“I think our system works pretty well. Look at all the great families we have enrolled right now,” Elizabeth one of the third-grade teachers chimes in, trying to interrupt my public humiliation that Nan is enjoying a little too much.
“Well, yes, Josie has probably convinced you that her system works well, but I am here to tell you I have seen more erudite systems at our rival schools. I believe Josie is really holding back progress at Fairchild and I have to say I’m terribly concerned, thus why I’m here.” For a second time Roan is silently screaming at me, WHAT DOES ERUDITE MEAN?!?!?! I give him a subtle shrug. I have a bigger problem on my hands than a limited vocabulary.
I remind myself I have made it further into this school year than in years past before I start to hate Nan all over again. Once a year, somewhere between early November and mid-December, Nan does something to remind me how my professional enjoyment and satisfaction is directly linked to how threatened she is feeling by me at any given moment. Usually the abuse takes place in private, but this year she has ratcheted it up a notch by taking her superior stance against me public.
“In fact, Nan, we use the same admissions evaluation and measurement standards as every other private school in the Bay Area. The directors of admissions across all the schools spent two years developing the standards together, beta testing it together, and it has now been in use in all the schools for four years; a decision we agreed upon—together. You would know this if you had ever bothered to attend an admissions committee meeting prior to today.” I’m swinging just shy of the fences by putting Nan on Front Street like this. I can’t afford to get fired, but I certainly am not going to take Nan’s humiliation in front of my committee lying down.
“Well, this system of yours had better produce enough money, I mean, quality families, to build my STEAMS program. Good to see you all. Don’t let me stop your work from continuing. I’m sure you eight educational powerhouses can more than make up for Josie’s shortcomings. For your commitment and service to keeping Fairchild a highly regarded school, I have Jane’s on Fillmore delivering a selection of healthy, organic, locally sourced salads, a vast assortment of baked goods, and an array of juices for your lunch. And, Josie, I haven’t had time to tell Aunt Viv about the fabulous party I’m throwing for her. Since it’s almost the holiday break I’ve decided I’m indeed going to leave it to you to give her the good news. Oh, and, Roan, don’t worry, I remembered that the beet, carrot, apple, and ginger juice is your favorite.” Nan gives Roan a smile and heads out the conference room door.
“OH GOODY!!!!!” Roan squeals, clapping his hands together like a toddler moving up the line to see Santa.
“Touch that juice when it’s delivered and you’re dead,” is the only thing I can think to say to control my temper and also reestablish some sense of governance in the room. Yeah, that’s right, I’m making Roan pick between Nan and me over a juice that makes you shit red.
STRESS SEASON
FIFTEEN
Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I still haven’t mentioned anything about the anniversary party to Aunt Viv. This is my silent protest against The Man or, really, Nan.
If I’m truly laying it all out there, I was hopeful Nan’s recent rant against me had forced her to reconsider if she wanted to celebrate any Bordelon at all. Or at least not spend Fairchild money on an event Aunt Viv would detest: two hundred people stuffed in gowns and tuxes crowded in Fairchild’s grand black-and-white foyer to celebrate her famous third Friday of the month macaroni and cheese. For weeks after Nan suggested the party I had night terrors that she would insist there be a receiving line for people to offer Aunt Viv their congratulations and for Nan to receive accolades for dreaming up such a glorious celebration. Nan loves any formality that reeks of royalty and power. If I can make it to the New Year without Nan asking if I shared the news of the party with Aunt Viv, perhaps we will all be off the hook.
“Come on, Aunt Viv. If you take much longer you won’t officially be the first person seated for this year’s Nutcracker. Do you really want to ruin your ten-year early bird record?” I yell down the hall. Etta’s final year attending the San Francisco Ballet School and she’s been selected to dance the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy. She burst into tears when she found out in early November and it gave me a tinge of warm fuzzy that Jean Georges could put aside our differences and grant Etta this iconic solo for her final season. I send myself a reminder e-mail from my phone to put Jean Georges on the list of people in Etta’s life to receive a senior picture and a graduation announcement. Though he’s one of my least favorite people, Etta would not be the person she is without him. E-mail sent, but still no Aunt Viv. I scroll through my Fairchild account pretty sure I won’t have any new e-mail on a Sunday afternoon, but thinking I can use these few minutes of quiet to clean out my in-box while Aunt Viv finishes getting ready.
FROM: Jean Georges Martin
DATE: December 9, 2018
SUBJECT: Sugar Plum Fairy
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
It has come to my attention that Etta has twice left Nutcracker rehearsal early and she has requested her understudy for not one, but two performances so she may work on her college applications. I’m sure this brings you great joy to know Etta is neglecting her role in one of the top Nutcracker performances in the country. Instead she is using her time to apply to colleges she has no desire to attend, but apparently you do. I hope the parents’ weekend lives up to your expectations.
While I have never been a parent I have had the best interest of over 800 students in my heart and in my mind for the 18 years I have been Artistic Director of the San Francisco Ballet School. It seems to me that you, as a mother, could take a mere moment to do the same with your one child.
I expect Etta will not need to miss any rehearsals or performances after you have read this e-mail.
May the holidays bring good tidings to Etta and Aunt Viv.
Merci beacoup,
Jean Georges Martin
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR
SAN FRANCISCO BALLET SCHOOL
And with one click my Nutcracker has been ruined. That wrinkled rat king really knows how to piss me off. I didn’t ask Etta to miss rehearsals or performances to work on her essays; she concluded that she needs that time to honor our arrangement all on her own. If she can get the essays and applications done without missing any ballet that’s fine by me. My only request was to get it done by December 31 and like you said, Herr Drosseldick, she is my daughter and my word is the law.
Aunt Viv walks down the long, narrow hallway from our bedrooms toward the light streaming through the bay window at the front of the apartment. She is wearing her best suit, the one that’s reserved for homegoings, important church meetings, and the occasional wedding. Until Aunt Viv is clearly in the light it’s difficult to distinguish between the dark roast of her skin and the midnight-blue of her suit. Her red lipstick outlines the greatest smile and the wickedest tongue I’ve ever known. Her matching purse and white gloves pick at a memory so deep in my mind I’m not sure if it’s real. I vaguely remember my grandmother extending her white-gloved hand to hold mine as we walked to church when I was still living in New Orleans. Or was it my mother? Or was that Aunt Viv when I first arrived in San Francisco?