by Abbi Waxman
EMILY
Dessert might even be my favorite thing about Harrisons. You can have Spotted Dick, lol, which is actually a super-yummy spongy cake thing with raisins, or cheesecake, or chocolate cake, or that thing where they cook the top with a tiny blowtorch right at the table. You’d think the sprinklers would go off, and I kind of always hope they will. I had cheesecake. Cherries are my go-to berry. Are they a berry? (Googles under table.) Go-to drupe, new word of the day.
Grandpa took a forkful of chocolate cake and said, “But really, Emily, what’s your plan for the next few years?”
I swallowed my cheesecake and shook my head. “I’m not sure, Grandpa. Go to college, I guess.”
Mom jumped in. “She doesn’t have to decide until the fall, Dad. Part of the point of this trip is for her to look around and see which colleges appeal to her.” The irony of the Great Questioner defending me from interrogation is not lost on me.
Grandpa pointed his fork at my face, which was rude. “If you’re not sure what to do, pick a major you can live with and go to the best school you can. The people you meet are far more important than what you study. You’ll make the connections that matter.”
I wanted to talk about how elitist that is, and how it perpetuates inequality (two semesters of sociology elective) but decided to nod thoughtfully and eat my cheesecake. Did I mention it had cherries?
After dessert I escaped to the bathroom again and ended up FaceTiming with Sienna for about ten minutes. She was over the Becca thing because something more serious has happened: She got a B on her test and thinks her life is over. She was literally in tears. She’s dramatic at the best of times, but now she really gave it her all.
“Cornell’s out of the question now,” she sobbed. “They haven’t taken anyone with less than a 4.2 in over twenty years. I might as well take Northwestern off the table, too, and UPenn isn’t happening.” She’s a madwoman, of course; one B isn’t going to make any difference in an otherwise perfect record. Sienna kept going but I kind of drifted off. Everyone wants to get into a “name” school, one that when you tell people you got in, they make that face, the face that says, You won the game, you’re set for life. Of course, only very few get in, which makes those schools even more special. They’re like the girl who turns everyone down, so everyone wants to date her and no one ever discovers she’s completely boring.
“Did Mrs. Bandin call anyone else in?” I asked suddenly.
“No,” said Sienna, “are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what about your safety schools?”
After another few minutes I suddenly remembered where I was and shot back out to the restaurant, surprised Mom hadn’t come looking for me.
But they were talking and hadn’t even noticed my long absence.
JESSICA
Emily went off to the bathroom, and my father cleared his throat. “Is Emily a good student?”
I looked at my dad and wondered about his definition of good. “She maintains a steady B. She tries hard, she does her work. I don’t think she’s a rocket scientist. She’s still better and happier drawing and making stuff than she is at schoolwork. Always has been.”
His eyebrows drew together the way they did at least once in every conversation we’d ever had.
“Sure, but now she’s a young woman, not a child. Time to put aside childish things, correct?”
I tried to channel my mother’s neutral tone. She frequently disagreed with my father, but never made him frown the way I did. “News flash, Dad, adults draw and make things, too.”
“Maybe she could be an architect?”
I sighed to cover my irritation. “Dad, she’s sixteen, she doesn’t know yet. She’s struggling right now, you need to leave her alone.”
“We left you alone and look what happened.”
I frowned at him, my eyebrows a perfect echo of his, not that I could see it. “What happened? I got my degree, finished law school, moved to LA, succeeded despite being a single parent, and now I’m a partner and making a frankly ridiculous salary. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He was silent for a moment. “It’s what I wanted for you. Your mother thought you would have been happier staying in school.”
I laughed. “What, forever?”
He shrugged. “She thought you were too deep a thinker for the law, not pragmatic enough for the constant compromise.”
I was surprised. “This is news to me. She never told me that.” My mother had talked to me constantly, her voice the birdsong of my childhood. I wish I could remember more of what she actually said. Listening might have helped.
He shrugged again and moved the knife on his plate. “You never asked her opinion. You went off to college and we rarely saw you, then you were at law school and we saw you maybe twice a year, and then you were pregnant.” He drank his wine, unable to sit still for a moment. “At least then she felt needed. Helping you with the baby made her very happy, although it was bittersweet.”
I refilled my glass, largely to give myself a moment to think. My mom had only rarely given me her opinion, whereas my dad had an opinion about everything. He and I argued all the time about this and that, starting when I was around nine and really settling in once I was a teenager. My mom used to roll her eyes when we started and go outside to smoke (later on I’d banned her from smoking in her own home when I was there with Emily, something I feel a little guilty about now). I regret not going and sitting with her outside every time she left the room; I wish I’d spent more time asking about her rather than telling her about me. We’d spent time every summer with my parents at their country house in West Virginia, but I’d seen it as a chance to rest while she played with Emily and watched her build her forts or make dams in the stream. She and Emily were so happy together, I felt fine leaving them alone. Now I wish I’d joined in more.
Dad was still talking. “She always felt she’d given up a lot once she had you two, and she wanted you both to have as much freedom from responsibility as possible.” He cleared his throat. “Not that she regretted having you two, she loved being a mom. But when Emily came along, she was sad, not because she didn’t love children, but because she loved you. She wanted you to have more time to yourself. More space.”
I wasn’t sure how to process that, so I said, “Did she miss working?” My mom had been a graphic designer, working in an advertising agency in New York when she met my dad. He was already in DC; they’d met at a wedding. For a year or two they’d dated on and off, then she’d moved to an agency in DC and they got married. I realized I’d never heard her talk much about her career. Maybe I wasn’t listening, the same way Emily wasn’t listening to me.
Dad nodded. “Sometimes, although she never really loved her work. She was much happier puttering around the house, putting up shelves, or whatever it was she did in that workshop she had. Besides, this was the seventies, remember? Everyone thinks it was a time of social revolution, but after taking a few years off when you two were small, it was really hard for her to find another job she actually wanted.” He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for the check. “Employers knew women would put their children first, and felt comfortable not hiring them because of it.” He looked at me. “These days I would probably get fired for saying that, despite the fact that it’s true.”
“Not all women, Dad.”
He shrugged. “Your mom used to say she’d made a trade, and sometimes it felt worth it and other times”—he made a face—“like when you stayed out all night in tenth grade and she nearly called the police, it didn’t.”
I smiled. “Emily certainly wouldn’t get away with that. I track her every movement on her phone.”
He made a noise under his breath. “Well,” he said, pulling out his wallet to pay the bill. “I can’t imagine that’s very much fun for either of you.”
12
JESSICA
> When we got back to the hotel, I felt like I’d spent the previous four hours pushing a rock uphill or attending an endless PTA meeting. I was wiped. I checked my watch. Wow. Nine o’clock.
As soon as we got to the room, Emily threw herself on the bed and opened her computer. God forbid ten minutes should pass without connecting to the internet. I went to the bathroom and texted Frances.
“You there?”
I waited a moment, and then, thankfully, she appeared. “’Sup, dog?”
“OMG you are not going to believe the evening I just had.”
“Spill the tea.”
“David turned out to be super hot, super drunk, and super into sleeping with me. It was extremely awkward.” I start removing my mascara, taking half my lashes with it. I don’t remember that happening when I was younger. Do eyelashes grow back?
A pause, then: “No way. That’s awesome. How often does DHG stay D and H?!”
Let me back up a bit. I had told Frances about David ages before, of course. About how we’d had this supersexy relationship, how we had slept together on and off throughout college, even for a few years after. Frances had christened him Dangerous Hot Guy.
“We all have one,” she’d said. “A guy who blows our buttons off in bed but who is in no way suitable for an actual long-term relationship.”
Now she was delighted. “I was expecting him to be twenty pounds heavier, married, with three kids and erectile dysfunction.”
I texted, “Well, he looks much the same, is divorced, left a highly lucrative job in government law to help the dispossessed, and at least to hear him tell it, has zero dysfunction.”
“So . . . ?”
“So nothing. Emily saw him holding my hand and went totally ballistic. It was beyond embarrassing, and then he patronizingly suggested she spend less time on her cell phone.”
Frances said, “Wow, I bet she loved that.”
“Yup, we left the hotel bar, then she and I had a follow-up question-and-answer session about the state of my sex life that I could definitely have lived without.” My fingers couldn’t tap fast enough; I kept having to go back and fix autocorrections. “And then, to cap this challenge of fire, we had dinner with my dad. I spent the whole time deflecting the kind of questioning I’m usually on the other side of.”
There was a pause while she presumably digested that. Then: “And now?”
“Now I’m hiding in the bathroom texting you!”
My phone buzzed with another text. “OMG David texted me, hang on.”
“Hurry!”
I swiped over. “My offer still stands, Jess. I’m in the lobby.”
I swiped back. “He’s in the lobby!”
“No! Stalker!”
“Yes!” I suddenly felt panicky and slightly nauseated. “I’m freaking out.”
“Don’t freak out. Just tell him you’re not interested.” A pause. “You’re not interested, right?”
I swiped back. “David, go home. This isn’t going to happen.”
I swiped back to Frances. “No, it’s not going to happen. I don’t want it to happen.”
“To be fair, you were complaining only last week about your lack of sex!”
“Yes, but in the context of discussing vibrators, not hooking up with stalker ex-boyfriends!”
“Good point. Go watch TV with Emily and lock your door.”
“It’s a hotel, it’s already locked.”
“Another good point. Text me tomorrow.”
Another text came in from David, but I blocked him and shut off my phone. I could feel an intense desire for my own bed, my own house, my own safe space. So I crawled into bed next to Emily, and together we watched TV and I felt better.
EMILY
I ate so much at Harrisons I kind of thought I’d crash out once we got to the hotel. But when I checked my phone in the car, I had dozens of texts from both Becca and Sienna, which, you know, ruined my potential food coma. After pondering it for a while, I decided to take the decisive step of ignoring them both; I’ll deal when I get home. Meanwhile, life online has continued, with Ruby trying to cheer Sienna up by posting a funny picture of her, which, it turned out, Sienna hated because it looks like she has no butt at all. We all swiftly posted pictures that were more butt flattering, and slowly the drama simmered down. Sometimes social media feels like a runaway train, or an out-of-control team of horses in a western movie. Other times it’s so boring I could quit it forever, once I’ve made sure there’s no more good stuff over here on this feed . . .
I sent a picture of my room, so they’re all jealous, which they wouldn’t be if they could see how tiny it really was. But I stood on the desk and put a good filter on, and by the time I was done it was amazing. Not that anyone cares anyway, though I did get over a hundred likes. Pretty standard.
Thank goodness for Friends; it’s my favorite show. It’s open on my laptop all the time, nestled in the background. It’s like one of those apps that make ocean noises or whatever. Chandler Bing is my ocean noise.
I could hear my mom’s phone pinging away in the bathroom while she was in there, and wondered if she was talking to that guy. But when she came out she was in her flannel nightie and had taken off her makeup and was my regular mom again. Phew. I even put away my phone, and I’m not ashamed to say we snuggled and watched The Land Before Time, which is not in any way historically accurate. I also finished the metal model Grandpa gave me. It’s a dragon. My mom has kept all the models I’ve made over the years and I really hope she doesn’t expect me to take them to college. If it were up to me I’d chuck the lot, but you know how sentimental parents are.
After the movie was over and the lights were out, another thought occurred to me.
“Mom?”
“Mmm?” Her voice was sleepy.
“What exactly is the Peace Corps?”
She turned over in bed, tugging the quilt tighter. “I’m too tired to explain it in detail, but basically it’s this thing where people, usually young people, sign up to spend a year or more in a country where they’re needed, to do whatever work is asked of them, in order to help local people.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty detailed explanation, for a tired person.”
Her voice was sleepy. “I’m a highly trained professional.”
“Would you ever do it?”
She paused. “Not now. Maybe when I was young. But it’s kind of a luxury, to be able to spend a year not working on your actual life. People do it, of course. People take their kids and stuff, even.”
“He did it.”
“Sure, very noble, but all I could think about was that he’d wandered off for a year to find himself, leaving his ex-wife alone with two young kids who’ve just gone through a divorce. Kind of a dick move, right?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
She mumbled something. She was drifting off.
“What kind of things do they do?”
“Not sure . . . build schools, dig wells, that kind of thing.” She half snored and caught herself. “Google it.” Then she fell asleep completely.
Wednesday
Pennsylvania
8:00 a.m.: Theme breakfast: Fears!
9:00 a.m.: Check out of the hotel
10:00 a.m.: University of Pennsylvania
12:00 p.m.: Lunch at the Philadelphia Museum of Art—café meal included! Note: The museum is open this time! Art it up!
2:00 p.m.: Drive 25 minutes on the E3 College Coach
3:00 p.m.: Swarthmore College
Drive 1 hour and 4 minutes to New Jersey on the E3 College Coach
6:00 p.m.: Check into hotel in Princeton
7:00 p.m.: Dinner at Einsteins—a math-themed diner! (Two courses included.)
13
EMILY
This morning the breakfast was back to pastr
ies, and after a bit of a scuffle over the limited number of cinnamon rolls, people stood about uncertainly, waiting to be told where to sit. I was too slow for a cinnamon roll, but I did snag a chocolate croissant, the silver medal of pastries. I got a cup of tea, too, because I had what Mom calls an emotional hangover from the previous evening. I’m sure you’ve had one: Everything is a little bit loud, you seem to have lost a few layers of skin, and tears are a distinct possibility. I think Mom has one, too; she and I have barely spoken, but not in an unfriendly way. Just in a not-speaking way that could go either way any second. Mom taught me that emotional hangovers need four things to dissipate: caffeine, sugar, space, and time. Sometimes she’s very wise; don’t tell her I told you so.
I walked over to Will. He’d snagged a cinnamon roll, of course, but he tore off a piece and offered it to me. I waved the croissant at him.
“How was the Rocky thing?”
“The steps? Surprisingly fun.” He lowered his voice. “It was a classic example of the gap between perception and reality.”
“How so?”
He grinned and leaned in a little closer. I could smell the hotel soap on him, as if he’d been in the shower with me not thirty minutes earlier.
“Well, in the movie, he runs up the whole flight of stairs, right, which is not what happened last night. People stationed someone at the top, sprinted up the last few, and then raised their arms for the picture.” He took a bite of cinnamon roll. “Although Sam and Casper decided to actually run the whole thing and Sam had to stop halfway to pull out his inhaler. Casper made it to the top in record time, then revealed the other school office he holds is secretary of the cross-country club.”
“Sam is . . . ?”
Will narrowed his eyes at me. “Sam is Falling Mother. Casper you already know.” He chewed. “We’re all actual people, you know. It’s not only you and Alice on the tour.”
