Page 44 of Count My Lies

She looked up as she said this last bit, about someone being in her clothes, and our eyes connected. The other women turned, too, saw me staring.

“A former teacher,” she said, raising her voice slightly as an invitation for me to join the conversation. I took a step closer to the circle. Then to Harper, I motioned,go play, darling. The women parted, opening themselves to me. “I’m Allison,” the redhead said, touching her hand to her chest lightly. One by one, the other mothers introduced themselves as well, offering their hands in delicate handshakes. “Violet,” I said, over and over again, smiling politely at each woman.

They were desperate to share the story with someone new, all of them, about how, a few months ago, one of the preschool teachers had become obsessed with Allison. She had found her one evening in her closet, dressed in one of her formal dresses—a Jason Wu, if you can believe—her hair dyed the same shade of auburn as Allison’s. Allison shuddered at the retelling. “I let her watch mychildren,” she said, shaking her head. All of the other moms tsked, murmuring unintelligible noises of dismay.

“It was so unsettling. I think she wanted tobeme,” Allison said in a low, hushed voice.

I stifled a laugh at the melodramatic delivery. It sounded like an overreaction. It made me think of when I babysat for my next-door neighbors when I was in high school. When the kids were asleep, I’d sneak into the parents’ room and experiment with the mom’s makeup, try on her expensive jewelry, diamond earrings, emerald rings. I’d thought it was something everyone did when they were alone in someone else’s house. But I’d been fourteen, not a teacher at a preschool. So I arranged my face in an expression of distaste and mimicked the concerned sounds of the other mothers.

I didn’t think of the teacher until a few months later, after the night my world exploded, shrapnel flying, leaving me pulverized and desperate, when I was lying in bed at three in the morning, moonlight streaming through our bedroom window. Jay was down the hall in his office. I could hear his snores through the walls. I wasn’t sleeping at all. How could I, rage in my heart and in my bones?

Allison’s words rang in my head.I think she wanted tobeme. I imagined the teacher as a younger version of Allison, clear, pale skin, waify, her long hair dyed a shocking red. Maybe she’d gotten bored one night, decided to play dress-up; the hair could have been a coincidence. Or maybe Allison was right. Maybe she’d crossed a line, admiration turning into something else. Something darker. It gave me an idea. A late-night, pitch-black idea.

I picked up my phone and started sifting through archived newsletters on Mockingbird’s website. I found what I was looking for quickly: an article announcing a new preschool teacher, starting midyear. The last line read:Former teacher Sloane Caraway will not be returning.I googled Sloane Caraway and found her picture easily. She lookednothing like Allison: light brown hair, a heart-shaped face, a strong nose, not unlike my own. Not particularly pretty, but not unpretty, either.

I stared at her face on my phone, the tint of the screen lighting up the room. She looked soordinary. I wanted to know more. It didn’t take me long to discover she was working in a day spa in the next borough over, her picture on theAbout Ussection of the spa’s website. From there, I found her Instagram, her TikTok. When I finally fell asleep, I was still scrolling through her pictures, my phone lying on my chest when I woke the next morning.

After I dropped Harper off at school, I found myself heading in the direction of the spa. I slowed as I neared. Instead of continuing past, I stopped, peering through the large front glass window. Past the reception desk I could see a row of pedicure chairs against the left-hand wall. And there she was, in the flesh, bent over someone’s feet, carefully applying polish to each nail.

Finally, she looked up, over at the manicurist next to her, her whole face visible. I almost snorted thinking about Allison’s claim. They couldn’t look less alike. But—I realized with pleasure—even though she didn’t look like Allison, shedidlook a little like me. A similar profile, the same color complexion, though hers flecked with acne. My hair was darker than hers, and she was a little heavier than me, wore glasses, but the resemblance was there. My fury-fueled idea might work.

Then I shook my head, turned, and started back toward our brownstone.No, it’s crazy, I thought as I walked away,it would never work, but then, in the next moment—Maybe it could.

I returned to the spa the next day, and the next. The day after that I followed her home. I followed her everywhere until I knewher schedule, when she took her breaks, the little corner park where she took them, the patch of grass where she lay down and opened her books.

And then, on a whim, I sent Jay to the same park with Harper, telling him it was her new favorite, hoping Sloane would be there, hoping she’d notice him. It wasn’t a stretch; everyone notices Jay. If I was lucky, she’d find a way to talk to him. Women often do, especially since he no longer wears his wedding ring. And Jay always welcomes the attention; he isn’t particularly discerning. If Sloane approached him, he’d engage, his ego pulsing, ready for stroking.

If a chance run-in with Jay didn’t happen, I planned on taking Harper to the park the next week and finding a reason to introduce myself, accidentally bumping into her while playing tag with Harper or tripping over one of her shoes, which she always left kicked off beside her in the grass, but I thought Jay was clever bait. At the least, he’d catch her eye. Then I could say,You might have seen my husband here? He’s tall, dark hair?Her eyes would light up, and suddenly, I’d be interesting to her. And that’s all I needed.

I’d followed Jay and Harper to the park, settled onto a corner bench, my hair tied under a scarf with bigBreakfast at Tiffany’sglasses on in case anyone looked my way. Sloane was where she always was: on the grass, reading a book. When I saw her glancing around, her eyes landing on Jay, I grinned to myself. When she didn’t speak to him, I gave Harper a handful of M&M’S to ask Jay to take her back the following day, and the next. Instead of reading her book, Sloane watched them while I watched her.

I was there, too, when Harper stepped on the bee. I didn’t know exactly what happened, only that she started screaming. It took everything in me not to rush over and scoop her up. I might have, too, ifSloane hadn’t reached her first. As soon as Harper stopped crying, I went home. I wanted to be there when they got back, eager to hear about the interaction.

“I got stung!” Harper announced as soon as she’d walked through the front door. She raised her foot in the air to show me. I pulled her into my lap, carefully examined the welt, then kissed it until Harper dissolved into giggles. “Want a Band-Aid, baby?” I asked. “I got new Minnie ones.”

“A nurse helped us,” Jay said to me as I stood up, Harper still in my arms.

“A nurse?” I’d looked at him, puzzled. Had Sloane told him she was a nurse? I must have sounded funny because Jay gave me a strange look. “I mean, how did you find a nurse?” I said quickly. “That was lucky.”

He shrugged. “She said her name was Caitlin. She was nice.”

What a liar, I thought. And that’s when I decided my plan might actually work.

“I’ll look for her the next time we go,” I said. “So I can thank her for helping out.” And the rest is history, as they say.

I drain my glass, feeling the alcohol spread through me. I smile. I’ve been waiting a long time for this day, Sloane in my clothes, my makeup, my haircut and color. Sloane as me. I debate pouring another drink to celebrate, but I decide against it. It’s not worth the risk. Instead, I take my glass into the kitchen, wash and dry it, put it back into the cabinet where I found it. Me, drink? Never!

20

The next afternoon, when I open the front door and see Sloane on the stoop, I smile broadly. It’s like I’m looking into a mirror. She looks so different from how she looked just a few days ago.

She’s wearing some of the new clothes I gave her yesterday, a pair of dark jeans and cream-colored tank, and makeup again, too. But it’s not only the new haircut, the clothes, the mascara and blush. She’s standing up taller, shoulders back. Tits out, the minx, a newfound confidence about her.

Sloane pauses before stepping inside, her head cocked slightly, studying me. I’m dressed more casually than she’s used to seeing me, in joggers and a workout tank, my hair unwashed, tied up in a high bun, my bangs clipped up. It’s not a complete transformation—I still have some makeup on, my clothes still name-brand, well fitting—but it’s a start.

Because here’s the other piece of the puzzle: I don’t just want Sloane to look like me. I want to look like her, too.

“Look at you!” I say. “I almost didn’t recognize you! You look gorgeous in that shirt. Jay’s going to be mad—it’s his favorite!” It’s a silkcamisole, a gift he gave me soon after Harper was born. His favorite, but never mine—uncomfortable, impractical. I was more than happy to offload it.

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