ALICE: Well, that would be perfect, but I will be in Tokyo all week at a denim show and it can’t be missed. The Japanese are the Chanel of denim, you know.
I see Roan clench his jaw. I meet his TMI comment and raise him a chillax.
ROAN: Well, since you are the first family I have called, perhaps you would like to suggest a date and time that will work for you and Steven.
ALICE: That’s a brilliant idea. Give me just a minute to scroll through my calendar. Steven and I can come in for a coffee at 7:00 a.m. the first and third Tuesday of every month and, of course, we are always available for drinks after 8:00 p.m. at Spruce. It would be fun to get to know each other over a cocktail, don’t you think? The ambiance at Spruce is so intimate; it’s a wonderful place to chat. Oh, and we have a nanny on Saturdays and Sundays, too, so weekends are a possibility.
ROAN (POINTING A FINGER GUN TO HIS TEMPLE): While I can think of nothing more I would like to do with my free mornings and evenings, the admissions office has a strict policy of meeting with parents on campus between the business hours of 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. I hope that will not be inconvenient for you and Steven.
ALICE (A HINT OF IRRITATION IN HER TONE): Not inconvenient, just not easy. As I said before, this is a priority for us, I assumed there would be more wiggle room and scheduling options for working parents. Oh, I know. I close the store for three weeks over the winter holidays and work slows a bit for Steven just before we head to West Palm Beach to be with our families for Christmas. We are such East Coasters at heart; we miss our weekends down there terribly. There is no substitute for the Atlantic. Am I right? (not waiting for an answer) How about December twelfth at noon?
Roan mouths to me: She hates the Pacific. I point to the computer screen for him to focus and check the school calendar. It’s the date of the annual holiday sit-down lunch—complete with white linens, candles, and rented china—that the parent council puts on for the faculty and staff every year, but I tell him to book the Allsworths. If he doesn’t start moving at a faster clip he’ll still be calling to book interviews well into the New Year. Not acceptable.
ROAN: Well, I’m happy that in October you’re able to find a date to prioritize us in December.
I slap Roan across the shoulder. I knew telling him to “withhold sarcasm” was going to trip him up, I just didn’t expect it on the first call of the season.
ROAN: When you come to the main office on December twelfth, be sure to sign in at the front desk and get visitor passes. You will then be directed to Colson Hall, where the admissions offices are located.
ALICE: That sounds lovely. And you will be sending me a reminder e-mail closer to the date, correct?
ROAN (IGNORING THE REQUEST FOR AN EVITE REMINDER OF THE INTERVIEW): We look forward to seeing you on December twelfth, Alice. I hope you and your family have a lovely fall. Enjoy your trip to Tokyo; I hear the changing leaves are incredible this time of year.
I practically choke on the saccharine dripping from the walls of Roan’s office.
ALICE: Yes, they are, thank . . .
ROAN: Click.
“Well, I think that went well,” I say to Roan, attempting a supportive smile though I know it comes across as slightly pained.
“Yes, beyond delightful. Only 260 more to go, lucky me.” Roan pops another Altoid and turns to answer his ringing phone.
ROAN: Hello again, Alice. Oh, it turns out December twelfth isn’t going to work for you and Steven after all? Are we available in January? Well, let me take a look.
I sprint out of Roan’s office, closing his door behind me. This is his least favorite part of the job and, from prior years’ experience, I know right now I am his least favorite person.
SIX
“When I said I would take you to lunch anywhere you want, I thought it was implied that meant somewhere I would like,” I whine to Roan, the two of us joining the line at the WHAT THE HEMP? vegan food truck in the Presidio. I’m starving from watching Roan sweat over all those parent phone calls.
“Listen, Ms. Chick-fil-A, you can’t pickle yourself in preservatives your whole life. Rumor has it after forty it’s a slippery slope to tubby town. Consider this intervention an early birthday present. Plus, can you think of a more stunning place to have lunch on a sunny day? Just look at the view.”
I’m looking out at the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, but I suspect Roan’s looking at the Rasta millennial sporting a frohawk and a Harvard crew T-shirt tidying up the compost station. As we slowly move up the queue I stare at the menu hoping for an option that looks edible and has not been foraged in the wilderness. “Do you think the tempura is a mix of veggies or more like onion rings?” I ask Roan, happy I’ve found something that actually sounds quite good.
“That’s not tempura, Josie,” Roan shakes his head, exasperated with my lunching habits, “that’s tempeh. It’s a fermented soy patty. Delish in a burger.”
“Oh. I just thought vegans couldn’t spell.”
“Just pick something, please. We’re almost up to order.” I can tell Roan is worried I’m going to accost the urban farmer who will be taking our order with my organic sarcasm.
“Okay, well a burger sounds good, I’ll get that.”
“You realize it’s not a meat burger, right?”
“You just said tempeh is good in a burger.”
“The tempeh is the burger.”
“Then it’s not a burger. A burger has meat.”
“Jesus, just order the sweet potato fries and free me from this lunch hell.”
“Don’t they have real fries?” Roan is speechless. “I’m just messin’ with you. That sounds good. Here’s some cash. Get me an order of sweet potato fries and a drink from a fruit I’ve heard of, no hibiscus or elderberry. I’ll go find us a picnic table.”
I have bought myself five quiet minutes to scroll my IG account on this warm fall day. I have to know what Tracee Ellis Ross is up to. Her fashion sense is off the hook and I can’t help but live vicariously through her posts. Lola knows if Tracee ever wants to be my BFF I will drop her like a bad habit. It’s a mutual understanding.
I feel a shadow fall over me. I put my phone down to see if fog is rolling in to ruin our lunch. At first glance all I see is a very small pair of running shorts atop some tanned and toned legs. Moving up is a sweaty, powder-blue thin T-shirt sticking to a well-defined six pack. I shield my eyes to look all the way up and smiling down at me is a glistening Golden Boy. Literally. He’s blocking my sun so there’s a halo of light around his body. It’s both magical and disturbing. His package is a mere few inches from my face. Close enough to tell something good is definitely wrapped up in that polyester/nylon blend.