by Alli Frank
It was a fairly quiet morning at the house, Etta giving me my space after the craziness of the night before and choosing to spend her last hours before our trip stretching so her muscles don’t stiffen on the long plane ride. Her audition is tomorrow morning and though her mother’s career may have ended last night, Etta is staying focused on the next forty-eight hours and her future. Aunt Viv putters around the apartment preoccupied by something, but I’m not sure what. She checks and double-checks her luggage, her purse, and her wallet. No word about Nan or the video or Ty from Aunt Viv, either. All three of us are quiet, immersed in our own worlds—past, present, and future.
I put my Out of Office; in an emergency, contact admissions assistant, Roan Dawson message on my e-mail and say a prayer that Roan doesn’t quit after being left to deal with Nan’s misplaced post-party wrath since I’m out of town. While I wish we were on our way to Dartmouth, I’ll take anything across the country to get me out of town at this exact moment. I write myself a note in my phone to give Roan a raise when I get back, that is, if I have a job. And maybe beg him mercilessly not to take another job and leave me alone at Fairchild. If I get canned it’s going to be unbearable, but if I get to stay, that very well may be unbearable, too.
On the plane Aunt Viv adjusts her neck pillow, puts her magazines in the back of the seat in front of her, shoves a new tissue up her sleeve, and pops in a mint. Settled in, she places her hand over mine and lifts our entwined fingers to give them a kiss, something she hasn’t done since I was little and gripped in some sort of childhood nightmare. “We have a big couple of days ahead of us, Josie. Let’s close our eyes and rest up, we’ll need our energy.” Aunt Viv moves my hand to her cheek. “This trip is going to be a great reminder of the lengths we will go to for our family, the ones we love most. Through the good and the bad, you and Etta mean everything to me.” Aunt Viv doesn’t open her eyes but lays my hand back in my lap. Her face twitches and her body jerks as she drifts off to sleep. It’s not like Aunt Viv to get all philosophical and lovey. Something seems to be weighing heavy on her mind, but I have no idea what since the party is over and Nan’s unmentionable behavior does not seem to be registering any weight with her. With Aunt Viv asleep, I reach under the seat and pull out her purse. Using the dexterity of a surgeon I riffle through her bag looking for any sort of clue to her unnatural sentimental behavior. Etta watches me and I’m sure she’s going to cry thief and startle Aunt Viv awake, but instead she puts out her hand for a piece of gum.
I come up empty-handed. I envy Aunt Viv as she sleeps soundly. I’m not sure she fully understands the damage I’ve done with the casual touch of the send button, but it seems she’s willing to leave the drama of San Francisco behind and set her sights on the adventure ahead. I, on the other hand, have already bitten every cuticle down to its nub.
“Mama, don’t be so nervous, I promise I’ll be okay tomorrow,” Etta assures me as she watches me dig into my thumb bed.
“I know you will, baby.” I smile across Aunt Viv at my grown-up little girl. But will I be okay? That’s the real question.
* * *
• • •
Yesterday’s arrival in New York went smoothly, but today is Etta’s reckoning day. As our cab pulls up to Lincoln Center we step into a world of endless possibilities. That’s how I remember feeling about New York City when I first arrived twenty-one years prior; watching Etta full of awe as she heads to the front doors of Juilliard is the greatest of déjà vus. Only, while I was unsure of what I could or could not ask of this limitless world as a young black woman, Etta is nobody’s fool. She walks with poise, her taut muscles flexing through her blush-pink tights. Her bun is near perfection, my refusal to tame her lion’s mane at Jean Georges’s request, a distant memory. Her shoulders are set with purpose. It takes all my restraint to not point out to the strangers walking by that the essence of power and grace that just glided past them is my daughter comin’ to get what she came for. There may be plenty of things I haven’t done right, but that . . . that girl right there, I did that right.
LOLA
I have three minutes alone before the enemy line infiltrates my classroom from recess and I’m a goner. How’s the audition going? I’m dying here I can’t stand it. Holla. Lo
9:42 A.M.
JOSIE
I don’t know how it’s going in there, they won’t let parents in.
9:43 A.M.
LOLA
Imagine that, dance moms not allowed.
9:43 A.M.
JOSIE
You know I’m not a dance mom Lo.
9:44 A.M.
LOLA
Yet. But if they don’t take Etta God help that director of admissions. How’s Aunt Viv?
9:44 A.M.
JOSIE
A wreck. She went to get coffee and take a walk around Lincoln Center. I don’t think she can handle the pressure. And she might be nervous for this afternoon. We’re all meeting the director of admissions before Etta’s interview. Can you believe the director of admissions at a college wants to meet the family of each applicant? Seems overkill for college, if you ask me. Do you think they’re trying to sniff out helicopter parents?
9:46 A.M.
LOLA
For 70K a year nothin’s overkill. Call me when you hear about our girl. And don’t think you’re off the hook about Ty. Must hear more . . .
9:52 A.M.
While I wait alone in the vast, contemporary atrium I scroll through my phone to check e-mail. Before I touch the envelope icon I make myself a promise only to read, not respond. My emotions are still too hot from the weekend and if I answer even one e-mail my out-of-office cover will be blown and Saturday night’s fiasco will be relentlessly staring me down.
Roughly sixty e-mails line up like little soldiers waiting for me to run inspection. I knew it was only a matter of time before the floodgates opened. The subject on Meredith’s intrigues me enough to chance opening it though I thought Saturday night had put an end to our short-term relationship.
FROM: Meredith Lawton
DATE: March 4, 2019
SUBJECT: I didn’t know . . .
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Dear Josie,
I must say, Josie, you looked drop-dead gorgeous on Saturday night. It takes a certain complexion to pull off that color orange and you were simply radiant. I’m so disappointed Christopher couldn’t be there to meet you, I know you two will get along famously. I’ve always known you are the top director of admissions of any private school in town, but in that outfit, there couldn’t be a possible doubter in the room.
Speaking of doubt, I want you to know that I have never doubted your professionalism and power to determine if Harrison is a qualified Fairchild Country Day School student. When I told Nan about the scholarship you were putting together with Beatrice Pembrook I simply wanted to support your aunt Viv and her service to the school since you and I have become such good friends through this whole emotional admissions process. I was so distraught at your house the other morning I didn’t know which way was up. That’s why I read your text from Beatrice. Obviously, I wasn’t myself. But again, Nan seemed thrilled with the news about the scholarship when I told her about it and asked that I not share with you, so it could be an even bigger surprise for you and your aunt Viv at the party. I promise I was by no means trying to skirt around you to be in cahoots with Nan to ensure Harrison’s entrance into Fairchild. I would never do that—that would be plain silly, right? We both know what a truly remarkable candidate Harrison is.
It would be fun if you, Christopher, and I grabbed dinner sometime. We would love to get to know you better in the next couple of weeks. Are you available this Thursday?
Love and peace in these difficult times,
Meredith
Revisionist history is a remarkable thing. People love to spin a story to make themsel
ves look good, as an innocent bystander or a victim of circumstances, all to ensure they end up with what they originally wanted. I believe that’s what plantation owners did until the Civil War came along. And that’s what black people have been watching white people do since the founding of this country. Talk about a tale as old as time. I’m sure Aunt Viv has an old-school Aesop’s fable about this exact scenario.
Oh, how I wish I could e-mail back to Meredith, if my job wasn’t already teetering on the edge. At least I think it is, based on the six e-mails I passed over from Elsamyassistant asking me to call the school immediately, if not sooner, at Nan’s insistence. I’d like to tell Meredith that jumping from my ship to Nan’s make-believe yacht was a novice parenting move, not to mention a completely transparent one. How Meredith missed the future is female memo that you don’t step on the necks of other women to climb your way to the top, is beyond me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Etta bursts through the auditorium doors right into my arms. The tears flow immediately and while I should be asking her what’s wrong, my first thought is one of relief—my baby still needs me. And while it may not feel like it right now, or in a couple of days, it will be okay that the audition didn’t go well. Like I’ve always known down deep where a mother’s intuition lives, it’s her brain that’s going to take Etta to the places she needs to go. Meredith Lawton, this is what real parenting looks like. I squeeze Etta even harder and remind myself that the money we spent to go on this trip will be worth it if it opens Etta up to considering other options for her future. Cornell and Dartmouth, you still have a chance.
“Oh, baby, don’t cry. I know you. I know you tried your absolute hardest. Today just wasn’t your day and that’s okay, the world is still waiting for you to do amazing things. Whatever you set your mind to I know you can do, your determination inspires me every single day.” As we hug, I stroke her back and I can feel the heat radiating off her body from giving her audition maximal effort. Her body weight falls heavy in my arms as she releases months of preparation and desire and now it’s all over. I will myself not to think about the snot she’s rubbing on the shoulder of my favorite celadon-green cashmere sweater.
“No, Mama, you don’t understand,” Etta ekes out through sobs or hiccups, I’m not sure what farm sound she’s making now. I do understand. The pained expression on her face is a carbon copy of me as I looked back and forth over four pregnancy tests in the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Eighteen years later and I still remember the horror of realizing the course of my life as I had envisioned it had changed forever. The sobs and wrecked face are the first acknowledgment of the end of an era. In this kind of moment there is no imagining there can be any sort of good or positive next step, but time will prove otherwise even if it does not completely heal. “Mama, I was incredible. The best I’ve ever been. I did it. I really did it!”
I pull back from Etta, so I can clearly see her face. “These are tears of joy?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“I think they’re mostly tears of relief.” Etta wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands, pulling herself together. “And yes, happiness, too. But mostly relief. Mama, you should have seen me up there, I was a star. My best ever. I promise if you had seen me you would know this is where I’m meant to go to school. I’m meant to dance, Mama, I know it. I know I’m meant to be a dancer.” I take a step back to get a full view of Etta. Her limbs are long and lean, held naturally in first position. The baby pink of her leotard and tights is in sharp contrast to the young woman standing in front of me. Her smile is so broad it might break her face. Her whole body oozes an aura of hopefulness. And in this moment, though I don’t want to admit it, I, too, know she’s meant to be a dancer. Etta is not meant to study the science of motion, she’s meant to be in motion and, after all these years of nurturing this girl into a strong, independent young woman, who am I to stand in the way of her trajectory?
“Where’s Aunt Viv? I can’t wait to tell her all about it.” While Etta pulls on her leg warmers, pants, and wrap sweater I group text Etta’s San Francisco fan club: Lola, Roan, Poppy, Krista, Jean Georges, and Ty.
Their responses flood in.
Krista . . .
KRISTA
☺
1:18 P.M.
Roan . . .
ROAN
LOVE THAT GRRRRL!!! And by the way Nan hasn’t left her office once today.
1:19 P.M.
Jean Georges . . .
JEAN GEORGES
I always knew Etta was destined to be a professional dancer. Even when others doubted . . .
1:19 P.M.
Lola . . .
LOLA
You tell Etta her Aunt Lola is crying in the 1st grade bathroom she’s so proud of her. BTW, it is beyond gross in here.
1:19 P.M.
And Ty . . .
TY
I think great things await Etta and her mom (if she lets them) . . .
1:20 P.M.
“Mama, I know you’re proud of me, but that smile of yours is telling me there’s more to the story,” Etta says, locking arms with me.
I show Etta my phone.
“You gonna give him a chance, right? Just don’t be givin’ up the boo too early.” Etta laughs and hip checks me. A tiny, girly shriek escapes my mouth.
“Oooooh, Etta, you still not old enough to talk to your mama like that!” But deep down I kinda like it. My baby may slowly be becoming my friend.
Aunt Viv is sitting stiff and perfectly upright squeezing the life out of Etta’s hand. Since there were two hours between Etta’s audition and our interview with the director of admissions, Etta and I wanted to explore around Lincoln Center a bit, but Aunt Viv insisted we eat lunch close by so we could be early to the interview. Then, after commandeering our plan, the woman barely touched her sandwich. I’m so consumed by the increasing reality of Etta being accepted to Juilliard that I don’t mark any of Aunt Viv’s odd actions with great concern. That is, until she doesn’t ask the waitress to wrap up her untouched sandwich. Aunt Viv detests people who allow perfectly good food to go to waste. There can be one cookie left on a tray of three hundred at an admissions open house and Aunt Viv will wrap it in a napkin, bring it home, and have it with her coffee the next day. When you grow up poor with six siblings and only enough food to feed half of them, you are well trained to stretch every last crumb on a plate.
“Aunt Viv, where’d you go during my audition?” Etta asks. I, too, want to know the answer to this question, but I don’t want to get my head bitten off given Aunt Viv’s peculiar behavior since we left San Francisco.
“I needed to check out a few things around the school. Make sure everything is okay, you know, no hiccups with our visit.”
“Check out what things?” I ask, a bit miffed, since that’s my job as Etta’s mother, though it never occurred to me that there was anything specific that needed double-checking.
“We best be going.” Aunt Viv doesn’t even register my question. She raises her hand for the check and then digs into her purse to reapply her lipstick. Aunt Viv is going into this interview with a winner’s attitude.
We are a whole fifteen minutes early for the interview and I can feel the anxiety creeping back up among the three of us. This is what I wanted to avoid by taking a walk around the West Side to get some fresh air and regain a calm perspective on this whole college admissions process. Instead, the three of us are squished together on an uncomfortably firm modern couch freaking out in our own individual ways.
I reach around Etta’s shoulders to rub Aunt Viv’s back. I can feel her heart beating fast and firm through her blouse. It doesn’t feel normal to me. I lean forward to peek at Aunt Viv and her skin looks dull. We’re sitting, which is good, but I’m wondering if I should excuse myself and go call Golden Boy—Dr. Golden—Ty, oh whatever the hell I should call him now that he’s no longer a prospect
ive Fairchild dad, but still Aunt Viv’s cardiologist and possibly my new bae, too.
“Etta, Vivian, Josephine Bordelon, Mrs. Santos will see you now.” Seems in university admissions you get your own Elsamyassistant. Duly noted.
Aunt Viv stands, presses down the front of her skirt, and briskly walks in the office ahead of us like all she wants to do is get this interview over with and get on with her day. For a woman who deeply wants Etta’s dream of going to Juilliard to come true, this is a pretty bold move since this is Etta’s interview. With the three of us safely inside the office, I’m immediately struck by the unbelievable resemblance between Mrs. Santos and Aunt Viv. Despite the difficulty white folks have, not all black people look alike. I guess there’s an exception to every stereotype, and I’m standing in front of her.
“Josie,” Aunt Viv is the first to speak up. Etta looks confused by Aunt Viv talking first. Pure rudeness, if you ask me, but Aunt Viv has been off her etiquette game since Sunday morning. So I pause to hear what she has to say since Etta’s future is now riding on her big mouth. It better be good. “I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Santos. Ophelia. Bordelon. Santos. Your mother.”
TWENTY-NINE
Our hotel room has two queen beds, but Aunt Viv lies right beside me on mine. We’ve been horizontal for almost an hour, a word yet to pass. I don’t know what to say or ask first and Aunt Viv has never been one to put words in my mouth. At our urging Etta continued with the plan to spend the afternoon and evening with a Juilliard dance program ambassador learning about the school from a student’s perspective. I figure on a Monday night that perspective can’t involve too much alcohol or late-night clubbing.
