Ultimately, Elle had abandoned this as too risky. Aubrey might say something to Four. Instead, she decided to make up an emergency involving her gardener. There were two upsides to this explanation: Aubrey didn’t know her gardener so there would be no way to check the veracity of the story; and Elle, not Aubrey, would be the hero—the person needed to swoop in and fix the problem. As Aubrey wouldn’t repeat something that was, frankly, not only boring—an emergency with the staff? Yawn!—but also didn’t make her look good, the whole episode would die down quickly.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to put Aubrey off any longer, Elle pushed the answer button on her steering wheel. “Hello?” Elle spoke more loudly than was necessary. She was a little nervous—Aubrey would be irritated she hadn’t returned her earlier calls.
“Oh my gosh, Elle. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.” Aubrey couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I’ve been sooo worried about you. Are you okay?” (“Please, please tell me you’re not.”)
“Oh, thanks. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch; it’s just been so crazy,” Elle paused, sensing Aubrey’s anticipation for the reveal of the Big Crisis. What could possibly have been so urgent that she would leave such an important tennis match? Cheating? Injury? Death? “My gardener had a family emergency, and he couldn’t think of anyone but me to call for help.”
“Oh no! That’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear that. What can I do to help?” Though Aubrey masked it well—she was good at all this—Elle could sense her disappointment. There would be no juicy story to tell after all. Darn. Too bad.
This was all as Elle had anticipated. Aubrey would express concern and then find a way to insert herself into the drama. Elle had prepared for this, and her confidence grew. “Oh, thanks. It’ll be fine . . . Is Kit upset we had to forfeit?”
Elle already knew the answer to this question. There was no way Kit was fine with forfeiting. It would affect her standing. Women from other clubs would look up her record and see the match recorded as a loss. Totally unacceptable. Still, she had to ask.
“No, not at all. She was just worried about you. We all were. When you didn’t return my calls, I was just frantic.”
And just like that, Aubrey made the entire situation about her. She really was a pro.
There was an awkward silence. Elle was supposed to apologize for not considering how her own personal crisis (make-believe or not) had affected Aubrey’s feelings. Elle refused to say sorry, but she couldn’t stand the uncomfortable quiet. “Well, I hope the team . . .”
“That’s my contractor on the other line. I’ve got to get this,” Aubrey curtly interrupted Elle. “I’m so pissed. They put walnut stain on the hardwood floors in the lake house. I told them ebony, not walnut. Gotta go—I’ll see you at the game.”
With that, Aubrey hung up, the pressing needs of the remodel on her second home trumping, at least temporarily, the drama on the tennis court. Or perhaps she was just angry that she didn’t get her apology. Either way, Elle was pleased with how she had handled the call. It was a good performance.
Waved through the Welcome Center by a security guard, Elle slowed as a group of teenagers she recognized as Country Day students walked across the road directly in front of her. The students didn’t pause, look up at Elle, or make any gesture indicating thanks that she had yielded to them. They simply continued looking down at their phones as though traffic should stop for them.
Elle wasn’t surprised by this display of entitlement. These teens were, after all, members of a generation who regularly received “participation” trophies at competitions (rewarding just the winners was not inclusive and hurt feelings) and had lavish parties thrown in their honor for accomplishments as banal as successfully completing fifth grade. These were the same children for whom the local police shut down an entire city street during the middle of a busy workday, just so they could cross over and walk to a frozen-yogurt shop on a fourth-grade field trip. It was no wonder they didn’t feel the need to be appreciative. The rules did not apply to them. They were special.
Elle wished she had listened with a more open mind to Brynnie when she’d expressed a desire to leave Country Day after eighth grade and go to their local public high school. At the time, it didn’t seem to make any sense. Country Day was A Very Good School. Why would Brynnie want to leave? Elle had sought the counsel of other Country Day parents and they each had convincing arguments for why Brynnie should stay.
“Central has only six AP courses, and they don’t even offer Mandarin!”
“Our son visited, and he was completely bored in all the classes. Country Day covered the same material in seventh grade!”
“Central’s valedictorian didn’t get into one single Ivy. The counselors at Country Day have much better connections.”
Elle had listened to her peers and convinced Win, who in turn convinced Brynnie, to stay and graduate from Country Day. It was the last time the two of them had successfully imposed their will on their daughter, and Elle now recognized it had been a mistake.
Who could blame them? Elle had believed what all the other Country Day parents needed to believe to justify the over $30,000 in annual tuition: they were providing their children with a significantly better experience, a leg up. Why settle for anything less? As one mom said, “I told Carter, public school is not an option.” She had said it with such horror, as if going to public school was the equivalent of not feeding your child. Or in this mom’s case, akin to—gasp!—letting your kids eat foods containing processed white flour.
In this way, the private-school business model thrived, feeding off affluent parents’ fears that their perfectly perfect child would not lead a perfectly perfect life. At Country Day they could all relax, smug in the knowledge they were giving their kids The Very Best. From the free-range chicken served at lunch, to the locker rooms stocked with Aveda products, to the spring trip to the Cayman Islands for underwater photography class.
Elle’s peer group had expressed great relief when Brynnie stayed on. “Whew.” A disaster had been averted—imagine sending your child off to a school that didn’t have a dander-free golden doodle as a therapy dog available for playing with between classes. “Disgraceful!” And besides, everyone knew a public-school education provided nothing better than a one-way ticket to a university with “state” in its name—a surefire path to a life of mediocrity. Their children deserved more.
Acknowledgement that students could excel outside the confines of a private school would diminish the significant financial investment of the Country Day parents, so those few who did leave were rarely mentioned and their achievements always came with some sort of caveat.
“Everyone knows it’s easy to get an A at a public school. The academics at Country Day are so much more rigorous.”
“She was the valedictorian with only a 4.1—a 4.1!”
“Of course she got in to Middlebury—her uncle donated a building.”
It was much more satisfying for Country Day parents to talk about the very few students who left the school and later regretted it. “Tsk. Tsk. We knew. We warned them.”
Elle circled around the lot, looking for a place to park. There were few open spots, all the large SUVs took up slightly more than one space, leaving little room for anyone else. She saw Brynnie’s Prius and was pleased. Given the argument with Four earlier, she had been unsure if her daughter would come to the game. Maybe things with Jacinda hadn’t been so bad after all.
Elle carefully parked her Tesla in a tight space between a Hummer and a Mercedes Jeep. She couldn’t understand the appeal of these types of cars when you lived in a metropolitan area. What was the point? On your way to Saks you might suddenly need to go off-road and traverse through rugged terrain? Or was it case you needed to drive over a Kia to get to the front of the line at the Starbucks’ drive-through?
Hearing the beep of an incoming text, Elle checked her phone. It was from Win: Depart Tokyo 6/1 return 6/8. Ok for you and kids? At game. Se
e you soon.
Ugh. Japan. Not again. Elle had successfully blocked thoughts of a trip back to Tokyo for the better part of the day. She didn’t want to start thinking about it now.
Elle was exhausted, completely drained. She wanted nothing more than to escape. To go home, get into her pajamas, cuddle with Duke, and lose herself listening to some U2. Sure, Elle was excited for Four, but she didn’t want to go to this game, to talk about tennis, about what Thatcher had or hadn’t done. To smile and act like everything was perfectly fine.
“Are you happy, Mom? Are you living your dream?”
Elle put her head against the backseat of her car and held onto the steering wheel with both arms extended, willing herself strength. She needed to get it together. It was an important night for her son. She pictured Jimmy, not asleep with his eyes open, but smiling at her as she held his head up. He would have come to Four’s game, the proud uncle.
Elle could do it. She had to.
Determined, Elle checked her hair in the rearview mirror and applied some pale-pink lip gloss. The signs had rightly predicted a bad day for her, but maybe it would be different for Four. She would listen for a sign. Elle turned up the radio. Heart’s “Magic Man” was just ending. On the surface, it was a love song and didn’t count. But then again, the lyrics talked about a man with magic hands. This could be interpreted as a message that Four was going to play well—everyone always said he had “soft, magical hands.” Yes, that must be what it meant. It was a good sign.
Elle wasn’t convinced. She would listen for one more song, just to make sure. She changed the channel. Queen’s “We Are the Champions” came through her stereo. Elle smiled; she loved it when the signs were so clear and direct. Her mood greatly improved, Elle turned the volume up and sang along. Four’s team would win the game; she was sure of it.
Chapter Nine
Weezer: “My Best Friend”
October 16, 1992
11:43 a.m.
Making coffee wrapped only in a towel and with dripping wet hair, Elle was grateful for the privacy afforded by the new apartment she and Mitch had recently moved into. It was a small studio, nothing more than a tiny square room with two futons for sleeping, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. Still, they were thrilled to get it. Although Elle and Mitch had enjoyed the relative calm of an empty Zen House for one blissful month after the immigration raid, Watanabe had soon filled it again with other laborers. More people meant more odd smells, noises, and longer wait times for the shower and toilet. The situation was becoming unbearable for them both, but they had few options.
It was incredibly difficult for foreigners to rent apartments in Tokyo. The rents themselves were exorbitantly high, and Japanese landlords had a system of requiring reikin or “key money” to secure an apartment. Key money was a sort of gift to the landlord, and it usually meant anywhere from three to six months’ rent in advance. Even though Elle was now working with Mitch at English First and they had good salaries, it would take them months of saving to come up with both the rent and key money. And even then, it could still be challenging to find a landlord willing to rent to gaijins.
Luckily for Elle and Mitch, one of their students at English First had been accepted to graduate school in America and had offered to sublet his apartment to them. This was a real coup as the studio came furnished, and they gladly accepted the offer.
That Elle and Mitch would live together was a given. They had become fast friends, spending every day together since their first meeting at Narita six weeks earlier. Free from sexual tension, they enjoyed an easy, uncomplicated relationship. Like an old married couple, they had even established a routine.
Both required caffeine immediately upon waking, so they took turns waking up early and making coffee. If they were unusually tired or hungover and needed an extra boost of caffeine, on their way to work they would make a quick stop at McDonald’s for two large drinks—Coke for Mitch and Diet Coke with extra ice for Elle.
Today was Elle’s turn to wake up first. She poured two cups of coffee and walked toward a still sleeping Mitch. She hated to disturb him. He looked so content lying sprawled out on his stomach, one arm and a leg lazily stretched out, spilling onto Elle’s adjacent futon.
“Okay, sleepyhead. Time to make the donuts.” Elle set down one cup of coffee and gently shook Mitch’s shoulder with her free hand.
“Five more minutes,” Mitch pleaded, turning his back to Elle.
“Two and a half or we won’t have time to go to McDonald’s.” It had been a particularly late night—they would definitely need extra caffeine that day.
Elle took a sip of coffee and turned on the TV. She had been taking Japanese language classes twice a week, and her teacher had recommended watching cartoons as a good way to pick up new words. Mitch had studied Japanese in college and was so proficient in the language that he often translated for her. Elle was determined to catch up with him.
She set her mug of coffee on top of the TV and began to blow-dry her hair. Elle tried to follow along with the cartoon, but she was too hung-over and couldn’t concentrate on the unfamiliar words. She turned the TV off and flipped on the radio, certain Mitch would scold her laziness.
Hair nearly dry, Elle rustled Mitch again. “Wakey, wakey.”
“Aaaah . . .” Mitch stretched out. “What time did we get home?”
“I’m not really sure. Maybe around four?” Elle had a flash of the previous evening. “Oh no! Don’t tell me I mooned those guys from Datsun!”
Mitch sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh yeah, that’s right. You did. At one point, I thought you were going to go all full-frontal Basic Instinct on them.”
“Oh no! Really?” Elle grimaced. That would have been a bit much, even for her.
Elle’s drinking had taken on new dimensions since her arrival in Tokyo. Sure, she had partied like everyone else in college, drinking her fair share of Everclear-spiked punch from a red Solo cup. Having spent the better part of her childhood in bars, Elle was right at home in frat houses and was often sought out for her skills at darts, pool, and quarters. But whereas in college, Elle limited herself to just a few drinks on week-ends, she partied hard almost every night now and her drunken behavior had become increasingly outrageous.
Mooning Japanese businessmen was Elle’s most recent party trick. She found the looks of shocked delight on her unsuspecting victims to be hilarious. It was harder to understand the humor in her behavior when sober, and Elle often regretted her late-night antics the next morning.
Still, Elle didn’t question why she was partying more. Every young person in Tokyo seemed to be doing the exact same thing. And besides, she was having a blast. For the first time, Elle was completely free from the undercurrent of anxiety that always seemed to accompany her. Gone was her sense of trying, always trying. Elle was relaxed. Nothing seemed to worry her. It was amazing.
“Aaaah.” Mitch turned his head in a slow circle and then stood, his impossibly long, lean frame filling up the small room. “Did you happen to look at the schedule yesterday? I think my first class today is with Mrs. Tadahari.”
“Oh, joy.” Elle curled her hair in soft ringlets away from her face. “With my luck, I’ll get that skeevy Adahiro.”
Although most of their students at English First were pleasant enough—young, engaging college kids, sweet, giggly housewives, and serious businessmen—there were a few students Elle and Mitch couldn’t stand. Mrs. Tadahari and Mr. Adahiro were two of them.
Mrs. Tadahari was a know-it-all and tight-ass, the kind of person who never let their gas meter get below a half a tank and who brought their own popcorn to the movies to save money. She took pleasure in correcting her teachers on useless grammatical pedagogy. Really, did it matter what a dangling modifier was? Who cares? Mr. Adahiro spent the better part of his lessons trying to make physical contact with Elle. He was a total pervert who made no effort to hide his obsession with pornographic anime magazines. Gross.
Even so,
all said, teaching at English First was a good gig. Being well paid and not having to be at work until one o’clock weren’t the only perks of the job. As all Japanese children learned to read and write English beginning in grade school, the work itself was easy—they didn’t so much “teach” as offer encouragement and correct pronunciation. A typical work day for Elle and Mitch consisted of five individual classes, followed by an hour off for dinner (and a beer, sometimes two, if they had time), and then ended in the “Conversation Room”—easily the best part of their day.
Designed to look like a typical living room in a suburban American home, the Conversation Room served as a non-threatening place for English First students to improve their fluency by engaging in “Free Talk” with teachers. The only restrictions were to avoid political and religious dialogue. Given this freedom and encouraged by their drinks at dinner, Elle and Mitch had made it a game to see which of them could out-shock the other with innuendo or double entendre which the Japanese students wouldn’t understand. The more outrageous the comment, the better.
“So, Mrs. Yamamoto, would you like to tea bag Mitch?”
“Do you like to mow your wife’s grass, Mr. Yadashi?”
“Did he make you wet, Ayumi?”
The Japanese students were so sweetly naive in their confusion at these statements that sometimes Mitch and Elle were remorseful over their childish jokes. But only a little. Yes, it may have been immature and inappropriate, but it wasn’t malicious. Mostly, they were pleased with themselves and how clever they were. Mitch had even introduced his Overrated/Underrated game to the Conversation Room. It proved to be quite popular.
Mitch winced as he got up. “Middle-aged Japanese man trying to cop a feel. Yeah, highly overrated.” He popped two aspirin into his mouth, washing them down with a large swig of coffee. “But I’d rather Mrs. Tadahari—who for sure has a smelly va-jay-jay—make a play for me than listen to her annoying, high-pitched voice. ‘Mitch-san, isn’t that a double negative?’”
Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Page 7