JULIE
Want to know a secret?
April Masterson is the evilest woman you’ll ever meet. Everything she has told you has been a lie.
I should know. She’s my best friend.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
My heels clack noisily on the hardwood floor of my new house that was only erected one month earlier. The chimes of the doorbell echo through the living room, which still has a few boxes I haven’t unpacked yet. I’ll get to them tonight—I absolutely hate stacks of boxes.
I look through the peephole, because I’m still used to living in Manhattan, where there’s just as likely to be a burglar standing on the other side of the door as a neighbor holding a plate of cookies. But today, it’s the plate of cookies. A woman is standing there, smiling brightly at my closed door.
I throw open the door and force a smile, even though my head is still aching from being on hold with the cable company for two straight hours. “Hello…”
The woman standing at my front door is extremely pretty. Pretty in an open, friendly way, with her blond hair pulled into a perfectly messy bun, earnest blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She’s the sort of woman everybody instantly likes.
“Hi!” she chirps. “I’m April! I live two houses down the block. You must be Julie!”
“Uh, yes…”
She beams at me. “I brought you some cookies.”
“Oh.” I have to admit, her cookies look delicious. I could use a cookie right now. “Won’t you come in?”
“I’d love to!”
April follows me into my house, clutching her plate of chocolate chip cookies. Her lips part slightly as she looks around the living room. It’s extravagant—I know. Keith drew up the plans for the house, and I didn’t realize quite how big it was until I saw it being built. And then it was too late. Now I’m in this ridiculously large house for God knows how long. Probably at least until the boys are in college.
“You have such a beautiful house,” April says as she puts the plate of cookies on our kitchen island. “I was so excited when I saw it being built.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Have you lived here long?”
“A couple of years,” she says. “We moved here right after my son Bobby was born.”
My heart leaps. “I have a son about the same age. Leo is two. He’s napping upstairs.”
“Same age as Bobby!” April is practically glowing. “And coincidentally, Bobby is also napping right now. At our house, of course.”
I furrow my brow. Wait, if her son is napping, who’s watching him? Is her husband home in the middle of the day? Does she have a babysitter with him?
She couldn’t have left him all alone, could she? No, I’m sure someone is watching him.
“This is so exciting!” April is gushing. “We’ll have to get them together for a playdate!”
“Yes, absolutely,” I say.
A playdate. Even though I have two sons, the concept is still strange to me. Up until six months ago, I’d been working in the DA’s office. It was what I had been doing since I graduated from law school, and it was what I was born to do. But after Leo came along, I felt stretched thin. Keith started pushing me to cut back on work, but that was impossible. So then he started pushing me to leave entirely. Move out to the suburbs.
And now here we are.
April prattles on about life in our town while I take a bite of one of her cookies. It’s incredibly delicious. Maybe the best cookie I’ve ever had in
my life. So good that I can’t stop eating them, and before I know it, I’ve demolished half the plate, while April hasn’t even had one.
“These are good!” I say. “Are you a professional?”
Her cheeks color. “No. Well, not exactly. I have this little YouTube show where I give out baking tips, but hardly anyone watches it.”
This woman is so sweet. At least, she seems sweet. If I were still back in the DA’s office, I would have trouble getting a jury to convict April Masterson. You would think looks don’t matter in a courtroom, but let me assure you they do. When you look at April, you believe her. Nobody with a face like that could be a liar.
It’s funny, because I’m the opposite. Dark hair, penetrating dark eyes that a few people have told me are “scary.” It served me well in my job. I’m not sure how well it will serve me now that I’m a housewife and stay at home mom.
While we’re eating the cookies, my older son Tristan wanders downstairs. Of my two children, he looks the most like me, with his pale skin and dark hair and eyes, but more than that, he reminds me a lot of myself. He’s very focused and disciplined. And honest. He’s only four years old, but sometimes he acts forty.
“I’m just getting my Thomas engine,” Tristan explains, as he pulls his Thomas the Tank Engine toy from the toy box in the living room.
“Tristan!” I call to him. “Come meet April Masterson, our new neighbor.”
He hesitates for a moment, then comes over to the kitchen table, clutching his blue train. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Masterson.”
April throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my, so polite! You can call me April, Tristan.”
Tristan looks to me for approval, and I nod in my head. “Okay,” he
says.
“Have a cookie!” She pushes the plate of chocolate chip cookies in his
direction. “They’re chocolate chip.”
I frown. I don’t like the fact that April offered my son a cookie without asking me if it was okay. The convention is you always ask the parents first, isn’t it? Then again, I hate to be the cookie police. And it’s hard for me to throw stones, considering I’ve eaten half a dozen cookies myself. They’re addictive.
Tristan again looks at me for approval. I nod, and he reaches for a cookie. “Can I take it up to my room, Mommy?”
“Yes. As long as you don’t make crumbs.”
Tristan takes a paper towel and gently rests his cookie on top of it.
Then he goes upstairs to his room with his train and his cookie.
After he’s gone, April looks at me with an expression I could only describe as curious amusement. “What a well-behaved child!”
It sounds like a compliment, but somehow there’s an edge to her voice.
Like she’s silently judging me. “Thank you,” I say anyway.
“I must introduce you to everyone in our playgroup,” she says. “You’ll love it.”
I look at her blankly. “Playgroup?”
She laughs. “For the kids. They play together, and we moms… we drink wine.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”
This is going to be my life now. Playgroups for adults. I miss putting people in jail.
“Also,” April says, “in March, you’re going to want to put in your application for Sunshine preschool. It’s the best one around. Very selective.”
I frown. “Tristan is at Rosa’s Preschool. I think they’re really good.” “No, no, no.” She puts her hand on mine—I’m shocked by how
smooth her palms are. “You must get Leo into Sunshine. It’s too late for Tristan, but trust me on this.”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
She beams at me again. That edge has vanished, and her face is warm and open. “I’m just so happy to have met you, Julie. I know we’re going to be great friends.”
Six months later, April and I are carpooling together to Sunshine Preschool. No, we haven’t gotten in yet. But the applications are due today.
Unlike other preschools, there’s no waiting list for Sunshine. You have to show up on March first and hand in your application, and then they decide whether or not you get in. God knows what sort of qualifications they’re looking for in a three-year-old child. It makes me sick to my stomach to think Leo might not pass muster.
Then I feel like a fool for being so worked up over what preschool my kid gets into. What have I become?
April is fiddling with the radio from the driver’s seat. She has, as she predicted, somehow become my best friend. The first close friend I’ve ever had. I always wanted friends, but I found it hard to get close to people. Everyone thought I seemed aloof, and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
But April wanted my friendship—badly. My husband Keith sometimes jokes, “She acts like she’s campaigning to be your best friend. I keep expecting her to show up with buttons that say ‘April and Julie forever.’”
I always defend April: “She’s really nice.”
“Sure,” he would say. “She just needs to cut her caffeine intake by about fifty percent.”
There are, unfortunately, some strange rumors about April. One of my neighbors told me there was a whole mess about six months before I moved here when April’s husband’s assistant killed herself. The poor girl, Courtney Burns, apparently took a bunch of pills. But the rumor mill claimed that Courtney had been having an affair with April’s handsome husband.
There are quite a few people in the neighborhood who think Courtney’s suicide was a little fishy. A little too convenient for April.
But of course, that’s insane. I know from my years in the courthouse that anyone can end up being a murderer, but I know April very well now. The idea that she might have tried to harm someone is out of the question. Anyway, the whole mess had died down by the time I moved to the neighborhood.
I have both our applications to Sunshine piled in my lap. The application was nearly an inch thick, but paperwork is something I’m great at, so I helped April with hers. I even wrote her essay for her. Yes, the application included an essay. I’m so embarrassed.
Five minutes later, April has pulled up in front of Sunshine Preschool. I have to admit, it’s a darling little school. It’s painted with bright colors that make it look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Even though I find the whole thing a little ridiculous, at this moment, I desperately want Leo to be at this school.
Before we go in, April pulls a compact out of her purse and gives herself a once over. April always wants to look perfect. While she’s doing
that, I take my phone out of my purse. To my surprise, there’s a text message on the screen. It’s from a detective I used to work with pretty closely, Riley Hanrahan.
Are you coming back to work soon? It’s hell without you.
I get a rush of nostalgia, thinking about the good old days. But no. I made this choice for my family. I type in: Sorry, no. But I do miss it.
Three bubbles appear on the screen for a few seconds before I see Riley’s response. I miss you.
I suck in a breath. I quickly delete the text messages, then smile over at April. “You ready to go in?”
“Yes, let’s go!”
I recognize Heidi at the front desk from when I picked up the applications for me and April. She flashes me a tight-lipped smile that gets on my nerves. You would think a preschool would have somebody friendlier at the front desk, not this sour-faced woman.
“Hello!” April says. “My name is April. I was hoping to drop off my application for the preschool.”
And then I see a genuine smile from Heidi. “Of course! Hand it right here!”
April beams. “You must be Heidi. I think we talked on the phone.” “Yes! We did!”
And then April spends the next several minutes charming Heidi. I’m impressed and even a little jealous. How is she so good at that? God, I hope it helps.
We finally walk back outside together, sans applications. I start to walk to April’s car, but then she puts her hand on my arm. “No,” she says. “Wait.”
After a few minutes, a car pulls up in front of the preschool. A woman with a three-year-old strapped into the back of the car as well as a newborn comes out of the car, looking overwhelmed at the idea of getting both of her kids free. But before she can attempt it, April approaches her.
“Hi!” April says. “You can drop your application off right here! I can take that for you.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” The woman gratefully plops the application into April’s waiting hands. “Getting the kids out of the car is such a hassle. “
“Believe me, I know!” April says.
And then as the woman drives away, April winks at me. What the…?
And then she does it again. And again. We stand there for another twenty minutes and accept a dozen more applications. I know I should stop her from doing this, but I can’t. I just keep watching her in fascination. She’s so sweet. She even handed one of the women a tissue to wipe up some drool on her baby’s face.
Then when we each have a stack almost too heavy to carry, she motions to me and we walk back to her car. She tosses her applications in the back and nods for me to do the same.
“April,” I say. “What are you doing?”
She winks again. “Improving our odds.”
“Yes, but…” I look up at the preschool, then at all the applications littering the backseat of April’s SUV. “This isn’t right. We should bring them to the school. Everyone should get a fair shot.”
That makes her throw back her head and laugh. “Come on. Let’s go get some coffee.”
We go get a cup of coffee. But not before April stops at a dumpster and throws all the applications inside.
