The Subprimes Read Online Free Page B

down and had a talk with them about what they would and would not be doing going forward. When she had tallied up how much they spent in an average week—excluding tuition, books, uniforms,activity fees, security fees, athletic fees, and, the most inscrutable of all, hall fees—it was $2,100 per week on dance lessons (hip-hop, jazz, and ballet), piano lessons, math tutor, gymnastics, art, French, dressage, and cotillion. Per kid.
    And there was the longer-term tragedy, the fact that they might never be able to escape from this life but would have to fend with the rest of those who had been left behind. She and the girls could never afford a sanctuary.
    She would let them down gradually, she decided, as the school year ended, after which dance and gymnastics would simply not be renewed. She would tell the girls they were going to spend more time together, more family time. There would be fewer of everything, lessons, outfits, horses, dinners out, just, well, everything. But they would be fine, Gemma kept reassuring herself, they would be—
    What was that?
    They had turned off the Montauk Highway onto Nearer Lane after the sun had sunk, leaving only a faint residue of light. As she took the big elbow right along the ocean, she saw what seemed like some kind of giant podlike structure built right on the sand, in clear violation of all local ordinances, even if this was Padma Cohen’s estate. Nobody can build a large, black-gray building right on the beach.
    â€œMommy, look—a whale,” Ginny said from behind her.
    And that was what it was, Gemma realized, a beached whale. Enormous. Flat-headed, gawking-eyed, battleship-gray flesh mottled and ribbed, almost grinning mouth swung open, tail bobbing in the shallow tide. It looked nothing like Melville’s monster, more like a huge wind sock in a gentle breeze, alive. A reflective shine from her headlights bounced from its nose, if that’s what you called the front of the beast.
    â€œWe have to help it,” said Franny.
    What they had to do, Gemma well knew, was clear out the beach house so they could rent it. Get the Range Rover cleaned so they could sell it. But they couldn’t just leave this whale. Nobody else seemed to have noticed it yet. In season there would have been a crowd around it, of course: TV crews and jiggle-bellied billionaires snapping cell-phone photos and T-shirt hawkers already monetizing the incident. But now?
    Gemma scanned the beach. Nobody.
    What could they do?
    She slowed down and pulled over, yanking the brake handle and then sitting for a moment. She dialed 911.
    â€œEast Hampton PD. Would you like premium or standard emergency services?”
    â€œI need to report a whale.”
    â€œMa’am, you’ve dialed 911. Premium or regular?”
    â€œUm, I’m reporting an emergency.”
    â€œI take it you want standard. Please hold.”
    She had to wait three minutes until finally she heard, “Is this a police or fire emergency?”
    â€œIt’s a whale. It’s on the beach.”
    â€œOn the beach? Is anyone injured? Is there a fire or medical or rescue emergency?”
    â€œIt’s off Nearer Lane, about, oh, two houses from the inlet.”
    The operator said, “Hold on while I connect you to a lifeguard.”
    â€œA lifeguard?”
    â€œDo you have any other suggestions?”
    â€œCan you send an officer?” she asked, but the line was already ringing and soon connected to a voice-mail message saying there was no one to take the call but if this was an emergency she should hang up and dial 911.
    â€œWe have to help it,” Ginny and Franny were insisting.
    â€œHow?” Gemma asked, before realizing her daughters were unlikely to know aquatic mammal resuscitation.
    She removed a flashlight from the glove compartment, opened the door, and stepped out, unlocking her daughters’ doors and helping them out. The girls argued briefly over who should hold