Page 39 of Seven Days in June

She was in a cold-sweat panic. Black people existed and thrived in all spaces, realms, worlds. And Eva wrote Gia and Sebastian so well that readers of all races took them at face value. A triumph in any genre.

Cursedwas Eva’s version of protest lit. Whitewashing her characters would erase her career.

“Vampires and witches are already ‘other,’” reasoned Dani. “If they’re also Black, they’re too niche. Imagine finding an audience for a film about a Taiwanese werewolf and fairy.”

“But I’d watch that!” Eva’s phone buzzed on her lap, cutting off her next thought. It was a text from Sidney.

BE SMART. Dani’s our last non-D-list option. We’ll work out kinks later. Say yes.

“Yes,” said Eva, heart sinking. “Kendall. Spider-Man. Genius.”

Minutes later, she was on the subway, bound for Audre’s parent-teacher conference in Brooklyn. Her heart was throbbing in her temples. How had she allowed that meeting to careen so far out of her control? Where was her integrity? Maybe she didn’t have any. Only a sellout would bleach and brighten her fictional babies for a paycheck. No. The very idea was a searing humiliation. Out of self-preservation, Eva banished it to the back of her mind—she couldn’t break down now; there was no time.

At least Audre was at the top of her class. Nothing to worry about there.

And so she walked into Cheshire Prep all easy breezy. Here, if nowhere else, she knew everything was right with the world. She strode the hallways of the sprawling Victorian mansion with the smugness of a woman whose daughter was the queen of seventh grade.

Eva was secretly proud of Audre’s popularity. Audre was a leader in a school full of overachieving, hypercompetitive alphas from two-parent homes with old family money. It took confidence to own that crowd. And Audre did it by being friendly and empathetic and not an asshole.

My golden child, thought Eva, sweeping into Head of School Bridget O’Brien’s office. With a bright smile, she kissed her daughter’s cheek and sat next to her at Bridget’s desk. The office was a nod to Cheshire Prep’s 150-year history, with accents like 1920s club chairs and Edwardian gas lamps.

Bridget herself was also a bit of a throwback. Tall and svelte, the fifty-five-year-old gave off Hitchcock-blonde vibes, with her back-combed platinum bob and belted Burberry dresses. She had two interests: lasering her crow’s-feet and ensuring that Cheshire Prep became NYC’s top private school before she retired in 2021. Thus, she favored students who won titles.

Audre had earned all-state gold medals from debate-team championships, plus first place at visual-arts regionals. She was so golden, Eva had a standing invite to Bridget’s annual holiday dinner party at her Cobble Hill town house.

“Audre’s suspended,” said Bridget.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m suspended,” whispered Audre.

“I heard her!” snapped Eva, who was only now noticing the swollen redness around Audre’s eyes.And Eva’s cameo ring, on her left hand.Shocked, she glanced down at her naked finger. That morning had been so hectic, she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing it.

Eva gaped at Audre. “What did you do?”

Audre’s eyes rolled up to the gold filigree ceiling. As if Eva’s question, rather than getting herself kicked out of school, was the true indignity.

“Earlier in the year, we spoke to you about Audre’s peer-counseling Snapchat sessions.” Bridget’s airy voice onlyjustdisguised her blue-collar Boston-Irish roots. Until her freshman year at Vassar, she’d spoken like the entire cast ofThe Departed.

“But she stopped making them,” Eva inserted hurriedly.

“She did, and Snapchat videos disappear after twenty-four hours.But a screenshot lastsforever.” Bridget unearthed a file from her desk drawer. “A few weeks ago, Audre posted a video of her session with Clementine Logan.”

“Clementine Logan.” Eva feared where this was going. “Her mom’s Carrie Logan, the dean of students?”

“Bingo,” sighed Bridget. She slid a printout across her desk to Audre. “Clementine made an alarming confession about her mother on the video. A student took a screenshot, created a meme, and it’s been circulating all week.”

Eva glanced at the printout of the meme. In it, Clementine was mid-wail with tear-streaked cheeks. The image was blurry, but the caption wasn’t:

TFW your mom’s getting her back blown out by your English teacher.

Eva’s jaw dropped open. Audre sniffled.

Bridget’s Botox-frozen brows struggled to furrow. “TFW means—”

“That feeling when,” said Eva. “I know.”

“Mom has 24K Instagram followers.” Audre’s voice was shaky but proud. “She’s familiar with social-media linguistics.”

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