If We Lived Here

by Lindsey Palmer

  “You must be the Spencers. Please take a seat. I’m Emma Feit, and I’ll be your college advisory counselor, prepared to hold Paul’s hand through every step of the admissions process. Soon you’ll be off to the university of your dreams.” Usually Emma blew off this introductory stump speech, but when her door was open and she sensed her boss nearby, she went for it. “One note before we begin: I seem to be missing Paul’s high school transcripts and PSAT scores.”

  “Oh, Paul is just entering his freshman year.” This from Mom, tap-tap-tapping her sling-back heel against a well-muscled calf. “We figured we’d get a bit of a jump on the process.” The boy smiled meekly.

  “I see.” Emma had learned that when it came to their kids’ success, nothing was too crazy for Manhattan parents. That very morning she’d received a voicemail asking if she’d be willing to tutor a girl during her track practice, providing she could keep up with an eight-minute mile. So if these Hellis wanted their son to run SAT practice drills for the next three and a half years, who was Emma to deny herself all the billable hours?

  “The Yorks gave you glowing reviews. They told us your nickname was Eight, since you got into all the Ivies. Very clever.” Mrs. Spencer said this like it was her own witticism, and Emma resisted an eye-roll. Her boss, Quinn, had pried this info out of Emma during her interview at 1, 2, 3 … Ivies! Even after Emma insisted she’d benefited from some lucky admissions fluke, Quinn had burdened her on the spot with the so-called nickname. “Although I wondered, after reading your bio, why on earth would you choose Brown over Harvard or Yale?” This woman was worse than Emma’s own mother.

  “Honey, come on.” Mr. Spencer offered Emma an apologetic look.

  “That’s all right,” Emma said. “Brown has an excellent Linguistics department. At the time I hoped to pursue a Ph.D. in World Languages. But here I’ve landed, and now I can help Paul get into any school he wants, then he can disappoint you guys by picking the wrong one, just like I have.” There—the first inkling of a smirk from the boy. Emma was in. She’d explain to them all of their options, from the Basic Package of SAT and Essay Skills, to the Deluxe Deal that included Interview Prep, Extracurricular Bolstering, Personality Development, Social Media Training, and more. The Hellis would spring for the works, of course. And because Emma had shown with her quip that she was on Paul’s and not his parents’ side, he’d leave slightly less terrified than he’d been when he walked in, and he’d reluctantly agree to go Deluxe. Done and done—and all before eleven a.m.

  On cue at five before the hour, Genevieve appeared in the doorframe. “Ms. Feit, your next clients have arrived.” Emma was booked back-to-back today. The cusp of the school year was the busy season.

  “In hot demand, I see,” Mrs. Spencer said, clutching her purse. “I guess we’ll have to carve out some of your precious time before it’s all snatched up.”

  “Wonderful to meet you.” Emma shook all three hands—Mom’s a death grip, Dad’s and Son’s both like putty—and guided them out of her office.

  Emma’s next client, Sophia Cole, sat cross-legged on the waiting room floor, drawing. Emma’s view of the sketchpad was blocked, but from the way Sophia kept not-so-slyly glancing up at the set of Hellis and Son seated opposite her, all in crisp Ralph Lauren polos, Emma guessed the trio was involuntarily sitting for a family portrait.

  “Sophia, so nice to see you.” Emma greeted every client with some version of this statement, but she actually meant it with Sophia Cole. Sophia had been seeing her for the past six months, ever since she got a 600, the lowest possible score, on the SATs. Her first session, Sophia had slunk into Emma’s office on her own, sans Hellis. Besides telling Emma that her mother had threatened to take away her art supplies if she didn’t show up, she’d refused to speak. But Emma had suspected from the start that she was not dealing with a moron; quite the opposite. After a few futile attempts to engage the girl, Emma had let her be with her pad and pencil. With five minutes left of the session, Emma had tried again: “So, what happened during the test?” Sophia, eyeing her warily, had slid over her notepad: In beautifully rendered detail was an illustration of a middle-aged man in a leather jacket and fedora, a cigarette dangling from his sneer; below that, the same man was pictured, now naked, penetrating a buxom woman from behind; at the bottom of the page, the man was shown curled up on the ground, lying in a pool of blood.

  Emma had guessed Sophia expected a disapproving reaction, but she’d said simply, “You’re quite the artist.”

  “Dad be a bad cad. Bed a babe. Dad dead.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The girl repeated herself: “Dad be a bad cad. Bed a babe. Dad dead.”

  Emma had glanced back at the drawing, then up at Sophia, whose eyebrows were arched with satisfaction. Then Emma burst into laughter. “So that’s how you answered the multiple choice, D-A-D B-E A B-A-D C-A-D, et cetera, right? Clever. I mean quite dumb, but clever, too. Your mom mentioned something about the proctor confiscating a picture.” In fact, Emma had realized, it took nearly as much skill to get zero answers correct as it took to get them all right.

  Sophia’s eyes had glinted, and Emma had known they’d get along thereafter. She’d passed the girl’s test, plus Sophia seemed like the type of teen Emma wished she’d had the guts to be back in high school. Since that first session, Sophia had agreed to complete just one practice exam, and she’d scored perfectly, proving she probably needed a shrink, not Emma. But at Mrs. Cole’s insistence, Emma was charged with convincing Sophia that college was key to life success. Because she liked the girl, Emma had agreed to the mission, playing halfhearted ambassador to the illustrious life of a university coed.

  Now Sophia looked up from the waiting room floor and angled her drawing to face Emma. Pictured on the page were three cartoon wasps, all in matching polo shirts and accessorized—a strand of pearls for the female wasp, a Rolex for the male, and a golf club for the child. Despite being insects, the drawings bore strong resemblances to the human trio sitting across the room.

  “Get it?” asked Sophia. “White Anglo-Saxon—”

  “Yeah.” Emma cut her off, eyeing the family anxiously. “Okay, troublemaker, let’s go. I want to tell you about this really interesting program at RISD.”

  “Feit, psst!” It was Genevieve, beckoning from the front desk. Emma wondered if her friend had glimpsed Sophia’s caricatures or overheard their exchange.

  “Meet you in a minute,” Emma said to Sophia, then approached Gen. “What’s up?”

  “So what, do you have a stalker now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I got a call from a, let’s see”—she flipped through her messages dramatically, wrinkling her forehead as if she was about to report on a client’s poor SAT scores—“a Mrs. Caroline. She claimed to be a landlady, but sounded more like a psychopath. So when she asked for your boss I just pretended to be Quinn.” Gen began impersonating the CEO’s raspy voice and overly articulated vowels, which made Emma laugh. “Why does she need to know how tidy you keep your office, your day-to-day mood patterns, and—what was it?—whether I predict you’ll still be working here ten years down the line?”

  “Ten years?” Emma couldn’t help the outburst. The thought of still doing this job a decade from now made her imagine a leap from their twelfth-floor office; come 2022, Manhattan parents would probably start signing up their kindergarteners for 1, 2, 3 … Ivies! Plus, Emma had trouble committing to plans more than a week in advance, never mind a decade; she liked to keep her options open.

  “Tell me about it. So who is this Caroline lady?”

  “She actually is who she says. And her apartment is beyond incredible.”

  “So incredible that you’d put up with her as your landlady?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what does that dreamy boyfriend of yours think of this Mrs. Caroline?”

  “Nick agrees. Trust me, this is the place for us.”

  “All right, then. By the way, I told her I’m consider
ing signing you up for Hoarders and that you’re this close to getting fired.”

  “Gee thanks, Gen. You’re a gem.”

  “By the way, that family out there is your twelve o’clock. That kid’s some kind of football legend at Horace Mann, but his grades are appalling. The parents want him in tutoring six days a week.”

  “Oy, did you tell them we’re closed weekends? And that they don’t need to arrive more than an hour early?”

  “Hey, I just answer the phones.” Gen smiled mischievously. Emma appreciated that her friend had the ears of a bat; she was a pro at eavesdropping on the waiting room chatter while pretending to look busy. If she ever returned to the stage, she’d kill it playing some snooty Manhattan mom or spoiled city kid; she’d done extensive field research. “Now up you go, off to work.”

  “Sophia’s probably pulling a Michelangelo as we speak, painting a mural on my ceiling.”

  “Better go nip that in the bud. I’m not sure the WASPs would appreciate nude art in your office.” So then she had seen Sophia’s drawing—what a sneak.

  “On it.” Emma scurried down the hall, pumped for her weekly spar session with the sullen girl genius.

  Nick examined his scrawling on the chalkboard, lamenting the fact that his handwriting looked about as grown-up as his fifth graders’:

  Class 232 Rules:

  1. Treat others how you want to be treated, with kindness and respect!

  2. Take responsibility for yourself and your actions.

  3. Arrive ready to learn and to have fun!

  If only everyone everywhere followed these rules, Nick thought, the world would be a much happier place. Not that his classroom was any kind of utopia—he shuddered to imagine what kind of curveballs would come at him this year. Ten-year-olds who still peed their pants? Boys and girls trying to figure out how sex worked, firsthand in the supply closet? Parents complaining that certain units—dinosaurs, the Civil War, fractions, you name it—were incompatible with their religion or politics? In his twelve years of teaching, Nick had weathered it all. Still, it was gratifying for him to establish a set of rules at the outset and at least aim to build a genuine community.

  Nick had asked all the parents of his incoming class to send photos of their kids during a happy moment—photos that he was now tacking up over each name. Last year Nick had participated, too, posting a picture of Emma and him paddle-boarding in Costa Rica. They’d spent most of that vacation laid out on the beach reading aloud to each other, she from Pride and Prejudice (decent, if a little dry) and he from Lord of the Rings (mind-blowing, even the third time); that was Nick’s happy place. But his students had ribbed him mercilessly about the girl in the blue bikini, chanting during chaotic moments, “Mr. O’Hare and his girlfriend sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G …” Then Nick would have to become a taskmaster, a role he hated, and point the kids back to Rule #1. Eventually he’d taken down the photo and was thankful that none of the kids seemed to notice.

  “What next, Mensa?” Nick poked a finger into the cage and tapped the gerbil’s furry head. He wondered how the little guy would adjust to the new batch of kids who would come storming in the following week. Mensa began spinning wildly in his wheel.

  “I know, it’s a thrill,” said Nick. “Another year, another fresh start.” The wheel’s squeaking didn’t bother Nick, but it drove Emma bonkers. He kept Mensa at home over the summer, and even from the other end of the apartment with a cloth over the cage, Emma complained that the wheel’s turning kept her up at night. Nick was relieved that their cohabitation would coincide with the start of the school year, when students would take turns pet-sitting the gerbil on nights and weekends.

  Nick scanned his classroom, and decided to set out the seeds and soil and paper cups that the kids would need for the bean plant experiment. It was amazing, really, how varying the rate of watering or the amount of sunlight made such a difference: a lush, healthy plant beaming in the sun, versus its gangly, shriveled counterpoint languishing in the shade. Science was awesome.

  Badoop! Nick checked his phone—a text from Emma: Scored client this a.m. 14 yrs old, mom = nutcase. Also, Mrs. C called Gen for rec. TOTAL nutcase. But she’s calling references, so a good sign, right?

  He thought about calling back, but Emma kept her cell on silent at work, and reaching her office line required a ten-minute chat with Genevieve first; Nick wasn’t in the mood. He texted back: Brava on the client. You’re a star! Good sign, yes.

  A twinge of nausea gripped at Nick’s gut and he dropped into one of the child-sized chairs. Mrs. Caroline was a concern—he worried how she’d respond if he and Emma needed an exterminator or a plumbing repair. But the queasiness felt like more than just nerves over a landlady.

  It was a new variable—living with Emma. Nick breathed deeply, wondering whether the new arrangement would be like adding sunlight or taking it away. Would their relationship flourish or wither? He wished he could keep a control going, too. Because Nick liked the control. He was wary of taking their strong relationship and testing it under new conditions, as if their lives were some kind of science experiment.

  To calm himself, Nick glanced at the schedule he’d mapped out for his class—each day divided into forty-five-minute blocks of reading, math, et cetera—a routine that was soothing in its structure. Nick marveled when Emma rattled off all she had going on in a particular day, always different from the previous one. She loved the unpredictable and—as much as she complained about it—relished the crises of her high-strung clients.

  Sweet, brilliant, wonderful Emma, who’d been pushing for months to share a home with him. It was true they were both sick of lugging clothes and toiletries and everything else back and forth from one apartment to the other, uptown and downtown and back. And it did seem ludicrous to be shelling out two separate rents when on most nights one of their beds lay fallow. These were the sorts of details they discussed, and the kinds of reasons Nick’s buddies cited for shacking up with their girlfriends. And yet, Nick wasn’t convinced these minor annoyances added up to a case for such a major life change. Again, why shake up what was working well?

  Nick peered into Mensa’s cage. “It’s me and you, buddy.” Glassy eyes blinked back at him. When Nick had bought the pet two years ago, he was told gerbils were social creatures and preferred to live in pairs. So he’d gotten Mensa a companion. But the duo had been vicious together, hissing and fighting until Nick had been forced to give one away to a teacher down the hall.

  Nick believed there was something to his pea-brained pet’s preference for his own space. Nick, too, had been living alone for nearly a decade, and he was wary of abandoning what Emma derisively called his bachelor pad. He knew the stereotype—that men were commitment-phobes, from Mars, et cetera—but Nick felt the opposite. He believed himself so committed that he felt terrified of moving in with Emma and having her discover some so-called deal-breaker. It was one thing for her to crash at his place and have to navigate piles of comic books, or to spot a month-old block of tofu festering in his fridge, or an X-rated clip loaded up on his laptop (she minded the rotting food more than the porn). But it was quite another thing for Nick’s unwholesome habits to contaminate Emma’s own home. A home that would also be his, in a new location with a new layout and new quirks and surprises and frustrations. Nick’s stomach flipped. Still, all of these worries had become moot when Emma eventually made it clear that, if he didn’t give in to the experiment in cohabitation, Nick was going to lose her.

  The loudspeaker emitted a beep, then hissed with static. “Attention, empty school. Paging Mr. O’Hare. Mr. Nicholas O’Hare, please report to the principal’s office, on the double!” Nick grunted. The voice belonged to Carl, who’d just been promoted to assistant principal. But Nick didn’t mind the excuse for a break, and when he arrived at Carl’s office, his friend had his feet propped on the desk and was cracking open a beer. “Want one? It’s just past noon, so we’re good.”

  “Where’s Lara?”

&n
bsp; “Our beloved principal is at some workshop all day. Something about the state’s new standards of excellence—in other words, blow me. They tried to make me go, but I talked my way out of it. More important matters to attend to here.” Carl raised his can.

  “Clearly. Pass me one of those.”

  “So, I hear Emma’s finally roped you into the next big step of relationship-hood.”

  “Did that landlady call you?”

  “Oh, you mean the C.I.A. agent with the epic list of questions about your personal character and criminal record? Yes, she certainly did. Congrats, dude.”

  “Thanks.”

  “With me and Suze, it only took six months for her to wear me down into living together. Two years in, we were bound for life and Suze had grown obese with the fetus that would become our whiny, diarrhea-prone, bank account–draining progeny.”

  “Nice talk, Carl.”

  “I love the rugrat, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re a tougher case, Mr. Totebag-carrying, Tree-hugging Marlboro Man, always going on about how much you care about those snot-covered students of ours. You’re not an easy one to wrangle in, are you?”

  “Is there a point to this meeting, or were you just testing out how your voice sounded over the loudspeaker?”

  “Mostly the latter.”

  “Narcissist.”

  “I’ll admit it, Nicky boy, the power’s gone to my head. Mwa-ha-ha! ” He threw his head back. “But I also wanted to toast your blind leap into the deep pit that some call relationship maturity. Cheers, to you and Emma!”

  They glugged the remainder of their beers, and Carl unleashed a powerful belch.

  “So,” Nick asked, “what did you say to that landlady, anyway?”

  “I told her the truth, that you’re a gentleman and a scholar.” Nick felt a small blip of joy. If he was resigned to move in with Emma, at least they’d end up in that apartment that was almost too good to be true.