When “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” booms in once more, I silence it again. . . . I mean, really, Mom? We just spent the first two weeks of August in Nantucket, and I have less than three weeks before I need to leave for Kent, my new boarding school. I haven’t even finalized my bedding and drapery because Kent has yet to tell Waverly, my best friend, and me if we are permitted to be roommates. Having never shared a room before, I totally tried to finagle a private room by lying and saying that I have a serious snoring issue. But the dean of students said all roommates have to work out differences and mine will just need to wear earplugs or I’ll have to wear one of those nose strips. Since a private room isn’t going to happen, bunking with Waverly is a better option than some foreign exchange student who doesn’t shower daily.
Moving over to accessories, I model shades in the tiny mirror. After trying to remember if I have the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans at home or if I just have the white, the black, and the neon pink, I decide to buy the tortoiseshell ones just in case. I should look at round Jackie-O glasses, too, because I totally hear they’re having a revival.
Bing! bounces from inside my neon blue Marc Jacobs purse.
A text message from “her.” That’s how I put my mom into my phone. Funny, right?
Her: Family meeting, 7 pm, get home
It’s six, and I am supposed to do seven thirty sushi with the girls at a BYOB (bring your own bottle) restaurant in the East Village. My friend Sarita’s older brother taught us to frequent BYOBs, so we don’t get our fakes swiped because when you bring your own booze, the restaurants don’t even card. I guess I’ll have to be a little late to my friends’ dinner since I’ll need to swing by home.
I text her back.
Corrinne: Fine. The meeting better last only nanoseconds. I got plans.
I bring my purchases—two pairs of Notify jeans, the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans (why not?), and the orange Tory Burch flats—to the counter where Little Miss Bitter Saleswoman sits perched.
“I’d like those Hudsons I asked for,” I try to gently remind her how to do her job.
The saleswoman huffs off to find my jeans. After she packages up everything into two Barneys white and black logoed bags, I decide that I am definitely cabbing it. Those bags look heavy! And August in New York is too hot for the subway. Even though I could use the subway-stair exercise since I didn’t ride or go to the gym today, I simply can’t bear the thought of descending into hot, crowded mugginess. And especially not on a weekday: there are too many sweaty worker bees in tacky, cheap suits.
After I catch a cab outside, I text Waverly and tell her that I might be late.
Waverly: Don’t B 2 late, we might drink all the vino. And it’s never fun 2 B the sober kid.
I want to call Waverly and say there had better be wine left when I arrive, but the cabbie’s blasting the radio news. All I hear is “layoffs” this, “layoffs” that, “another Ponzi scheme.” Gross. I am sick of all this bad economic news, and it doesn’t even make any sense. Our math teacher, Mrs. DeBord, tried to explain last year when things got really bad: something about defaults, mortgages, shorts. I definitely didn’t get it. But hey, I don’t even understand algebra. Letters for numbers, really? We might as well learn hieroglyphics. At Kent, I am going to need a math tutor if I want to get into the Ivies. And I for sure want to get into the Ivies because that’s where the boys are not only cute but smart and rich.
When the recession first began last year, some kids’ parents had to pull them out of school. But it’s hard to tell who left because of money fiascos and who left for other reasons, like rehab and divorce. Thank God my dad made it through all the layoffs, and he even still got his bonus. I was scared that it was going to be a pauper’s Christmas like Tiny Tim had in A Christmas Carol, but everything I asked for, all four pages (single spaced), sat right under the tree.
The cabbie pulls up to my building at Morton Street and the West Side Highway. I bound out of the cab, buzz to open the gate, and jog up to the marble front desk.
“Rudy, favor, please: Hold on to one of these for me,” I say, extending a Barneys bag.
Rudy, our hot 6’6” doorman who models on the side, takes the package out of my hands and puts it behind the desk. I always leave one bag downstairs with Rudy so my parents don’t know how much I am shopping. Then I retrieve it when I know my parents aren’t around. This way, they’re only mad at me once a month when the credit card bill arrives versus every time I make a big spree. My mom says my shopping is “O.O.C.,” which is an abrevs for out of control; my dad says that “maybe she’ll go into fashion, and it’s an investment.” They argue about it. Actually, they argue about me a lot. Yeah, I’ve gotten a few detentions and had sit-downs with the parents over learning to filter my comments, but compared to other teenagers I know, I am practically a wunderkind. No mug shot in the Post like the girl at school who got busted for smoking pot in a club. Good thing because mug shots, as a rule, find your most unflattering angle and make even celebrities look homeless.
I nudge Rudy with my elbow: “Thanks, Rudy. You totally help my publicity with the parents,” I say, and head to the elevators.
Rudy is awesome; he keeps all my secrets, like the fact that I come in right before curfew, make sure my parents know I am home, wait for them to fall back asleep, and then leave again. And then there was the time I drunkenly threw my keys down the trash chute with the late-night pizza box. Rudy even dug them out for me. If he weren’t a doorman, I’d totally marry him. Waverly’s doorman will rat her out to her parents for a good Christmas tip, so I know how fortunate I am.
Stepping out of the elevator onto the thirteenth floor, I smell chicken. I haven’t eaten all day because I am trying to go vegan to shed some poundage for back-to-school. But still, it smells divine, and I’d kill for a little piece. I am shocked to find the aroma’s coming from my own kitchen where my mother, J.J. Corcoran, stands over a stove. She’s wearing a seriously unglamorous apron that reads “Kiss the Cook” with a gigantic lipstick mark over her perfectly coiffed clothes, a black Diane Von Furstenberg dress with a full skirt, and a long string of pearls. The black-and-white color combo highlights her naturally honey blond locks. It makes me mad to see that dress because I had picked it out on a rare shopping excursion with my mom, but the store only had it in her size: a size two. She told me that she would order me one in my size, but I couldn’t bear the depressing notion that I would be Jumbo-J.J. Being fatter than your mom is a common issue for the kids at my school. And even worse yet, my mom told my hairdresser that I couldn’t get blond highlights until I am in college. “You have such beautiful brown hair, Corrinne; you’ll thank me someday,” she said. So I am fatter than my mom and a brunette. I imagine that I will spend a great portion of my adult years on a couch discussing these two injustices with my shrink.
“Corrinne, is something wrong with your phone again? Why didn’t you answer when I called twice? You know I don’t like texting,” my mom says as she stirs the chicken steeped in red wine. She stops churning to take a sip out of a very full glass of white wine.
“Why are you cooking, Mom? And where’d you get that apron? Is Maria okay?” I say, looking around for our fifty-something Mexican housekeeper, who’s always at the apartment until at least eight at night. She’s worked for our family for years and helps to keep our lives out of madness.
“Maria’s fine. She took the train back to Coney Island this afternoon. And I’ve cooked before, Corrinne. Just not in a while. Besides, I thought it would be nice to have some real food for our meeting.”
“Whatever; I have a dinner date at seven thirty, so let’s make it quick.”
“Corrinne, this is important. Your father’s home, um, he’s home early for it,” my mom says, and turns back to the stove.
This must be a big deal because my dad and I usually only exchange glances on Saturday mornings.
“Corrinne, one more thing: Set the table.”
I give my mother a look like she mus
t not have taken her meds. Yes, we have a kitchen table. And a dining room table. But we don’t set them, and we don’t eat at them. My mom picks at carrots out of the fridge. I order in miso soup and sit at the counter with my computer. And my little brother, Tripp, uses an end table to eat the grease he’s had delivered from the diner while he watches terrible TV. It’s what we do, and it works.
But my mother’s face goes all desperate in a way I’ve never seen before, so I put out four plates, silverware, and three wineglasses: hopefully, my parents will at least give me a little vino for doing chores.
“Thanks, Corrinne,” my mother says, pushing the hair out of her face. “Go get your brother, please,” she adds.
I walk to the hallway.
“Tripp,” I say as I approach his door. No answer, so I knock slowly. Tripp’s twelve, and ever since the day I found a Miley Cyrus poster in his desk drawer, I no longer enter this room.
Ninety-five pounds of sandy blond hair and blue eyes hop out of the room.
“Do you know anything about this meeting?” he asks. He raises his eyebrows, his blue eyes sparkle a little bit (why are mine brown?), and I get mad all over again that he never let me enter him into modeling contests. I could’ve made a lot of money. He’s way cuter than any Disney teenybopper.
“No, it’s weird. Who has family meetings?” I say. “I hope they’re not getting divorced or having a baby.” It’s bad enough that I have to share everything with Tripp; I don’t feel like getting my inheritance divided into thirds.
Tripp’s eyes widen and his mouth hangs open. He looks like he’s only eight years old. “You think they’re having a baby?” Tripp says slowly.
I feel kind of bad because Tripp is definitely the baby and the favorite, so this would kill him. “Of course not, why would they have another one after what happened with you? It’s an experiment gone seriously wrong.”
“You’re mean, Corrinne.” Tripp sticks his tongue out and pushes me aside. “Do you want to hear about my chess game?”
“No.” I shake my head. “And in five years, you are going to wish you picked a cooler hobby than chess. Girls don’t really dig guys who spend all their time playing with figurines.”
Tripp squints his eyes at me. “They aren’t figurines; they are kings, queens, knights, bishops, rooks, and pawns. And I am not taking love advice from someone who is in high school and doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”
Beelining for the dining room, I don’t look back at Tripp or bother to explain to him that being single is a personal choice. Why would I get a boyfriend before boarding school? That’d totally hurt my chances with upperclassmen, who have both cars and muscles, unlike my current classmates.
Tripp and I approach the table at the same time that my father and mother do. It’s awkward because none of us knows where to sit. We just stand and wait for someone to make a move even though it shouldn’t really matter since it’s a large circular table. Finally, Tripp sits down, I sit next to him, and Mom and Dad follow.
We pass around the food on the previously unused lazy Susan. Although I have seen family scenes like this on TV, it feels strangely intimate in real life. All those public service announcements about eating with your children and how it does them good. Wrong. It’s actually just awkward. And my wineglass is filled with water. Awesome. If I am late to my girls’ dinner because my parents want to pretend we’re one of those TV families that sit around a table and ask how everyone’s day went, I am going to be ticked off.
“So what’s the big announcement?” Tripp implores. “A puppy?”
“How old are you?” I ask. “Do me a favor; don’t tell people we’re related.” If I had any say in my birth order, I would’ve chosen an older brother with hot friends. But since I wasn’t consulted, I got stuck with Tripp.
“Corrinne, use your filter,” my mom says. This is a common phrase in our household. Apparently, my parents aren’t aware of the whole freedom of speech deal.
Dad breaks in, “Kids, this isn’t easy, but we’ve got some big changes coming up in the future.”
“Not a baby!” Tripp cries.
“Not a baby,” Mom answers, and she almost breaks a smile.
“Last week the bank made its final round of layoffs,” Dad starts.
I suddenly realize that my fifty-something father, who’s already ten years older than my mother, looks about ten years older than the last time I saw him. His gray speckled hair doesn’t look classy; it just looks gray in an elderly way. I make a mental note to tell my mom that her hair guy Ricardo should fix this. And Dad’s suit is wrinkled. I hope he’s not sick.
“. . . And so we’re going to need to make some changes . . .” My mom trails off as she pushes her chicken around her plate.
My parents just stare at me and appear to be waiting for me to respond. I must’ve missed something during that whole gray-hair train of thought.
“Sorry, guys, I am way too discombobulated. Can we do a rewind?” I say, checking my watch.
“Honey, I said that I got laid off, and we lost a significant chunk of savings with a bad investment, a Madoff-type situation,” my dad says.
“What? Who is Madoff?” I ask. This is getting more Twilight Zone by the second.
“What have I been paying your school tuition for?” My mom puts down her fork, grabs her head, and gazes at the table.
“Madoff is a man who said he invested money when he did not. Amazingly, it’s happened again,” my dad says very slowly as if he is processing it himself. “And it’s happened to us. A person I considered a dear friend of mine had a firm where we invested our entire savings. Except he didn’t actually invest our money; he embezzled it. We lost nearly every dime, including the cash that we just invested from the sale of the Nantucket cottage, the money we were supposed to use for the new Nantucket house.” And my dad swallows hard as if he had just eaten a jawbreaker whole.
“What are the changes for us?” Tripp asks before picking up a leg of chicken and ingesting it almost whole. He’s a caveman, but a small one like Bam-Bam from The Flintstones. Of course, he got the great metabolism, too.
“Luckily, one of your granddad’s old associates who heard about my job situation offered me a job in Dubai—that’s in the Middle East—and it will help us start earning again, but it doesn’t pay nearly as much as my old job. We have to make a lot of sacrifices. First thing is that we’ll need to sell the apartment,” says Dad.
Mom reaches over and puts her hand on my dad’s shoulder.
She opens her mouth, pauses, and then starts again. “Kids, we need to save money wherever we can to cover ourselves. I’m sorry, Corrinne, but you won’t be going to Kent in the fall, and the three of us . . .” My mom trails off again.
Taking a deep breath, she continues, “The three of us are going to Broken Spoke to move in with my parents. We’re doing this because we can’t afford to live in the apartment or in New York City in general. It’s way too expensive. Plus, we owe a lot of money for the new Nantucket house construction. We have to try to sell the apartment quickly to cover these debts. And we are going to be lucky if we don’t have to declare bankruptcy.”
At this, I am pretty sure I caught asthma. I can’t breathe. I’m not going to KENT!!! How can this be? If we did get to be roommates, Waverly and I had decided we would do coral and turquoise as our color palette. (Fuchsia and lime is way overdone.) Smith Cunnington, the hottest senior at Kent, has already requested my Facebook friendship, and the equestrian coach told me that I was varsity material after she saw me ride Sweetbread in my last competition.
“It’s a recession, kids,” my dad says. “We’ll overcome it, but it takes time. I am lucky to get another job at all. Unemployment is over thirteen percent.”
Tripp plays with his food a bit and then smiles. “Don’t worry, Dad. Texas will be okay. I’ll miss you, but I am definitely excited to get cowboy boots.”
Wait, cowboy boots? Why are we talking about appropriate footwear for Texas? Holy Holl
y Golightly! Not only am I not going to Kent, but I am also moving to Texas. This must be an April Fools’ joke, except it’s August and my parents don’t do funny. And Tripp’s excited? Why can’t he be a normal kid like everyone else and throw tantrums at the appropriate times?
“Tripp, you’ve never even been to Texas,” I argue. “And we barely know your parents, Mom. It’s messed up that we’re not even allowed to talk to anyone on the subway, and all of a sudden it’s okay to live with near strangers in the middle of nowhere.”
Fact: We’ve met Mom’s parents on only three occasions, and each time they visited us in New York. Each trip, my mom went nuts trying to convince her parents that they didn’t want to do the double-decker bus tour again or eat at the Olive Garden in Times Square again. Grandma and Grandpa are nice and all, but the only instance that I see the words Broken Spoke is when I write thank-you letters for Grandma’s homemade blackberry jam.
Mom picks up her fork, goes to eat, and puts it down again. “Well, this will give you an opportunity to get to know them and the town I grew up in,” she says.
The town she grew up in? The words Broken Spoke never pass my mother’s collagen-infused lips. When people ask my mom where she is from, she says, “The Dallas area.” I know from getting bored in geography class that Broken Spoke is only in the Dallas area if that area is 175 miles wide and extends to Bumble Fricking Nowhere.
Mom gulps down the rest of her wine and gently puts her hand over my dad’s.
“And kids, one more thing: School starts in two weeks in Texas, so we need to begin packing,” she adds.
The Art of Goodbye Page 7
