Erin burst into the room. She looked at Myron. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Ali finished adjusting her shirt. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You better come quick,” Erin said.
“Why, what’s up?”
“I was on the computer, instant messaging with my friends. And just now—I mean, like thirty seconds ago—Aimee Biel signed on and said hello to me.”
CHAPTER 45
They all hurried up to Erin’s room.
Myron took the stairs three at a time. The house shook. He didn’t much care. The first thing that struck him when he entered the bedroom was how much it reminded him of Aimee’s. The guitars, the photographs in the mirror, the computer on the desk. The colors were different, there were more pillows and stuffed animals, but you would have no doubt that both rooms belonged to high school girls with much in common.
Myron headed to the computer. Erin came in behind him, Ali after her. Erin sat at the computer and pointed to a word:
GuitarlovurCHC.
“CHC stands for Crazy Hat Care,” Erin said, “the name of the band we were forming.”
Myron said, “Ask Aimee where she is.”
Erin typed: WHERE ARE YOU? Then she hit the return button.
Ten seconds passed. Myron noticed the icon on Aimee’s profile. The band Green Day. Her wallpaper was for the New York Rangers. When she typed back a sliver of her “buddy sound,” a song from Usher, came through the speakers:
I can’t say. But I’m fine. Don’t worry.
Myron said, “Tell her that her parents are upset. That she should call them.”
Erin typed: YOUR PARENTS ARE FREAKING OUT. YOU NEED TO CALL THEM.
I know. But I’ll be home soon. I’ll explain everything then.
Myron thought how to approach this. “Tell her I’m here.”
Erin typed: MYRON IS HERE.
Long pause. The cursor blinked.
I thought you were alone.
SORRY. HE’S HERE. NEXT TO ME.
I know I got Myron in trouble. Tell him I’m sorry, but I’m fine.
Myron thought about it. “Erin, ask her something only she would know.”
“Like what?”
“You guys have private talks, right? Share secrets?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not convinced it’s Aimee. Ask her something only you and she would know.”
Erin thought a moment. Then she typed: WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BOY I HAVE A CRUSH ON?
The cursor blinked. She wasn’t going to answer. Myron was pretty sure about that. Then GuitarlovurCHC typed:
Did he finally ask you out?!?!
Myron said, “Insist on a name.”
“Already on it,” Erin said. She typed: WHAT’S HIS NAME?
I have to go.
Erin did not need prompting: YOU’RE NOT AIMEE. AIMEE WOULD KNOW THE NAME.
Long pause. The longest yet. Myron looked back at Ali. Her eyes were on the screen. Myron could hear his own breathing in his ears, as if he’d stuck seashells on them. Then finally an answer came:
Mark Cooper.
The screen name vanished. GuitarLovurCHC was gone.
For a moment, no one moved. Myron and Ali had their eyes on Erin. She stiffened.
“Erin?”
Something happened to her face. A quiet quake in the corner of her lip. It spread.
“Oh God,” Erin said.
“What is it?”
“Who the hell is Mark Cooper?”
“Was it Aimee or not?”
Erin nodded. “It was Aimee. But . . .”
Her tone made the room drop ten degrees.
“But what?” Myron said.
“Mark Cooper is not the boy I have a crush on.”
Myron and Ali both looked confused.
Ali said, “Then who is he?”
Erin swallowed. She looked back, first at Myron, then her mother. “Mark Cooper was this creepy guy who went to my summer camp. I told Aimee about him. He used to follow some of us around with this awful leer, you know. Whenever he’d walk by, we would laugh and whisper to one another. . . .” Her voice dropped off, came back, but lower now. “We’d whisper, ‘Trouble.’ ”
They all watched the monitor now, all hoping that screen name would pop up again. But nothing happened. Aimee did not reappear. She had delivered her message. And now, once again, she was gone.
CHAPTER 46
Claire was on the phone in seconds. She dialed Myron’s cell. When he answered, she said, “Aimee was just online! Two of her friends called!”
Erik Biel sat at the table and listened. His hands were folded. He had spent the past day or so online, searching per Myron’s instructions for people who lived in the area of that cul-de-sac. Now, of course, he knew that he’d been wasting his time. Myron had spotted a car with a Livingston High School decal right away. He had traced it back to one of Aimee’s teachers, a man named Harry Davis, that very night.
He had simply wanted to keep Erik out of the way.
So he gave him busywork.
Claire listened and then let out a little cry. “Oh no, oh my God. . . .”
“What?” Erik said.
She shushed him with her hand.
Erik felt the rage once more. Not at Myron. Not even at Claire. At himself. He stared down at the monogram on his French cuff. His clothes were tailor-made, a custom fit. Big deal. Who did he think he was impressing? He looked up at his wife. He had lied to Myron about the passion. He still longed for her. More than anything he wanted Claire to look at him the way she used to. Maybe Myron had been right. Maybe Claire had indeed loved him. But she had never respected him. She didn’t need him.
She didn’t believe in him.
When their family was in crisis, Claire had run to Myron. She had shut Erik out. And of course, he had taken it.
Erik Biel had done that his whole life. Taken it. His mistress, a mousy thing from his office, was pitiful and needy and treated him like royalty. That made him feel like a man. Claire didn’t. It was that simple. And that pitiful.
“What?” Erik asked again.
She ignored him. He waited. Finally Claire asked Myron to hold on a second. “Myron says he saw her online too. He had Erin ask her a question. She answered in a way . . . it was her, but she’s in trouble.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t have time to go into details right now.” Claire put the phone back to her ear and said to Myron—to Myron!—“We need to do something.”
Do something.
The truth was, Erik Biel was not much of a man. He knew that early on. When he was fourteen, he backed out of a fight. The entire school was there. The bully was ready to pounce. Erik had walked away. His mother called him prudent. In the media, walking away is the “brave” thing to do. What a load of crap. No beating, no hospital stay, no concussion or broken bones could have hurt Erik Biel more than not standing up had. He had never forgotten it, never gotten over it. He had chickened out of a fight. The pattern continued. He abandoned his buddies when they got jumped at fraternity party. At a Jets game, he let someone spill beer on his girlfriend. If a man looked at him wrong, Erik Biel always averted his gaze first.
Ali finished adjusting her shirt. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You better come quick,” Erin said.
“Why, what’s up?”
“I was on the computer, instant messaging with my friends. And just now—I mean, like thirty seconds ago—Aimee Biel signed on and said hello to me.”
CHAPTER 45
They all hurried up to Erin’s room.
Myron took the stairs three at a time. The house shook. He didn’t much care. The first thing that struck him when he entered the bedroom was how much it reminded him of Aimee’s. The guitars, the photographs in the mirror, the computer on the desk. The colors were different, there were more pillows and stuffed animals, but you would have no doubt that both rooms belonged to high school girls with much in common.
Myron headed to the computer. Erin came in behind him, Ali after her. Erin sat at the computer and pointed to a word:
GuitarlovurCHC.
“CHC stands for Crazy Hat Care,” Erin said, “the name of the band we were forming.”
Myron said, “Ask Aimee where she is.”
Erin typed: WHERE ARE YOU? Then she hit the return button.
Ten seconds passed. Myron noticed the icon on Aimee’s profile. The band Green Day. Her wallpaper was for the New York Rangers. When she typed back a sliver of her “buddy sound,” a song from Usher, came through the speakers:
I can’t say. But I’m fine. Don’t worry.
Myron said, “Tell her that her parents are upset. That she should call them.”
Erin typed: YOUR PARENTS ARE FREAKING OUT. YOU NEED TO CALL THEM.
I know. But I’ll be home soon. I’ll explain everything then.
Myron thought how to approach this. “Tell her I’m here.”
Erin typed: MYRON IS HERE.
Long pause. The cursor blinked.
I thought you were alone.
SORRY. HE’S HERE. NEXT TO ME.
I know I got Myron in trouble. Tell him I’m sorry, but I’m fine.
Myron thought about it. “Erin, ask her something only she would know.”
“Like what?”
“You guys have private talks, right? Share secrets?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not convinced it’s Aimee. Ask her something only you and she would know.”
Erin thought a moment. Then she typed: WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BOY I HAVE A CRUSH ON?
The cursor blinked. She wasn’t going to answer. Myron was pretty sure about that. Then GuitarlovurCHC typed:
Did he finally ask you out?!?!
Myron said, “Insist on a name.”
“Already on it,” Erin said. She typed: WHAT’S HIS NAME?
I have to go.
Erin did not need prompting: YOU’RE NOT AIMEE. AIMEE WOULD KNOW THE NAME.
Long pause. The longest yet. Myron looked back at Ali. Her eyes were on the screen. Myron could hear his own breathing in his ears, as if he’d stuck seashells on them. Then finally an answer came:
Mark Cooper.
The screen name vanished. GuitarLovurCHC was gone.
For a moment, no one moved. Myron and Ali had their eyes on Erin. She stiffened.
“Erin?”
Something happened to her face. A quiet quake in the corner of her lip. It spread.
“Oh God,” Erin said.
“What is it?”
“Who the hell is Mark Cooper?”
“Was it Aimee or not?”
Erin nodded. “It was Aimee. But . . .”
Her tone made the room drop ten degrees.
“But what?” Myron said.
“Mark Cooper is not the boy I have a crush on.”
Myron and Ali both looked confused.
Ali said, “Then who is he?”
Erin swallowed. She looked back, first at Myron, then her mother. “Mark Cooper was this creepy guy who went to my summer camp. I told Aimee about him. He used to follow some of us around with this awful leer, you know. Whenever he’d walk by, we would laugh and whisper to one another. . . .” Her voice dropped off, came back, but lower now. “We’d whisper, ‘Trouble.’ ”
They all watched the monitor now, all hoping that screen name would pop up again. But nothing happened. Aimee did not reappear. She had delivered her message. And now, once again, she was gone.
CHAPTER 46
Claire was on the phone in seconds. She dialed Myron’s cell. When he answered, she said, “Aimee was just online! Two of her friends called!”
Erik Biel sat at the table and listened. His hands were folded. He had spent the past day or so online, searching per Myron’s instructions for people who lived in the area of that cul-de-sac. Now, of course, he knew that he’d been wasting his time. Myron had spotted a car with a Livingston High School decal right away. He had traced it back to one of Aimee’s teachers, a man named Harry Davis, that very night.
He had simply wanted to keep Erik out of the way.
So he gave him busywork.
Claire listened and then let out a little cry. “Oh no, oh my God. . . .”
“What?” Erik said.
She shushed him with her hand.
Erik felt the rage once more. Not at Myron. Not even at Claire. At himself. He stared down at the monogram on his French cuff. His clothes were tailor-made, a custom fit. Big deal. Who did he think he was impressing? He looked up at his wife. He had lied to Myron about the passion. He still longed for her. More than anything he wanted Claire to look at him the way she used to. Maybe Myron had been right. Maybe Claire had indeed loved him. But she had never respected him. She didn’t need him.
She didn’t believe in him.
When their family was in crisis, Claire had run to Myron. She had shut Erik out. And of course, he had taken it.
Erik Biel had done that his whole life. Taken it. His mistress, a mousy thing from his office, was pitiful and needy and treated him like royalty. That made him feel like a man. Claire didn’t. It was that simple. And that pitiful.
“What?” Erik asked again.
She ignored him. He waited. Finally Claire asked Myron to hold on a second. “Myron says he saw her online too. He had Erin ask her a question. She answered in a way . . . it was her, but she’s in trouble.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t have time to go into details right now.” Claire put the phone back to her ear and said to Myron—to Myron!—“We need to do something.”
Do something.
The truth was, Erik Biel was not much of a man. He knew that early on. When he was fourteen, he backed out of a fight. The entire school was there. The bully was ready to pounce. Erik had walked away. His mother called him prudent. In the media, walking away is the “brave” thing to do. What a load of crap. No beating, no hospital stay, no concussion or broken bones could have hurt Erik Biel more than not standing up had. He had never forgotten it, never gotten over it. He had chickened out of a fight. The pattern continued. He abandoned his buddies when they got jumped at fraternity party. At a Jets game, he let someone spill beer on his girlfriend. If a man looked at him wrong, Erik Biel always averted his gaze first.
