Elle continued into the stadium and saw Regina Moore, one of Brynnie’s favorite teachers. Elle often sought out Regina’s company at school events. She was kind, smart, and interesting to talk to.
“Hi, Regina, it’s so nice of you to come tonight.” Elle was impressed that Brynnie’s teacher had made the effort to come to the game. She couldn’t imagine that Regina was an avid sports fan. She was too earthy, too academic—someone who didn’t own a TV and spent her weekends reading the classics with a steamy cup of Earl Grey tea.
“Well, I admit I don’t know much about lacrosse, but I wanted to be here to support my students.”
Of course. Elle knew there was a good reason why she was drawn to Regina. She was genuine; a person who actually cared about others.
Regina took in the atmosphere. “What a glorious evening it is.”
“Yes, it is!” Elle nodded in agreement. Wanting to demonstrate a sincere gratitude, she placed her hand in Regina’s and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much Brynnie is enjoying your class on postmodern feminism in fiction. She was really moved by . . .”
“Hey.” Elle was interrupted by a gruff voice. Ward Johnson, her tennis partner Kit’s husband, entered the conversation, nodding his head slightly toward Regina and half-hugging Elle, his hands otherwise occupied with a hamburger and a soft drink.
Oh, great.
Elle couldn’t stand Ward. He was an ass. An unapologetic social climber and pompous blowhard who thought he knew everything. He was the type of guy who took his job as president of the Homeowner Association for his gated community very seriously. He walked around with a clipboard and sanctimoniously noted every errant weed and every trashcan left on the curb overnight. Ward had fat sausage fingers, and seeing the hamburger in his chunky hands momentarily reminded Elle of her empty stomach and how hungry she was.
Ward lifted his drink in the air and talked with his mouth full. “I can’t believe this situation with Thatcher. It’s ridiculous! The team needs him to play. I was on the phone with the headmaster all afternoon. He wouldn’t budge. If we lose, it’s on him.”
Not for the first time, Elle wondered if Ward suffered from some sort of disability which stymied his ability to read social situations. How else to explain his habit of blurting out inappropriate comments? Did he honestly think it was acceptable to bring the situation with Thatcher up in front of a teacher? What did he expect her to say? Strange how a man with an MBA from Harvard could lack such tact.
Elle was unsure how to respond. She offered a half-hearted smile—seeing Ward’s mouth full of hamburger had at least killed her appetite. Regina said nothing.
Oblivious to the awkward position he had put them both in—or maybe he knew and just didn’t care—Ward took another bite of his hamburger and directed his attention toward Regina. “I want to talk to you about Easton’s grade on his paper—a C? C’mon! I read that paper. It was an A paper.”
There it was again; something really must be wrong with him. Elle fidgeted uncomfortably.
Regina seemed slightly taken aback by Ward’s abruptness but rebounded quickly. “If Easton wants to make an appointment, I’d be happy to go over it with him.”
Still chewing with his mouth open, Ward shook his head. “Here’s the thing: he needs an A on that paper.”
Elle was sorry for Regina and the ambush. She should try to diffuse the conversation, to help Regina out somehow, but she couldn’t. As strongly as she had wanted to flee the tennis court earlier, Elle needed to get out of there. Quickly.
“Oh, I see Brynnie. I need to go talk to her,” Elle lied.
Ward, still focused on Regina and clearly unconcerned with Elle, waved his fat sausage-fingered hand dismissively toward her and continued, “Seriously, he deserves an A.”
Elle mouthed the word “sorry” to Regina as she turned to leave. Regina gave her a nod indicating everything was fine and turned toward Ward with a conciliatory gaze.
Elle didn’t know how Regina, or any of the other teachers, abided such poor behavior. Country Day parents could be total nightmares.
Aubrey led the charge into crazy-town—she would do anything to ensure Grayson got in to Stanford. She regularly excused him from classes on test days if he hadn’t had enough time to study; he had taken the ACT six times; and her husband had paid his executive assistant to create a nonprofit for him. Earlier that week, Aubrey had complained to the headmaster about a math teacher after Grayson had failed his latest calculus test. It simply wasn’t possible for her son to get an F; either it wasn’t a fair test or the teacher hadn’t properly explained the concepts. Aubrey had first talked to the teacher, and when she wasn’t satisfied with the answer he gave—something along the lines of “Perhaps Grayson should have rechecked his work for mistakes”—she decided to go above the teacher’s head, straight to the headmaster. Aubrey would be heard. Grayson would be allowed to retake the test—a subpar teacher wasn’t going to stand in the way of her son and Stanford.
Although Elle could—and did—helicopter parent with the best of them, her children’s grades were not among her neurosis. She didn’t obsessively track their progress online, fretting over each assignment that wasn’t given an A. Elle trusted the Country Day teachers to be fair and refused to indulge any complaints regarding the types of assignments given or their resulting grades. Given all that Brynnie and Four had, it seemed rather trite and petty to complain.
Elle was considering the possibility that she liked the teachers more than the parents at Country Day when she spotted Brynnie in the concession line with a group of friends. She waved her over, and Elle was surprised to see that her daughter also had a 4 painted on her cheek. Tabby must have been behind this—Brynnie wasn’t one for unabashed displays of school spirit.
As if to temper her nod to convention with the face paint, Brynnie eschewed the navy and red logoed Country Day shirts popular with her classmates in favor of a purple T-shirt with three sets of stick figures on it. The first was a man, a woman, and a child; the second, two men and a child; and the third, two women and a child. In bright rainbow-colored letters across the top it read: “There are all types of families: Love is Love.”
Elle gave her daughter an earnest hug. Normally, she would be worried over what people would say about Brynnie and the statement she was making with the T-shirt, but not tonight. Tonight, Elle was proud of her daughter’s courage, her indifference to what others thought, and her commitment to what she believed. “Hi, sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I wasn’t so sure after your argument with Four this morning.”
“That kid makes me crazy sometimes—he can be so ignorant—but I still love him. And besides, I’m quite looking forward to this spectacle.”
Elle was relieved. It gave her hope that Brynnie had also forgiven her. “Have you talked to Jacinda? Is she okay?”
Before Brynnie could answer, Aubrey approached, marching purposefully, like she had an agenda.
First Ward, now Aubrey. Elle couldn’t escape.
Except for her white jeans—apparently, it wasn’t too early to wear white—Aubrey was dressed almost identically to Elle. This should have been incredibly satisfying—it meant Elle had chosen her outfit correctly—but all she could feel at this moment was dread.
Aubrey removed her sunglasses and placed them on top of her perfectly styled blonde hair. (She must have gotten a blow-out after the tennis match.) She reached for Elle’s hands. “Elle! I’m so glad to see you. Are you sure everything is okay? Can I help?”
“Everything’s fine.” Elle’s tone was short. She didn’t feel like playing along.
Aubrey freed her hands and slowly tilted her head from side to side, silently considering Elle for several drawn-out seconds. Without speaking, she turned toward Brynnie and looked over her T-shirt with disdain—or was it confusion?
Brynnie placed her hand soothingly along Aubrey’s arm, the way one wo
uld if comforting a child, and explained, “It’s to honor gay rights. I’m sure you’ve read about how the Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality.”
Aubrey didn’t respond. Instead, she twirled at the platinum medallions—each bearing the name of one of her four children—on the necklace that hung near her chest. Was this some sort of power play? A subtle reminder that she was superior? She had borne four children. She could afford private school tuition, first-class plane tickets, tutors, and nannies—four times over.
After several uncomfortable seconds, Aubrey finally spoke to Brynnie through a strained smile, “Read? I don’t have time to read!”
“Of course not!” Brynnie put her hands up against her cheeks. “How silly of me! I forgot how busy you are. You had a tennis match today, right?”
Holy shit!
Elle was impressed by Brynnie’s quick retort, yet as much as she admired her daughter’s courage, Elle was apprehensive. Aubrey wasn’t one to be crossed.
Sure enough, Aubrey’s retaliation was swift. She cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. “So, sweetheart, remind me—who is your date to prom?”
Elle’s stomach tightened. Brynnie had never had a boyfriend, let alone a date. Everyone knew that. Was Aubrey implying Brynnie was gay? Elle wanted to say something to protect her daughter, but what?
Brynnie didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the question. “I’m choosing to go alone. I’m independent like that—kind of a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet . . .” She paused, then condescendingly patted Aubrey on the back. “Oh, sorry. How silly of me—since you don’t read, you couldn’t possibly understand the Pride and Prejudice reference.”
Elle tried to contain her laughter. Good for Brynnie.
Aubrey stood speechless, like she had been scolded by a stranger for failing to pick up her dog’s massive dump on the playground—“Aren’t there people for that?”
Smiling, Brynnie kissed Elle on the cheek. “See you after the game!” She walked away, waving her arms high in the air with mock enthusiasm. “Go, Country Day!”
Aubrey turned toward Elle, eyes squinted in anger. Ignoring phone calls was one thing. Elle had really crossed a line now. Aubrey expected an explanation. An apology.
Elle refused to give in. Let Aubrey say and do whatever she wanted. She no longer cared. Elle offered Aubrey a quick and insincere hug good-bye saying, “I should go. I need to catch up with Win. He’s just closed a major international deal and we have loads to discuss.”
Aubrey’s mouth dropped in shock. She’d have to pick the poop up herself.
Elle walked away, satisfied. She had done it. She had stood up to Aubrey and it was exhilarating.
Still, Elle knew better than to celebrate too much. There would be consequences for her actions; Aubrey would make her pay. She just didn’t yet know how.
Chapter Thirteen
The Waitresses: “I Know What Boys Like”
October 24, 1993
7:18 p.m.
Elle lifted first her left breast, then her right one, pushing them up in her body-hugging red strapless dress—her goal was to show just enough of the tops of her boobs. She wanted sexy but not slutty. Elle didn’t like the dress—it reminded her of something a pageant contestant would wear—but had to admit Mitch had been right to talk her into getting it. It was ideal for her job in the hostess bar. The Japanese clients would appreciate how it accentuated her curvy, petite figure. She would make loads of money tonight in this Miss America gown.
Hostess bars were a phenomenon unique to Japan. A modern version of the geisha establishments of old, the concept was a private club where wealthy Japanese executives paid hefty sums to have attractive women attend to their needs. The hostesses flirted with them, poured their drinks, lit their cigarettes, and made them feel important. As one of the few non-Japanese hostesses, Elle was a rarity, and her company was highly sought after. With her platinum-blonde hair, light-colored eyes, and voluptuous figure, she represented the fantasy of the ideal American woman, the one Japanese men saw in movies and on magazine covers.
And why shouldn’t Elle give them what they wanted? It’s not like she was getting attention from any other men. Most Japanese guys were shy and intimidated by her. Elle couldn’t get anyone to flirt with her, let alone ask her on a date. She had even less luck with the American, Australian, and British expats living in Tokyo. Like the Japanese men in the hostess bar, they sought out what was different. Many of them had come to Tokyo specifically because they preferred Japanese women. They weren’t the least bit interested in Elle. There were plenty of girls just like her back home.
Things were worse for Mitch. As much as Elle had wanted to make good on her Halloween promise to get him laid, it had proven to be a challenge. Despite Tokyo being a cosmopolitan city, homosexuality was still frowned upon by many Japanese and few men were openly out. Those who were seemed as equally reluctant as their straight counterparts to engage with an American.
So it had been a very, very long dating dry spell for the two, one they hoped to remedy. Elle missed kissing cute boys and Mitch was anxious to explore his sexuality with a man.
Elle looked in the mirror, debating whether the bright blue eyeliner and blue mascara were too much. Mitch assured her they highlighted the blue in her eyes, but Elle wasn’t so sure. With her platinum-blonde hair worn down straight, it was all a little too . . . too red, white, and blue.
“Ladies and gentleman, presenting for your viewing pleasure: Elle, the American flag.”
Elle stretched her arms outright. She nearly knocked over an open bottle of Chardonnay on the vanity, catching it only at the last minute. The bottle was light in her hands. Had she really finished it all off? Funny, she didn’t feel drunk.
Elle again considered the blue eyeliner and decided it was fine. Satisfied, she made her way from the dressing room into the main area of the Big New York Apple Club. Elle and Mitch loved this name and found it hilarious—such a classic example of the Japanese tendency to misuse English. Tokyo was filled with places and things with similarly ridiculous names: the drugstore Let’s Wellness, which sold “Moistage Essence Lotion,” and the restaurant Eat Me, with “Mouth Watered Chicken” on the menu. Although Elle and Mitch appreciated the humor in the club’s name, it was a mouthful to get out, so they had taken to calling it simply “The Big YAC.”
Elle surveyed the room. Several customers were already enjoying whiskey at the bar, while others sat in olive-green swivel chairs around small oak tables over gold shag carpet. The Big YAC’s décor had a distinct seventies vibe, like the Regal Beagle in Three’s Company. Elle imagined Mae-san, the club’s owner and madam, had watched too many reruns of the sitcom and thought it was the epitome of American cool.
But as with the club’s name, Mae-san hadn’t gotten it all quite right. Inexplicably, along with the seventies look, the Big YAC was also part Italian pizzeria, with posters from The Godfather and of famous Italian-Americans, like Frank Sinatra, hanging on the walls. The first night they discovered the place, Mitch and Elle placed bets on who would walk in first: Mrs. Roper in a kaftan or Sonny Corleone smoking a cigar.
Elle considered the men sitting at the bar and around the tables. Who did she want to spend the next few hours drinking with? The men who frequented the club were all rather the same: older, successful, married executives longing for the attention of their ideal woman. Elle’s job was to figure out what this ideal was and to become her: the giggly, easily impressed schoolgirl who found everything they said highly clever; the smart, savvy professional who could intelligently discuss their business; or the sassy, ribald woman who told racy jokes.
It didn’t matter. Elle could be whomever they wanted. After a lifetime of never quite fitting in, she had mastered the ability to read those around her. Within minutes of meeting new people, Elle could adapt her posture and tone to imitate those she was with, effortlessly morphing into the person best suited for almost any situation. Especially after she had a few drinks
in her. It was really easy when liquored up.
Elle already had a good buzz going, so it should be an easy night. The question was, who did she think would give her the biggest “gift” at the end of the evening? The Japanese didn’t tip per se, but cash as a thank-you to a hostess for a job well done was commonplace. Having recently been fired from English First, Elle needed the money, and her desire to quickly fill up the Mitch and Elle’s Adventure Jar had been her main rationale for accepting the hostess job.
She wasn’t proud of being fired but accepted it as inevitable. After a year at English First, teaching had become tedious, and to compensate for their boredom, Elle and Mitch had started drinking more and more on their dinner breaks. Their usual one or two beers had turned into three or four, often with a shot thrown in. After one such alcohol-infused dinner, Elle had come back to work completely smashed and was in the Conversation Room with Shane when he referred to the AIDS crisis as God’s way of eliminating “dirty fags.” Offended, Elle had hit him several times on the chest, called him a homophobic asshat, and told him to fuck off. Unfortunately, her rage played out in front of a group of astonished high school girls.
“You leave us with no choice,” management had said.
Mitch didn’t want to stay at English First one minute without Elle, so the next day he brought a flask with vodka in it to work, drank it all, and proceeded to teach a group of beginner students that the American slang word for “cheers” was “suck my dick.” Mary had walked in on him and an entire group of housewives in the Conversation Room enthusiastically clinking their cans of Dr. Pepper together, reciting, “Suck my dick!” Full of shock and indignation, Mary had reported this transgression and Mitch was also promptly fired.
Mitch had seen the end coming and had wisely already started collecting the phone numbers of his students, offering them private lessons at a discounted rated. Elle could have done the same thing, but she wanted to try something new. So it had been lucky when, after a night out of drinking, she and Mitch had stumbled upon the Big New York Apple Club. Mae-san had taken one look at Elle and offered her a job—an astonishingly high-paying job.
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