by Alli Frank
“Hey, I’ll have you know I was a track star when I was at Fairchild. Two of my records still stand. It’s just, without a coach barking down my back I seem to lack the motivation to run on my own. It takes some effort in the morning to look this good, I don’t want to go messing it up during the day.” I toss a lock, to show Roan he isn’t the only one with mad man skills.
“I could tell looking at you during the school tour you were a runner. You definitely have the build with all that leg. You should give it a go again. Maybe race with a master’s club. I’ve tried, but I have a tough time doing anything with consistency given my work schedule.” This is so typical of an applying parent. Mentioning “work” in general terms so I will take the bait and ask what they do. Then the humble brag of their extensive résumé goes on and on far longer than it should. I’m not falling for it today, not in the mood to feign being impressed.
“Yes, Josie, you would probably slay in the women-over-forty category,” Roan offers up. He’s enjoying this whole conversation at my expense a little too much.
“I’m not forty,” I insist to Ty, though I don’t really know why it matters if he knows my age. I guess I can’t help but care what a handsome man thinks.
“K, neither am I.” Ty shrugs and smiles. “How are the sweet potato fries? I’ve been meaning to try them, but I always end up getting the same thing. Creature of habit, I guess.”
“They’re okay if you like food that will help you live to a hundred, unless the lack of taste and satisfaction kills you first.”
“HA! No kidding, I’d much rather be saddled up at the Big Easy Beignet food truck over there. My vice is Southern cooking. I’ll do anything for a Po’Boy. I run so I can eat. New Orleans has got to have the best food in the country.”
“I was born there,” I say, smiling at our connection. I wouldn’t have thought this West Coast white boy had an ounce of humidity or hot sauce in him.
“Really? You’re from New Orleans? I don’t hear an accent,” Ty says.
“I don’t hear one in your voice, either,” I volley back, uncomfortable with the spotlight on me, and suddenly aware I’m on the verge of breaking my rule about no personal chitchat with applicants.
“I’m not from New Orleans, but I did a fellowship for a year at Tulane. Practically every older woman I met wanted to feed me, and then they wanted to adopt me when they failed to marry me off to their neighbor’s daughter or their own niece. I showed up there with two biological aunts but came back with three new ones. I still write them all. Well, actually two, the third learned to FaceTime at eighty. Now I can’t get her off the damn iPad.” Roan and I give each other a quick Who knew? glance. There’s more brain to Golden Boy than what pleasingly meets the eye.
“I have an aunt from NOLA, too,” I offer, surprising myself by sharing another personal fact.
“Does she still live there?”
“No, she lives here now. With me, actually.”
“Did you ever visit her? That place is something special.”
“I knew it once, when I was a little girl, but I don’t remember anything really and I haven’t been back since.”
“That’s a shame. Ugh, gotta go, only time for a quick lunch today. Thank you guys for sharing your picnic table and for the good company.” Ty lays his hand over mine. I feel my heart rate slow a beat and my body heat rise. This has been one of the more enjoyable lunches I’ve had in a while. “Guess I’ll be seeing you at the parent interview that’s coming up in the next month or two, right? I’m not completely sure when it is. Daniel lays out the schedule, and I do what I’m told.”
“Yeah, I prefer to be told what to do, too.” Roan stands to shake Ty’s hand, shattering my moment of bliss. Good thing our business manager never leaves campus to witness things like Roan’s half professional, half flirtatious, 100 percent unscrupulous moves. This is an HR disaster in the making.
“Bye, Josie. Good to see you, Roan.” Ty grabs his sandwich basket and looks around the grounds for a garbage can. This handsome man even picks up after himself. I give him a quick wave and then I watch Roan watch Ty walk away. He looks like a pointer dog on the brink of chasing his hunt.
“Stand down, soldier.” I pull Roan back onto the bench and hold him there. I pop another fake fry into my mouth which, admittedly, tastes pretty good and I, too, watch Golden Boy walk away, unable to avert my gaze.
SEVEN
ETTA
I’m catching a ride with Poppy. Don’t 4get 2 bring leg warmers 4 after dance, don’t want to pull hammy. Tell Lola hey. Don’t be late. Again.
3:18 P.M.
LOLA
Bruce Lee not feeling it today. Please don’t drink alone. Not a good look. Lo
3:20 P.M.
Damn. Etta’s got a ride to dance and Lola’s ditching our Tuesday date. Now I have no excuse to avoid building the applicant database, a director of admission’s Mount Everest.
I clean out my junk mail, junk drawer, and junk food cabinet. I fluff the pillows on my meet-and-greet chairs, I check the paper in the printer, and I settle into a half-full bag of chocolate pretzels. I stare at the water stain on my ceiling that I think is growing, but I’m not sure. I admire my black patent strappy flats I got for a steal off Gilt. Not terribly comfortable, but damn do they look good. I check WeeScholars—ten more applications this afternoon. I give Facebook a quiet peruse, pretending to read posted New York Times articles, but really hunting for upcoming flash sales.
I have an e-mail from Nan Gooding, Fairchild’s invisible head of school. Well, invisible if you are a student or one of her administrative staff. If you are a parent or alumnus with wads of cash and, even better, a penis, you have her undivided attention. Nan has yet to find any sense of professional responsibility to mentor the next generation of female school leaders. She would rather be the scarce silk scarf in an ocean of bow ties and blue blazers than share the waters with her own kind. Dealing with her is best done first thing in the morning, when her fresh eight ounces of coffee has kicked in. I give the first of the two e-mails a quick once-over and make a mental note to return to it tomorrow morning, if action or contact is truly necessary.
FROM: Nan Gooding
DATE: October 9, 2018
SUBJECT: Next year’s potential donor list
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
I would like the list of the 20 top potential donors that you have come across so far in this year’s applicant pool. As you are aware, this is important information for the head of school to have, so I would appreciate you prioritizing it. Please send it to Elsa, my assistant, when it’s ready.
Nan Gooding
HEAD OF SCHOOL
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
Nan never just says Elsa, but “Elsa, my assistant.” It’s become one word, or one name, Elsamyassistant, and a constant reminder to everyone in school that she’s the only one with a personal assistant. Nan is like that kid in every neighborhood who runs over to your front steps to let you know you just missed the ice cream man while devouring a Big Stick inches from your face. You hate that kid, but there is also a weird reverence for the things she has that you don’t.
Once I know all the students are off campus, I open my window for the cool air and consider playing something with an old-school bass line to get myself pumped to start building. The rain is coming down hard outside, so it feels more like a Macklemore kind of day than early Jackson Five—back before Michael started playing plastic-surgery roulette and Tito fancied himself a politician. I crank a little Gemini, still unsure if I’m okay with Macklemore flying solo without Ryan Lewis, and decide to check my e-mail one more time before truly diving into learning the new CRM system Fairchild installed over the summer. E-mail is the low-hanging fruit of professional accomplishment.
FROM: Jean Georges Martin
DATE: October 9, 2018
; SUBJECT: Your commitment to Etta’s dance career
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Dear Ms. Bordelon,
The finance office has again brought it to my attention that you have not yet paid for the fall quarter of the San Francisco Ballet School. I hate to be the one to tell you that this is the third time in four years you are late with payment. While I know Etta is a fiercely committed ballerina, over the years I have questioned your commitment to your daughter and her promising career. Please visit the finance office at your earliest convenience, meaning this afternoon, to sort this business out. It would be a shame to have to refuse Etta a prominent role in the spring production of Don Quixote because her mother did not prioritize her daughter’s talent.
I write with only the best intentions on behalf of your daughter, Etta Bordelon.
Merci beaucoup,
Jean Georges Martin
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR
SAN FRANCISCO BALLET SCHOOL
Fucker. To say that Jean Georges and I have a chilly relationship would be like saying hell was slightly hot. Ever since I refused to straighten Etta’s hair when she was eight, so it would fit in a perfectly shellacked bun like all the other young partygoers’ in The Nutcracker, Jean Georges has considered me an unfortunate hurdle he has had to leap over (or knock down) in order to grow Etta’s gift. If it hadn’t been so obvious by the time Etta turned eight that she would be the pinnacle of his teaching career, he would never have tolerated what he considers my intolerable disregard for rules and, by proxy, him. The missing bobby pins, the passion plum lipstick rather than the ballet school’s sanctioned soft orchid rose (no brown-skinned female would be caught dead in pink lipstick), the refusal to buy Etta more than one pair of ballet shoes at a time (less a refusal and more a lack of funds). If it weren’t for her unmatchable talent, Jean Georges would have bid Etta and my crazy ass adieu and moved on to a family who reveled in their child being under the tutelage of such a highly regarded—his words, not mine—ballet school director.
“He loves to hate me,” I say to no one in particular, throwing my head back over the top of my desk chair, tossing a rubber band ball up into the air. I have held off on paying ballet tuition hoping to use that money for Etta’s college application fees. Then, as soon as all Etta’s college applications were in, I would pay for fall and winter quarters in one lump sum in January. Yes, a lot late for the fall tuition, but only thirty days late for winter. As expensive as college is going to be, and as sad as I will be to see Etta go, I’m looking forward to the day I no longer have to pay ballet school tuition and receive snooty e-mails from a poorly aging primo ballerino or whatever you call an over-the-hill ex-principal dancer holding too tightly to a youth that is looooong gone.
Never, in all my years as a director of admissions, have I made any family feel as lowly as Jean Georges does to me on a biyearly basis. Maybe he’s condescending to all the parents, I’m not sure, but shouldn’t he be kissing up to me for birthing the best dancer who will probably ever come through his school? After a few more songs about justice, fighting for what’s right, and being fed up with the Man, my Macklemore-fueled sense of empowerment rationalizes postponing direction reading for the CRM (it’s a job better suited for Roan anyway), and I lock up my office to drive down to the ballet school to surprise Director Martin with a visit a half hour before pickup.
PLEASE TURN OFF ALL CELL PHONES; THIS IS AN ENVIRONMENT OF ARTISTIC PEACE AND BEAUTY.
Usually a sign like that would make me want to turn my ringtone up, but not wanting to piss off Director Martin more than I already have, I slip my hand into my purse and switch off the ringer. A dab of lipstick wouldn’t hurt the situation, either, so I feel around in the cavern I call a purse for some long-forgotten stick of something or other. I can only hope it isn’t passion plum. Don’t want to relive that nightmare with Jean Georges.
My eyesight adjusts as I walk into the dark theatre. All the students are in the stretching studios, so I know I will spare Etta the embarrassment of begging her master teacher for forgiveness. Then, while I’m in this compromised state, I’ll ask him for an extension for Etta’s fall and winter quarter payments (my take-no-prisoners angry [white man] energy died somewhere around Vallejo Street and Van Ness). While my will is steeled to grovel, my mind betrays me and I start to giggle when I see Jean Georges stride across the stage in a regal purple unitard and black riding boots. The winning touch is the cocked fedora perched on his head and the riding crop he’s whipping through the air. I don’t care how many professional ballets you’ve performed in, a unitard after retirement is never a good idea.
“Excuse me, Director Martin.” I will my facial muscles not to defy me and break into laughter. Objective achieved.
“Well, hello, Ms. Bordelon. I assume you received my e-mail, thus the inappropriate visit during rehearsal time?” I take a giant step to the left over the shade Jean Georges has laid down. “I’m also going to assume you visited the business office first like I asked you to do in the e-mail?”
Damn. I knew I should have reread the whole thing through one more time before charging into Director Martin’s kingdom.
“Well, here’s the thing . . .” I start.
“‘The thing’? The THING? There shouldn’t be a thing if you’ve done as I instructed you to do and paid your bill before paying me a visit.” Jean Georges crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me with zero amusement. This is going to be harder than I imagined, and I’m going to have to eat some serious humble pie.
“Actually, there is a thing. The thing is called college. And Etta will be going next year, and I have had to reserve her dance tuition this quarter for application fees. But the good news is, I’m planning on having her apply early so that means she will find out where she’s going in December and by January I will be able to pay off the fall and winter tuition. Please don’t punish Etta in her last year of dance because I’ve had to make some difficult financial choices for a couple of months.”
“Why would this be her last year of dance?” Jean Georges asks, looking genuinely confused. Did he not just hear me say that Etta’s heading to college next year? Though I think I made myself clear, I don’t allow myself to get annoyed before launching back into my reasoning a second time.
“Jean Georges, Etta is a senior this year. I’m focusing on her applying early admissions to a few Ivies and maybe Pomona and Claremont McKenna. I need to get Etta into college as soon as possible so I can really start to plan our tuition payment strategy. You see, thirteen years of adjusted tuition at Fairchild, crazy rent, and then ten years in the San Francisco Ballet School, without any financial aid, has made planning for college a little more difficult than I anticipated, but I’m trying as best I can.”
I couldn’t help myself; I had to throw in a dig that for ten years the ballet school had refused to help me pay for Etta’s twenty hours of dance a week even though she has been the most promising dancer to come through the school in well over two decades. Consistently, the ballet school has pointed out to me that I hold an important role in the administration at Fairchild Country Day. And continually I point out that I am a single parent in San Francisco and while everyone around me is getting filthy rich off start-ups and mergers and investments, I am working in education where, even at Fairchild, the salaries are paltry compared to the rest of the professional world and the astronomical cost of living here.
At my lowest, I had to ask Aunt Viv to dip into her retirement to help me make dance payments once Etta went from dancing ten hours a week to twenty. To my continued shame, that transition coincided with my leasing the first new car of my life, a backlog of parking tickets to be paid off to avoid collections, and an irresponsible anxiety-induced shopping bender. While I no longer live a glamorous life, my appreciation for expensive clothes never made the shift from my modeling career to a job in education. I blame Maisie Maxwell for that one.
Aunt Viv lent
me the money, no questions asked, but my promises to pay her back so she could retire by seventy have not come to fruition and have left me with three a.m. pangs of guilt. The fact that Aunt Viv arrives an hour early to every one of Etta’s performances so she may have the best seat in the house at least assures me she believes in her investment and the choice I’ve made to let Etta pursue ballet through high school. Dance and Fairchild have kept Etta on a steady, trouble-free path, and for that both Aunt Viv and I are forever grateful.
“Ms. Bordelon, I’ve spent more time with your daughter than you have the past ten years.” I open my mouth to refute this pretentious Frenchman, but he closes his eyes, shakes his head no, and puts his index finger to my lips to silence me. “I know every muscle in her body from fingertip to calloused big toe. I know she works harder than any ballerina I have ever had in this school, and I know she comes alive when she is on stage bringing art to life. I know she does well in school, so you will allow her to dance, and I also know she waits all day in school to come here at three-fifteen and do the one thing she loves most in the world. What I don’t know is if she wants to go to college—an Ivy, Pomona, Claremont, or otherwise. Is that a conversation you two have had?”
“We will be having that conversation soon.” I say with false authority. In fact, the only conversation we will be having is about which colleges from my list Etta wants to attend.
“What I so very clearly now know is that going to college is what you want her to do whether she wants that for her future or not. Perhaps then, may I suggest that it is you who goes back to college and leave Etta alone to pursue becoming the professional dancer she was born to be.”
I’m stunned speechless, a state I’m not sure has happened since Donatella Versace told me though beautifully plump, my nursing tits hung too close to my belly button for her to consider me for her runway collection.
