by Maria Semple
It was one of the rare mornings when Dad was around. He’d gotten up early to go cycling, and he was sweaty, standing at the counter in his goony fluorescent racing pants, drinking green juice of his own making. His shirt was off, and he had a black heart-rate monitor strapped across his chest, plus some shoulder brace he invented, which is supposedly good for his back because it pulls his shoulders into alignment when he’s at the computer.
“Good morning to you, too,” he said disapprovingly.
I must have made some kind of face. But I’m sorry, it’s weird to come down and see your Dad wearing a bra, even if it is for his posture.
Mom came in from the pantry covered with spaghetti pots. “Hello, Buzzy!” She dropped the pots with a huge clang. “Sorry-sorry-sorry. I’m really tired.” Sometimes Mom doesn’t sleep.
Dad tap-tap-tap-tapped across the floor in his bicycle shoes and plugged his heart-rate monitor into his laptop to download his workout.
“Elgie,” Mom said, “when you get a chance, I’ll need you to try on some waterproof boots for the trip. I got you a bunch to choose from.”
“Oh, great!” He tap-tap-tapped into the living room.
My flute was on the counter and I played some scales. “Hey,” I asked Mom, “when you were at Choate, was the Mellon Arts Center there yet?”
“Yes,” Mom said, once more laden with pots. “It was the one and only time I was ever onstage. I played a Hot Box Girl in Guys and Dolls.”
“When Dad and I went to visit, the tour girl said Choate has a student orchestra, and every Friday people from Wallingford actually pay to see the concerts.”
“That’s going to be so great for you,” Mom said.
“If I get in.” I played some more scales, then Mom dropped the pots again.
“Do you have any idea how strong I’m being?” she erupted. “How much my heart is breaking that you’ll be going off to boarding school?”
“You went to boarding school,” I said. “If you didn’t want me to, you shouldn’t have made it sound so fun.”
Dad pushed open the swing door, wearing muck boots with tags hanging off them. “Bernadette,” he said, “it’s amazing, all this stuff you’ve gotten.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “What, are you spending every waking hour at REI?”
“Something like that,” Mom said, then turned back to me. “See, I never thought through the actual implication of you applying to boarding schools. I.e., that you’d be leaving us. But really, it’s fine with me if you run off. I’ll still see you every day.”
I glowered at her.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said. “I’m going to move to Wallingford and rent a house off campus. I already got a job working in the Choate dining hall.”
“Don’t even joke,” I said.
“Nobody will know I’m your mother. You won’t even have to say hi. I just want to look at your gorgeous face every day. But a little wave every now and then would sure warm a mum’s heart.” She did that last part sounding like a leprechaun.
“Mom!” I said.
“You have no choice in it,” she said. “You’re like the Runaway Bunny. There’s no way for you to get away from me. I’ll be lurking behind the sneeze guards with my plastic gloves, serving hamburgers on Wednesdays, fish on Fridays—”
“Dad, make her stop.”
“Bernadette,” he said. “Please.”
“Both of you think I’m joking,” she said. “Fine, think that.”
“What are we doing for dinner tonight anyway?” I asked.
Something flashed on Mom’s face. “Hold on.” She went out the back door.
I grabbed the TV remote. “Aren’t the Seahawks playing Dallas today?”
“It’s on at one,” Dad said. “How about we hit the zoo and come back for the game.”
“Cool! We can see that new baby tree kangaroo.”
“Want to ride bikes?”
“Will you be on your recumbent bike?” I asked.
“I think so.” Dad made his hands into fists and twirled them. “These hills make it tough on my wrists—”
“Let’s drive,” I said quickly.
Mom returned. She wiped both hands on her pants and took a gigantic breath. “Tonight,” she declared, “we are going to Daniel’s Broiler.”
“Daniel’s Broiler?” Dad said.
“Daniel’s Broiler?” I repeated. “You mean that totally random place on Lake Union with the tour buses that always advertises on TV?”
“That’s the one,” Mom said.
There was a silence. It was broken by a huge “Ha!” which was Dad. “In a million years,” he said, “I’d never have thought you’d pick Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving.”
“I like to keep you guessing,” she said.
I used Dad’s phone and texted Kennedy, who was with her mom on Whidbey Island. She was totally jealous we were going to Daniel’s Broiler.
There was a piano player and they gave you free refills on lemonade, and the chocolate cake was a huge slab, they call it Death by Chocolate, and it was even bigger than the colossal slice you get at P. F. Chang’s. When I got to school on Monday, everyone was all “No way, you got to go to Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving? That’s so cool.”
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Note from Tom
Audrey,
I don’t need chard. I need you to pay your bill. Otherwise, I will have to start lien proceedings.
*
Note from Audrey Griffin
Tom,
I find it rich indeed that you are threatening liens against me. My husband, Warren, who works in the DA’s office, finds it especially amusing because we could take you to small claims court and easily win. Before it gets to that, I donned my thinking cap and came up with a friendlier solution. Please write an estimate for removing my neighbor’s blackberries. If you need to get one of those machines, fine. Whatever it takes, as long as it doesn’t literally involve swine.
Once I have this estimate in hand, I will pay you for your past work in full. But I’m hosting a very important school brunch in less than two weeks and I need my yard back.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1
Note from Tom
Audrey,
For a job this size, you’ll definitely need the Hillside Thrasher. But my guy prefers not to use it until after the rains. The earliest he could start is May. For an estimate, we’d need to gain access to the neighbor’s property. Did you ever talk to them that day? Do you have their phone number?
*
Note from Audrey Griffin
Tom,
I feel like I am living in cuckooville. In ten days, Seattle’s elite are descending on my home for a momentous school function and will want to enjoy my backyard. I can’t have their clothing shredded by pricker bushes. May is not OK. One month from now is not OK. I don’t care if you need to rent the Hillside Thrasher yourself. I need those blackberries gone by December 11.
As for gaining access to the neighbor’s property for an estimate, she is very prickly, no pun intended. My suggestion is we meet at my house on Monday at 3PM sharp. I know for a fact that’s when she’ll be at school picking up her daughter. We can quickly climb through a hole in the side fence and look at her blackberry bushes.
*
Excerpt from my report on Sir Ernest Shackleton
The Drake Passage is the body of water between the southern tip of South America at Cape Horn, Chile, and the Antarctic continent. The five-hundred-mile passage is named after the sixteenth-century privateer Sir Francis Drake. There is no significant land at the latitudes of the Drake Passage. This creates the unimpeded circular flow of the Antarctic Circumpolar Current. As a result, the Drake Passage is the roughest and most feared water in the world.
*
From: Bernadette Fox
To: Manjula Kapoor
The things you learn from eighth graders when you ask rhetorical questions like, What are you doing in school these days?
For instance, did you know the difference between Antarctica and the Arctic is that Antarctica has land, but the Arctic is just ice? I knew Antarctica was a continent, but I figured there was land up north, too. Also, did you know there are no polar bears in Antarctica? I didn’t! I thought we’d be watching from our boat as poor put-upon polar bears attempted to leap from one melting iceberg to another. But you’ll have to go to the North Pole for that sad spectacle. It’s penguins that populate the South Pole. So if you had some idyllic image of polar bears frolicking with penguins, disabuse yourself now, because polar bears and penguins are literally on different ends of the earth. I suppose I should get out more.
Which brings me to the next thing I didn’t know. Did you have any idea that getting to Antarctica requires crossing the Drake Passage? Do you know that the Drake Passage is the most turbulent body of water on the entire planet? Well, I do, because I just spent the last three hours on the Internet.
Here’s the thing. Do you get seasick? People who don’t get seasick have no idea what it’s like. It’s not just nausea. It’s nausea plus losing the will to live. I warned Elgie: All that matters during those two days is that he keep me away from guns. In the throes of seasickness, blowing my brains out would be an easy call.
Ten years ago I saw a documentary on the siege of that Moscow theater. After just forty-eight hours of the terrorists confining the hostages to their seats with no sleep, the lights blazing, and being forced to pee in their pants—although if they had to shit, they could do so in the orchestra pit—well, more than a few hostages just stood up and walked to the exit knowing they’d get shot in the back. Because they were DONE.
My point is this. I’m getting really scared about the trip to Antarctica. And not just because I hate people, which, for the record, I still do. I just don’t think I can make it across the Drake Passage. If it weren’t for Bee, I’d certainly cancel the trip. But I can’t let her down. Maybe you can find me something really strong for seasickness. And I don’t mean Dramamine. I mean strong.
On another topic: I fully expect you to be charging me for the time it takes to read all my rambling emails!
*
Letter from Bruce Jessup,
dean of admissions at Choate
Dear Bee,
After a careful review of an outstanding group of Early Decision applicants, it is our great pleasure to offer you admission to Choate Rosemary.
We thoroughly enjoyed learning about your academic achievements and your varied interests during our review process. Your scores and assessments were so outstanding, in fact, that our director of studies, Hillary Loundes, has sent a letter under separate cover to your parents discussing your unique enrollment opportunities.
For now, let us warmly congratulate you on surviving this extremely competitive process. I have absolutely no doubt that you will find your classmates as stimulating, challenging, and engaging as we find you.
Sincerely,
Bruce Jessup
*
Letter from Hillary Loundes,
director of studies at Choate
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Branch,
Congratulations on Bee’s acceptance to Choate Rosemary. As you know better than anyone, Bee is an extraordinary young woman. So extraordinary, in fact, that I am recommending she skip third form (ninth grade) and enter Choate Rosemary in the fourth form (tenth grade).
This year, Choate Rosemary will accept one in ten applicants. Almost without exception, each candidate, like Bee, has excellent SSAT scores and near perfect GPAs. You may wonder how we wade through this sea of academic sameness consisting of grade and recommendation inflation to find students who will truly thrive at Choate Rosemary.
Since the late 1990s, our admissions department has been working with Yale’s PACE (Psychology of Abilities, Competencies, and Expertise) Center to develop a hard measure of the soft skills required to adjust to the academic and social challenges of boarding school. The result of this work is something unique to the admissions process at Choate Rosemary, the Choate Self-Assessment.
It was on her CSA that Bee truly separated herself from the pack. In this new vocabulary of success, there are two words we like to use when describing our ideal student. Those words are “grit” and “poise.” Your daughter tested off the charts for both.
As we all know, the worst thing that can happen to a gifted child is for her to grow bored. Therefore, we think it is in Bee’s best interest to enter the fourth form.
Boarding tuition is $47,260. To guarantee Bee’s place, please submit the enrollment contract and deposit by January 3.
I look forward to discussing this further. Above all, welcome to Choate Rosemary!
Sincerely,
Hillary Loundes
*
From: Bernadette Fox
To: Manjula Kapoor
Do you hear the weeping all the way in India? Bee was accepted to Choate! Truly, I blame Elgie and myself, for regaling Bee with our boarding school adventures. Elgie went to Exeter; I went to Choate. It was nothing but brilliant kids, Grateful Dead concerts, and innovative ways to prevent your dorm room from reeking of bong water: what wasn’t to like? A gigantic part of me does want my daughter sprung from the dreary provinciality of Seattle. And Bee is dying to go. So I have no choice but to cowboy up and not make this all about me.
Elgie is composing a letter about not wanting Bee to skip a grade. But that’s not your concern. Please pay the deposit from our joint account. Any word on the seasickness medicine? I’m kind of freaking out.
More later, but I’m late picking up Bee and I can’t find the dog.
*
“OK,” Mom said that day, as soon as I got in the car, “we have a problem. Ice Cream got into my closet, the door shut behind her, and I can’t open it. She’s stuck.”
If that sounds weird, it isn’t. Our house is old. All day and night it cracks and groans, like it’s trying to get comfortable but can’t, which I’m sure has everything to do with the huge amount of water it absorbs any time it rains. It’s happened before that a door all of a sudden won’t open because the house has settled around it. This was the first time Ice Cream was involved.
Mom and I raced home and I flew upstairs calling, “Ice Cream, Ice Cream.” In Mom and Dad’s bedroom, there’s a row of confessionals they use as closets. The doors are rounded and pointy at the top. Behind a door, Ice Cream was barking, not a scared whimpering bark, but a playful bark. Trust me, she was laughing at us.
There were tools all over the floor and also some two-by-fours, which are always on hand in case we need to secure tarps to the roof. I pulled the door handle, and there was no give whatsoever.
“I tried everything,” Mom said. “The fascia is totally rotted. See there? How the beam is sagging?” I knew Mom fixed up houses before I was born, but she was talking as if she were a whole different person. I didn’t like it. “I tried to raise the doorframe with a jack,” she said, “but I couldn’t get enough leverage.”
“Can’t we just kick it in?” I said.
“The door opens out…” Mom drifted off in thought, then had an idea. “You’re right. We’ll have to kick it open, from the inside. Let’s climb up the house and go in through the window.” Now, that sounded fun.
We ran down the stairs and got a ladder from the shed and dragged it across the squishy lawn to the side of the house. Mom put down some plywood as a base for the ladder. “OK,” she said, “you hold it. I’ll climb up.”
“She’s my dog,” I said. “You hold the ladder.”
“Absolutely not, Bala. It’s too dangerous.”
Mom took off her scarf and wrapped it around her right hand, then began her ascent. It was funny seeing her in her Belgian shoes and Capri pants climbing up the paint-splattered ladder. She punched the stained glass with her protected hand and unlatched the window, then climbed in. An eternity passed.
“Mom!” I kept calling. The rotter didn’t even stick her head out. I was so drenched and an
noyed that I didn’t care. I put my foot on the ladder. It was totally secure. I scrambled up superquick because what would have made me lose my balance was Mom catching me halfway up and yelling. I took me about eight seconds and I climbed in the window without slipping.
Ice Cream had no reaction when she saw me. She was more interested in Mom, who was karate-kicking the door, and karate-kicking the door, and karate-kicking the door. “Gaaah,” Mom cried with each kick. Finally, the door skidded open.
“Nice job,” I said.
Mom jumped. “Bee!” She was furious, and got furiouser when there was a loud crash outside. The ladder had fallen away from the house and was lying across the lawn.
“Whoops,” I said. I gave Ice Cream a huge hug and breathed in her musty scent for as long as I could without passing out. “You are the worst dog ever.”
“This came for you.” Mom handed me a letter. The return address was the Choate seal. “Congratulations.”
Mom had dinner delivered early and we drove out to celebrate with Dad. As we zoomed across the floating bridge over Lake Washington, my mind was wild with images of Choate. It was so vast and clean, and the buildings so majestic, red brick with ivy on the sides. It’s what I imagined England would look like. Dad and I had visited in the spring when the tree branches were heavy with flowers and ducklings glided across sparkling ponds. I’d never seen a place so picturesque except for jigsaw puzzles.
Mom turned to me. “You’re allowed to be happy about going away, you know.”
“It’s just weird.”
I love Microsoft. It’s where I went to day care, and when the sun was out they’d load us into big red wagons and pull us around to visit our parents. Dad made a treasure machine. I still don’t understand how it worked, but when it was time to get picked up, you got to put in a coin and out would drop a treasure, matched perfectly to you. A boy who liked cars would get a Hot Wheels. Not just any Hot Wheels, but one he didn’t already have. And if a girl was into baby dolls, she would get a bottle for her baby doll. The treasure machine is now on display in the Visitor Center because it’s an early example of facial recognition technology, which is what Dad was doing in L.A. when Microsoft bought him out.
