“That time of month?” he inquired.
“It’s mine, so it must be hers, too. It’s a cruel god that synchronized our cycles.”
“I’m glad I’m going away this weekend.”
“You are? Where?”
“I told you months ago. It’s the annual staff retreat in the Berkshires, remember?”
“I forgot. That will be nice for you,” she said falsely, registering her momentary feelings of resentment.
Later that evening Helen lightly knocked on Zoe’s door and found her hunched over the computer, still at work on her history report, “Why There Were No Female Gladiators in Ancient Rome.”
“Do you need help finishing up? I could proofread for you,” Helen offered.
“No, thanks.”
“Do you have any tests tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Are you hungry? Can I get you a snack?”
“No, thanks. I just want to finish and then go to sleep.”
Helen was exasperated but, not one to go to bed with unresolved anger, stood behind Zoe and massaged her shoulders.
“I heard some good news today about the choir.” Helen told her what she learned at the PA meeting about The Public School.
“Cool.”
“Has Sara told the group about it?”
“Uh-uh.”
“So you never got to tell me, how is April?”
“Depressing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not now, Mom. I’ve got to finish this paper,” Zoe answered impatiently.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Just one more thing. What are your weekend plans?”
“Catherine Cashin invited me over. We’ll do some test prep and then hang out. That is, if it’s okay with you.” Zoe’s method of making up with her mother usually entailed a kind of deferential rapprochement.
“Fine. Just fine. Good night, sweetie.”
“Night.”
Helen buried herself in paperwork. She got out the application-tracking spreadsheet and updated the status column.
SCHOOL PHONE # DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS STATUS
The Fancy Girls’ School 674-9876 Justine Frampton Michael to schedule audition
The Progressive School 563-9827 Soledad Gibson Sent thank you (no thank you) note
The Bucolic Campus School 475-8392 Vincent Gargano Michael bonding with V.G.
The Safety School 498-5937 Shirley Livingston Sent thank you note
The Very Brainy Girls’ School 938-8475 Eva Hopkins STILL waitlisted for application!! Called again. No progress.
The Downtown School 483-8473 Taisha Anguilla Gave up
She then checked her e-mail and found two from Pamela.
Helen:
I spoke with Vince G. at The Bucolic Campus School. He and I are VERY close. He said that they have only a few openings and will have to be ULTRA selective this year. He has no memory of you or Michael but said Zoe “seemed like a decent kid.” He said, “Pamela, for you, I will take a second look.” So, you shouldn’t get your hopes up, but I will keep on pushing.
What’s new with you and Justine Frampton?
The second e-mail from Pamela was addressed to the parents of the eighth-grade students.
To All:
A few reminders as we move forward through the admissions process.
1.Everyone must give all recommendation forms to my assistant by the end of next week. We have many forms to process and need as much time as possible to assemble a superlative package on your child.
2.Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, solicit outside letters of recommendation for your child. As we say in admissions, “The thicker the file, the thinner the applicant.” You don’t want your child to be perceived as thin, do you?
3.Declare your first choice school to me, AND ONLY ME, as soon as possible. This information will remain confidential, to be used at my discretion.
4.STOP comparing notes. I’m TIRED of parents coming to me saying “he said . . . she said . . .” No one is served through rumor-mongering. M.Y.O.B.
5.Lastly. Trust me. It will all work out.
Helen rubbed her eyes, rested her head in her hands, and stared at the screen. Between the strain of keeping pace with Zoe’s mood swings and navigating Pamela’s mental minefields, Helen had lost all sense of equilibrium. This emotional roller coaster reminded her of the way she felt at twelve years old, careening out of control on the Coney Island Cyclone, screaming at the top of her lungs for the ride to stop. That same nausea and dread visited her now, causing her heart to race. She wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like.
As Sara and her choral group entered single file through the metal detector, they were given the once-over by the The Public School security guard and asked to present I.D. before they were permitted access to the auditorium for their first rehearsal.
The imposing cinder-block building reminded Zoe of pictures she had seen of industrial buildings in formerly Communist Eastern European cities with impossible-to-pronounce names like “Walbrzych” or “Plzen.” And like Zoe’s image of these gloomy foreign places, The Public School felt mysterious and alien, with a sense of lurking danger in the locker-lined halls and dimly lit classrooms.
While The School had lace curtains, The Public School had metal security bars. While The School smelled of ammoniated cleansers and floral-scented air fresheners, The Public School smelled like a mildewed mop. While The School had Miss Lulu, the seventy-eight-year-old receptionist who had held the same job for twenty-seven years, The Public School had armed Officer Braxton. While The School had a rooftop garden and playground, The Public School had a crumbling asphalt surface and a broken basketball hoop. But The Public School did have a Steinway grand, a lively accompanist, and a full-time choral director, which was more than they had at The School.
Elizabeth Marcus and Sara Nash greeted each other warmly as the two camps of students eyed each other warily. The School’s choral members were predominantly Caucasian; The Public School’s were not. But that was hardly an issue for any of these New York children, for whom diversity was more than a buzzword—it was one of the stated goals of many of their parents when they chose to commit to an urban life.
The schism between the two groups was primarily stylistic. When preparing for their first meeting, Sara had given her group strict dress code guidelines and even went so far as to require each of her students to wear khakis and white shirts. As soon as they arrived, she realized she had erred on the side of unnecessary caution. Her kids looked (and felt) like a Republican youth group in contrast to the Red Diaper babies of The Public School, most of whom were dressed in much cooler stuff. There were boys in he-man-size jeans that hung so low that the crotch was near their knees. And girls in tank tops that revealed both bra straps and belly buttons, with hip-hugger pants so south of the navel that an unruly pubic hair was visible here and there.
Sara and Elizabeth acted quickly to remedy any sense of divide in the room by having their students introduce themselves one by one to the group, alternating between the schools.
“Hi. My name is Nicholas Moore. I play computer games, except our computer’s been broken for a while, read sci-fi, and sing. Duh, why else would I be here.”
“I’m Shanika Thomas. I’m five eleven. I play center on the basketball team, I write poetry, and I’m a kick-ass rapper. The kids all say I rock.”
“My name is Marissa Doyle-Gillis. I’m a member of the tristate junior gymnastic team, the Junior Junior League, a Model UN delegate, winner of The School’s spelling bee for four consecutive years . . . What else can I tell you about myself. I have a 3.85 grade point average, I was nominated for the New York State—”
Sara interrupted. “Thank you, Marissa. Let’s keep our introductions brief. Next?”
“I’m Jorge Ortiz. I play shortstop on the baseball team. I’m eighth-grade class vice president and I’m a straight-A math student. That’s why my nickname is ‘the Wiz.’”
“I’m
Julian Toppler. I love Broadway musicals, the Miss America Pageant, and everything Judy Garland ever did.”
The Public School kids raised their eyebrows, but to The School kids he was just Julian, someone they knew they could always count on for a laugh.
“Hi, I’m Max Kupka. I love to sing in choral groups. I come from a family of violinists, so I guess you could say music is in my blood.”
Elizabeth whispered to Sara, “His parents immigrated from Prague, where they were both principal violinists in the national symphony. He’s a really special kid.”
“Hi. I’m Zoe Drager. I also love to sing with a choral group, and that’s why I’m really happy that we have formed this alliance with The Public School.”
Sara smiled. Leave it to Zoe to say just the right thing.
By the time all students had their turn, everyone was laughing and more or less relaxed and, following the director’s instructions, fell into choral formation and began singing a few tunes. At the end of the rehearsal a few students were called up to speak with the directors and were assigned solo parts. Zoe was picked to be one of the soloists, as was Max Kupka.
Zoe thought that Max was really cute. With curly brown hair, pale-green eyes, and unblemished skin, his looks were as close to cherubic as was possible in a fourteen-year-old verging on puberty. His voice was about to crack, and his moustache was about to sprout, but until that happened, to Zoe he was Eros incarnate. In faded blue jeans, navy V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt beneath, and round horn-rimmed glasses, he was, as Sara described him later to Helen, “delicious.”
Zoe was sure he hadn’t looked twice at her until, at the end of the rehearsal, when they were standing together waiting for the director to give them their sheet music, he said, “Zoe, right?”
“Yeah?” She was both unsure how to respond and thrilled that he remembered her name.
“Hi,” he said, and put out his hand to shake hers.
“Max, right?” she asked, and shook his shyly. He smiled.
He is A-dorable, she thought, putting the emphasis on the A, as she had heard Julian do many times when talking about a boy they both thought was attractive.
Ms. Marcus handed them each their music.
“See you next week,” Max said casually.
“See you,” she answered, melting.
When Sara’s group returned to The School, she handed out the rehearsal schedule and congratulated her children on their good behavior. They discussed the selections for the program, and before dismissal she added, “By the way, there will be no dress code for future rehearsals. My mistake.”
“I see you do know how to fold,” Helen teased Michael, who was packing for his office retreat in the Berkshires. “Is there some way I could get you to do that on a daily basis?” She was tired of being the family laundress and complained about it regularly.
“Helen, my appearance this weekend is important. I’m in management. I have to look the part.”
“And I do six loads of laundry a week, drop off and pick up your shirts from Hip Fong’s, and schlep suits to and from the dry cleaner so that you look the part every day.”
“What’s bothering you? You’ve been so bitchy lately.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just feeling really drained. I’m so sick of the admissions crap. I can’t wait until it’s all settled. I hope a relaxing weekend will help.”
“I’ll be away. Zoe will undoubtedly have made her own plans. So you can do whatever you want. See some friends. Go to the movies. Get a massage. Spend the weekend in bed.”
The following morning, Helen was awakened by the tinny sound of rain pounding against their bedroom air-conditioner, the start of a weekend that was forecast to be dreary with scattered showers. Michael was out the door by seven, Zoe was still asleep, and Helen was enjoying the luxury of lingering in bed. She loved a rainy day, especially when there was nothing she had to do. If she were feeling industrious, she would devote the day to the activities of daily life that never seemed to get done during the week, like mending, closet cleaning, checkbook balancing—the list was endless. And she was also toying with being virtuous and checking out the new class at her Pilates studio called Willpower and Grace, which everyone was raving about. And there was the new Almodovar . . .
“I hope it’s the way you like it.” Zoe wandered in sleepily, her offering of coffee in hand.
Helen was touched. “Just the fact that you made it means it’ll be good. Thank you.” She stretched out her arm, inviting Zoe to tuck into bed with her.
Zoe curled up and started to twirl a lock of her mother’s hair, a habit she developed as a nursing infant and still sometimes unconsciously did. Helen was blissful.
“What are you doing today, Mom?”
“This. Can we just stay like this all day?”
“No way,” Zoe laughed. “I’m due at Catherine’s at noon. We’re planning to study for a few hours and then hang out. She invited me to sleep over. Can I?”
“I don’t know. With Daddy away I thought you and I might do something together tonight. What do you think?”
“Okay,” Zoe answered with a hint of disappointment.
“I’ll take you over to the Cashins’ and then go to a few galleries in that neighborhood. There’re a bunch of shows I need to see.” Helen suddenly decided how she was going to spend the day. What she hadn’t decided was whether she planned to do it alone.
When they arrived at the Cashins’, they were greeted by both Phillip and Catherine, just back from their Saturday morning indoor tennis lesson. They looked ready for Wimbledon in his-and-her classic white cable-knit sweaters with navy and burgundy stripes at the neck and wrists. With their long legs, their obvious athleticism, and what probably amounted to thousands of dollars in lessons, they could probably take at least a few games off their opponents at any club they chose. Helen predicted that within a few years, Catherine would be the captain of The Very Brainy Girls’ School’s varsity tennis team.
When Inga the au pair announced lunch, there seemed to be a general assumption that Helen was staying, so she followed them all up the stairs to the second-floor dining room, where a smorgasbord was laid out across an enormous Swedish Biedermeier table. Several other equally stunning and rare pieces of Gustavian furniture were scattered throughout the well-proportioned room, but it was the unusual series of landscape paintings that caught Helen’s eye.
“Vilhelm Hammershoi?” she asked.
“You know Hammershoi?” Phillip asked, surprised.
“I’m really only familiar with his still lifes. Mid eighteen-eighties?” she asked.
“Wow, you’re good. Eighteen eighty-six,” he responded.
“Despite their frigid reputation, I’ve always thought the Scandinavians were masters of the art of gracious living,” she added as she admired the other magnificent pieces in the room.
“Margot was Swedish,” he said. She wasn’t sure if he volunteered that information to support her statement, but not wanting to follow up with a question about his deceased wife, she let it drop, while he busied himself pouring drinks.
Against her better judgment, Helen accepted Phillip’s offer of an aquavit and then passively nodded when he poured her a chaser of Danish beer. Zoe, taking her cues from Catherine, was occupied balancing a filet of pickled herring on a slice of buttered pumpernickel bread and politely tasting a forkful of beets in sour cream.
“She always refuses borscht at our house,” Helen joked. But she was proud of her daughter’s ability to mingle comfortably with high society and chalked it up to one of the hidden perks of a private school education. If not to the manner bred, at least she had learned how to break bread in the proper manner.
The girls finished eating and excused themselves to go upstairs, leaving Helen and Phillip alone with the remains of their briny lunch. They sat in silence, Phillip sliding his finger around the rim of his glass, Helen creating a circle of stray peppercorns on the linen tablecloth. For the first time in the brief perio
d they had known each other, they were at a crossroads, where Helen found herself wondering whether their situation was merely a logistically mandated outgrowth of their daughters’ burgeoning friendship or whether it possessed a life of its own. Phillip broke the silence.
“I need to run over to a gallery on Madison this afternoon where I have a couple of pieces on hold. Would you mind going over there with me? I would love to get your opinion on these things.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to,” Helen answered, relieved to have an escape plan and curious to know what “things” he was considering.
When they informed their daughters of their plan, Catherine scarcely looked up from her notebook and murmured sweetly, “See you later, alligator,” as Zoe added in a querulous tone, “In a while, crocodile.” In a masterfully subtle act of role reversal, Zoe shot Helen a wickedly fake smile and a squint of an eye that befitted an overbearing Jewish mother and seemed to say, “Go. Adulterously gallivant with your Mr. Wonderful. See if I care.”
The rain had become torrential, but anxious to escape the awkward situation, they agreed to brave the storm. Phillip had an enormous umbrella, the kind used by golf caddies to shield their clients when caught in a deluge on the sixteenth hole, and proposed that they take just the one. As Helen’s was a junky folding number she had bought from a Nigerian street vendor for a few dollars, she agreed.
The short walk to Madison Avenue entailed a certain amount of puddle jumping, but chivalrous Phillip was on hand with a steadying arm each time they made a leap. At one point a huge gust of wind forced the umbrella to the ground, subjecting Helen to a momentary drenching that left her hair and face dripping wet. Recovering his balance and positioning the umbrella back overhead, Phillip spontaneously touched Helen’s cheek and wiped away a few drops.
“I find you incredibly attractive.” His gaze held hers.
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