. Something with natural gas—lobbyist, I think.
“Is Leah here?” I ask as we enter the dining room.
“Not yet.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “Some drama with Dustin. I think they might be getting a therapy dog.”
“Got it.” I’m not surprised there’s drama. From what I have gleaned, Dustin, Leah’s teenage son from her first marriage, is struggling—both socially and academically. A classic combination of off-the-charts intelligence and a lack of social skills. He radiates loneliness even when he’s just taking out the trash.
I am happy to let Daisy lead me around the white tulip table, laden with food, although her attention makes me a little nervous. Beneath her kindhearted curiosity lies the probing scalpel of one of those journalists who gets you to cry on camera. The first time I met her, when she was showing Mark and me houses, I somehow ended up confiding in her that my mother did not consider me the pretty one.
“That is a lot of Le Creuset,” I say, pointing to a wall of display shelves filled with the enameled, cast-iron pots in an array of bright colors. At three hundred dollars a pop, I estimate that I am looking at a week in Florida, or a used Honda.
Daisy’s eye twitches, and for a moment, I worry that I’ve stepped in it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since marrying Mark, it’s that rich people don’t like to talk money.
“They’re really beautiful,” I hasten to add. “I’ve always wanted one, but I’m not really a cook.”
“It’s too much, right?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my response. “They’re my indulgence. Every time I sell a house, I buy one in a new color. I have more in the basement, if you can believe it. I am obsessing over this season’s new colors. I have to have sea salt—it’s only available at Sur La Table, but the hubster says no way.”
“They’re lovely. They’re like jelly beans. Jelly beans for grown-ups.”
She leans in and whispers, “Take one home! Then I can replace it with the sea salt, and no one will be any wiser.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Melissa!” she calls over my shoulder. “Allie, I have to go say hi, but please, eat these for me.” Daisy hands a plate of spanakopita to me. “You’re so skinny, it’s disgusting.”
Then she leaves me to welcome a woman who is trying to wedge a tray of cut fruit onto the table. I turn to a woman beside me in tight pants and brown boots that ride up over her knees, accentuating her pin-like thighs. Just like the ones the two women in the kitchen were wearing. I’ve met her before, at back-to-school night, but I can’t recall her name. Before I can say anything, the woman sticks out her hand at me. “Tanya. My Oliver is in Mrs. Liu’s class.” Her cool hand is limp, as if squeezing too hard would be a proletarian display of effort. “You look familiar,” she says in a bored tone.
“Yes, we met at back-to-school night.”
“No, that’s not it. Did you go to Georgetown Law?”
“No, not me.”
“You sure?”
“Yup, I’m sure I didn’t go to Georgetown Law.” I pop a few mini-quiches on my plate, hoping she doesn’t ask me where I went to college. I doubt there are too many other art school dropouts here. “But our kids are in the same class. Cole is in Ms. Liu’s class, as well.…”
But Tanya is no longer listening to me. Her eyes widen as she screeches with delight at something she has spotted. The smile and enthusiasm absent from our exchange are now on full display.
Tanya’s voice booms out, “Edie! Sasha! Any other riding girls?” Everyone in the vicinity freezes for a moment, flattening themselves against the edges of the room so the riding girls can enter. I hover on the sideline like a parent at a child’s soccer game and make polite eye contact with the other bystanders as Tanya and her friends, including the two I saw earlier in the kitchen, pose for photos, angling this way and then turning that way in their matching boots.
My throat tightens and I grip my wineglass, which is dangerously close to being empty. A low-grade panic swells in me, and I’m transported back to the day in fifth grade when my three closest friends announced that my presence was no longer needed at the lunch table. I’m almost tempted to seek out Rob, the wine guy. At least he was friendly. But then I think of him calling me Lexi, and I shudder. He’s a creep.
Daisy sidles up to me, her plate covered in blueberries and kiwi. “Allie, do you know the fabulous Karen Pearce? Karen is not just a wonderful pediatrician, she is also the room-parent coordinator for Eastbrook. Allie’s a big-time photographer who just moved into the neighborhood from Chicago. Her husband Mark’s a lawyer, and they have a kindergarten boy named Cole.”
“Cole hasn’t really done anything impressive yet,” I say. “Unless you count finger painting.” Daisy laughs, but Karen’s smile seems strained.
“Welcome to the neighborhood. Allie, is it?” A flicker of recognition crosses Karen’s eyes. Had she heard something about me, or was it just something in Daisy’s detailed introduction that resonated? “So where did you put the mini-buns?”
“The what?” I ask, unsure if I heard correctly.
“For the sliders?” It is then that I notice a platter stacked with tiny round meat patties.
Karen is smiling, but her voice comes out strained. “The mini–hamburger buns. You signed up to bring three dozen.”
“I did? I don’t think I did.”
“Pickles are here, pickles are here!” A statuesque woman with long, curly brown hair strides in, carrying two oversize jars of pickle chips. She, too, wears brown boots. I want to tell her that she’s missed the photo. “Hey, Karen, Daisy, where are we putting the pickles?”
“Right here.” Karen moves a large wooden salad bowl to make room. “Allie, this is Vicki Armstrong, our incredible PTA president.”
Vicki flashes me a thin smile and then,