“Morning, Vicks. You haven’t seen my BlackBerry, have you?” Victoria’s dad stuck his head into the kitchen. Standing next to and slightly behind him was his campaign manager, Satan.
Victoria looked up, but before she could answer, her mother, entering from the other end of the room, said, “I think it’s on your desk.” She kissed Victoria briefly on the head and went to pour herself a cup of coffee.
“Hello, Steven,” her mom said.
Satan was wearing a pale blue button-down shirt and a pair of crisp khakis. Every time Victoria saw him, he had on the exact same outfit, yet it was never wrinkled or dirty. Since the campaign seemed to run twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and since Steven was never not working, Victoria took his pristine appearance as further evidence that he was involved in the dark arts.
“Hello, Jennifer.” Satan nodded to Victoria’s mom, then glanced at Victoria, who was wearing a red-and-purple-flowered skirt and a red T-shirt. People magazine was coming to do a photo shoot in a little while, and her mom had told her to wear something nice. She tensed as Satan looked at her, but all he said was, “Hello, Victoria.”
“Hello,” said Victoria, mentally adding Satan.
“Just to let you know, the People team is running a little late. They’ll be here closer to noon,” Steven informed them.
Victoria thought about how she was supposed to meet Jane and Natalya at one o’clock at Act Two, their favorite vintage clothing store. Now she was going to be late.
But there was no way she was going to complain. “Okay,” she said.
Her mother came over and placed her hand on Victoria’s shoulder. “Thanks for always being so accommodating, honey.” She gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
To Victoria, accommodating sounded a little too much like nice, but with her sister confidently rattling off statistics to a room full of professional campaign staffers, she’d take what she could get.
Her calm response even earned her a smile from the devil himself. “Thanks, Victoria. You’re a champ.” Satan handed her mother a manila folder.
Victoria’s mom sat down and looked through it for a minute, then clucked her tongue with annoyance. “Excuse me a sec, hon. I think this campaign literally has me in two places at the same time on Wednesday morning.” She stood up and headed toward the dining room. “Steven, can I ask you about something?”
Victoria wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do for the next two hours. She didn’t really feel like doing homework on a Saturday morning. Through the door of the kitchen she could hear the intensity of the discussion in the dining room. Listening to it reminded her of the early days of her dad’s campaign, how exciting it had been to hear her mom and her dad write speeches together and argue over his positions. Sometimes, when it was just her parents, or her parents and Uncle Bob, their old campaign manager, they’d even asked her opinion. She remembered one time, right after her dad had gotten on the ballot and he’d been invited to give a speech to the Lambda Legal Fund.
“Quick, Vicks,” he’d said, coming into the living room, where she was watching the cooking channel. “Give me one good reason I should support gay marriage.”
Victoria hadn’t even had to think. Without turning around, she said, “You and mom always say you can’t wait to dance at your daughters’ weddings. What if we’re gay? Where would you dance?”
Her dad had laughed, clapped his hands, and said, “That’s it! You’ve just given me the opening line of my speech.”
She missed those moments, but she couldn’t imagine just barging in and telling this new, scary staff what she thought. Victoria remembered the last time she’d tried to articulate her ideas about politics. In August, The Washington Post had interviewed and photographed the family for an article in the Sunday magazine.
REPORTER: Emily, do you think kids today are apathetic about politics?
EMILY: You know, Ellis, I hear that said all the time by people of your generation.
REPORTER: (laughing) Old fogies, you mean?
EMILY: (also laughing) Your phrase, not mine. (more serious) But have you ever gone to a Princeton Model Congress weekend? You can feel the excitement. The students are thrilled to be there, totally engaged with the political process. Honestly, no one who’s seen that could accuse my generation of being apathetic.
REPORTER: (nodding appreciatively as he frantically jots down every word Emily has uttered) What about you, Victoria. Do you think kids today are interested in politics?
VICTORIA: Oh, definitely.
(Reporter waits eagerly, pen poised, for the rest of Victoria’s response.)
VICTORIA: I really do.
SATAN: Well, Ellis, I think that’s just about all the time we have for today. Do you want a few more minutes with Andrew?
Yeah, it was probably better that she not try to involve herself in major policy discussions.
Instead, she would bake something. That would fill the time. Without consciously settling on a recipe, she found herself digging through the cabinets for flour, sugar, vanilla, baking powder—all the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. They were simple to make; she’d been following the same recipe since she was about six. Still, it was easy to get lost in the rhythm of measuring and sifting, the gentle effort of pressing the butter into the brown sugar, cracking the eggs over the crunchy, slippery mix.
Thirty minutes later, as she was placing the second batch of perfectly bronzed cookies onto a cooling rack, a voice from the dining room called out, “I can’t take it anymore. You’ve got to bring us some of those cookies.” It was Julia, the communications director, the only person on the campaign Victoria remotely liked. Maybe because she was a little older than most of the staffers, or maybe because she’d been born and raised in North Carolina and (as she put it) could turn on that little ole Southern charm, Julia never seemed impatient or frustrated with Victoria the way the rest of the staff did. Every time Victoria answered a reporter’s question or came off the stage after a rally, Julia gave her a thumbs-up and an enormous smile.
Now she called, “I’m serious. Victoria, I know it’s you baking in there. Get in here immediately, honey, or I’ll be forced to do something drastic.”
Victoria put two dozen cooled cookies on a plate and made her way across the kitchen. At the door to the dining room she took a deep breath. There’s nothing to be scared of. There’s nothing to be scared of.
She pushed open the door and found herself staring into what felt like a thousand unblinking eyes.
“Hi,” she said quietly, stupidly.
“You are the best thing to happen to campaigning since the attack ad!” Julia called from the other side of the table. The Harrisons’ dining room with its black-and-white photographs of Mount Marcy, which Victoria’s mom had taken a few summers ago, wasn’t big, but somehow there were almost twenty people squeezed around the circular table. Luckily, Julia was wearing a bright green jacket that clashed beautifully with her bright red hair. Victoria forced herself to stare only at the splash of color that was Julia.
“Would you like some cookies?”
From her perch on the radiator, Emily called out, “Women and children first!” She smiled and waved hello to Victoria, and Victoria smiled back. Emily was wearing a princeton T-shirt that Victoria had never seen before, and a pair of slim, black cotton pants. If Victoria hadn’t known who she really was, she would definitely have assumed Emily was a member of the campaign staff. It was half depressing, half amazing to have a sister who was confident enough to hold her own with all these adults.
“Here you go.” She’d hoped to emulate Emily’s confident call, but her voice was thin and quiet, and when she looked down, she saw she’d forgotten to take off the apron she’d put on to save her dress for the photo shoot.
If only Jack Hastings could see her now.
AS SOON AS they’d finished breakfast Saturday morning, Natalya’s father rubbed his hands together and took a last swig of the bitter black tea he loved. “
Let’s get this show on the road!” he announced. Natalya giggled at her father’s careful pronunciation of the expression. Unlike her mother, who spoke English with her clients all day, Natalya’s father was a driver for a wealthy Russian investment banker; several of the man’s employees were Russian, and so her dad spoke Russian all day, and his English was way less polished than her mom’s.
“Ti gotova?” he asked, looking at Natalya from under his bushy eyebrows that were just touched with gray. Ready?
“Ya gotova!” she answered, meeting his stare with brown eyes that were almost identical to his own. She glanced up at the clock. “I’m going to meet Mom at eleven for coffee, and then I’m meeting Victoria and Jane in the West Village.” She’d been talking to and texting her friends constantly since school started, but it felt like they hadn’t actually seen each other in a lifetime.
“Prikrasna. Just enough time for me to teach you a thing or two.”
Natalya rolled her eyes but followed her dad into the living room. Her brother was sitting at the computer at their father’s desk, playing a video game.
“Alex!” their dad bellowed. “How many times do I have to tell you? No video games until you finish your homework.”
Alex groaned and kept his eyes on the screen, jerking not just the controller but his entire body to the side as he moved. “Nobody does homework on Saturday. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” said their dad. “But shhh.” He put his finger to his lips. “I mean it. We need absolute silence.”
“Like I don’t?” Alex responded, eyes on the screen. “World of Warcraft is a very demanding game, okay?”
Laughing, Natalya crossed the room and pulled her father’s old wooden chess set off the shelf, then went to sit at the small table in the corner of the crowded living room. Her father finished filling the pipe he only smoked when he played chess, and sat down across from her, handling the pieces in a way that was simultaneously familiar and respectful. Once their pieces were in position, he grunted briefly and looked across the board at her. She nodded, and in response, he moved a pawn.
The game had begun.
Natalya loved chess. She loved the order of the board, the steady pace of the game, how her dad made warning clucks with his tongue when she was in danger of executing a foolish move or grunted his approval when she avoided one. She loved the demands it made on its players, how you had to think one, two, three moves ahead of where you actually were, how you had to get inside your opponent’s brain using clues he provided with every move he made. Was he bold, willing to risk an important piece for future gain? Did he hesitate when confidence was called for, losing by inaction rather than action?
She and her dad played silently for a while, the cloud of his pipe smoke seeming to grow thicker with each move. They were well matched, having played together since she was a little girl. Natalya’s father got one of her rooks, but almost immediately after, she took a bishop and a knight. Sighing, he gently stroked his beard.
“Chort! I have taught you too well.” He tapped his pipe against his front teeth and stared at the board.
As he studied his options, Natalya pointed at the top right corner. “Bishop to E-five.”
“Then won’t you simply…” He pointed to her queen and moved his finger forward half a dozen squares.
“Wow, I’ve really got you boxed in, don’t I?” Natalya hadn’t even considered the move her father predicted she would make.
He laughed. “You have, my dear.” After another minute he moved his bishop, but not where Natalya had indicated he should.
Natalya studied the changes her father’s move had made to the board. As if he’d just thought of the idea, her father announced, “It’s like life, chess. You always need to be thinking how your decision will play out in the future.”
Natalya laughed. Sometimes it seemed her dad made this statement once a day, but each time he said it as if he’d never uttered the sentence before.
“Yes, Dad, I know,” she said. She looked up at her father, who was shaking his head at the wisdom of this familiar proverb.
“So,” he continued, “we haven’t had a real chance to talk yet. How is this new school of yours?”
“Yeah,” Alex called from across the room. “When are you going to bring some of your superfly new friends home in their uniforms?”
“Alex!” her father called a warning. “Molchi.”
“It’s…” Natalya knew her father would love hearing about her question and answer session with Dr. Clover, but it was hard to figure out how to put it in the context of everything else that had happened since the first day of school. Finally she said, “Let’s just say I’m definitely a pawn.”
Her father didn’t say anything for a long minute, and Natalya wasn’t sure if he was considering the board or her comment. But then he reached over and gently squeezed her hand. “Not for long, my dear,” he assured her.
The dorky wave she’d given Morgan came back to her, and Natalya pushed it out of her mind, focusing on the game in front of her.
As far as Natalya was concerned, the neighborhood around Interlude, the upscale spa near the southeastern corner of Central Park, where her mom worked, was the most beautiful and elegant in the entire city. She was early, and she took her time looking in the windows of Bergdorf Goodman, Henri Bendel, and Tiffany, laughing at how strange and even ugly so much of the merchandise was. One mannequin was wearing a coat that looked like it was made out of discarded sofa pillows, and the weird bag she held aloft was shaped like a popcorn container. Natalya took a picture of the display and was about to send it to Victoria and Jane, when she noticed the writing in the corner of the window: JUNIPER BUSH, FIRST FLOOR.
Juniper Bush! Was this weird stuff in the window by the same company that made the ugly bag Morgan Prewitt carried?
Natalya checked the time and then pushed through the heavy door. Immediately she was in another world, one that smelled of delicate perfume and felt soft to the touch. She stroked a pile of impossibly thin silk scarves and a pair of bright pink earmuffs. It was so weird how everything that wasn’t ugly was beautiful—did the same person who decided the store would carry the tiny embroidered change purses also order the strange, octagonal, plastic sunglasses? Or maybe there were two people with opposite tastes. Natalya liked the idea of their scowling at each other across their desks, rolling their eyes at whatever the other one said was the season’s must-have.
The bags were at the back of the store, by the staircase. Natalya saw the one that had been in the window, but it was in a locked case. She breathed in the heavy, delicious smell of leather all around her, then lightly touched a few bags that weren’t locked up. One was a tiny clutch, and it was actually kind of cute. She tucked it under her arm, feeling the cool leather, soft against her skin.
There was something to holding this bag. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall across from her and walked toward the reflection, first turning her left side to the mirror, then her right. When she faced left, the mirror reflected the faded tote bag that carried what she’d packed for her sleepover at Jane’s. Staring at her reflection, she just felt…blah. Regular. But when she turned to the side that sported the Juniper Bush clutch, she felt…sleek. That was the only word for it. Her own bag, which she’d gotten for her tenth birthday, was green cotton with blue piping. She’d always loved it, but now it seemed dingy and babyish. The Juniper Bush bag made her look as if she’d stepped out of a movie or a magazine.
Was she branding herself a total wannabe if she got the same bag as Morgan and Katrina? But it wasn’t like it was the same bag. It was just the same brand. Probably lots of people at school had Juniper Bush bags. She could ask for it for her birthday, which was how she’d gotten the small Coach purse that she wore on special occasions.
Natalya slipped her hand into the tiny pocket of the clutch and felt what she’d been looking for—the slip of a price tag. The bag wasn’t big, but she bet it cost at least a hundred dollars.
As she pulled the price out of the pocket, she played a little game. If the bag cost under a hundred dollars, she’d save up and buy it with her allowance. If it cost more than a hundred dollars, she’d ask for it for her birthday.
The price tag slid easily out of the bag, connected to the zipper by a delicate ribbon. Natalya looked down at it.
Juniper Bush Clutch was written in delicate, looping script.
Beneath it was the bag’s price.
Nine hundred and fifty dollars.
As Natalya rode up in the elevator to meet her mother, her heart was pounding. Somehow she felt as if she’d done something wrong, but all she’d done was look at the price of a bag. It wasn’t like that was illegal. Her parents were always talking about the importance of freedom. In America, you are free. It was the dream of freedom that had gotten them from Moscow to New York, a city where their daughter would be free to look at a clutch purse that cost almost a thousand dollars.
A thousand dollars for a bag! A tiny bag. The bag she’d looked at was easily one-quarter the size of Morgan’s. Was it one-quarter the price? Natalya felt weird thinking about how much Morgan’s bag cost. It was like thinking about how much Morgan weighed or what her bra size was. It was worse. Natalya knew what size bra Jane and Victoria wore, but she had no idea how much money their parents made. She touched her necklace. Could Jane’s mom have spent a thousand dollars on the necklaces? No, that was impossible. Last year, Jane and her mom had had a mondo fight because her mother wouldn’t buy her an iPhone. Even I don’t have an iPhone, Jane. You don’t need one and it’s a waste of money.
Would a mother who said an iPhone was a waste of money think a thousand dollar bag wasn’t?
No way.
Right?
In the Interlude reception area, the woman sitting behind the modular desk gave Natalya a huge smile. “Natalya.” Her accent was thick; most of the people who worked at the spa were Russian.
The Darlings Are Forever Page 6
