“Oh yeah, that’s right, you were an admissions virgin.”
“And you were the older director who popped an innocent assistant’s cherry. Now I daresay the mystery is gone in our relationship.” Roan sighs and reaches for another stack of applications.
I open the next family folder.
“Let’s hear what Vanessa Grimaldi has to say about her daughter, Antonia. Oh, oh, wait here’s a picture of sweet Antonia actually demonstrating her perfection.” I hold up the picture of Antonia in painter overalls with a bandana securing her hair hunched over what looks to be a forged van Gogh, The Starry Night.
“That’s totally photoshopped, you know,” Roan huffs, barely giving the photo a second look.
“I don’t know, maybe not, she could be a prodigy, it’s possible.” As director of admissions I have to keep up appearances of neutrality and positivity toward each applicant. Roan doesn’t buy it.
“Or it could be paint by numbers. Which basically tells us that, at five, Antonia knows her numbers and primary colors. Hardly a prodigy.” Good point, I have to concede. I move on to read the first essay question:
1. What are your child’s greatest challenges?
While a typical little girl in many ways (she loves frozen yogurt and having her nanny French braid her hair), since Antonia was born while summering with our families on the Amalfi Coast, Tommaso and I have struggled to find peers for our sweet daughter to play with who are able to keep up with her ability to focus; produce quality drawings, sculptures, and three-dimensional structures; as well as her European tendencies toward more refined food and outings. We encourage Antonia to go outside and play American games with the neighborhood kids so she may be one of them, but she insists on intently working on her own masterpieces in her loft art room overlooking the Bay (views can be so inspirational; perhaps we should move her studio to the basement to encourage her to be a normal child!). Our hope is that by going to a school like Fairchild Antonia will be encouraged to spread her focus and perfectionist tendencies toward other endeavors. We know she has multiple talents and potential capabilities to discover and to share with the world, but right now she is limiting herself to art. Though a true raw talent due to a lineage of famous Italian alfresco painters, she needs to expand her work and her learning, and we believe Fairchild is the best school for her to spread her wings.
Roan grabs the application folder from me and starts thumbing through the whole thing. “Well, one perfect child won’t ruin the school. Unless the Grimalidis show up at their parent interview with a six pack of spitting camels we should definitely put them in the to be considered pile.”
“What? Camels spit? Wait, who’s in charge here? We never like nascent divas, you’re breaking with tradition.”
“That may be true, but we LOVE a nascent diva whose father is heir to an international spa empire. The name Grimaldi doesn’t ring a bell? They own Casa di Bella in the Presidio near Lucas Arts. It is three stories of pure five-star Pacific pampering. I’ve heard their espresso enema followed by a Colombian roast body scrub is to die for. You lose five pounds in ninety minutes, have energy for days, and feel smooth like a peach. We take the kid, I can stay twenty-nine forever or for as long as Antonia is at Fairchild.”
“Roan, seriously, you understand we can’t do that, right?”
“No, Josie, you don’t understand. You’re black. Your people don’t age. Look at Aunt Viv. She’s sixty-nine going on forty-two. She IS the poster child for ‘black don’t crack.’ I’m Irish, we look at a lager and we get all ruddy and age ten years. But that doesn’t seem to stop us from drinking. If I keep up my night-clubbing routine, soon I’m going to be thirty going on fifty-four. I need a spa heir in my back pocket. Please, please. Do it for my future children.”
“You don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“Exactly, and I certainly won’t ever have a boyfriend and then husband and then said children if I look like a weathered Irish mailman from County Cork. I need the spa to ensure my husband is as hot as Golden Boy.” Roan has raised some very fine admission points to consider.
“Well, like I’ve always said, we do need to prioritize what’s best for the children, real or imaginary.” I wink at Roan and toss Antonia’s file to the top of the to be considered pile and open a new folder. Each of us is due our favorites, regardless of rhyme or reason.
* * *
• • •
Ding.
Saturday morning, I wake up feeling fuzzy, sluggish, and regretful from eating a bowl full of Skittles followed by multiple Jack Daniel’s shots and a subsequent turn on the karaoke stage. Lola is hands down my sista from another mister, but I do have a few friends from my days as a student at Fairchild who I see from time to time. This year we are all turning forty and these girls don’t mess around with their celebratin’. These fortieth birthday parties are going to ensure me an early death. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know I look as tired as the entire seventh-grade class on a post–bar mitzvah Monday morning. Only, my headache and puffy eyes are much worse. And who the hell is texting me so early in the morning? I pick up my phone to check. Whoops, it’s actually 10:45. Hopefully Etta found a ride to ballet. She’s probably texting me to let me know who picked her up; damn, I raised a responsible girl. Even from bed I’m an exceptional mother.
TY
Hi, Josie. It’s Ty Golden. Just want to check in and see how your aunt Viv’s doing. I hope you’ve been able to keep her off her feet and out of the kitchen. Her medication shouldn’t be causing any trouble, but for some people it can be upsetting to the stomach. If it’s bothering her let me know and I can stop by and check in. Hope it’s okay to text on a Saturday morning. I’ve been at the hospital doing rounds since six and wanted to make sure all is good in the Bordelon house.
10:45 A.M.
I bet Golden Boy has saved multiple lives in the amount of time it’s taken me to semi sleep off a hangover. And he texts with perfect grammar. Who does that? Well, better he text this morning than call. I’m not sure I can formulate an intelligent sentence through the cotton field that has sprouted in my mouth. Luckily, even on death’s door I can still type.
JOSIE
Dr. Golden, thanks for check in. Aunt Viv has come to embrace Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and bossing me around more than usual. My hope is that she continues to get her energy back so she can return to school and boss other people around for a change. I’m an admissions director not a nurse, though you may have been understandably confused given my stellar bedside manner in the hospital. Medication A.O.K.
10:46 A.M.
Ugh, I gotta brush my teeth. I officially can’t stand myself.