“Did you ever visit her? That place is something special.”
“I knew it once, when I was a little girl, but I don’t remember anything really and I haven’t been back since.”
“That’s a shame. Ugh, gotta go, only time for a quick lunch today. Thank you guys for sharing your picnic table and for the good company.” Ty lays his hand over mine. I feel my heart rate slow a beat and my body heat rise. This has been one of the more enjoyable lunches I’ve had in a while. “Guess I’ll be seeing you at the parent interview that’s coming up in the next month or two, right? I’m not completely sure when it is. Daniel lays out the schedule, and I do what I’m told.”
“Yeah, I prefer to be told what to do, too.” Roan stands to shake Ty’s hand, shattering my moment of bliss. Good thing our business manager never leaves campus to witness things like Roan’s half professional, half flirtatious, 100 percent unscrupulous moves. This is an HR disaster in the making.
“Bye, Josie. Good to see you, Roan.” Ty grabs his sandwich basket and looks around the grounds for a garbage can. This handsome man even picks up after himself. I give him a quick wave and then I watch Roan watch Ty walk away. He looks like a pointer dog on the brink of chasing his hunt.
“Stand down, soldier.” I pull Roan back onto the bench and hold him there. I pop another fake fry into my mouth which, admittedly, tastes pretty good and I, too, watch Golden Boy walk away, unable to avert my gaze.
SEVEN
ETTA
I’m catching a ride with Poppy. Don’t 4get 2 bring leg warmers 4 after dance, don’t want to pull hammy. Tell Lola hey. Don’t be late. Again.
3:18 P.M.
LOLA
Bruce Lee not feeling it today. Please don’t drink alone. Not a good look. Lo
3:20 P.M.
Damn. Etta’s got a ride to dance and Lola’s ditching our Tuesday date. Now I have no excuse to avoid building the applicant database, a director of admission’s Mount Everest.
I clean out my junk mail, junk drawer, and junk food cabinet. I fluff the pillows on my meet-and-greet chairs, I check the paper in the printer, and I settle into a half-full bag of chocolate pretzels. I stare at the water stain on my ceiling that I think is growing, but I’m not sure. I admire my black patent strappy flats I got for a steal off Gilt. Not terribly comfortable, but damn do they look good. I check WeeScholars—ten more applications this afternoon. I give Facebook a quiet peruse, pretending to read posted New York Times articles, but really hunting for upcoming flash sales.
I have an e-mail from Nan Gooding, Fairchild’s invisible head of school. Well, invisible if you are a student or one of her administrative staff. If you are a parent or alumnus with wads of cash and, even better, a penis, you have her undivided attention. Nan has yet to find any sense of professional responsibility to mentor the next generation of female school leaders. She would rather be the scarce silk scarf in an ocean of bow ties and blue blazers than share the waters with her own kind. Dealing with her is best done first thing in the morning, when her fresh eight ounces of coffee has kicked in. I give the first of the two e-mails a quick once-over and make a mental note to return to it tomorrow morning, if action or contact is truly necessary.
FROM: Nan Gooding
DATE: October 9, 2018
SUBJECT: Next year’s potential donor list
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
I would like the list of the 20 top potential donors that you have come across so far in this year’s applicant pool. As you are aware, this is important information for the head of school to have, so I would appreciate you prioritizing it. Please send it to Elsa, my assistant, when it’s ready.
Nan Gooding
HEAD OF SCHOOL
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
Nan never just says Elsa, but “Elsa, my assistant.” It’s become one word, or one name, Elsamyassistant, and a constant reminder to everyone in school that she’s the only one with a personal assistant. Nan is like that kid in every neighborhood who runs over to your front steps to let you know you just missed the ice cream man while devouring a Big Stick inches from your face. You hate that kid, but there is also a weird reverence for the things she has that you don’t.
Once I know all the students are off campus, I open my window for the cool air and consider playing something with an old-school bass line to get myself pumped to start building. The rain is coming down hard outside, so it feels more like a Macklemore kind of day than early Jackson Five—back before Michael started playing plastic-surgery roulette and Tito fancied himself a politician. I crank a little Gemini, still unsure if I’m okay with Macklemore flying solo without Ryan Lewis, and decide to check my e-mail one more time before truly diving into learning the new CRM system Fairchild installed over the summer. E-mail is the low-hanging fruit of professional accomplishment.
FROM: Jean Georges Martin
DATE: October 9, 2018
SUBJECT: Your commitment to Etta’s dance career
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Dear Ms. Bordelon,
The finance office has again brought it to my attention that you have not yet paid for the fall quarter of the San Francisco Ballet School. I hate to be the one to tell you that this is the third time in four years you are late with payment. While I know Etta is a fiercely committed ballerina, over the years I have questioned your commitment to your daughter and her promising career. Please visit the finance office at your earliest convenience, meaning this afternoon, to sort this business out. It would be a shame to have to refuse Etta a prominent role in the spring production of Don Quixote because her mother did not prioritize her daughter’s talent.
I write with only the best intentions on behalf of your daughter, Etta Bordelon.
Merci beaucoup,
Jean Georges Martin
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR
SAN FRANCISCO BALLET SCHOOL
Fucker. To say that Jean Georges and I have a chilly relationship would be like saying hell was slightly hot. Ever since I refused to straighten Etta’s hair when she was eight, so it would fit in a perfectly shellacked bun like all the other young partygoers’ in The Nutcracker, Jean Georges has considered me an unfortunate hurdle he has had to leap over (or knock down) in order to grow Etta’s gift. If it hadn’t been so obvious by the time Etta turned eight that she would be the pinnacle of his teaching career, he would never have tolerated what he considers my intolerable disregard for rules and, by proxy, him. The missing bobby pins, the passion plum lipstick rather than the ballet school’s sanctioned soft orchid rose (no brown-skinned female would be caught dead in pink lipstick), the refusal to buy Etta more than one pair of ballet shoes at a time (less a refusal and more a lack of funds). If it weren’t for her unmatchable talent, Jean Georges would have bid Etta and my crazy ass adieu and moved on to a family who reveled in their child being under the tutelage of such a highly regarded—his words, not mine—ballet school director.