Her second, and possibly worse, amateur move was to check Facebook. She’d predicted that many of her friends would have posted excited status updates about Julian’s performance—it wasn’t every day someone they knew from high school or college performed at the Grammys. What she hadn’t anticipated, perhaps naively, was the outpouring of support directed in her direction: her wall was papered with everything from “You’re strong, you’ll get through this” from one of her friends’ mothers to “it just goes to show that all men are as*holes. don’t worry, mrs. a, we r all rooting for u!!!” from Kaylie. Under any other, less humiliating circumstances, it would’ve been wonderful to feel so much love and encouragement, but this was just plain mortifying. With it came the incontrovertible proof that her private misery was being conducted very publicly, and not just in front of strangers. In a way she couldn’t quite explain, it had been easier to think of the masses of nameless, faceless Americans examining the pictures of her husband and the Chateau girl, but the moment she realized it was also her friends and family, coworkers and acquaintances, it became almost unbearable.

The double dose of Ambien she took that night prophylactically was sufficient to make her groggy and hungover the next day but not quite strong enough to launch her into the blackout sleep she desperately wanted. The morning and early afternoon passed by in a fog with only Walter and the constantly ringing (but ignored) phone punctuating it, and were she not terrified of losing the Huntley job, too, she would have seriously considered calling in sick. Instead, she forced herself to shower, eat a peanut butter sandwich on whole wheat toast, and move toward the subway in plenty of time to get to the Upper East Side by three thirty. She arrived at the school fifteen minutes early and, after admiring for just a moment the ivy-covered stone facade of the town house, noticed a giant ruckus to the left of the entrance.

There was a small cluster of photographers and what looked like two reporters (one with a microphone, the other with a notebook), and they were surrounding a petite blond woman wearing an ankle-length shearling coat, a neat bun, and an ugly grimace. The photographers were so focused on the woman they didn’t notice Brooke.

“No, I wouldn’t say it’s anything personal,” the woman said while shaking her head. She listened for a moment and then shook it again. “No, I have never had any interaction with her—my daughter doesn’t require any nutrition counseling, but . . .”

Brooke stopped listening for a split second upon realizing this strange woman was talking about her.

“Let me say that I’m not alone in thinking this kind of attention is inappropriate in a school environment. My daughter should be concentrating on algebra and field hockey, and instead she’s fielding calls from reporters asking her to comment for a national gossip tabloid. It’s unacceptable, and it’s why the Parents’ Association is calling for the immediate resignation of Mrs. Alter.”

Brooke gasped. The woman caught Brooke’s eye. The dozen or so other people in the circle—she could see now that there were another two mothers standing with the blond lady—all looked at her. The shouting commenced immediately.

“Brooke! Have you ever met the woman who appeared in the photographs with Julian?”

“Brooke, will you be leaving Julian? Have you seen him since Sunday night?”

“What are your thoughts on the Huntley Parents’ Association calling for your resignation? Do you blame your husband for that?”

It was like the Grammys all over again, only this time without the dress, the husband, or the rope line that separated her from the paparazzi. Thankfully, she did have the school security guard, a kindly man in his late sixties who barely cleared five-six but who nonetheless held up an arm toward the crowd and ordered them to stand back, reminding everyone that while the sidewalk was public property, the stairs leading up to the front door were not. Brooke shot him a grateful look and bolted inside. She was equal parts angry and shocked, mostly at herself for not predicting—for never even suspecting—that all this hellish, unwanted attention would follow her to school.

She took a deep breath and headed directly to her office on the ground floor. Rosie, the administrative assistant for all counseling-related programming, glanced up from her desk when Brooke entered the anteroom to the suite where she, Heather, and the other three guidance counselors all had their offices. Rosie had never excelled at minding her own business, but Brooke guessed today would be worse than usual. She braced herself for the inevitable reference to the Julian photographs, the mob outside, or both.

“Hey, Brooke. Let me know when you’re settled from all the, um, craziness outside. Rhonda wants to come in for a few minutes before your appointments begin,” Rosie said, sounding nervous enough to make Brooke nervous.

“Really? Any idea why?”

“Nope,” Rosie replied, clearly lying. “She asked me to let her know when you got here.”

“Okay, can I take my coat off and check the machine? Two minutes?”

She stepped inside her office, only big enough to house a desk, two chairs, and a coat stand, and she quietly shut the door. Through the glass door, she could see Rosie pick up the phone, letting Rhonda know that she had arrived.

Barely thirty seconds had passed when she heard a knock. “Come in!” Brooke called, trying to sound welcoming. She genuinely liked and respected Rhonda, and while a visit from her principal wasn’t the least bit unusual, she had been hoping to avoid any unnecessary contact that day.

“I’m glad you’re here. I want to give you an update on Lizzie Stone,” Brooke said, hoping to co-opt the conversation by bringing up one of the students she counseled. Brooke barreled on. “I can’t believe that Coach Demichev is trusted with the well-being of these girls. I mean, I think it’s great he can just create Olympians out of thin air—no pun intended—but it’s really only a matter of time before one of them starves to death.”

“Brooke,” Rhonda said, drawing out her name in an unusually long way, “I want to hear this; maybe you can write me a memo. But we need to talk.”

“Oh? Is everything okay?” she asked, her heart rattling in her chest.

“I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. . . .”

She knew from the look on Rhonda’s face. Of course it wasn’t her decision, Rhonda said; she might have been the principal but she answered to so many others, especially the parents, who thought all this attention Brooke was receiving didn’t reflect well on the school. Everyone understood it wasn’t Brooke’s fault, that of course she couldn’t be pleased about the media scrutiny, which is why they wanted her to take some time off—paid, of course—until everything calmed down.