and beautiful—but the fact that she arrived at school in a bulletproof limousine. Billy loved that. One of his lists had been Students Who Come to School in Limousines. To Jehran’s limousine, Billy added bullet-proof.
The police had Billy’s lists. Laura was suddenly afraid Mr. Evans would lose the lists; this important part of Billy would drop behind some gray desk and vanish. Her breath caught in her chest, and she had difficulty swallowing and needed to find a telephone and tell Mr. Evans to drive over here with the lists.
Handsome, blond, American Andrew (a definite Ten) leaned across the table and steered among abandoned sandwich crusts to touch Laura’s hand. People were being social workers around the Williamses. The advice from American friends to her mother was: do normal things. Bit by bit you’ll find yourself back in a routine.
Why would anybody want a routine without Billy?
Actually, now that Laura thought about it, Billy had had many routines; he was a person who loved repetition.
“Laura,” said Andrew, giving her a sweet, grave smile, “if you’re ready to get out of the house a little, I’d love to take you to the Thanksgiving dance.”
Laura could not get over that her friends did not see the gaping, shrieking hole of rage that Billy’s death had ripped in her heart. Everybody at this table (except Jehran, whose Muslim family would never condone such an Americanism as dating) was still thinking of boy-girl activities, while she, Laura, was thinking of revenge.
“Why would she want to do that, Andrew?” said Tiffany crossly. “It’s way too early. Billy’s hardly in his grave.”
Laura did not like Tiff, but there was some annoying requirement when you were out of your country that you had to be nice to your fellow Americans. Even if, like Tiffany, they were worthless fellow Americans.
On the other hand, you could be worthless and still be right.
“She’s gonna dance around the room when her brother’s just been splatted on a moving stair?” demanded Tiff.
“I’m sorry,” said Andrew, horrified. “I didn’t mean Laura should celebrate. I meant going to the dance could be a rest.”
A dreadful thought stood up in front of Laura’s eyes. She did not see Andrew turn for forgiveness and she did not see Tiffany turn for confirmation.
What if Billy’s killer was somebody in school? Somebody right here at L.I.A.?
After all, school had been the majority of Billy’s life. He’d been headed to school when he died. His lists were mostly school lists, and his friends had been entirely school friends.
What did she really know about these kids?
This international set had lived all over the world, not just Hong Kong and Paris and Helsinki, but also stints in Houston and Cincinnati and Atlanta. Plenty of kids from different nations were as good at being American as Laura. Andrew, who seemed so American: Did she know for sure? Andrew could be lying. With that white-blond hair, he could be from Scandinavia, not an American descended from somebody from there.
But did you have terrorists from Norway?
Weren’t terrorists sort of country-specific?
Where was Mr. Evans when she needed him? She had a thousand new questions to ask.
“Where is Billy buried, anyway, Laura?” asked Tiffany, who was on a roll. “You ship the body back to Massachusetts? You didn’t bury him here in England, did you? I mean, won’t you want to be able to visit the grave after you get home?”
Everybody was shocked, even people who expected the worst from Tiffany.
Con, the diplomat’s child, rushed to share a bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips, flown in by her aunt. Airmail potato chips worked out to about fifteen dollars a bag. People crunched gratefully, covering Tiffany’s rudeness and Laura’s silence.
Why was Tiffany full of questions? What if everything Tiffany had said about her family was a lie? And Eddie? And Andrew? And Mohammed? Even her best friend, Con? Who were they, really?
Laura’s
The police had Billy’s lists. Laura was suddenly afraid Mr. Evans would lose the lists; this important part of Billy would drop behind some gray desk and vanish. Her breath caught in her chest, and she had difficulty swallowing and needed to find a telephone and tell Mr. Evans to drive over here with the lists.
Handsome, blond, American Andrew (a definite Ten) leaned across the table and steered among abandoned sandwich crusts to touch Laura’s hand. People were being social workers around the Williamses. The advice from American friends to her mother was: do normal things. Bit by bit you’ll find yourself back in a routine.
Why would anybody want a routine without Billy?
Actually, now that Laura thought about it, Billy had had many routines; he was a person who loved repetition.
“Laura,” said Andrew, giving her a sweet, grave smile, “if you’re ready to get out of the house a little, I’d love to take you to the Thanksgiving dance.”
Laura could not get over that her friends did not see the gaping, shrieking hole of rage that Billy’s death had ripped in her heart. Everybody at this table (except Jehran, whose Muslim family would never condone such an Americanism as dating) was still thinking of boy-girl activities, while she, Laura, was thinking of revenge.
“Why would she want to do that, Andrew?” said Tiffany crossly. “It’s way too early. Billy’s hardly in his grave.”
Laura did not like Tiff, but there was some annoying requirement when you were out of your country that you had to be nice to your fellow Americans. Even if, like Tiffany, they were worthless fellow Americans.
On the other hand, you could be worthless and still be right.
“She’s gonna dance around the room when her brother’s just been splatted on a moving stair?” demanded Tiff.
“I’m sorry,” said Andrew, horrified. “I didn’t mean Laura should celebrate. I meant going to the dance could be a rest.”
A dreadful thought stood up in front of Laura’s eyes. She did not see Andrew turn for forgiveness and she did not see Tiffany turn for confirmation.
What if Billy’s killer was somebody in school? Somebody right here at L.I.A.?
After all, school had been the majority of Billy’s life. He’d been headed to school when he died. His lists were mostly school lists, and his friends had been entirely school friends.
What did she really know about these kids?
This international set had lived all over the world, not just Hong Kong and Paris and Helsinki, but also stints in Houston and Cincinnati and Atlanta. Plenty of kids from different nations were as good at being American as Laura. Andrew, who seemed so American: Did she know for sure? Andrew could be lying. With that white-blond hair, he could be from Scandinavia, not an American descended from somebody from there.
But did you have terrorists from Norway?
Weren’t terrorists sort of country-specific?
Where was Mr. Evans when she needed him? She had a thousand new questions to ask.
“Where is Billy buried, anyway, Laura?” asked Tiffany, who was on a roll. “You ship the body back to Massachusetts? You didn’t bury him here in England, did you? I mean, won’t you want to be able to visit the grave after you get home?”
Everybody was shocked, even people who expected the worst from Tiffany.
Con, the diplomat’s child, rushed to share a bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips, flown in by her aunt. Airmail potato chips worked out to about fifteen dollars a bag. People crunched gratefully, covering Tiffany’s rudeness and Laura’s silence.
Why was Tiffany full of questions? What if everything Tiffany had said about her family was a lie? And Eddie? And Andrew? And Mohammed? Even her best friend, Con? Who were they, really?
Laura’s
Similar Books
