“That was so embarrassing,” Sadie mumbled.
Meredith glanced back at her as they drove past the hardware store. Alice had recommended that Meredith buy adhesive squares there for the hooks she wanted to hang inside Sadie’s closet door for synchro medals. Meredith had just complimented the way Alice had displayed Teddy’s soccer trophies on floating shelves in his room. It’s a little much, Meredith remembered thinking, but then she’d asked Alice’s advice on how to create something similar, if a little more low-key.
“Second place isn’t really embarrassing.” Meredith remembered the squirming discomfort she’d felt in the audience when Sadie couldn’t name the Emancipation Proclamation. Even Meredith had known that one. Meredith guessed it had been brave of Sadie to put herself out there, but as the synchronized skating coach always said, “Don’t compete if you’re not ready.” Maybe she hadn’t been ready.
“Elm Creek hasn’t lost in, like, five years.” Sadie’s voice sounded far away.
“Tane didn’t seem that disappointed in you.” Meredith blinked into the rearview but glanced quickly away when she saw that Sadie had startled, her neck suddenly as straight as if she were standing center ice, waiting for her music to start.
“We’re just friends.” Sadie sounded defensive.
Meredith pictured Tane’s nail polish, the way it reflected the light as his arm stretched forward in Warrior 2 when she’d taught the yoga unit in elementary PE. She’d of course imagined Sadie dating someday, but she hadn’t thought about Sadie dating now. Or dating someone who’d just had his junk revealed to the entire seventh grade.
“Friends is good,” Meredith said mildly. “Friends is all you should be in junior high.”
Sadie leaned her head once again against the glass. “But he’ll probably be embarrassed for asking me to be on the Quiz Bowl team. It’s going to suck to have to tell people we lost the streak.”
“Do people really know about Quiz Bowl?” Meredith couldn’t imagine anyone caring that the kids had lost. It wasn’t like there’d been spectators from school.
“I wanted to be better.”
Meredith smiled as she turned into their neighborhood. She and Bill encouraged Sadie’s tendency to continually strive for perfection. Her coaches had commented on it since she was a little girl wearing the crash pants Meredith had purchased on Etsy to protect her hips from continual bruising. Maybe because of the extra padding, but mostly because of what Meredith came to think of as Sadie’s superior single-mindedness, she refused to give up on a skill until she’d nailed it.
“Maybe you should refocus your energies on synchro? Or something else? Not everything we try is the thing for us.” And it would be fine to create a little more distance from Tane.
Meredith pulled up next to the Yoshidas’ mailbox, grabbed the envelopes and catalogs out, and handed the stack into the back seat for Sadie to flip through. It was an old tradition of theirs, dating back to Sadie’s preschool days when she was just learning to distinguish their names. “M” for “Meredith,” “W” for “William,” and then very occasionally, she’d squeal as she came across an “S” for “Sadie” or her given name, “Sarah,” which Meredith imagined she might want to use when she became a professional.
“I got something from the Service Division of the United Nations?” Sadie asked, and Meredith’s adrenaline blasted through her forearms.
“What does it say?” The previous spring, Meredith had asked Ms. Tierney, Sadie’s sixth-grade teacher, to nominate Sadie for a service award after Meredith had finished her two-year stint as director of the lower school service club. Meredith heard the envelope rip. Her heart pounded as she idled in the driveway and watched the garage door go up.
“It says, ‘Congratulations.’ Mom, I won some kind of award?”
“See?” Meredith said. “This is the kind of recognition that comes from investing in the activities that really match your talent.” Meredith remembered the rapid-fire Quiz Bowl questions, the emphasis on speed over thoughtfulness. “Doesn’t it feel great to be noticed for something that really matters?” Meredith peeked at Sadie as she pulled into her parking spot. Sadie ran a finger over the embossed certificate. Meredith thought of the adhesive hooks on the back of Sadie’s closet. Maybe a certificate from the UN should be framed and visible. Surely Sadie’s commitment to the betterment of others deserved as much wall space as Teddy’s soccer trophies.
Alice Sullivan
When she got to the studio on Saturday, Alice found she couldn’t sit still. Patrick had been bleary-eyed from his late-night flight home from Cincinnati when she’d told him she needed to catch up after a week of single parenting. Even though she was swamped, she’d hesitated to leave the house. Patrick’s warmth in the bed calmed her, and his heavy arm around her middle was enough to make her weep. But still, she was barely keeping Ramona at bay. Patrick could help by taking Teddy to soccer, she reasoned. He could review Aidy’s homework folder.
Even though Alice was alone in the bright office—sun zigzagging through the glass partitions—she found she couldn’t think about tile choices or the Mamie Eisenhower pink or the new mudroom she’d contracted with a book club mom, even though she herself hadn’t attended book club since July. All she could think about was Julienne in her office, her golden hair resting over her shoulders, Teddy’s tentative smile on his way out of the appointment. He’d liked her. And now, before she’d even had time to plan her next move, her ruse was already discovered. She’d have to confess it to her mother.
Just as she was imagining her mom’s potential shock, a text message buzzed in from her. “Here’s Julienne’s number again,” she wrote. “Please call her.” And then, “Or text.” Finally, in a separate message, “XO, Mom.” Alice rolled her eyes. Her mother always signed her text messages. She wondered how she signed the ones to Julienne. Surely, there was no need to go by “Mom” when Julienne had been an adult when they’d met. And Julienne had her own mom, in addition to Alice’s.
Alice tried to imagine Julienne’s face when their mother had revealed Alice’s identity. She must have maintained perfect placidity. Of course she did.
Alice shook her head. She’d figure out how to fix the Julienne mess after she’d actually accomplished something at the office. Alice started on her easiest project. She began to sketch another new mudroom. Each one was a version of her own entryway, and half the book club had hired her already. She chose a different, whimsical wallpaper for each client, never duplicating the birds and butterflies she’d done for herself. As she penciled in hashmarks indicating the seagrass baskets she always recommended, she thought again about how Julienne hadn’t told Evelyn about the appointment. If Julienne had ratted her out, their mother would have scolded her. There wouldn’t have been the “XO, Mom” text. Instead, that message might have read, “WTF?”
But why hadn’t Julienne told her? Was she adhering to a kind of patient-client privilege? HIPAA? Regardless, now Alice would really have to reach out to Julienne. She’d have to admit she’d brought Teddy to Green Haven under false pretenses. And she’d have to tell Teddy that he’d need to see a different therapist. Even worse, she’d probably have to tell him why. She’d counted on him hating Dr. Martín, she realized. She’d assumed he’d resist further appointments. She’d underestimated both him and Julienne.
Alice abandoned her sketch and googled “changing therapists.” Twenty minutes later, she was still mired in articles about the “therapeutic relationship” and “getting a second opinion on your child’s diagnosis.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat periodically, usually when she came across the word “diagnosis.” She hadn’t considered asking for one from Dr. Martín, though perhaps Julienne had had one in mind. Not “conduct disorder,” she hoped, remembering the adolescent precursor to sociopathy. She searched “ADHD,” which was milder than conduct disorder and treatable with medication. And wouldn’t ADHD explain Teddy’s impul
sivity? She felt self-satisfied when she read “impulsivity” as the first symptom of ADHD on the website she clicked. She had moved on to a paragraph about “low frustration tolerance” when she heard the office door open. Ramona appeared.
Alice instinctively smoothed her hair and regretted not putting on makeup. Even on a Saturday, Ramona looked impeccable in a cashmere boucle tunic over thick leggings and slouchy ankle boots.
“What are you doing here?” Ramona’s eyes were wider than usual, rimmed in eyeliner, and she didn’t return Alice’s smile. Alice quickly scanned her memories of the last few days, wondering what she’d done wrong. She’d been checked out, sure, but she hadn’t missed any additional meetings. She’d logged a new project on their Slack workspace. The mudrooms were boring, but steady.
“Just getting organized,” Alice said. “Patrick’s been traveling, and I needed a little time . . .” She trailed off. Ramona had pulled her phone from her handbag and wasn’t listening. Suspicion replaced Alice’s initial sheepishness. “What are you doing here?”
Ramona scowled at her phone. “I scheduled a meeting.”
Alice glanced down at her hoodie and frowned. She wasn’t exactly client-ready. “A client meeting? On Saturday?” As far as Alice knew, Ramona had never done that.
“Not exactly.”
Alice cocked her head. She stared past Ramona into the conference room, where the tile and countertop samples they’d assembled for Bea Kerrigan lay in neat piles across the table. She noticed for the first time an enlarged set of her original drawings tacked up on the fabric wall next to the television screen. “Then what is it?” she pressed.
Ramona walked into her glass cube without answering. Alice followed her, not bothering to put on the running shoes she’d kicked off under her desk. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Ramona’s eyes hardened. Alice recognized the same look she’d given her when she’d been forced to take the Harrison meeting to the Starbucks. “It’s a journalist, okay?” Ramona said. “I’m doing a casual natural-light shoot and answering a few questions.”
“But that’s great!” Alice peered at her, trying to discern the catch. Ramona could have made the appointment for Friday, when they’d both been there. Alice felt slow; the fog that had descended on her beginning at Adrian’s parent-teacher conference and continuing through the meetings with Jason Whittaker overtook her. She’d been failing to connect even the most prominent of dots in the last ten days.
“Maybe you could go?” Ramona gestured around the office. “I hate to ask that, but it’s not as if we can really achieve privacy here.” Alice followed her gaze. Their assistant’s desk, now that she thought of it, was remarkably clear. The sample room looked freshly tidied.
A glimmer poked through Alice’s fog, the beginnings of a realization. “I’ll stay,” Alice said, testing it. “I can help with background and make sure your hair and makeup stay fresh. What’s the publication?”
Ramona sighed. Her shoulders tensed. She dropped her phone on her desk, and the thud made Alice jump. “Okay, look.” Ramona’s anger blazed. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but Elle Decor—”
“Oh, Ramona.” Alice spun on her heel. She marched back to her desk and began packing her files for the Kerrigan rumpus room and the new mudroom into her bag.
“Alice, you have a lot going on.” Alice shoved her feet into her running shoes as Ramona stood in her doorway. “It seemed like you weren’t in the right headspace to really represent the firm. Your kids are having a moment, right? I told Elle they’d still want to photograph your dining room. They’ve asked for an Easter tablescape. Are you doing the custom painting?”
“I can’t talk to you,” Alice said. She’d joined the firm with Ramona’s assurances that they’d become equal partners, that Alice could buy in eventually. And now, when she’d secured their first national media coverage—the feature that would break Alice out as a first-class practitioner—Ramona had stolen it. “And good luck with the Kerrigan project on your own.”
She wasn’t sure if she meant it—she had the rumpus room file in her tote—but she raced to leave, nonetheless. As Alice yanked open the door to the hallway, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it. “Alice, it’s Julienne,” the text read.
“Shit!” Alice shouted. Before she could throw the phone into her Goyard, her eyes skimmed Julienne’s next message. “We should probably talk, yes?”
She clenched her fists as she strode toward the exit, but not fast enough to avoid the woman who smiled hopefully at the top of the stairs. With her expensive haircut and bulky camera bag, this was definitely the photographer from Elle Decor. “Excuse me?” she said, and Alice had no choice but to stop. “Can you direct me to Ramona Design?”
Sadie Yoshida
That night, after the Quiz Bowl defeat and just four days shy of her thirteenth birthday, Sadie sat on the floor of her room with a clear sight line to the door. If her mother cracked it open, Sadie would be able to toggle out of Snapchat without her seeing the screen. Her mother still didn’t know she had the app, even though she had discovered the Finsta. Given everything—the Finsta, the video, the call Mr. Whittaker had made to her mom on Thursday—Sadie was sure she should have been in much bigger trouble. But her parents just seemed confused.
Luckily, they’d both been distracted by the UN Service Award. Her mom had written yet another email to Mr. Whittaker after dinner describing what Sadie had done to get it. There’d been all those hours at the food packing place and all the winter clothing drives at the elementary school.
Sadie thought about Tane’s hand on her shoulder that afternoon, the warm feeling that had lingered even after he’d pulled it away. She’d felt that warmth with Teddy once, too. They’d been on the way to the homecoming game, their arms brushing each other’s in the back seat as Sadie sat in the middle between Teddy and Donovan.
Sadie had been so excited to go to that football game. It was the first time she’d been allowed to go to an event like that without a parent. But as soon as her mom dropped them at the high school, Teddy had beelined toward Alexandra Hunt at the concession stand. Sadie had been stunned, but Alexandra did have the biggest bra cup size of anyone in the seventh grade. By halftime, Teddy and Alexandra had been sitting together in the stands near the eighth graders. Sadie had seen their arms touching just as hers and Teddy’s had an hour before in the back seat of her mom’s Jeep.
On the ride home she’d watched Teddy and Alexandra Snapchat. He hadn’t even noticed she was looking. Now, Sadie pushed away the residual embarrassment she felt about crying in front of her mom that night. Nothing had really happened, and yet she’d been so sad. Nobody—not Teddy and not her mom—really understood her.
When the stuff with Tane started happening last week, she had felt better. She and Tane were both Quiz Bowl nerds. Tane had been happy to see her at his lunch table. Sadie had helped him after the assembly. People mostly felt bad for him instead of making fun of him. The improvement was a lot because of her. Maybe this was her chance to take things to the next level.
“Football game?” Sadie asked Tane in a Snapchat caption. The last home game was that weekend. The pic she sent was of her raised eyebrow, her right one. She had darkened it with pencil that day, just like she did for her skating competitions.
Tane’s reply photo showed the underside of his chin. Not the most attractive angle, but it made Sadie laugh. “Sounds good,” he said.
“It’s a date?” Sadie used a filter to make her eyes look extra wide. She held her breath as she waited for his reply. She was ninety-nine percent sure he’d say yes, but the one percent made her tense.
“I guess.” Tane cheesed with a hyperextended thumbs-up. Adorable, Sadie thought. She flopped back on the floor, contemplating her next message. She flattened her shoulders against her rag rug, the gradations between the fabric twists pleasantly firm against her back.
She
had about six minutes until her nine o’clock phone cutoff. Sadie puffed her cheeks for her next Snap, aiming to make Tane laugh. She held the phone above her face, and her hair looked extra shiny in the low light against her pink rug. She sent the photo without a caption.
Tane snapped back in an instant, a silly grin on his face. He, too, seemed to be lying on the floor, a crumpled sweatshirt in the frame above his head.
“Are you lying down?” she typed back. “Me, too.” It felt risky, this message. Sadie remembered Teddy and Alexandra near the concession stand, and then later, their arms pressed together in the bleachers.
She had to read Tane’s reply three times before she was sure she understood it. He’d written, “Show me your Ts?” The picture was of his gray T-shirt. She could see his arms reaching up to take the selfie of his chest.
Sadie gasped and dropped her phone on her stomach. She could hear the low murmur of her parents still talking at the kitchen table downstairs. She watched her cell phone rise and fall on her belly with her breath. Had he really just asked? Of course, they’d talked about this kind of thing in health and wellness class, and her mother awkwardly brought up sexting when they were alone in the car together. But all of that had been hypothetical. Now, she had Tane, who was a real boy. He was a nerd, like her. Did this mean they trusted each other?
Sadie wished she had a little more time to think. If she did, she might text Mikaela for advice. But of course, she knew what Mikaela would say. Mikaela was the one who wore her cutoffs so short that her butt cheeks showed. She flaunted her bra straps. She’d been sent to Whittaker’s office for a midriff violation at least three times that fall.
And Sadie only had four minutes until her apps would go off, the phone yielding to her mom’s parental controls.
Are We There Yet? Page 17
