Especially at Country Day, where the reputation of the school’s student body meant everything: Ivy League acceptances—good; drug busts on campus—bad. While administrators liked to tout the value of children experiencing “teachable moments” within the “safe environment” of the school, consequences for poor choices were, nonetheless, severe. Country Day enforced a strict zero-tolerance policy for substance infractions, physical altercations, and bullying—a beer at a football game, a fight in the locker room, or an offensive text were all grounds for automatic expulsion.
And that was just Country Day’s punishment; if the police got involved, matters quickly became much more serious. Teepeeing a house could mean charges of trespassing or criminal mischief; having a fake ID was a felony; and being at a party where beer was served could result in an MIP ticket, even for minors not drinking. Threatening texts could constitute cyber bullying and lead to both criminal and civil charges, and receiving a naked “selfie” picture of someone under the age of eighteen was considered distribution of child pornography. While defending against any of these charges was time-consuming and expensive, it was a conviction that parents feared most. Guilty pleas required reporting on college applications, and Yale didn’t likely accept felons.
This explained why Elle and all the other Country Day moms hovered so neurotically over their children. Why they micromanaged every aspect of their teenagers’ lives from the maniacal reading of their texts, to the stalking of their social media accounts, to the placing of tracking devices in their cars. Students couldn’t even go to the movies without an interrogation from their parents akin to the Spanish Inquisition. “Who are you going with? What are you seeing? What time will you be home?”
The perception was that even one slip-up was unacceptable, so parents kept their children in bubbles, like they were veal to keep tender, to protect them from making what they perceived to be life-altering mistakes.
Thus, Thatcher’s situation had been rehashed with unrelenting intrigue. Every detail was poured over to be brought up as fodder for dinner-table conversation—there being no better way to dissuade poor behavior than by scaring your kids to death. “Thatcher got slapped with a harassment charge, and Jacinda’s family is suing. There goes Princeton! Do you want that to happen to you?”
After exhausting the subject of Thatcher’s suspension, the women at Jane’s coffee had then spent twenty more minutes debating whether it would be better for Maggie to order a navy with beige interior or a silver with black interior Range Rover.
Once this had been decided with an overwhelming vote for navy with beige, they reached consensus on a gourmet hot dog bar for the fundraiser—crepe stations being so 2016. The group had gone on to have a spirited discussion over the merits of raising additional funds by selling $100 raffle tickets for the chance to win a three-day rental of a Bentley. Some women thought it rather gauche to expect their children to sell tickets, but Aubrey, whose husband had offered to donate the Bentley, argued that parents could buy the tickets themselves and give them to members of their staff. It might even be tax deductible.
With everyone in agreement that this was a brilliant idea—wouldn’t their gardeners and nannies and housekeepers just love the chance to drive a Bentley?—business was concluded. Before saying their good-byes, Jane had proudly shown sketches of her daughter’s deb gown to a fawning audience. The women had all reacted with enthusiasm—“Absolutely divine”—while secretly taking note of everything they didn’t approve of to be discussed later. “Bell sleeves? Puulease!” Jane’s scones had been admired, but not eaten. Instead of honey, guests had all been gifted homemade beeswax candles. Just what they needed.
As exasperating as all that had been, it paled in comparison to the aggravation caused by Elle’s current hunger. She had limited herself to just coffee at Jane’s and was now starving. To cap it all off, her period had come early. (Perhaps this helped to explain the bizarre nightmare about the animals eating her feminine hygiene products.) Besides having terrible cramps, Elle was deathly afraid she would bleed through her tennis bloomers. She wished she would just go through menopause already. Not having her period would mean one less thing to worry about.
Elle had considered getting out of the tennis match by claiming to be sick, but Thatcher’s mom, unwilling to face all the inevitable questions, had wisely already canceled. If Elle didn’t play, their team would have to forfeit the court and risk losing the match and not qualifying for Nationals. This simply wasn’t an option. To her team, winning tennis matches was Very Important. Right up there with placing the winning bid for a coveted seat next to the headmaster at the Country Day Winter Fest Celebration.
Previously known as the Christmas Program, the Winter Fest Celebration was an opportunity for Elle’s friends to show off a new Badgley Mischka or Diane von Furstenberg dress while ostensibly listening to their children sing songs about snowflakes and hot chocolate. Santa, Hanukkah, and even Kwanzaa references weren’t allowed. The Director of Inclusivity didn’t want to offend anyone.
As it was, Elle’s lack of interest in the tennis match was apparent. She and her doubles partner, Kit, had lost the first set, 1–6, due in large part to Elle’s inconsistent play. This irritated Kit, who tried to hide her frustration by giving Elle peevish pep talks between each point. Realizing somewhere in the second set that she didn’t really care one way or the other how the match ended, Elle relaxed and her game improved. Kit became more energized the better Elle played, high-fiving her after each winning shot. The two were now a point away from taking the second set and getting to a third set tiebreak for the match.
Kit approached Elle while their opponents strategized at the baseline. “I think Liz is getting mental. When you return serve, try hitting it right at her—hard!”
So Liz was the player at net and Heather was the server. They had introduced themselves at the beginning of the match, but Elle couldn’t remember which one was which. They both wore identical lime green Lily Pulitzer tennis dresses and were equally thin and tan, with blonde ponytails and large, fake boobs. The crow’s feet around their eyes had been so heavily Botoxed that each appeared to be in a state of perpetual surprise.
Elle wasn’t judging. Not really. She also got Botox treatments, but just once a year and only sparingly. She didn’t want to look plastic and had to be careful Brynnie wouldn’t find out. Her daughter wouldn’t approve, and Elle didn’t want to be lectured. “Wrinkles are a sign of the wisdom that comes with aging. Stretch marks are a badge of honor. You should embrace them all as signs of feminine power.” Yada, yada, yada. Easy for a teenager with nary a laugh line to say.
Still, Elle didn’t want to provide Brynnie with any more reasons to be disappointed in her, so despite her need for more fillers, she abstained. Elle had also often debated getting a boob job—after breastfeeding two children, her boobs were saggy and rather sad—but she would never be able to hide an actual surgery from Brynnie. Instead, she made it a point to scrutinize other women’s breasts, often with envy.
Elle could always tell those who had had work done. The top of reconstructed breasts, even the tastefully done small ones, had a slight curve and fullness that was simply not possible with age. In this case, it was obvious that Liz and Heather had fake boobs; small women with slight frames didn’t have DDs. It went against nature.
Although she didn’t necessarily plan to follow Kit’s advice, Elle nodded that she understood. Liz took her place at the net while Heather intently bounced the ball with her left hand at the baseline. After thirteen such bounces, she threw the ball high in the air and let out a guttural grunt as she served. It wasn’t a hard serve (certainly not one worthy of the dramatic groan), and Elle could have easily drilled the ball directly at Liz as Kit had directed. Instead, she opted to return a high lob.
Heather let out a loud, dismayed “ugh” as she ran to get the ball. Lob shots were thought to be “lame” and reserved only for those who didn’t have much skill or were over the age of six
ty-five. Real tennis players, like they were, hit the ball hard and with pace. Yep, they were all just one step away from playing Wimbledon, not a bunch of forty-something housewives who had taken up the game within the past few years “for fun.”
Unable to get a good shot off Elle’s lob—maybe because she had exerted so much energy complaining about it—Heather hit back a weak floater, warning Liz, “Short!”
Kit crashed the net and hit the high-floating ball hard, directly at the head of Liz, where it landed against her sunglasses with a loud whap.
“Ow!” Liz immediately dropped her racquet and reached up protectively to her face. Heather rushed to her partner as Elle and Kit approached the net.
Kit spoke first, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to hit you in the face.”
Liz’s Prada sunglasses had broken and a red welt was developing under her eye.
Heather angrily confronted Kit. “I can’t believe you hit her right in the face. What’s wrong with you?”
“I didn’t mean to hit her in the face.” Kit was adamant, adding for emphasis, “Trust me, I’m not good enough to know where I’m going to hit the ball.” She looked to Elle for confirmation, but Elle wasn’t inclined to protect her. Was it passive-aggressive payback for the way, in the beginning, Kit had pretended not to know Elle even though they had been introduced to each other on numerous occasions? Perhaps, but there was also that Kit wasn’t telling the truth—hadn’t she just instructed Elle to take the same exact shot?
Elle put her hand on Liz’s back. “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down for a minute?”
Liz looked at her sunglasses and then back at Kit. “You broke my sunglasses! What were you thinking? That’s so rude!”
Kit crossed her arms in anger. “Whoa! Wait a minute. I said I didn’t mean to hit you!” She sounded indignant, though she had yet to actually say she was sorry.
Heather’s voice rose to a near squeal. “You aimed the ball right at her and you’ve been doing it the entire match.”
The women on the court next to them stopped playing and looked over, trying to figure out what was going on. Elle was sure Aubrey would be there any minute.
Kit shrugged her shoulders, unconcerned. “If you’re afraid of getting hit at the net, you should stand back at the baseline. Getting hit is a risk you take at the net. If you don’t like it, don’t play tennis.”
Seriously? That was Kit’s response?
Something flipped in Elle. She couldn’t take this. If it had happened a few weeks before, she would have gotten right into it with Kit and the other ladies, her high ponytail shaking aggressively with each insulting remark the same as the rest of them. But not today. Elle didn’t have it in her. Three grown women, their perky 350cc boobs bursting out of their overpriced dresses, arguing over a tennis match. It was ridiculous.
“Are you happy, Mom? Are you living your dream?”
Elle needed to leave.
She walked over to the bench on the side of the court and made a show of taking her iPhone out of her Birkin tote. As expected, Aubrey and the rest of the team had gathered around the women who were still arguing loudly.
“Let’s all calm down a minute!” A tournament official, an older gentleman with a stooped back, had entered and was trying to maintain some order. “Can someone go get this young lady some ice for her eye?”
“That’s right. I need ice for my injury,” Liz snarled at Kit. She was so upset that, despite all the Botox, her forehead visibly crinkled in anger.
“Okay. Tell me what happened. One at a time.” Aubrey was in the center of the argument taking over.
Elle reentered the group. “Hey, I’m really sorry. I just checked my phone and I have an emergency. I need to leave.”
“Leave?” Kit and Aubrey expressed their shock in unison.
“I’m so sorry. It can’t be helped; I really have to go.” Elle was feeling far from apologetic, but her desire to leave was growing more urgent by the minute.
“But we won the second set. If we win the tie-break, we will advance.” Kit furrowed her brows as if confused by Elle’s willingness to disregard this important fact.
“Elle? What is it?” Aubrey’s tone expressed concern, but by the slight upturn of her mouth, Elle suspected she was enjoying the moment. She lived for drama.
Elle ignored her teammates and turned to Liz with an outstretched hand. “I’m sorry you were hurt. Really, I am. Good luck with the rest of the tournament.”
Before anyone could say anything else, Elle turned and quickly exited the court. She walked to the parking lot and got into her white Tesla. (A car chosen, in part, to gain her daughter’s approval. Brynnie wouldn’t abide a gas-guzzling SUV.) Elle was proud that she had refrained from engaging in the petty argument. Even though all the signs had pointed to an abysmal day, maybe her luck was changing. That happened sometimes.
Elle decided to test it—the song that was playing when she turned the radio on would be a sign about the rest of her day. As she backed out of the parking lot, Elle turned the dial on—a love song was playing. Love songs didn’t count; Elle had discounted their significance after getting married. They no longer applied to her.
Elle could either wait for the next song or change the channel.
She decided to wait for the next song. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. French fries. She hadn’t eaten a potato, let alone French fries, in longer than she could remember but nothing sounded better than a nice salty pack of fries. Leaving the match early meant Elle had some extra time before her board meeting. She was driving right by a bunch of fast food restaurants—should she pull into a drive-through?
No, she shouldn’t give in to the temptation; she would regret it later. Elle settled on treating herself to a nonfat latte with hazelnut flavoring. That would have to be enough. She grabbed her phone to ask Siri where the closest Starbucks was when a new song came on the radio.
“Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor.
Elle forget about her hunger. She was five years old again, and it was a dark winter morning. She had woken up early, excited because her mom had promised to take her and her brother, Jimmy, to the mall to get their picture taken with Santa Claus. Wearing only a sleeveless pink Cinderella nightgown made of thin polyester, Elle was cold. She reached for Jimmy. He was cold, too.
Honk! Honk!
The light Elle was stopped at had turned green. Startled, she put her foot on the gas, drove through the intersection and pulled over.
“Sweet Baby James.”
Depending on her mood, Elle interpreted this song in one of two ways: it could provide an endearing memory of her beloved brother, or a devastating reminder of her role in his death. Elle put her head against the steering wheel and cried. After the day she was having, hearing this song could only mean one thing.
A bad day, indeed. The question was, just what was next?
Chapter Six
Phillip Phillips: “Home”
September 1, 1992
9:13 a.m.
This has got to be the worst fucking shower ever.
Elle had woken up eager to see what her first full day in Tokyo would bring, but her excitement was quickly replaced with irritation.
First, her room smelled like ass. The Iranian brothers had returned from their night shift and stunk up the entire space with their BO. Elle couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Gagging, she had hurried into the bathroom only to discover that there was a coin slot in the shower door. Apparently, you had to pay to take a shower. Seriously?
Elle didn’t have any Japanese coins and Mitch was still asleep, so she had no choice but to slog her way into Watanabe’s office and ask him for change. She hadn’t thought to put a bra on first, and Watanabe had inappropriately ogled at her breasts for several long minutes before finally handing her a 250-yen coin. What a pervert.
Making matters worse, there was little water pressure in the shower and what was dripping out was lukewarm. Shivering, Elle tried in vain to increase the water
temperature. When that didn’t work, she settled on washing her hair as quickly as possible. Although thankful there was a dispenser with soap and shampoo in it—Elle hadn’t thought to pack those things—there was no conditioner, so she would have to deal with impossible tangles in her long hair.
FUUUCK!
Elle was cold, rankled, and in desperate need of a cup of coffee.
Suddenly, the shower door opened and she saw one of the men she shared a room with lewdly staring at her. “Aah!” Elle screamed, crossing her legs and simultaneously trying to cover her boobs and pubic area with her hands.
Her roommate licked his lips in such a crude and vulgar way that Elle was momentarily scared into silence. Regaining her senses, she turned her back to him and yelled, “Get out!”
Within seconds, Mitch arrived. “Leave her alone!” He clutched the perpetrator’s hair from behind, turned him around, and awkwardly hit him on the jaw with a clenched fist.
As her roommate fell to the ground from the impact of Mitch’s punch, Elle hurriedly grabbed the towel she had put over the shower door and covered herself with it.
By this time, Watanabe was in the bathroom. “What going on?” He looked around, confused.
“This fucking pervert was spying on my friend.” Mitch cradled his hand as though it hurt.
“You very bad man. I get police.” Watanabe made a dramatic show of kicking the man on the floor.
“Come on.” Mitch reached out his hand and led a shaking Elle out of the bathroom. Curious about the commotion, a crowd of residents had gathered in the hall. A few of them whistled as Elle walked by. She felt vulnerable and more than a little afraid. Maybe she had been wrong. Misinterpreted the signs. Had coming to Japan been a colossal mistake?
Chapter Seven
The Cars: “Good Times Roll”
Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Page 5