Kersti has never thought of herself as a prude, but even she’s a little shocked by it. Cressida would have been sixteen or seventeen at the time.
Kersti doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but assumes it’s Mr. Fithern. Charlie, as Cressida used to call him.
C,
Why after all this time would you worry about me getting caught? It’s not for you to worry about. It’s my problem. I love you. Now get over here soon so I can fuck you.
C-
C,
When you came last night and your beautiful body was convulsing in my arms, I knew I could give everything up to have you forever. And yes, to answer your question again, no one makes me cum like you.
C-
C,
Dreaming of your perfect body and what I’m going to do to it when I see you tonight. And no more talk like the other night. You know you are the only one for me, the only one I love. You mustn’t forget that, no matter what the situation seems on the outside.
C-
C,
Why do you say we can’t be together? Your age and all the other irrelevant points you make are utterly meaningless to me, this at least you should know! I don’t like all these doubts you’re having. I can’t live without the taste of you, the feel of you, the smell of you. Our relationship transcends societal norms. You’ve never adhered to any rules before. Don’t start now. We do as we please. We always have.
C-
Kersti feels flushed and embarrassed even though she’s alone. She imagines Mr. Fithern slipping these notes into Cressida’s history textbook during class, or handing them to her as they passed each other on their way to class. Did he give them to her when he was returning a test or homework he’d graded? Did he fuck her in the school bathroom, with Abby Ho-Tai in the stall beside them, sick from her laxatives? Did they get off on crossing lines, shattering boundaries, disregarding everyone at the Lycée but themselves?
He must have had his own pile of dirty notes from her, tied up in rubber bands and stashed all over his house; the house he’d shared with his wife. Does he have them still? Did he keep them as a souvenir, a reminder of his youthful virility, his underage conquest?
Kersti can’t help wondering what Cressida would have written to him. How was she able to do it? One minute, giggling and gossiping and being silly with her girlfriends up in the third-floor bathroom like any normal teenage girl, and the next, writing those things to her married lover, things Kersti had never even heard of, or wouldn’t have dared think about, let alone say to another person.
Maybe Mrs. Fithern found Cressida’s letters and read them. She must have been shocked and horrified—more than Kersti is now. And not just by the betrayal, but by their vulgarity and the sheer recklessness of their behavior. She must have despised Cressida.
And yet, when Kersti spoke to her, she’d sounded positively sympathetic. Charles was the predator. Something about that comment never rang true for Kersti. Their whole conversation had left her feeling unsettled.
I think she was an unhappy girl who got in over her head and tried to kill herself.
As Kersti broods over their conversation, she realizes she’s already made the decision. She’s going to go to Lausanne for the centennial celebration and speak to Bueche and Harzenmoser herself. If by some miracle she’s pregnant, she’ll be past the first trimester by then; if not, it will be her consolation trip. Maybe they can go to Estonia, do that Baltic cruise Jay had talked about, travel around for a few weeks to regroup. Either way, she can’t stop here. There are too many loose ends and unanswered questions.
When the phone rings, Kersti nearly jumps off her stool, having completely lost track of the time. She takes a deep breath and tries to steady her galloping heart before she reaches for it.
Please God Please God Please God
“Kersti?”
“Yes,” she manages, on the brink of vomiting.
“Congratulations, Kersti!” the nurse says, her voice the most beautiful sound Kersti’s ever heard. “Your test was positive. Your levels are great.”
Her levels are great. Kersti exhales and realizes she hasn’t breathed in at least a minute. The phone is shaking in her hand. “I have to call Jay—”
“We want you to come back Wednesday for your follow-up blood test.”
Not out of the woods yet, but it’s different this time. She can feel it. This is Cressida’s baby and it’s meant to be.
Chapter 24
LAUSANNE—January 1998
Kersti keeps a careful eye on Cressida, curious to see how she’ll handle herself surrounded by the entire faculty. She’s standing over by the lavish pastry table with Mrs. Fithern, wearing a floor-length jersey skirt slit up to her thigh. They’re talking animatedly. A waiter approaches them and hands them each a glass of champagne. They clink flutes, laughing.
It’s the grand unveiling of the new library, a project M. Bueche undertook as part of the Lycée’s eightieth anniversary back in ’96. After two years of fund-raising and construction, the new library is complete with new IBM computers, an elegant mahogany study hall, and an expanded historical archives department. Kersti watches as Cressida’s eyes find Mr. Fithern’s at the opposite side of the library, both obviously aware of the other’s every movement. Something lustful and secretive passes between them, and Kersti is disturbed by how effortlessly Cressida is able to simultaneously enjoy herself with Mrs. Fithern—no doubt trading their usual quips, debating literature, and glibly mocking the stuffy alumni together.
Alison follows Kersti’s gaze and frowns. “It’s sickening,” she mutters, and walks away in a huff. Kersti regrets telling Alison and Lille, but she couldn’t keep it to herself. Cressida’s secret was like a grenade; she would have exploded with it if she hadn’t gotten rid of it. As far as boarding school gossip goes, it’s the gold standard. Deliciously irresistible.
Kersti continues to watch Cressida until she finally looks up and notices her. She excuses herself to Mrs. Fithern and comes over to Kersti, champagne flute in hand. “Isn’t the library absolutely breathtaking?” she jokes, mimicking M. Bueche’s earlier speech.
“Formidable, formidable,” Kersti plays along in French
They drift over to the new archives, where framed photographs from the last century are hanging on the walls and a collection of Lycée artifacts is displayed in a museum-style glass case. There are athletic ribbons from the twenties and thirties; an original school uniform—a high-collared Edwardian blouse and navy ankle-length skirt—as well as a later version, a navy blue tunic with the motto sewn onto the crest. Bene qui latuit, bene vixit. One who lives well, lives unnoticed.