Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Look at Max!” the little girl trilled, pointing. “She is wearing fancy clothes for the first time!”

  “Okay, okay, get it all out now,” Max said, pretending to be upset.

  “Aww, sweet,” her mother crooned. “It reminds me of how I used to dress you when you were little. If I could just give you pigtails…”

  “Styling,” Aunt Skye said, with a wink.

  “I’m glad you all like it, because now that Princeton is off the table, I may be scooping ice cream for the rest of my life,” Max said coolly.

  Max watched her mother and Skye exchange glances.

  Aurora clapped. “I will come visit you every day. Will I get free ice cream?”

  “You bet. Now come on, I have to get going.” Max waved goodbye to her mother and climbed into Skye’s Subaru. Brynn Snapped her back with a picture of herself laughing and a caption that read, Baaaahhahahahahahha LOSER!!!!!!

  When they pulled up to the store five minutes later, Aunt Skye said, “Good luck, sweetie. Do you want us to come by later for a cone?”

  “Maybe not my very first day?” Max said. “Definitely next time, though.”

  “Understood. Need a ride home?”

  “Nah, I’ll walk,” Max said, slamming the door behind her. “Bye, Aurora. Have fun with your friends!”

  She watched as the car pulled away and felt a wave of anxiety. What did she, a spoiled private school kid with exactly zero real-world experience, know about working? There was obviously going to be a cash register and a soft-serve machine to operate, and considering Paradise’s proximity to New York, probably a fair number of demanding customers. The woman who’d hired her, Darlene, hadn’t really told her much. Was she the manager or the owner? Max still didn’t know.

  She pushed open the door, which set off a chorus of tinkling bells.

  “Hello?” Max called out tentatively.

  A door to the back area opened, and a boy appeared. He was basketball-player tall, long and lanky, so skinny that he looked more like a giraffe than an athlete. What was that word? Loping. He loped when he walked and hung his head like he was trying to make himself shorter. His own pink polo looked shrunken on his impossibly long torso, and his shorts were laughably short.

  “Hey,” he said, raising his chin in her direction.

  “Hi. I’m Max Marcus?” Why did she always have to phrase everything like it was a question the second she met anyone male? She should try to project confidence. At the very least she could state her own damn name!

  But he didn’t seem to notice. “Cool,” he said, wiping down the counter in front of him with a damp rag. “What can I get for you, Max Marcus?”

  Finally, he looked at her. He was pretty much a mess—zits on his chin, bad haircut, dorky wire-rimmed glasses, but when he smiled at her Max immediately smiled back. Not in a flirty way whatsoever. But still. Nice.

  “I’m not here for ice cream? Today is my first day? Of work?”

  The boy frowned and walked over to a hanging wall calendar. “ ‘Mackenzie to start,’ ” he read. “You’re Mackenzie?”

  Max laughed. “Yes, sorry. I go by Max. But my real name is Mackenzie. Unfortunately.”

  “Why unfortunately?”

  “Have you ever met someone you actually think is cool named Mackenzie?”

  The boy raised his eyebrows and made a point of checking out her outfit.

  “This is not by choice!” Max said. “Obviously. And I wouldn’t say you’re exactly rocking it, either.”

  This time he burst out laughing, and Max noticed he had perfect teeth.

  “Touché,” he said, holding his hand out. “I’m Ogden.”

  “Ogden?”

  “Ogden Worthington the Third. At your service.”

  “Wow,” Max said. She never would’ve guessed that one. Ever.

  “Just kidding,” he said with another flash of the good teeth. “My real name is Oliver. Oliver Stroker. Which, as you can imagine, has me wishing for Worthington the Third.”

  “Your last name is Stroker?”

  Oliver nodded. “Would anyone make that up?”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Max said. “I promise never to complain about Mackenzie again.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it. After years of masturbation jokes, I can take just about anything.”

  Max laughed.

  “So, here, come on back,” Oliver said, lifting a partition in the counter to let Max walk through. “Darlene is at, like, her third workout of the day or something, so I’m supposed to get you started.”

  Max followed him into the back room. Oliver had to duck to go through the door.

  “Put on one of these,” he said, handing her a pink apron to tie around her waist. “And wash your hands over there.”

  The bells out front tinkled, and they looked at each other. “Your first customer,” Oliver said, pushing open the swinging door. “Hello, ma’am,” he said to the blond woman in workout clothes. “Welcome to the Ice Cream Shoppe.”

  The woman was staring intently at the gallons in the freezer and didn’t glance up. “I’ll have a kiddie cone of mint chip, please,” she said, never taking her eyes off the ice cream.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Oliver said. He turned to Max and raised his eyebrows, which, now that she was noticing, were very close to a unibrow. “You’re up.”

  “What do I do?” she whispered, frantically looking around.

  Oliver plucked a metal scooper from a pot of water and handed it to her. “Surely you can take it from here,” he said.

  Max took the scooper from him and asked the woman which type of cone she would like.

  “Um, which has the fewest calories?”

  Max looked to Oliver, who just shrugged.

  “I’m not sure, actually. Definitely not the waffle cone. But between the wafer and the sugar cone, I’d have to say it’s a toss-up.”

  The woman glared at her. “You really don’t know? You work here.”

  Max blushed. “Sorry, it’s my first day.”

  Big sigh. The woman conceded to a wafer cone, and the moment Max managed to get the smallest chunk of ice cream into her scooper, the woman almost screamed, “That’s enough!”

  “It’s not even a full scoop,” Max said reasonably. “A kiddie cone is one full scoop.”

  “That’s plenty, thank you,” the woman said. She pulled a credit card out of the waistband of her yoga pants and thrust it across the counter.

  Oliver showed Max how to ring through the sale while the woman tapped her foot impatiently. Thirty seconds later Max handed the woman the cone and watched as she took two bites and promptly threw the rest out, cone and all. She left without another word.

  “Is that normal?” Max asked.

  “Totally,” Oliver said, nodding.

  “What sort of alternate universe is this?”

  “What, the shop or the town? Or both? Welcome to Paradise! Every single woman in a ten-mile radius has a pathological fear of sugar. Like, more than home invaders. Or cancer. It really is the biggest anxiety around.”

  “I mean, I live in New York City. It’s not like I’ve never been up close and personal with disordered eating. But what the fuck?”

  “I worked a kid’s birthday party last weekend. The piñata had pencils in it.”

  Max burst out laughing. “Stop it.”

  “Just wait until the post-dinner crowd comes in. All the kids and dads ordering cones and shakes and sundaes. All the moms ordering kiddie cups so they don’t accidentally give their daughters eating disorders by starving in front of them, and then they either throw them out or throw them up. It’s really a highlight.”

  Max considered this. “I’ve never thought about it before, but my mother always orders a kiddie cup when we get ice cream.”

  “Sounds
like you’ll fit right in.”

  Max punched him on the upper arm, and Oliver pretended to wince in pain. “Come on, I’ll show you how to work the soda fountain machine. If you can’t make an ice cream float using Diet Coke and fat-free frozen yogurt, you’re going nowhere.”

  Max followed Oliver into the back room, trying to suppress a smile.

  “So, Princeton, huh? Pretty good school. You must be smart. Or very well connected,” he said, yanking open a drawer full of metal utensils.

  Her stomach did an immediate free fall. She hadn’t mentioned a word about college. He must have been lying to her before, when he pretended he didn’t know her name. Obviously, he already knew a lot more than that. “Please, don’t hold back,” she said sarcastically. “Is this where you tell me what a shit my father is?”

  Oliver stared at her. “Your father?”

  “Clearly you heard all about me on the news. So why deny it? Especially if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

  “The news? I have, like, no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “How else would you know about Princeton?”

  He pointed to her backpack, which she’d tossed on a stool in the corner. Hanging from the front zipper was a woven keychain featuring a large orange P. “I mean, unless that’s for Pitt or something. That’s cool, too. Despite my parents’ very best efforts, I’m no school snob.”

  Her relief was so intense she laughed. “Oh my god, I’m such a mess.”

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “My dad’s one of the people who paid to get their children into college,” Max said matter-of-factly. “Twenty-two arrested this go-round. Is this ringing any bells?”

  Oliver made a valiant effort to keep his expression neutral. “Yeah, I heard about that. I didn’t realize you were that chick.”

  “Lucky me! I’m not going there anymore.” Max strode over to her bag, unhooked the keychain, and tossed it in the wide-mouth garbage can.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  Max said nothing. She was so sick and tired of her mother and Aunt Skye’s platitudes about how everything would be fine, it would all work out in the end, sometimes things happened for a reason. And her father! He’d been emailing her every day, but it didn’t seem entirely possible that he could love her and wreck her life at the same time.

  “What’s going to happen with your dad?” Oliver asked.

  Max shrugged. “My parents don’t give me straight answers about anything, but I’m guessing he’ll probably have to do at least some jail time. Just judging from the whole Lori Loughlin situation. My mom’s out here with me for the summer and my dad stayed in New York. So take from that what you will.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “But I don’t really know. Supposedly he wrote a check to some college advisor, who passed it on to a trustee, who advocated for my admission. It’s not like they had me posing in swimming pools wearing goggles and onesies, pretending I was a polo player.”

  “I get that,” Oliver agreed. He appeared to consider something. “My parents would one thousand percent do the exact same thing. For all I know, they have. I’m going to be a senior this year, and it’s literally all they talk about.”

  “Ugh, it’s endless! Mine forced me to go to this super elite private school my entire life even though it couldn’t have been less me, and then they turned into absolute psychos when it came time to apply for college. I wanted to go to film school. And on top of it all, I actually thought my dad was a good guy. I’m such an asshole.”

  Oliver folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’m sure he still is a good guy. They just go crazy over this school stuff. I can’t wait to get out of the house. My parents probably can’t wait for me to leave, either. They’ll finally be able to get divorced and not feel like they’re fucking me up forever.”

  “You think they will?”

  “Definitely. They hate each other. I’m the youngest—my two sisters are gone already—and trust me, they’re counting the seconds. It’s like, dude, I know exactly what’s going on here, neither of you are fooling anyone. Just end it already, it’d be better for everyone.”

  “They fight all the time?” Max said.

  “Not at all. They do horribly vindictive things to fuck each other over. My dad loves wine. He’s a real connoisseur dick, reading about it and collecting it and whatever. He had a whole cellar designed for it; you know the type. So anyway, he’s away on business a couple weeks ago and a giant delivery arrives at our house from one of his favorite vineyards—some vintage or grape that he’s been waiting to get for, like, his whole life—and my mother left it all out on the front porch. Totally on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Because she knew he wanted it? She was annoyed she had to deal with it? I have no idea. All I know is that it sat in the sun for four days and was completely ruined. Nearly ten grand flushed down the toilet so my mother could stick it to my father.”

  “Ten thousand dollars in wine? I’m sorry to ask, but why are you working here for minimum wage?” Max asked.

  “Why are you, Ms. Manhattan Private School with the parents who throw enough cash around to interest the FBI?” He grinned.

  She rolled her eyes but was delighted. “Touché.”

  “I’ve been working here every summer of high school. My parents wanted me to get an internship at an investment bank, but the college counselor they hired when I was thirteen—for thirty thousand a year, by the way—convinced them colleges care more about ‘character’ and nothing builds character like an old-school, grunt-work job. Apparently, it makes admissions officers nostalgic for their own youth, or something like that. It all sounds like bullshit to me, but I’m not complaining. I actually like working here, crazy anorexic moms and all.”

  “Speaking of which, you said you’d teach me how to make a milkshake. I want to learn how to make it just right for all the starving mothers who will throw it out—or up.”

  Oliver bowed, his arm outstretched toward the commercial-sized blender. “Your wish is my command.”

  15

  Cartel Tequila

  “Okay, girls, can I have your attention, please?” Denise used the same peeved tone she likely spoke to her flag-football-brawling husband with every night. “Let’s make sure we remember our manners and say thank you to Mrs. Teller, who has kindly volunteered to be our Snack and Stay mom this week!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Teller,” ten girls dutifully sang.

  A harried-looking Tracy Teller frantically passed around wax paper bags of apple slices and Honest juice boxes. “I hope these are okay?” she asked Skye and Denise, indicating the juice. “I know we’re supposed to bring water, but the store was all out of the little bottles. At least these are organic!”

  “They’re perfect,” Skye said at the exact time Denise said, “We really need to stick to water,” and began collecting the boxes. “Calories and allergies!”

  Skye had once suggested to Denise that they didn’t really need a Snack and Stay mom, since the two of them already attended every meeting and the girls were generally well behaved. “Why inconvenience everyone else when we’re here anyway?” she’d asked, and Denise had looked at Skye like she’d proposed they scrub all the school’s toilets.

  “We underwent twenty-five hours of training to be Girl Scout troop leaders,” Denise had answered in a huff. “We got certified in CPR and first aid. We learned how to use EpiPens! We filled out hundreds of pages of paperwork. We attended seminars and underwent background checks. All for their daughters! Don’t you think the least they can do is bring in some Goldfish each meeting?”

  Skye had refrained from pointing out that neither of them had done any of those things for anyone else’s kids; they had done them so they could both spend more time with their own daughters
, to see how they interacted in a group, to gather intelligence on which girls were sweet and which were already bitchy, even as first graders.

  Now Skye focused on guiding the group through snack time, the Pledge of Allegiance, and the Girl Scout Promise, which each girl recited holding her hand over her heart: “On my honor, I will try: to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by the Girl Scout Law.” Finally, it was time to gather everyone into a circle and discuss how the troop would spend the money that they’d earned selling cookies that year.

  Skye pointed to Esme, a gentle giant of a child, both painfully shy and exceedingly tall for her age. “Esme, sweetheart? Can you think of something you’d like to do with the money our troop earned this year?” she asked with an encouraging smile.

  Esme stared at the floor but whispered, “Use it to buy toys for kids who don’t have any?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Esme,” Skye said. Tracy Teller nodded enthusiastically. Denise gave a constipated smile.

  “And how about you, Bella? What do you vote we do with our cookie money?” Skye asked.

  Bella pressed a glitter-painted forefinger to her lips and appeared deep in thought. “I know!” she said. “Let’s give it to old people! Like my grandpa who lives in a great big house with all other old people. We could give it to them to cheer them up!”

  The next three girls, including Aurora, also had community-service-minded ideas: use the money to build a playground; hire clowns for sick kids in the hospital; donate it to the town library. And then it was Denise’s daughter’s turn.

  “I think we should use the money to get a limo and go to Serendipity!” Lia said. “They have the best frozen hot chocolate ever!”

  “Yeah!” shouted the Burberry-clad McNally twins. Chloe, the louder one, said, “Limos are awesome! We went in one for my uncle’s wedding and it had all these lights and bowls of candy and we could drink all the Pepsi we wanted.”

  “And the grown-ups had wine,” her sister said authoritatively.

  Aurora leaned in close to Skye. “Mommy, what’s a limo?” she asked, and as Skye was debating how best to avoid answering her question, Denise stood up.