Jane smiled politely and held up the fifty-dollar note. “Well, thanks. Tell Chelsea I’ll book her up for babysitting another night.”

She closed the door firmly, mildly aggravated by the “little kids, little problems” comment. As she walked down the hallway she could hear Ziggy still crying: not the angry, demanding cry of a child who wants attention, or the startled cry of a child who has hurt himself. This was a grown-up type of crying: involuntary, soft, sad weeping.

Jane walked into his bedroom and stood for a moment in the doorway, watching him lying facedown on the bed, his shoulders shaking and his little hands clutching at the fabric of his Star Wars quilt. She felt something hard and powerful within her. Right this moment she didn’t care if Ziggy had hurt Amabella or not, or if he’d inherited some evil secret tendency for violence from his biological father, and anyway, who said the tendency for violence came from his father, because if Renata were standing in front of her right now, Jane would hit her. She would hit her with pleasure. She would hit her so hard that her expensive-looking glasses would fly off her face. Maybe she’d even crush those glasses beneath her heel like the quintessential bully. And if that made her a helicopter parent, then who the f**k cares?

“Ziggy?” She sat down on the bed next to him and rubbed his back.

He lifted his tear-stained face.

“Let’s go visit Grandma and Grandpa. We’ll take our pajamas and stay the night there.”

He sniffed. A little shudder of grief ran through his body.

“And let’s eat chips and chocolates and treats all the way there.”

Samantha: I know I’ve been laughing and making jokes and whatever, so you probably think I’m a heartless bitch, but it’s like a defense mechanism or something. I mean, this is a tragedy. The funeral was just . . . When that darling little boy put the letter on the coffin? I can’t even. I just lost it. We all lost it.

Thea: Very distressing. It reminded me of Princess Diana’s funeral, when little Prince Harry left the note saying “Mummy.” Not that we’re talking about the royal family here, obviously.

44.

It didn’t take Celeste long to realize that this was going to be the sort of book club where the book was secondary to the proceedings. She felt a mild disappointment. She’d been looking forward to talking about the book. She’d even, embarrassingly, prepared for book club, like a good little lawyer, marking up a few pages with Post-it notes and writing a few pithy comments in the margins.

She slid her book off her lap and slipped it into her bag before anyone noticed and started teasing her about it. The teasing would be fond and good-humored, but she no longer had the resilience for teasing. Marriage to Perry meant she was always ready to justify her actions, constantly monitoring what she’d just said or done, while simultaneously feeling defensive about the defensiveness, her thoughts and feelings twisting into impenetrable knots, so that sometimes, like right now, sitting in a room with normal people, all the things she couldn’t say rose in her throat and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

What would these people think if they knew there was someone like her sitting across from them, passing them the sushi? These were polite, nonsmoking people who joined book clubs and renovated and spoke nicely. Husbands and wives didn’t hit each other in these sorts of congenial little social circles.

The reason no one was talking about the book was because everyone was talking about the petition to have Ziggy suspended. Some people hadn’t heard about it yet, and the people who did know had the enjoyable task of passing on the shocking development. Everyone contributed what information they had been able to offer.

Celeste made agreeable murmurs as the conversation flew, presided over by a flushed, animated, almost feverish Madeline.

“Apparently Amabella hasn’t actually said that it is Ziggy. Renata is just assuming it is because of what happened on orientation day.”

“I heard there were bite marks, which is pretty horrifying at this age.”

“There was a biter at Lily’s day care. She’d come home black-and-blue. I must admit I wanted to murder the little brat who did it, but her mother was so nice. She was in a state over it.”

“That’s the thing. It’s actually worse if your child is the one doing the bullying.”

“I mean, we’re talking about children here!”

“My question is, why aren’t the teachers seeing this?”

“Can’t Renata just make Amabella say who is responsible? She’s five years old!”

“I guess when you’re talking about a gifted child—”

“Oh, I didn’t know, is Ziggy gifted?”

“Not Ziggy. Annabella. She’s definitely gifted.”

“It’s Amabella, not Annabella.”

“Is that one of those made-up names?”

“Oh, no, no. It’s French! Haven’t you heard Renata talk about it?”

“Well, that kid has a lifetime ahead of her of people getting her name wrong.”

“Harrison plays with Ziggy every day. He’s never had any problems.”

“A petition! It’s just ridiculous. It’s petty. This quiche is great, by the way, Madeline, did you make it?”

“I heated it up.”

“Well, it’s like when Renata handed out those invitations to everyone in the class except Ziggy. I thought that was unconscionable.”

“I mean, can a public school expel a child? Is it even possible? Don’t the public schools have to take everyone?”

“My husband thinks we’ve all gone too soft. He says we’re too ready to label kids bullies these days when they’re just being kids.”

“He might have a point.”

“Although biting and choking—”

“Mmmm. If it were my child—”

“You wouldn’t do a petition.”

“Well, no.”

“Renata has pots of money. Why doesn’t she send Amabella off to private school? Then she won’t have to deal with the riffraff.”

“I like Ziggy. I like Jane too. It can’t be easy doing everything on her own.”

“Is there a father, does anyone know?”

“Should we talk about the book?” This was Madeline, finally remembering she was hosting a book club.

“I guess we should.”