HappilyEverAfter: Saw Gemma at school today. She looks happy. I guess business has picked up at Study Right.
OneWayAtATime: I saw her at Target. I said hi but she zoomed right past me. Pretended she didn’t hear me. Honestly who does she think she is?
TortoiseWinsTheRace: Bee’s smugger than ever.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: That’s what my DD said! She’s so full of herself. She actually refers to herself as Queen B lol.
HappilyEverAfter: Gemma’s insufferable. You know who I feel bad for? Ruth Thorne.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: I know, right? Gemma’s given Ruth the brush-off now that she doesn’t need her anymore. And after all Ruth did for her? I mean Ruth was basically her crisis manager. Study Right would have gone under if not for her.
Did this subject just come up naturally? wonders Ruth. Or did the moderator instigate it on her behalf? Ruth feels like she could cry. The pod is supporting her. They’re on her side.
PennySavedPennyEarned: So not to change the subject but I wanted to ask how I’m doing? Do I seem like a good fit for the pod?
HappilyEverAfter: So far you’re exceeding our expectations!
PennySavedPennyEarned: I’m so happy to hear that. I needed to hear that today.
OneWayAtATime: Bad day?
PennySavedPennyEarned: Sometimes being a single mom is lonely.
OneWayAtATime: You’re a single mom?
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: PennySavedPennyEarned, please no identifying details!
Jesus, Ruth! You’re supposed to be hiding your identity. It’s so easy to slip. A part of her wants the entire pod to know who she is. To be accepted warts and all.
PennySavedPennyEarned: Oh, god, sorry. I’m a recent single mom. I’m not used to it yet.
TortoiseWinsTheRace: No worries. We all slip sometimes.
Phew, thinks Ruth. That was close.
BEE
The Prozac is definitely working. Bee has so much energy. She bounces through the hallways like Tigger, counting the number of people who say hi to her. Twenty-two between second and third period. At lunchtime, thirty-five. She knows it’s vain, she’s vain, but who cares. She never knew she could feel this way. Every morning she wakes up and literally jumps out of bed, eager to start the day.
“You’re like a different person,” her mother said at breakfast.
“Is that a good thing?”
“Well, you seem happy.”
Bee waltzed her mother around the kitchen. Her mother laughed her head off until Bee asked if she wanted to learn how to twerk.
“Too soon, Bee,” she said. Still she had a smile on her face.
Bee’s got a secret. She’s taking a magic potion and the entire world has suddenly popped into focus. Is this the way other people experience life all the time? She could cry thinking about what she’s missed out on.
The bell rings announcing fifth period, geometry, and Bee realizes the hallway is almost empty. Up ahead of her, the door to the girls’ bathroom slams open and out runs Marley, panicked at the thought of being late.
Marley, in her poncho? It’s meant to be flattering, to shield her midriff and thighs, but if anything, it draws attention to them and screams I have something to hide.
Their eyes meet, then Marley dips her head and scurries away, pretending she doesn’t see Bee, giving them both an out. But they’re going to the same class. What—is she just going to follow Marley to class, two feet behind her? That’s ridiculous. Bee’s done this to Marley. Made her into this hunchback.
“Marls,” she calls out. “Wait.”
Marley stops but doesn’t turn around.
Bee catches up to her. “Heeeeyyy,” she says gently, like she would to a skittish horse.
She touches Marley on the arm and Marley flinches. This makes Bee sad. So sad she could just drop to her knees on the floor right now, pull Marley down with her, and cradle Marley like a baby. She actually envisions this in her head, this kindness.
“I’ve been hoping to run into you,” she says. “I’m sorry I’ve been kind of MIA. I’ve been going through a lot, but I’m better now. How are you?”
Marley gives her a stony stare. “I have to get to math class. I’m late.”
“Yeah, I’m late, too, Marley. We’re going to the same class. Don’t worry about it. Mrs. March doesn’t care. I’m late all the time.”
Marley shakes her head. “Where the fuck have you been, Bee?”
Bee doesn’t have an answer. Well, she does, but she doesn’t want to admit it. I’m a bitch. I’m completely self-involved and shallow. All I want is to be popular.
“Girls!” Mr. Nunez shouts.
He strides toward them, his leather soles clicking on the floor.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Sorry,” says Bee. “It’s my fault, I made Marley late.”
Mr. Nunez looks at Marley and Marley trembles under his gaze.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” says Bee. She hooks Marley’s arm in hers. “We’re going, Mr. Nunez.” She breaks into a trot with Marley, tugging her along. Marley immediately starts panting.
“You’re lucky I’m not giving you detention,” Mr. Nunez calls after them.
“Don’t worry, even if he did it wouldn’t go on your record,” Bee says to Marley. “You’ll still get into Stanford.” Or Harvard or Princeton.
They run down the hall, ponytails bobbing, and it feels like they’re kids again, until they arrive at the closed classroom door.
Marley’s red-faced. Breathing hard. Her poncho has twisted around and hangs unevenly off her, exposing her too-tight jeans. Bee could fix it but she doesn’t.
She unhooks her arm from Marley’s before they go in.
GEMMA
In her office, Gemma edits the text on her Groupon. Study Right is slowly climbing out of the hole but it’s still not back, far from it. She needs new blood, new families.
You’re invited… to STUDY RIGHT!
SAT, ACT, Subject Tests, AP Exams
30% off the first five tutoring sessions
Low stress, fun, individualized plans
Maria, Gemma’s tutoring coordinator, pops her head in the door. “Mr. Wright just arrived.”
Gemma saves the file and closes her laptop.
“Tom, sophomore. PSATs, 525 math, 550 English,” Maria says, handing her a folder.
Mr. Wright comes in and Gemma struggles to keep a neutral expression on her face. He’s stunning. Well over six feet, lean and muscled (a runner?), the perfect amount of scruff, and a jaw that’s just a few degrees shy of chiseled. She’s completely thrown off. She walks around the desk and shakes his hand firmly, trying to reestablish her equilibrium.
“I’m Gemma Howard, nice to meet you.”
“Simon Wright.”
They sit down. Gemma puts on her how can I help you face and sucks in her stomach, grateful she’s in her good jeans. Bee made her buy them. A dark wash, slim fit, slightly cropped.
He sits back in his chair, his long legs extended. He’s got to be six two, six three. “Well, my boy’s no genius, I can tell you that.”
How refreshing! In all her years of consulting with parents, this man is the first to say it like it is. To admit his child’s deficits in the most charming, self-deprecating way.
“Mr. Wright,” says Gemma. Mr. Right. As elusive as a reservation at French Laundry.
“Please call me Simon.”
“All right, Simon.”
He smiles at her, completely relaxed. This is out of the ordinary as well. Most parents are anxious when they come in. Their child’s scores expose them. Sometimes Gemma feels like a doctor. They tell her such intimate things.
“So, what’s the best we can expect for Tom?” Simon asks.
Gemma opens Tom’s folder and pretends to study the numbers. She doesn’t need to think about it. What Tom needs is the full monty—twenty to twenty-five tutoring sessions.
“No need to bullshit,” says Simon pleasantly.
“Wonderful.” He crosses his arms behind his head.
“If Tom does twenty tutoring sessions in both reading and math, I think we could bring up his scores by at least a hundred and fifty points. Maybe more, depending on how many practice tests he’s willing to take.”
“He has to take practice tests?”
“It’s actually the most important part of the process. I know it sounds brutal to take a three-hour test multiple times, but that’s how their scores go up.”
Simon gives a little shake of his head. “You can’t be serious, Ms. Howard.”
“I’m afraid I am. That’s how this works.”
Simon whistles his incredulity. “When would we need to start?”
“Mmm, January. Or you could even push it until next spring or early summer, that way he’s all set for the fall of junior year.”
Simon’s brow furrows. Clearly he hadn’t expected tutoring to be such an extensive endeavor.
“Perhaps you’d like to talk to Tom and his mother before you make a decision. You might decide not to do any SAT prep. There are plenty of great schools that Tom can get into with these scores. And there’s so many other things to consider. His extracurriculars, his interests—”
“His mother lives in Seattle,” Simon cuts her off.
“Oh, okay, that’s fine. It’s just you. That’s fine.” Gemma assumed he was married.
“I’m glad you approve,” says Simon. He’s enjoying her discomfort. Is he flirting or is he an asshole?
“It’s just me, too. With my daughter. Bee. She’s in ninth.” Why is she blabbing on about herself? She never does this. Her boundaries are usually impeccable around parents.
“I don’t know why I said that,” says Gemma.
Simon grins at her. Gemma’s cheeks blaze. He stares at her openly. She stares right back.
“Do you want to meet Sunday at the farmer’s market, Lakeshore? The crepe stall? Ten thirty?” he asks.
Gemma thinks for a moment and then nods.
He stands. “I’ll talk to Tom about the tutoring. A great pleasure to meet you, Ms. Howard.”
* * *
She’s such a cliché. On Sunday morning, she tries on outfit after outfit before finally settling on jeans (not the dark wash—she doesn’t want him to think she’s only got one pair), her embroidered peasant blouse, and Nikes (clean, but not too clean—she’s not some teenage boy with spotless kicks).
“Where are you going?” asks Bee. She’s curled up on the couch under the blanket, her phone in hand.
“Farmer’s market.”
Gemma finds it’s best not to lie. If she lies she ends up forgetting she lied and is invariably caught in the lie. Not for the first time she wishes there were some sort of lying app that you could enter your lies into, that you could peruse every morning to remind yourself of what lies you’ve told to whom.
“Which one?” Bee asks.
Don’t ask to come. “Lakeshore?”
“Lakeshore? You hate Lakeshore. It’s so crowded.”
It is crowded. Impossible to find parking. Gemma shrugs. “There’s a sprouts guy there.”
Bee snorts.
Relieved, Gemma says, “What are your plans for the day?”
“This.”
“You’re going to lie on the couch all day?”
Bee rolls her eyes.
Bee’s a normal teenager on a normal Sunday, just lounging around and slacking off. That’s cause for celebration. Hope blooms, pushes to the edges of Gemma’s skin. Bee’s stabilizing. She’s meeting Simon at the farmer’s market. It’s a good day.
“I’ll bring you back some Dolly Donuts. Sweet cream filling, right?”
“Cool, cool,” says Bee.
* * *
Gemma’s just parked and is gathering up her stuff when her phone chimes. RUTH.
Farmer’s market?
Oh God, is she here? Which one? Gemma holds her breath.
Jack London.
Gemma exhales. Waits a minute so it appears she’s thinking about it. Then types Sorry. Two sad face emojis. Bee and I gonna stay in… moving slow.
Ruth immediately replies, No worries. Have fun!
* * *
The air around the crepe stall smells of butter and caramel. Because he towers over practically everybody, Simon’s impossible to miss. He’s dressed casually. A blue T-shirt and jeans. He’s younger than me, Gemma thinks. How much younger?
“Hey,” he says.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Are you?” He gives her a questioning smile.
“Maybe a minute or two.”
He covers his heart with his hands. “Ah, you’re punctual.”
Gemma blushes. Is he teasing her? She’s self-conscious about her punctuality. She frequently arrives fifteen minutes early to her appointments.
“So am I,” he says.
He puts his hand lightly on her shoulder and a current of electricity pulses through Gemma. It’s been a long time since she’s felt so physically attracted to a man.
“Right then,” he says. “How about some caffeine?”
“Yes, please,” says Gemma, even though she’s already had two cups of coffee.
He ushers her through the crowd.
* * *
The weather is perfect. October. Clear blue skies. A little bite in the air. She and Simon sit at a table, sipping their lattes, trading biographies.
Gemma, born and raised in Derry, New Hampshire. Her mother, Helen, passed away when she was a junior. Pancreatic cancer; she died six weeks after she’d been diagnosed. Her father, Paul, was an electrician and by the time Gemma graduated from high school, he had his own company and a fleet of trucks.
He’d remarried ten years ago, to a woman named Shirley, whom Gemma despised. Shirley was rigid and controlling, and over the past decade her father had shrunk, in both confidence and stature. Shirley had turned him into a yes, darling and I’m sorry man. For that reason, Gemma rarely went home—it was too painful to see her once-vibrant father so diminished.
Scott, Gemma’s brother, still lives in Derry and is married to a lovely man named Jacob. They have thirteen-year-old twins, a boy and girl.
“And how did you make your way here?” asks Simon.
Gemma, desperate to leave New Hampshire, had applied to UC Berkeley and got in. A few years after college, she met Ashok. They got married. They had Bee. And she became a widow.
How did Ash die? That’s what everybody wants to know but is too polite to ask. Ash had fallen down the basement stairs, fractured his skull, and broke his neck. He died almost instantly, the doctors told her, meaning he didn’t suffer. Almost. A person could torture themselves with that word. Gemma hadn’t been home; she found him hours later. Bee was just three and thankfully remembers none of it. After she’d discovered him, Gemma had plunked Bee down in front of the TV. PBS. Caillou. Then she’d calmly called 911. She didn’t allow herself to break down until late that night, after the medics had gone, after Ash’s body had been taken away and Bee was asleep.
“I just wanted to live somewhere different. So, tell me about you,” Gemma says to Simon.
Simon, born and raised in the suburbs of Maryland. Two brothers, a stay-at-home mother, his father owned a car dealership. He married young, at twenty-four to his college sweetheart. His wife immediately got pregnant with Tom. (Gemma quickly calculates he must be around forty-one. Two years younger than she.) He and his wife separated when Tom was two and she remarried, settled in Seattle, and he and Tom moved to California. He’s an X-ray technician at Kaiser.
“Gemma!” She hears somebody calling her name off in the distance. “Gemma!”
Ruth. Gemma freezes.
“What’s wrong?” asks Simon, seeing the expression of panic on her face.
“Gemma!”
Ruth’s closing in. Gemma’s got too much adrenaline rocketing through her bloodstream to ask herself why Ruth�
�s unexpected appearance would drive her into such a state. Ruth’s her best friend. Yes, she told a little white lie, but she could easily explain it to Ruth. It was a first date. She didn’t know if it would work out. She didn’t want to jinx it by telling anybody.
And then Ruth is standing by the table. She looks at Gemma. She looks at Simon.
Ruth extends her hand to Simon. “Hello. I’m Ruth Thorne, Gemma’s best friend.”
Ruth has never introduced herself to anybody as Gemma’s best friend.
Simon stands and shakes her hand. “Simon Wright, Gemma’s—farmer’s market companion.”
Gemma now remembers she’d mentioned something to Ruth at the beginning of the week about going to the farmer’s market on the weekend. She’d unintentionally blown her off. Damn.
“I thought you were moving slowly this morning,” Ruth says to Gemma.
Suddenly Gemma feels angry. Who does Ruth think she is? She doesn’t own her. “And I thought you were going to Jack London.”
Ruth’s face dims, as if somebody has pulled her blinds shut.
“Ruth, I’m sorry. It’s entirely my fault,” says Simon. “I dragged Gemma out. She didn’t want to come, but I’m afraid I can be persuasive when I want something. I wouldn’t say I strong-armed her into coming, but, all right, I did.” He smiles, his dimples flash.
“Aren’t you a charmer,” Ruth says.
They make awkward small talk for a few minutes more and then Ruth departs. Gemma lets out her breath. “I’m sorry. Obviously, she was mad at me and she had every right to be. I lied to her. She asked me to come to the farmer’s market this morning and I said I—”
“Look, you didn’t commit treason. You shouldn’t have to apologize for changing your mind.”
“I’m going to have to make it up to her.” The day was perfect and now it’s ruined. Half the stalls are empty. How didn’t she notice the market was shutting down?
“Oh, no, is Dolly Donuts gone? I told Bee I’d bring her donuts.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find Bee some donuts,” Simon says evenly. “So Ruth’s your best friend?”
Did I Say You Could Go Page 11
