“And you were supposed to be the recycle generation,” Mom scolded me. She waved at a dust mote and turned to the shelves built under the eaves. “You know, every year I dread this task,” Mom said as she dragged a sagging box of books out from under the attic shelves and sat down in front of it. “I get hit by that energy lull after Christmas. But then when I finally dig in, I enjoy going through the stuff we’ve collected over the years. Old lawn ornaments and costumes. Art projects you made. Your baby pictures—”
“Oh, tell me that little fatty isn’t me,” I said. “I look like I’m smuggling golf balls in those cheeks!”
“You were such a sweetie,” Mom said. “You still are.”
“But my cheeks! You must have gotten quotes from a few plastic surgeons before you left the hospital.”
“Right. We had a pediatrician tighten you up with a little liposuction.”
“You know,” I said, heaving out a stack of oversized books with glossy covers. “All of this stuff should just go out with the garbage collection.”
Mom glared at me.
“Okay, recycle the paperbacks if you want, but it’s not like we’re ever going to sit and read through these things again.”
“Those are your high school yearbooks,” Mom pointed out. “It seems a shame to toss away so many memories.”
The Warriors, 1988-89 was written in very pompous Gothic lettering. I opened the cover and the pages made a crackling sound.
And there they were—the popular girls. Some of them were cheerleaders, others just beauties so full of confidence that teachers, boys, and parents alike bent like saplings in the wind to fulfill their desires.
I quickly turned the page, wanting to find someone or something that elicited a personal connection from my senior year. My senior photo was one of those fake-oh airbrush jobs, with bare shoulders, a velvet swath, and the long, straight, untapered hair that was so popular back then. The girl who smiled up at me looked a hell of a lot more cheerful than I remembered feeling back then.
I flipped to Wolf’s senior portrait. He exuded artistic misery, his dark eyes soft and sad, his hair long and pulled back in a ponytail even then.
In the centerfold was a collage of senior life, and I managed to find a shot of Wolf and myself hanging out at one of the weekend coffeehouses. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor, our heads tilted as if we were dubious about the talent of the performer, which we probably were. There was a photo of Rikki, Lizard, and me toasting each other with cups of green tea in the Japanese Tea Garden, where we’d gone for a school field trip.
“Oh, that reminds me. Mr. Brophy called from the high school,” Mom said, flipping through one of the other yearbooks. “He’s got you scheduled for January third at one o’clock. I told him that’s fine. And you’re to let him know if you need a video projector or any special visual aids.”
Dread swept over me as I thought about speaking at the high school. I really had nothing to say, having spent only five months in the workforce. Besides, facing an audience of teenagers was more intimidating than tossing out an idea at the magazine’s pitch meeting. “I wish you hadn’t signed me up for that, Mom. Public speaking is not my thing.”
“I’m sure you’ll inspire a few kids to follow their dreams. Maybe encourage a few to go into magazine publishing.”
“Not when I hate it.”
“What?” Mom seemed shocked. “When did that happen?”
“It was never something that I wanted, Mom. Remember? Dad’s New York colleague had a cousin at Skyscraper? I didn’t even apply for the job, and before I knew it I was supposed to be the next Tina Brown or Grace Mirabella.”
Mom closed the book and pressed it to her chest. “Oh, sweetie, I am sorry. I had no idea you felt that way.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate having a job and everything. I mean, it pays the rent, but it’s so consuming that it doesn’t give me a lot of time to search for a job I might like.”
“And what would that be? What interests you?”
“I don’t know.” In college I had majored in liberal arts. I had enjoyed studying literature and art, but didn’t think I was particularly gifted in either area. “I was thinking of something in television, and Leo promised to set up an interview at the network. But if and when that happens, I just don’t want you and Dad to be totally disappointed that I’d ditched the whole magazine thing.”
“Oh, Maddy, I hope you don’t think that I’m pushing you to be something you’re not.” She leaned back against an old cedar chest that used to belong to my grandmother and sighed. “That is the last thing I want to do, really.”
“But the way you tell your friends about my ‘publishing career’ ... It’s as if my job at Skyscraper is the only worthwhile thing about me.”
“Oh, honey, no! No way!” Mom winced as if I’d wounded her. “Your father and I are proud because you are you—a bright, insightful girl with a touch of daring. You don’t need to prove anything to us.”
I shook my head. “It definitely feels that way with Dad.”
“Yes, I know the vibe he gives off, and I don’t think he can help it. Your father has certain notions about people, where they should be and what they should do, and his views are highly inflexible. I tried to soften his will for years until I realized it was no use. That battle’s done for me. I’ve learned to work around him, subversive though it may be.”
“And you found Clay,” I said.
Mom nodded. “Clay has a lot to do with my liberation, but it isn’t all about him. Clay has his own demons to wrestle with. Did he tell you that he used to be a priest?”
I blinked. “He left the church for you?”
“No, not for me, though I think the fact that I’m married only compounds his guilt issues.”
“That explains Clay’s laid-back style,” I said. “But you must have a lot of issues of your own, Mom.”
“For me, it was about learning to stand on my own two feet. Stepping out of your father’s shadow.”
“The doctor’s wife.”
“That was me, for way too long. Dr. Greenwood was the center of my universe; all things revolved around him. And one day, when someone asked me what I wanted in life, I realized I couldn’t answer. I was so out of touch with myself, I didn’t have a dream of my own.”
I thought of the years when Mom had put so much time into Dad’s career, taking care of the house and me, and then pouring any extra time into hospital fund-raisers and social engagements with other doctors.
“I wasn’t really living,” Mom said sadly. “I existed on the periphery of life, orbiting my husband’s planet.”
“You were so cheerful about it,” I said. “I guess I thought you were happy.”
“I was so out of touch.” She bit her lower lip. “But I’ve found myself again. I’m happy now, Maddy. Truly happy with my life. I don’t want to hurt your father, but somehow I don’t think it would matter much to him as long as I don’t upset the order of his life.”
“It’s great that you figured things out,” I said.
Mom leaned forward and brushed a patch of dust from the knee of my jeans. “Take my advice, sweetie. Don’t ever give up your life for a man. Fall in love, find a partner, but don’t sell out for him.”
I nodded, understanding her on an intellectual level, but not sure I’d be able to resist selling the ranch if the right stud came along.
“Anyway,” Mom went on, “I’m sorry about setting you up to speak at the high school. Do you want me to call Mr. Brophy and try to cancel?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said, flipping the page of the yearbook. “It won’t kill me to pass on the little bit I know about magazine publishing.” I laughed. “That’ll take all of forty seconds. Maybe we can do a question-and-answer thing to fill the time.”
“You always were a good sport.”
My eyes locked on a photo of my high school English teacher, a dark-haired hunk with a full beard and penetrating brown eyes. “Mr. Minnetta,” I
said aloud. “All the girls had crushes on him.” He was the bachelor teacher of the school, a former drama student at Yale who dabbled in Shakespearean theater in his spare time. And it didn’t hurt that he drove an awesome Nissan 300ZX. The wiener car, Wolf had called it.
Mom looked at the open book in my lap. “Oh, yes, I remember him. Didn’t he appear in a few productions in the theater district?”
I nodded. “I think he was a frustrated actor.”
“He’s still at the school,” Mom said. “I saw him in the fall when I was working on the literacy program.”
Probably married with eight kids, I thought, suddenly feeling old for my twenty-one years.
The prospect of speaking at my old high school heightened my sense of holiday depression. The only thing that might lift my spirits was a shopping trip to one of the fine department stores where my parents owned plastic. Maybe I’d feel better about appearing if I had a new Dolce & Gabbana suit and a nice pair of Steve Madden boots. That saying was true: You can’t go home again.
At least, not without designer footwear.
11
The desire to lose my breakfast was surprisingly strong as I stepped through the double doors and into the hallowed halls of Snob Hill High a few days later. The current clientele was tougher and fiercer than I remembered, with guys in baggy jeans that drooped to show the waistband of their underwear, and girls sporting footwear that put my new Nine West red boots to shame. First, there was the smoking area outside the building: a cloud of escape for the new generation of freaks. Then I had to jump aside to dodge a guy chasing a girl down the hall. He caught up with her in front of the trophy case, lifted her in his arms and teased her about something until a harried man in black glasses demanded that he put the girl down.
Whoa, Mr. Brophy never would have tolerated that behavior when I was in school.
Feeling totally out of place, I tried to focus on the satisfying click of my new boots as I made my way to the office, where I told one of the office ladies I was here to see Mr. Brophy.
It turned out Mr. Brophy was not in that day—reason to panic—but Mrs. Sonnenberg, the school librarian, had been left in charge of all the arrangements. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her bland face, but she made me feel right at home with her hoarse voice and beehive hair.
“Welcome,” she rasped. “I understand you’re here to tell the seniors all about magazine publishing.”
“I am? I am. Oh, well, yes, sort of. I mean, I’ve only worked at Skyscraper a few months, but I have a few interesting insights. At least, I hope.”
“Stop apologizing and tell me, have you ever met Candice Bergen? You know . . . Murphy Brown?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Actually, no.”
“I sat two rows behind her when La Cage played here,” she said proudly. “She had skin like butter. People always tell me we sound alike. The same vocal quality.”
I squinted at her, wondering if Mrs. Sonnenberg considered the Candy sighting to be her ten minutes of fame. “I do see the resemblance,” I lied.
She gave a nod of satisfaction. “Are you ready, then? We’ll get you set up in the auditorium. The seniors will report there at the beginning of seventh period.” She headed down the hall, and I fell into stride behind her.
“How long am I supposed to speak?”
“Forty-five minutes. That’s how long seventh period is.”
Forty-five minutes! I couldn’t even talk to Leo that long without occasionally dropping out of focus.
The old auditorium still smelled the same—a mixture of floor wax and old cheese, though I was never sure where the cheese odor came into play. As I helped Mrs. Sonnenberg test the lonely microphone at the lonely podium on the stage, the rows of empty seats stretched before me like a vast ocean.
My breakfast coffee churned as I imagined horrible scenarios of me quivering through my little speech while chilled-out rapper types partied in the aisles. Oh, how I wanted to be on their side of the stage! I was pacing in the wings when the tone sounded to change classes. Doors pounded open and kids began to stream in, filling the back rows first. I tried to stay calm by pretending my mind had been transported to a desert spa in New Mexico as the auditorium filled and Mrs. Sonnenberg introduced me.
Suddenly, I was in front of the podium wiping my sweaty palms on my stylish new DKNY blazer. “So you’re here because you want to hear about magazine publishing?” I asked with a humble smile.
“Naw!” a kid with a backwards baseball cap called from the front aisle. “We’re here because you’re our ticket out of seventh-period classes.”
“Really? Then you can go,” I said, keeping my voice level.
Students watched in amusement as the boy shook his head.
“No, really. I’m serious. Let me be your ticket out of a boring class, but don’t feel like you have to stay here and be equally bored. If you have someplace else you want to be, now’s your chance.”
A few kids laughed as he bent down to pick up his books, then hesitated, looking over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The other teachers won’t fry you. I’m the guest lecturer. I’ve got the power.”
Kids laughed as the boy slung his backpack over one shoulder and headed up the aisle. He did some kind of rap gesture to the back of the room and a few kids laughed, but a moment later he was gone. Time for me to get real.
“In some ways, I feel like an imposter standing here.” As I spoke, I pulled the microphone out of its clip and wound it in front of the podium, walking to the edge of the stage. “Just a few years ago I was sitting where you are, wondering what the hell to do with my life.” I teetered at the edge of the stage, then dropped down to sit on the edge. “As you might have guessed, I’m still wondering. But anyway, soon after I graduated from college I found myself in this entry-level position at Skyscraper magazine. Don’t be too impressed. The magazine is very glossy, but the offices are probably smaller than your bedroom closet. They pay new kids like me dirt, and most of my day is filled with making massive photocopies, answering phones, and running to the corner deli to get the right brand of bottled water for my boss.”
I heard a few kids laugh, and I felt the power. They liked me. Maybe I should think about doing stand-up.
“Anyway, on a few rare occasions they throw me some of the upscale work.” I went on to explain pitching and writing articles, setting up interviews, gathering expert quotes, and the bane of my existence, fact-checking. I figured that, since I had confessed the ugly truth about my close personal relationship with the copy machine, I could at least pretend that I knew a thing or two about the editorial end of the business.
I went on, trying to paint a picture of a typical day. Then I tried to fill out the image of the staff behind the magazine, the team of editors and copywriters and copy editors and freelancers who honed each story down to its bone, then built it back up. Even though I didn’t particularly care for it, the process was amazing.
When I finished my spiel, I invited the students to ask me questions. A few kids were interested in the stages a story went through prior to publication. Others wanted to know more about the exposure to celebrities.
“Have you ever met Madonna?” one girl asked.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“How about Michael Jackson?” someone added.
I shook my head. “That I would remember.”
“Are Julia Roberts’s teeth real?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Did you ever meet Will Smith, the Fresh Prince?”
“The artist formerly known as Prince?”
“Aerosmith?”
“Candice Bergen?”
No, but I’ve met her voice double.
I held up my hands as the students started to pelt me with the names of their favorite celebs. Clearly I wasn’t going to get out of here alive if I didn’t do some major name-dropping. “All right, all right! I am not personal friends with the members of Aerosmith, but
I did meet Steve Tyler at an MTV party. He seemed very nice. And once when I was having dinner in Tribeca, I noticed that Robert DeNiro was eating at the next table. He was wearing these big, black glasses, probably hoping that no one would recognize him, but—”
We were still dishing over celebrities when the tone signaled the end of the period. Two students had met Robin Williams in a Castro comedy club, and one kid said he’d spent last summer working as a roadie for Crash Test Dummies. A few kids came over to the stage to thank me, and I joked with them until they had to head off to their next class.
Whew! The ordeal was over, and it had gone better than I could have dreamed. I would have happy-danced across the stage, but a few stragglers still remained. Jumping off the stage, I headed out. Amazing how, after all these years, I still felt a strong desire to get out of this building. I’d just reached the rear doors when someone called my name. I turned to see a familiar, handsome face.
“Mr. Minnetta!” I gasped, trying not to sound too excited, but failing miserably. I hadn’t recognized my English teacher without his dark beard and mustache. Now he sported a funky goatee that made him look like a cross between Shaggy on Scooby-Doo and Chris on Northern Exposure. He was also a little thicker in the shoulders, but it gave him a solid look—meatier, mightier shoulders to hang your hands on.
“Sounds like you’re doing well, Madison,” he said. He pushed the door open for me, and I stepped through. “I had high hopes for you back in English lit. You were one of my most inspired and inspiring students.”
“Thanks, Mr. Minnetta,” I said, feeling like a ten-year-old in black patent leather shoes.
“Please, call me Judd,” he said, raking back a few pale brown curls with one hand. “I’ve always said once you wear that ridiculous mortar board hat, you can dispense with formalities.”
My face was beginning to ache from grinning. I realized I probably looked like a googly-eyed fool, but it’s startling to come face-to-face with the teacher who dominated your high school fantasies. Back in high school, none of us were absolutely sure, but we guessed that Mr. Minnetta was about six years older than us—just barely out of school himself. He had attended the University of Arizona, which had a reputation as a party school, and he had often joked about nearly failing Brewskies 101, a story that assured his place in the Freaks Hall of Fame at our school.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 13
