her mother called my mother and asked if I wanted to come keep her daughter company, I was always ready to go.
Haylie’s mother, Pamela Butterfield, was a runner. Even in cold weather, we would see her pushing Haylie’s bundled-up little brother in a jogging stroller with quick, even strides up the hill past our house, her ponytail bobbing over a wool headband. “The kid has little pedals in there,” my father said once, smiling at his own joke. “Lazy woman, making the boy do all the work.”
Pamela Butterfield and my mother were friends, or at least they had been, when Haylie and I were little. According to my mother, they spent long days at the country club’s kiddie pool, comparing pediatricians and sleep deprivation while they held us under our armpits and bobbed us gently in the water. Haylie and I went to the same toddler tumbling class, the same ballet class, the same Spanish sing-alongs at the library. We were in the same Girl Scout troop, and my mother was our troop’s leader until my grandmother’s failing health took up too much of her time. When Haylie’s little brother was born, Haylie’s mother resumed the daily routine of a stay-at-home mom with a small child; but my mother was just beginning her long journey into the world of elder care. And after my parents canceled their membership to the country club, we couldn’t go to the same pool. But my mother and Pamela stayed friendly. If Pamela was running by when my mom was backing out of the driveway, they would stop to talk, both of them saying they would get together soon, to have coffee maybe, when they weren’t so busy.
By the time I was in junior high, Haylie’s little brother and his friends were playing in the castle, and Haylie and I had drifted apart. I wasn’t exactly a pariah in high school, but by seventh grade, Haylie had risen to the top tier of the social order. She’d always been cute, with the kind of face that looked feminine even with her auburn hair cut short all around. But in ninth grade, she made three major changes: she went out for track and made the varsity team; she let her hair grow past her shoulders; and she started wearing lip gloss. All of a sudden, she was legendary. She dated seniors. There was a rumor that a scout for a modeling agency had spotted her at the mall and given her his card, saying to call if she grew even a few inches taller.
My first and only boyfriend in high school had been in love with Haylie Butterfield. He told me this several months after he’d broken up with me; to be fair, when he was breaking up with me, I had agreed to “just be friends,” and I suppose friends can tell each other whom they are in love with. But I remember that the moment he whispered “Haylie Butterfield” with so much reverence and ridiculous hope, I instantly lost all respect for him. Having a crush on Haylie seemed so unimaginative.
“Jealous much?” he’d asked.
Maybe. At the time, it was hard not to to be. Not only was she a beautiful track star, her grades were as good as mine. Her father was an executive at a utility company, and her future seemed to hold every potential: I’d heard her talking to a guidance counselor about applying to UCLA and Yale. Still, she hadn’t done anything to deserve my resentment. She was pleasant enough when I saw her in the hallways. Almost everyone liked her. She made the Homecoming Court sophomore and junior year. And senior year, several months after her father was arrested for embezzlement and tax evasion, Haylie was elected Homecoming Queen. Maybe people felt sorry for her—her father’s name had been in the paper every day for months, and everyone knew her parents were getting divorced and the house was being seized and her little brother was in the hospital with a stomach ulcer. But it may have just been Haylie’s beauty and charm, undefeated, trumping everything.
Shortly after that, she disappeared, and so did her mother and brother. Their house was on the
Haylie’s mother, Pamela Butterfield, was a runner. Even in cold weather, we would see her pushing Haylie’s bundled-up little brother in a jogging stroller with quick, even strides up the hill past our house, her ponytail bobbing over a wool headband. “The kid has little pedals in there,” my father said once, smiling at his own joke. “Lazy woman, making the boy do all the work.”
Pamela Butterfield and my mother were friends, or at least they had been, when Haylie and I were little. According to my mother, they spent long days at the country club’s kiddie pool, comparing pediatricians and sleep deprivation while they held us under our armpits and bobbed us gently in the water. Haylie and I went to the same toddler tumbling class, the same ballet class, the same Spanish sing-alongs at the library. We were in the same Girl Scout troop, and my mother was our troop’s leader until my grandmother’s failing health took up too much of her time. When Haylie’s little brother was born, Haylie’s mother resumed the daily routine of a stay-at-home mom with a small child; but my mother was just beginning her long journey into the world of elder care. And after my parents canceled their membership to the country club, we couldn’t go to the same pool. But my mother and Pamela stayed friendly. If Pamela was running by when my mom was backing out of the driveway, they would stop to talk, both of them saying they would get together soon, to have coffee maybe, when they weren’t so busy.
By the time I was in junior high, Haylie’s little brother and his friends were playing in the castle, and Haylie and I had drifted apart. I wasn’t exactly a pariah in high school, but by seventh grade, Haylie had risen to the top tier of the social order. She’d always been cute, with the kind of face that looked feminine even with her auburn hair cut short all around. But in ninth grade, she made three major changes: she went out for track and made the varsity team; she let her hair grow past her shoulders; and she started wearing lip gloss. All of a sudden, she was legendary. She dated seniors. There was a rumor that a scout for a modeling agency had spotted her at the mall and given her his card, saying to call if she grew even a few inches taller.
My first and only boyfriend in high school had been in love with Haylie Butterfield. He told me this several months after he’d broken up with me; to be fair, when he was breaking up with me, I had agreed to “just be friends,” and I suppose friends can tell each other whom they are in love with. But I remember that the moment he whispered “Haylie Butterfield” with so much reverence and ridiculous hope, I instantly lost all respect for him. Having a crush on Haylie seemed so unimaginative.
“Jealous much?” he’d asked.
Maybe. At the time, it was hard not to to be. Not only was she a beautiful track star, her grades were as good as mine. Her father was an executive at a utility company, and her future seemed to hold every potential: I’d heard her talking to a guidance counselor about applying to UCLA and Yale. Still, she hadn’t done anything to deserve my resentment. She was pleasant enough when I saw her in the hallways. Almost everyone liked her. She made the Homecoming Court sophomore and junior year. And senior year, several months after her father was arrested for embezzlement and tax evasion, Haylie was elected Homecoming Queen. Maybe people felt sorry for her—her father’s name had been in the paper every day for months, and everyone knew her parents were getting divorced and the house was being seized and her little brother was in the hospital with a stomach ulcer. But it may have just been Haylie’s beauty and charm, undefeated, trumping everything.
Shortly after that, she disappeared, and so did her mother and brother. Their house was on the
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