Liam sat up and crept closer to the classroom door on his hands and knees. It was a meeting of some sort, about Shy.
“Yes, well, her father is a writer. He must have passed on some of his gift for language.” This must be Shy’s mother. “But she’s not just struggling in her other subjects. She’s almost failing.”
“And obviously she has the aptitude, given how she’s excelling in the one subject.” This was Miss Melanie, the principal, friend to all but otherwise pretty useless. The parents loved her until high school, when they realized her passive good nature was not going to help their kid get into college.
“Of course she has the aptitude. She is my daughter; I know what she’s capable of. The question is, why is she making an effort in only one subject and slacking off in all the others? Perhaps we should make her drop Latin so she has time for math.”
“Uh, I wouldn’t recommend that,” Mr. Streko said.
There was an awkward pause. Liam sat on the floor outside the classroom and pretended to look for something deep in his backpack. He wasn’t even supposed to be upstairs right now, unless he was studying in the library, or in the darkroom, working on his “generic definition” project for photography.
“Most likely she never encountered American history before now,” Miss Melanie went on kindly. “And perhaps she could use some extra help in algebra and physics.”
“Is it possible she’s cheating and you haven’t noticed? In Latin, I mean.”
Whoa. What mom accused her own daughter of cheating?
“I’m sure it’s nothing like that.” Miss Melanie rushed to Shy’s defense. “You’d have noticed. Right, Sammy?”
Liam almost snorted out loud. Sammy Streko? What the fuck kind of a name was that?
“Not at all,” Mr. Streko agreed. “I’m a pretty tough teacher, actually. I conduct most of the class in Latin and the kids look at me like I’m a lunatic. Except Shy. She’s got a good ear. It’s like she can hear the roots, you know?”
Total silence. Poor Sammy.
“Unless she’s cheating,” Shy’s mom insisted. It was almost like she wanted Shy to be more devious than she actually was.
“It’s pretty hard to cheat in Latin. The vocab has to be memorized. I ask a lot of open-ended questions. There’s no right answer. You just have to be engaged.”
“I’ll speak to Shy about a peer tutor in algebra and maybe physics,” Miss Melanie suggested gently. “That often helps.”
“Mmm.” Shy’s mother didn’t sound convinced. “I have to get back to work.” There was a rustling as she tied on her trench coat, or whatever rustling item of clothing she was wearing, and swept out of the classroom.
“Honestly,” she muttered, nearly tripping over Liam.
Liam leapt to his feet, his last calculus test in his hand. He’d gotten an A minus.
He waited for Shy’s unnecessarily frantic mom to rustle away and some of the teachers to wander back to their offices. Then he lunged awkwardly into the classroom.
“Hello, Liam.” Miss Melanie offered him her useless, sunshiny smile. “We were just finishing up a conference. Do you need this room?”
Mr. Streko was typing on his phone. A half-eaten Chipotle burrito rested in his lap. He looked wiped, like Shy’s mom had grabbed his mangy beard and dragged him around behind her Mercedes.
Liam took a deep breath. He’d never done anything this bold before. “Sorry, I was totally eavesdropping. I can tutor whoever it is. I do pretty well.” He held up his test. “I could use some extracurriculars and stuff. You know, for college?”
“The student in question is female,” Miss Melanie said.
Liam shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that tutoring some dumb girl would be kind of annoying, but he could handle it. “That’s okay.”
“You know Shy Clarke?”
He shrugged his shoulders again. “Kind of?”
* * *
Torso of Woman Found Behind Ikea Red Hook
A man (who wishes to remain unnamed) was walking his dog along the pier behind Ikea Red Hook early Monday when he spotted what looked like a mannequin in the water. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a headless human torso, severed just below the chin and at the waist, with the arms intact. The man called 911.
Torso of Woman Identified by Sister
The dismembered torso of a Staten Island woman was identified by the woman’s sister late Tuesday evening. Police had released photographs of a tattoo of a red rose with green leaves on the upper arm of the torso in hopes that it would help to identify the body. A woman has since confirmed that her youngest sister had been missing since late Friday night after leaving the Staten Island restaurant where she worked part-time as a hostess. The woman’s house, where she lives with her parents and younger brother, is now a crime scene. The entire family has been brought in for questioning.
Foot in Hudson River Linked to Staten Island Woman. Blood Found in Ex-Boyfriend’s Home
Yesterday a foot was found by a kayaker in the Hudson River near Battery Park City. Police have matched the foot to the dismembered torso of the murdered Staten Island woman found by a Brooklyn man early Monday while out walking his dog. The torso has since been identified by a family member who recognized the rose tattoo on the torso’s upper arm. Police have been investigating the woman’s family and close friends. The women’s ex-boyfriend is now in custody after police discovered traces of blood on the cement floor of his garage. The woman’s head and other remaining body parts have not yet been found.
* * *
Wendy Clarke rocked back and forth in her expensive, ergonomically correct, springy, gold metal and white leather swivel chair and tapped her manicured nails against the white Italian marble desktop. She clicked her way chronologically through The Brookliner links, grimacing as the gruesome story unfolded. She read The Brookliner religiously, hoping it would make her feel more Brooklyn-y. Nothing this morbid ever happened in England. England was full of thieves, not murderers. They cleared out your house while you were eating dinner in a restaurant. Wendy’s closed office door rattled and she reduced the page, returning to the article she was supposed to write about the history of the French perfume industry. Tanners in Grasse. Catherine de’ Medici. Dior. Chanel. The May rose. It was an amalgamation of pieces she’d written before. She reached across her keyboard and squirted two pumps of $130 La Mer hand serum into her palms, as if that would help.
Wendy occupied the coveted southwest-facing office on the thirty-first floor of a five-year-old office tower near the World Trade Center, home to Fleurt, one of the few fashion magazines still in print. It had been her idea to move to New York, and she’d courted this job for eight months until she got it, sending witty, erudite emails to Lucy Fleur, its glamorously absent founder—who wore only pale yellow and seemed to exist exclusively at fashion shows—and completely abusing the privilege of being married to a well-known author. Roy had no idea, but he’d basically gotten Wendy the job. Finally, Lucy Fleur had caved, just as Wendy hoped she would. Lucy Fleur just had to have the features editor with the famous author husband, the editor who had once compiled the now infamous Brexit Suppers, a series of snarky, irreverent vignettes and alcohol-heavy recipes using only British ingredients, like “Gin and Ewe” and “English Sherry with One French Strawberry Found on the Floor of the Ferry.” Never mind that Wendy had always been freelance, with no office at all. Now she was a senior editor.