by Alli Frank
Four weeks later I was no longer a nanny; I was on a plane to L.A. for a swimsuit catalog shoot after begging my NYU comparative lit professor to give me an extension on my paper. I told Maisie she didn’t need to come with me, I was pretty self-sufficient, but she insisted. As it turned out, during those forty-eight hours in L.A. I only saw her for about twenty minutes. She spent the rest of the time lounging by the hotel pool flipping through a back stack of Vogues. Apparently white women don’t actually swim, either. On the way home, she confessed she really needed a vacation from her kids. I remember thinking, I love kids, but I’m never gonna have them. They ruin your life. Look at my mama, look at Aunt Viv having to raise me, and now this lady.
I made more money from that L.A. shoot than I had my entire first year at NYU working twenty hours a week as a nanny. To most people it wasn’t much, but to me it was a welcome mat into a whole other lifestyle. I adjusted my NYU class schedule to take the minimum course load to keep my academic scholarship, and also be able to keep up my newfound modeling commitments. I didn’t have the heart to tell Aunt Viv I switched my major to psychology so I could model and still graduate without having to take hard classes; she was too busy bragging to all her friends in the Glide Memorial Church gospel choir that I was studying chemistry so I could apply to med school. The money was just too easy and that trumped a tough course load as well as truth telling.
By what should have been my senior year at NYU I was a full semester behind in credits, but my bank account was growing, and I was booked for my first runway show in Milan. Milan was code for I have arrived in the world of runway modeling. For months, I had been lusting after a fine-assed David Beckham/Taye Diggs combo. He was a newbie model just like me. Between the green eyes, shaved head, disdain for wearing a shirt to cover up his sculpted torso, and the chip on his left front tooth, he took sexy to a whole new level. Somewhere over the Atlantic he finally noticed me. I had spent so many years being good—studying hard, getting good grades, helping Aunt Viv, training mercilessly for track, getting a scholarship, earning spending money—that I had a moment, one solitary moment of wanting to be bad. David Diggs (or was it Taye Beckham?) and I joined the mile-high club, twice, in the first-class bathroom before the plane touched down in Milan. Cordially, he took me to a nice dinner that night, held my hand near some famous fountain, and kissed me at midnight so I felt no shame.
It turned out I was a massive hit in Milan. As hard as I tried to mimic the dour faces of all the top models as they strutted down the runway, I couldn’t do it. The next morning, I was on the front page of the Milan newspaper style section being complimented on my gleaming smile, warmth, and positivity in an ocean of women who look ticked off and hungry. Next thing I knew I was booked for a month of work in Tokyo and heralded as an up-and-coming fashion muse. My mile-high fling and I parted ways in Milan promising to meet again on a future flight, his six-pack abs burned into my memory.
I promptly returned to NYU, quit school, and wrote Aunt Viv a long letter explaining the whole thing, begging her not to worry, telling her that I would make more money in the next ten years without a degree than I ever would after paying off med school loans and thirty years of private practice. Yes, it was fuzzy math, but at twenty-one I was convinced this was a solid life choice. Luckily, this was before cell phones were commonplace, so I never had to hear the depth of disappointment in Aunt Viv’s voice.
A month later I sold off what little I had in my dorm room, packed a bag, and flew to Tokyo to live in a postage stamp–sized hotel room in the Shibuya ward. And that is exactly where I found myself at twenty-one: in a thong, pasties, and a kimono, owning the catwalk and blissfully unaware that I was carrying a baby conceived in a bathroom built for one. As far as I knew it was my life that was just beginning, not the lima bean’s inside me.
But then my pants didn’t fit. Maisie made me pee on four sticks in the Charles de Gaulle Airport to be sure. I spent the next three weeks zigzagging across Europe trying to hunt down my baby daddy. As the hormones raged, so did my anger at my stupidity and his carelessness. I finally tracked him down hunched over a hand-rolled joint outside a swanky hotel in Amsterdam. After I unexpectedly had to remind him who I was, sheer exhaustion and nausea overcame all sensibility and I announced right then and there on the hotel’s red-carpeted steps that I was pregnant. He looked at me with a blank stare. “New York to Milan flight?” I hinted to jog his memory. Blank stare. “Gettin’ busy in the bathroom?” Blank stare. Clearly, I was not the first woman he had seduced with her booty pressed up against the Purell dispenser.
With all the empathy he could muster, Mr. Mile-High said, “Hey, it could be anyone’s baby.” But after I explained to him that I had only had sex with two men in my life and the first one was eighteen months before him, his copper skin turned putrid yellow. And after much yelling back and forth in front of that five-star hotel about responsibility and owning your actions, I’m sure it won’t shock you to find out that Mr. Mile-High wanted nothing to do with something that would ground him for life. And the hotel wanted nothing further to do with the two of us. Pure pride made me walk away that afternoon, stomaching how unfair it was that my life was on a downward spiral and his was only going to continue to get better—care- and responsibility-free. I guess I could have tried to figure out a way to hold him accountable for his baby, but I was twenty-one, in Europe with no friends and no family, and zero clue how I would even go about getting him to acknowledge the baby was his, let alone to help pay for it. And I was not going to humiliate myself and beg him to take responsibility for me and for his baby. I came from a long line of women who had raised babies on their own or, in my mother’s case, had given their baby to their single older sister to raise. In my mind there was no reason I couldn’t do the same.
Maisie assured me that if I wanted to get rid of it she could make it happen, and if I wanted to keep it, well, she believed with my body and my youth I would be back on the runway making bank two months after giving birth.
Maisie was right. I was back on the runway nine months later handing off baby girl Etta to whoever would take her while I was in hair, makeup, fitting, and walking. But I was no Heidi Klum. The weight did not just melt off no matter how much Etta nursed. Some body parts (read: boobs and belly) had shifted never to return to their original state. As hard as Maisie tried, the heavy-hitting designers were passing me up. The up-and-coming designers were willing to take a chance on me, but they couldn’t pay. I promised Maisie I didn’t care, just get me out there, so she did. And as Etta grew on the road, my bank account dwindled and so did my confidence.
After a few years, at the ripe age of twenty-four, I was a geriatric model, and having a toddler hanging off my hip wasn’t helping my manufactured image as a desirable, unattainable woman. Fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds were becoming the norm for agencies now. The more infantile the body, the more bookings a model got. The thick Bordelon backside was no longer in vogue. Though I had it in me to work hard to make a lot of things happen, heroin chic was not in the cards.
Then Etta turned four. I knew in a year I would have to put her in kindergarten and we could no longer live on the road. I suppose Etta was a convenient excuse to get out of the modeling business, but the reality was I hadn’t really been in it for the past two years and my meager savings proved it. Also, I was tired. Tired of constantly moving around and tired of doing it all on my own. I was never in one place long enough to get past a third date with anyone. In truth, most of the men I had dated were not even worth the second date, I was just desperate for adult companionship.
We landed at the international terminal at the San Francisco Airport, one big bag between us. I hailed a cab with the efficiency of a global traveler, and forty minutes later we were wrapped in a blanket of damp fog on Aunt Viv’s doorstep in San Francisco’s Outer Richmond neighborhood. Etta held my hand, waiting anxiously to meet the only real mother and true companion I ever had.
By the time I finished my story, Lola was on her third margarita. “Let me get this straight: You were a professional model and THAT is what you wear to Zumba class?” Lola asked before breaking out in hysterics.
What can I say? Milan, Tokyo, Paris . . . that was a lifetime ago.
A dozen years as friends and Lola is still my toughest style critic and most fierce wing-woman, watching my back and always looking out for my front. I pull myself from the memory of our first meeting and get back to my friend on the phone. “No, Lola, my vagina did not die this summer. She’s woke and worried about climate change. Now, will you listen?” I say, sucking my teeth like a surly tween.
“Okay, okay, whatchoo got?”
“Big start to the year, Lo, I might be snagging myself a billionaire.” I know this little nugget of intel will make my best friend’s day.
“Did you swipe right on a billionaire?!?!?!? I didn’t think they say that sort of stuff in their profiles. Was he standing in front of a big yacht? Maybe he just cleans it, or maybe he does own it. Probably big bucks, small Johnson.” I should have known Lola would fly right by my juicy admissions gossip and dive directly into my personal, or lack thereof, life.
“‘Johnson’? Really? That’s so old school. And, ewwwww, you know I don’t use dating apps.”
“We need to change that. You should be using something.”
“I do—abstinence.”
“Two years of no sex since Michael is not abstinence, it’s called celibacy, girlfriend. Michael was fine, I’m not saying he wasn’t, but no man is worth livin’ a nun’s existence. I’m willing to bet my middle child you are the only single woman in America not on at least one dating app. You’re virtually nonexistent in the modern dating world. I’ll come over tonight and set up your profile. Let’s bring you into the 2000s; it’ll be fun.” Lola rarely takes no for an answer.
“First, Tommy’s your least favorite child, so that’s a pretty low wager. And second, the billionaire I’m talking about is Christopher Lawton of Lawton, Springfield, and Smith Venture Capital on Sand Hill Road, best friends with Sergey Brin. He and his wife tore down three houses to build their mega-mansion in Presidio Heights. It was on the front page of San Francisco magazine a few months ago: The house has a helipad on the roof so the Mister can fly to Palo Alto for work and avoid 101 traffic. Anyway, they were the first ones to apply to Fairchild this year. I got a lovely note from the Missus. Apparently, her son is a reincarnated lama.”
“A trust-fund lama—that should be a box to check under ‘Race’ on the common app.”
“The category should probably be a bit broader: Caucasian, Hispanic, Black, Pacific Islander, Latino, Religious Icon.”
Lola lets loose a throaty cackle before taking a turn for the serious. “Do you know for sure the Lawtons are still married? Have you googled them yet?” For Lola, all roads lead back to my relationship status.
“Yes. They’re still married. You know my sensitivity to that since . . .”
“Go-Home-Jerome.” Lola answers for me. “I almost forgot about him. It’s bad enough to cheat, but then to cheat badly, such a loser.”
Pathetically, I was the one who felt like the loser in my first so-called adult relationship. Jerome and I dated for three months about four years after Etta and I settled in San Francisco. He was the first guy to have even an inkling of real potential. Our dates were always a fabulous adventure: wine tasting in Sonoma, dinner in the tiny beach town of Bolinas, a mid-afternoon work hooky date to the movies complete with making out in the dark. And then he went on an island vacation with some “buddies” for ten days. I did a boss job hiding the fact I was counting down the hours until he returned. Aunt Viv took eight-year-old Etta to a church picnic the day Jerome returned so I invited him over for brunch and for proximity to my bed. We passed right by the orange juice and pecan waffles. Jerome was unbuttoning my blouse when I noticed a distinct tan line on his ring finger and my heart dropped. I shoved him hard with both hands shouting, “GO HOME, JEROME!!!!” I spent the next week crying and plotting a revenge I knew I was too soft to act on. For some extra salt in my humiliation wound, I also had to ignore the twenty-plus phone messages he left begging me not to tell his wife. Go-Home-Jerome, Michael, and a handful of dates sprinkled over the years make up the extent of my romantic history. After all that it was easier to sideline my romantic life and focus my energies on Etta.
“Earthquake drill—gotta run.” That’s our safe word when we want out of a conversation. Well, it’s my safe word. Lola will talk about anything; no subject is off limits.
“Liar. Hit me up later.”
“Bye, lady.”
Meredith Christopher Lawton San Francisco images
I love Google. Researching applicants is a major part of my job. Well 3 percent, but procrastination can make it more like 50 percent. It was officially 10 percent of my job when I was an admissions assistant (so technically now it’s Roan’s job), but I haven’t quite been able to kick the stalking habit. I figure it can’t hurt to know what the Lawtons look like before they walk into the conference room this week for the first school tour of the year.
Hundreds of images load of Meredith purring across my screen, a full-on couture kitten. I wonder how Karl Lagerfeld, Yves Saint Laurent, and Tom Ford feel about battling it out for prime real estate on the same five-foot-nothing body. Scrolling down I finally find a picture of Meredith with a man I assume is her husband standing slightly behind her, caught in her shadow. Meredith hovers just above him in five-inch Jimmy Choos, perfectly frayed jeans, and a wrinkled but ready-to-wear button-down shirt tied at the waist with a Gucci belt peeking out. Flawless Californian dress up dress down. Even squinting, I can’t quite make out Christopher’s features behind his wife’s presence.
Twenty more minutes of searching and I now know Christopher Lawton’s net worth, his two failed tech start-ups before hitting the mother lode six years ago, and where he earned his collection of PhDs. I develop a soft spot for him because it turns out the couture kitten is actually his first wife, not round two or three. A mythical loyal, wealthy male breed. But what he actually looks like remains a mystery.
THREE
I wear my head-to-toe black outfit for every school tour. Roan calls it my “death of childhood” uniform. Fitted cashmere crewneck sweater, cigarette pants, and towering heels. Very Vera Wang. I read in a four-year-old Harper’s Bazaar at the dermatologist’s office that a work uniform that never changes is a display of power (and creates an illusion that makes you appear ageless, wait no, I think it was timeless). Anyway, maybe for Carolina Herrera it is, but for me, I just can’t compete on the fashionista playing field of the potential Fairchild mom even though the ex-model in me still wants to try. However, in heels I have a good three inches on even the tallest of baby mamas around the conference table—and that’s just enough to let each of them know who, exactly, is in charge of their offspring’s future.
“You have lipstick on your teeth,” Roan says, pulling on his upper lip and pointing to his perfectly bleached white teeth. Roan assures me that in the haughtiest of gay circles he aspires to belong to, flawless teeth are a must. It was a bonding moment between boss and peon because in the mating rituals of my African ancestors the whites of the eyes and teeth are the first sign of good health, thus making the subject in question acceptable dating material. Somehow that nugget of historic folklore has transferred itself into modern sex ed in black families. In the Aunt Viv puberty talk when I was twelve, the first lesson she imparted to me was to check out the whites of the teeth and eyes. From there, decide whether to look down and check out the rest of the package. Roan says white teeth glow better when clubbing.
“That’s blood. I ate a small child for lunch.”
“I hope you plucked a fat, juicy one off the playground. Not some kid who’s all knees and elbows,” Roan lobs back, completely nonplussed by the inappropriate banter of a pre
stigious school administrator such as myself. I love Roan. Best. Hire. Ever.
“You know this is probably the year when the majority of mothers applying their little darlings to school will most likely be closer to my age than yours?”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, you’re thirty-nine, let’s say they’re on average probably thirty-two or thirty-three and I’m a baby at twenty-nine. So, you know what that means, right?”
“What?” I ask, directing my question more to the marketing materials I’m arranging on the conference table than to Roan.
“You’re old.”
“You’re fired,” I say, not looking up from the admission view books.
“No, I’m not.”
“How do you know?” I ask, fake annoyed that he’s questioning my authority.
“Because you can’t stand sending out the rejection e-mails to 90 percent of the applicant pool every year in March. You don’t have the stomach to break young hearts and crush young futures all over the Bay Area, so you make me do it. And then, after I push send, you pretend to have a doctor’s appointment and go to the Fairmont for a gin-soaked spa afternoon with Lola. You’ll keep me around forever just to do that one task. Behind that witchy black wardrobe you wear is a bleeding heart. Mine’s Teflon.”
“Lola and I meet at the Huntington Hotel for our annual sweat and swill, not the Fairmont,” I shoot back at Roan as he heads to his dime-sized closet office across the hall.
