Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  Namaste,

  Meredith Lawton

  Oh, where to begin. How about the fact that Meredith Lawton thinks her child is already in Fairchild? And though I suspect he is not going to last through the month, are the Lawtons willing to pay double tuition for Randy? I need to let this one sink in before I decide whether it deserves a response.

  Time to read one last quick e-mail before meeting with Roan.

  FROM: Ty Golden

  DATE: October 3, 2018

  SUBJECT: Kindergarten Tour

  TO: Josephine Bordelon

  Dear Josie,

  Thank you for the school tour yesterday. While Daniel was ecstatic to be there from the get-go, I will admit I came in with some serious reservations. But between your warm smile, your thoughtful answers during the Q and A, and the phenomenal facilities, I have to say I, too, am impressed. Gracie would be a lucky little girl if someone as wonderful as you were to be in her life. Daniel and I look forward to seeing you again for the parent interview. Until then, keep sharing that beautiful smile with the world.

  Best,

  Ty Golden

  Wait a minute, Wonder Boy’s last name is Golden? Well of course it is, ’cause the universe just kind of works like that. You don’t get to be a six-foot-four Adonis with a name like McClumsky. So now Wonder Boy will forever and always be known as Golden Boy. And Golden Boy is either more knowledgeable about how to play the private school game than I gave him credit for or he’s working me over with his man charm. If I didn’t already know Ty is gay, I might even read between the lines and figure this dad wants more than an acceptance letter. For sure it wouldn’t be the first time a dad has hit on me, but it has been a few years. More than likely he’s harmlessly flirting with me because he thinks it’s upping the family’s game.

  Overall though, not a bad morning. A date proposal and a compliment from a foxy baby daddy, so I think I’ll let Meredith’s e-mail sit and not ruin my current good mood. I know she means well and she’s not used to having to play by the rules of the real world. She wants the best for her son, and she’s settled on Fairchild. While her sense of entitlement chafes me in all the wrong places, I can’t totally fault her; I feel the same about Etta, but with more subtlety and finesse, of course. To think that Meredith Lawton and I may have a minuscule something in common gives me pause.

  * * *

  • • •

  I grab the extra chair in Roan’s office and post up next to his desktop, where he’s busy checking the WeeScholars website to see how many applications are in so far. There are 261 applicants, including siblings, for the 36 spots available. About what I expect to have come October. And if we stay on target it will be upward of 625 by December 14.

  “Two hundred sixty-one, you know what that means?” I ask Roan, tapping my pencil on his desk. He slaps his hand over the pencil to make it stop.

  “Please, I beg of you, don’t make me start today. You can have my gift certificate for a mani/pedi on Fillmore if you let me start next week. Trust me, that’s a great deal, have you seen your nail beds?” Roan doesn’t lie, and I’m tempted, I really do need to stop picking my cuticles.

  “We agreed that when applications passed the 250 mark we would start setting up parent interviews. And by we, I mean you. Here, I brought you Altoids to get you started.” I shake the can at Roan like he’s a kitty ready to pounce on a shiny object.

  “They can’t smell my breath over the phone.”

  “No, but in two hours when I come back to check on you and your mouth is all dry and cottony from talking to 261 fascinating parents, trust me—rank. You know I always work from a state of self-preservation.”

  Roan takes a huge swig of coffee and exhales in my general direction.

  “Well, I was going to let you wait until next week, but after that act of insubordination, it’s game on, Roan.”

  “You were not. Alright, pop an Altoid yourself and let the cold calling begin.” Roan has surrendered to the chief.

  “Okay, I want to hear you do your first conversation since it’s been a year; put the call on speaker. Remember to be accommodating, enthusiastic, and kind. Don’t be pushy, but don’t let them manipulate you. Avoid unnecessary conversation, but try to connect over something you may have in common so they feel known and they feel important. Oh, and heard, people love to be heard; psychology 101. Oh, and remember DO NOT get off the phone until you have nailed down an actual date and time, no matter how annoyed you may get. In other words, pretend to be someone you’re not.”

  “Any other advice for a grown man who has successfully been making phone calls long before you came along?”

  “Yes, withhold sarcasm, as painful as it may be for you. And if you play nice, I’ll buy lunch today AND let you choose where we eat.”

  “Today’s lunch is above and beyond all my school tour wins, right?” Roan questions, raising his eyebrows at me. I notice a few new forehead lines but decide it’s in my best interest not to point those out to him now.

  “Let the Academy Award–winning performance begin.” Roan dials a 917 number for an Alice Allsworth. Must be a New York transplant.

  ROAN: Hello, is this Alice Allsworth?

  ALICE: Speaking (says Alice with the disdain of a woman being solicited for money by her kid’s sleepaway camp).

  ROAN (ALREADY ANNOYED BUT MAINTAINING COMPOSURE): This is Roan Dawson from the admissions office at Fairchild Country Day School.

  ALICE (WITH A COMPLETE CHANGE IN TONE AND LEVEL OF EXCITEMENT): Oh, well, HELLO, Roan, so lovely of you to call. You just caught me between my Pilates session and running to open my store for the day.

  Roan and I quickly skim through the application online to find that Alice owns a high-end denim and chocolate bar on Sacramento Street in Presidio Heights. Seems like either a complete oxymoron or marketing genius. Buy jeans and chocolate. Eat too much chocolate. Need new pair of three-hundred-dollar jeans. I make a mental note to google the shop.

  ROAN: Well, I’m calling to set up a day for you and your husband to come in for a parent interview on behalf of your child, Smith.

  ALICE: Absolutely, we are wide open. I’m so thrilled to hear from you, this is news we’ve been waiting for since we sent in our application. Do you have a date and time to suggest? Meeting with Fairchild is our number one priority.

  ROAN: How about next Tuesday at three-forty-five?

  ALICE: Does Smith attend the interview? Because if he does, Tuesday afternoons are out for us. On Tuesdays he has private CrossFit sessions to work on his core strength and agility for soccer season.

  ROAN: No, the interview is just for you and your husband. It takes about twenty to thirty minutes. So then, will Tuesday at three-forty-five work?

  ALICE: That should work. No, never mind, Steven has his weekly call with his leadership coach on Tuesdays at four o’clock. They have been together since his first job post–business school. He’s more faithful to her than he is to me.

  Roan writes down TMI! in huge block letters on a notepad.

  ROAN: Okay, how about anytime the week of October twenty-second?

  ALICE: Well, that would be perfect, but I will be in Tokyo all week at a denim show and it can’t be missed. The Japanese are the Chanel of denim, you know.

  I see Roan clench his jaw. I meet his TMI comment and raise him a chillax.

  ROAN: Well, since you are the first family I have called, perhaps you would like to suggest a date and time that will work for you and Steven.

  ALICE: That’s a brilliant idea. Give me just a minute to scroll through my calendar. Steven and I can come in for a coffee at 7:00 a.m. the first and third Tuesday of every month and, of course, we are always available for drinks after 8:00 p.m. at Spruce. It would be fun to get to know each other over a cocktail, don’t you think? The ambiance at Spruce is so intimate; it’s a wonderful place to c
hat. Oh, and we have a nanny on Saturdays and Sundays, too, so weekends are a possibility.

  ROAN (POINTING A FINGER GUN TO HIS TEMPLE): While I can think of nothing more I would like to do with my free mornings and evenings, the admissions office has a strict policy of meeting with parents on campus between the business hours of 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. I hope that will not be inconvenient for you and Steven.

  ALICE (A HINT OF IRRITATION IN HER TONE): Not inconvenient, just not easy. As I said before, this is a priority for us, I assumed there would be more wiggle room and scheduling options for working parents. Oh, I know. I close the store for three weeks over the winter holidays and work slows a bit for Steven just before we head to West Palm Beach to be with our families for Christmas. We are such East Coasters at heart; we miss our weekends down there terribly. There is no substitute for the Atlantic. Am I right? (not waiting for an answer) How about December twelfth at noon?

  Roan mouths to me: She hates the Pacific. I point to the computer screen for him to focus and check the school calendar. It’s the date of the annual holiday sit-down lunch—complete with white linens, candles, and rented china—that the parent council puts on for the faculty and staff every year, but I tell him to book the Allsworths. If he doesn’t start moving at a faster clip he’ll still be calling to book interviews well into the New Year. Not acceptable.

  ROAN: Well, I’m happy that in October you’re able to find a date to prioritize us in December.

  I slap Roan across the shoulder. I knew telling him to “withhold sarcasm” was going to trip him up, I just didn’t expect it on the first call of the season.

  ROAN: When you come to the main office on December twelfth, be sure to sign in at the front desk and get visitor passes. You will then be directed to Colson Hall, where the admissions offices are located.

  ALICE: That sounds lovely. And you will be sending me a reminder e-mail closer to the date, correct?

  ROAN (IGNORING THE REQUEST FOR AN EVITE REMINDER OF THE INTERVIEW): We look forward to seeing you on December twelfth, Alice. I hope you and your family have a lovely fall. Enjoy your trip to Tokyo; I hear the changing leaves are incredible this time of year.

  I practically choke on the saccharine dripping from the walls of Roan’s office.

  ALICE: Yes, they are, thank . . .

  ROAN: Click.

  “Well, I think that went well,” I say to Roan, attempting a supportive smile though I know it comes across as slightly pained.

  “Yes, beyond delightful. Only 260 more to go, lucky me.” Roan pops another Altoid and turns to answer his ringing phone.

  ROAN: Hello again, Alice. Oh, it turns out December twelfth isn’t going to work for you and Steven after all? Are we available in January? Well, let me take a look.

  I sprint out of Roan’s office, closing his door behind me. This is his least favorite part of the job and, from prior years’ experience, I know right now I am his least favorite person.

  SIX

  “When I said I would take you to lunch anywhere you want, I thought it was implied that meant somewhere I would like,” I whine to Roan, the two of us joining the line at the WHAT THE HEMP? vegan food truck in the Presidio. I’m starving from watching Roan sweat over all those parent phone calls.

  “Listen, Ms. Chick-fil-A, you can’t pickle yourself in preservatives your whole life. Rumor has it after forty it’s a slippery slope to tubby town. Consider this intervention an early birthday present. Plus, can you think of a more stunning place to have lunch on a sunny day? Just look at the view.”

  I’m looking out at the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, but I suspect Roan’s looking at the Rasta millennial sporting a frohawk and a Harvard crew T-shirt tidying up the compost station. As we slowly move up the queue I stare at the menu hoping for an option that looks edible and has not been foraged in the wilderness. “Do you think the tempura is a mix of veggies or more like onion rings?” I ask Roan, happy I’ve found something that actually sounds quite good.

  “That’s not tempura, Josie,” Roan shakes his head, exasperated with my lunching habits, “that’s tempeh. It’s a fermented soy patty. Delish in a burger.”

  “Oh. I just thought vegans couldn’t spell.”

  “Just pick something, please. We’re almost up to order.” I can tell Roan is worried I’m going to accost the urban farmer who will be taking our order with my organic sarcasm.

  “Okay, well a burger sounds good, I’ll get that.”

  “You realize it’s not a meat burger, right?”

  “You just said tempeh is good in a burger.”

  “The tempeh is the burger.”

  “Then it’s not a burger. A burger has meat.”

  “Jesus, just order the sweet potato fries and free me from this lunch hell.”

  “Don’t they have real fries?” Roan is speechless. “I’m just messin’ with you. That sounds good. Here’s some cash. Get me an order of sweet potato fries and a drink from a fruit I’ve heard of, no hibiscus or elderberry. I’ll go find us a picnic table.”

  I have bought myself five quiet minutes to scroll my IG account on this warm fall day. I have to know what Tracee Ellis Ross is up to. Her fashion sense is off the hook and I can’t help but live vicariously through her posts. Lola knows if Tracee ever wants to be my BFF I will drop her like a bad habit. It’s a mutual understanding.

  I feel a shadow fall over me. I put my phone down to see if fog is rolling in to ruin our lunch. At first glance all I see is a very small pair of running shorts atop some tanned and toned legs. Moving up is a sweaty, powder-blue thin T-shirt sticking to a well-defined six pack. I shield my eyes to look all the way up and smiling down at me is a glistening Golden Boy. Literally. He’s blocking my sun so there’s a halo of light around his body. It’s both magical and disturbing. His package is a mere few inches from my face. Close enough to tell something good is definitely wrapped up in that polyester/nylon blend.

  “It’s Josie, right? I remember your face, but I’m having a hard time placing where we’ve met.” A smile that perfect must have bankrupted Golden Boy’s family in orthodontic bills. Beyond his wide pecs, heaving while he catches his breath from his run, Golden Boy has a vibe about him that takes my thoughts places they haven’t strayed in a while. He may not completely remember me, but there’s no way any man or woman with a pulse could forget him.

  “You met us at the Fairchild Country Day School tour with your husband,” Roan says, magically appearing at Golden Boy’s side and giving him an obvious once-over. “Why don’t you sit your sweet self down and join us for lunch?”

  “Sure, uh, let me just run over and grab my order. I mean, put my order in and, uh . . . I’ll be back in a minute.” Golden Boy seems flustered by Roan’s presence.

  We both watch in silence as Golden Boy jogs away. Even at a slow pace his buns bounce on a beat. I dig into my fries, no use pining after something I can’t have.

  “I’m not convinced he’s throwing down 100 percent on my side,” Roan ventures.

  “There you go with your twenty-first-century gaydar again. Millennials think everyone is on an elastic sexual spectrum. Can’t someone just be plain ol’ gay or plain ol’ straight anymore?”

  “BORING,” Roan says, pretending to yawn.

  “What are you two talking about?” My hand automatically covers Roan’s mouth. Appropriate conversation outside the halls of Fairchild is not his strong suit.

  “Have a seat.” I shift down the bench hoping Golden Boy’s sweat doesn’t stink. Or drip. Roan shoots me a look that says, Move to the other bench so I can sit by this hunk of man. I hop to.

  “Does your husband know you’re out here on this gorgeous fall day parading around the Presidio in those microshorts?” Roan asks, propping his chin in his hands and looking straight into Golden Boy’s eyes. I should have kept my hand over his mouth.

&nb
sp; “Do you run, Josie?” Ty asks me, eager to escape Roan’s wistful gaze and tactless question. His question sends Roan into a fit of laughter. The subject of me and running is one of Roan’s favorites.

  “A few years back I trained for a 10K in Golden Gate Park for breast cancer awareness,” I share, which is 100 percent the truth.

  “Oh, yeah, how’d it go?” Ty mumbles through a mammoth bite of his falafel gyro.

  “Well, I raised twelve hundred dollars for the cause which was great, but then the day before the race I went to pick up my number at registration and they gave me a hideous bubble gum pink shirt. They said all the runners had to wear them in the race.”

  “What happened after that, Josie?” Roan giggles, giving Ty a flirty slap on his bicep. “This is my favorite part of the story.” I kick Roan under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

  “I took the shirt home and tried to make lemonade out of lemons. I cut off the sleeves, shortened it to above my hips, turned it into a V neck, and then I tried to cut it into a racer tank in the back. The shirt chose to unravel rather than submit to more surgery.”

  Ty laughs. “So did you go ahead and race in what little was left?” A hint of naughty, naughty in his tone.

  “Nah, I sent in the money I raised and went out to brunch with girlfriends the next morning instead.”

  “Which was probably best because Josie’s idea of training was walking on a treadmill in the Fairchild gym gabbing to her best friend, Lola, on the phone,” Roan shares, trying to catch Ty’s eye. If Roan even attempts to bond with Ty on the athletic front I’m going to call foul. I’ve never even seen Roan in sneakers.