Girls with Bright Futures

by Tracy Dobmeier

  “I should fire her! That fucking bitch!”

  “Whoa, slow down. What’s going on?”

  “Winnie is applying to every goddamn top-ten school,” Alicia shrieked into the speaker. “There isn’t a college list in the country that doesn’t have Stanford at the top.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “I got a text! FUUUUUUUCK!” Alicia said, pounding her steering wheel. “Dammit, I thought I took care of this. I even gave her a raise. How could they do this to us? After everything I’ve done for them. I don’t even want to be in the same room as her! Is she at the house?”

  “I’m just walking in now,” Bryan said. “Her car wasn’t in the driveway.”

  “She fucking lied to my face, right to my face.” Alicia slammed on the brakes as she approached a red light, thankful for the fully tinted windows on her Mercedes AMG SUV. The last thing she needed was someone snapping a photo of her screaming in her car like a lunatic. “I can’t believe I gave Winnie a fucking UW sweatshirt. Did they think I wasn’t going to find out?”

  “That’s nuts,” Bryan said. Alicia could hear him opening the refrigerator.

  “Oh, and guess what else?” she sniped. “Professor Bejamaca emailed that Brooke blew off their call yesterday. For the third time! He said he’s very busy and we’re running out of time so he’s not sure how to proceed. I sent you both a reminder text. What the hell?”

  “I reminded her,” Bryan said. “I assumed she did it.”

  Alicia ignored the sheepishness in his voice. “Dammit, Bryan!” Alicia said, rubbing her forehead. “It’s not like I can ask Maren to do this. Why didn’t you watch her do the call? You knew she didn’t want to do it. For Christ’s sake, she’d already blown it off twice.”

  “Come on, Alicia.”

  “What were you so busy doing yesterday afternoon that you weren’t around to make sure she did the call? Tell me.”

  Bryan didn’t respond.

  “Nothing. That’s what I thought. You’re fucking pathetic. End call,” she screamed.

  * * *

  When she arrived home, Alicia blew past her useless husband sprawled on the couch in the TV room off the kitchen. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed married to him at all, but then she’d talk herself down. At least the sex was still great. And the last thing she had time for was a divorce. She ran up the stairs and slammed the door to her home office. Ever since she’d hung up on Bryan, she’d been fixated on the other part of the anonymous text—that Winnie’s first-generation college hook was bogus. Alicia vaguely recalled a presentation during the last Stanford trustees meeting touting first-gen as an institutional priority. She’d zoned out, assuming first-gen was a politically correct term for race-based affirmative action. Certainly not meant for blue-eyed white girls. It never occurred to her Winnie would try to use it.

  Even though Maren was more resourceful, a faster learner, and a better manager than most of her highly qualified employees at Aspyre, college definitely hadn’t come up on the background check Alicia had run when she first hired Maren. And Maren had never once mentioned going to college. Alicia knew she’d gotten pregnant when she was seventeen or eighteen at the oldest. There was just no way Maren could have gone to college.

  But the person who sent the text seemed to think Winnie had a parent who went to college. If it wasn’t Maren, the only possibility was Winnie’s father, whom Maren insisted was a nameless one-night stand. But Maren had lied to her face about Winnie applying to UW. Had she been lying all along that Winnie didn’t have a dad too?

  Over the years, Alicia had tried to ask Maren about her background and childhood, but the boundaries of their relationship confused her. She’d entrusted the care of her only child to Maren and had invited her into nearly every single aspect of her life, but the intimacy didn’t flow in the other direction. Maren volunteered very little about her own life, and Alicia was met with a brick wall the few times she’d fished for details about Winnie’s origins. Eventually, Alicia gave up asking. Maren did such great work and was always there when she needed her, so what did it matter? But now Alicia needed to know the truth about Winnie’s father. And she had an idea for how she might find him.

  Back when Brooke was in eighth grade at EBA, all students were required to participate in the EBA Science Fair. As had become their household habit, Brooke procrastinated until Alicia had no choice but to do her assignment for her. Not long before, Alicia had bonded with the CEO of a consumer genetics company at a tech leaders summit. She emailed her new contact for science fair ideas and received a page-long list of suggestions from the VP of marketing and a discount code for the $200 test on apairofgenes.com. All Brooke needed to do was find a dozen people who would agree to spit in a test tube and take the DNA test, participate in a short survey on their exercise habits, and then, once they received the results of their tests, share whether they had a propensity for building slow-twitch or fast-twitch muscle fibers.

  Bryan took Brooke to his gym, and they were home an hour later with several samples. The rest of the samples were provided by the housekeeper, the chef, her personal trainer, and Winnie, who just happened to be staying with the Stones for a few days while Maren was in Del Mar stocking up their new vacation property. Because Winnie was a minor and Maren was gone, Alicia had set up the account for Winnie by pretending to be her legal guardian. Alicia had planned to tell Maren about the DNA experiment but then worried Maren might overreact given their blowup earlier in the year about Brooke’s EBA entrance exam and eventually decided it was better left unsaid. In the years since, Alicia had received countless emails from apairofgenes.com prompting her to log in and see updated results or to try its new ancestry DNA offering. She’d never given the emails a second thought. Until now.

  She typed “www.apairofgenes.com” into the search bar and hit Return. On the login page, she entered her private email address and was relieved to find she’d saved the auto-generated password. Alicia clicked on the ancestry DNA tab and moved the cursor over the words “Winnie Pressley’s Ancestry Match.” Her heart raced, and her face was burning up. She lifted her hair off her neck and welcomed the kiss of cool air. Was this a hot flash? Or just good old-fashioned guilt? But what choice did she have? For all she knew, Winnie had a long-standing relationship with her dad and was lying to everyone about her first-generation college hook. Who knew what they were capable of hiding?

  Alicia clicked the link. Within seconds, she was staring at a picture of Winnie’s father. Familiar big blue eyes stared back: Winnie’s eyes. “Chase Alder,” she read aloud. “Who are you?” Fingers flying, she brought up his bio on the website of a law firm she’d never heard of. Her eyes skimmed past the boring stuff about his practice areas and clients until she came to the line that mattered. Chase received his BA from Yale University and a JD from Northwestern Law School. Winnie was a legacy at Yale. Why the hell wasn’t she applying there? Alicia continued reading to discover that Winnie’s father lived in San Mateo, California, with his wife, Naomi, and their two children. He’d included his graduation years (something no woman in her right mind would ever include in a corporate bio). Alicia did the mental math. Oh my God! This Chase character would have been sixteen when he got Maren pregnant.

  If Maren and Winnie had any relationship at all with Papa Yale Bulldog, it would blow Winnie’s first-gen hook to smithereens. But there was one glaring problem: How could Alicia ensure that EBA knew about this lie without revealing that she—a CEO of a major public company—had conducted an illicit DNA search? Her hands were tied.

  * * *

  For the entire next day, Alicia avoided both her husband, with whom she was still annoyed, and Maren. Her outrage over Maren’s lies burned brightly, and she didn’t trust herself to play it cool while she figured out what to do with the information she’d learned about the identity of Winnie’s father. The only person she made an effort to see was Brooke, who had
capitulated and done the interview call with Professor Bejamaca under Alicia’s watchful eye in an Aspyre conference room. Alicia took a small measure of comfort that Brooke’s essays were finally in process, even if Brooke wasn’t the one writing them. They were in the homestretch of this college admissions nonsense.

  Through meeting after meeting about lawsuits, user data privacy concerns, and possible financial fraud committed by the start-up they were trying to acquire, Alicia was consumed by how to use the information about Winnie’s father. Confronting Maren was out of the question. How could Alicia ever explain or justify how she’d come to possess the information? But she was running out of time to block Winnie from applying to Stanford. Not knowing where to turn, Alicia called Ted Clark on her way home from the office to see if she could get anything out of him without giving herself away, but she got his voicemail.

  At ten p.m., she popped one and a half Ambien pills. Two hours later, she had to face facts: even a megadose wasn’t enough to thwart the sleep-thieving beast that seemed determined to haunt her night after night. Fed up with her restless tossing, Alicia tiptoed across the hall to her office for her iPad. There, she curled up on the couch under a pile of throw blankets, simultaneously shivering and overheating in that way only a middle-aged woman can. Pulling her iPad under the blankets with her, she searched for a show to trick her insomnia into retreat, fare that would distract without enlivening. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills must have done the trick, because the next thing she knew, her Apple Watch was vibrating with a phone call from Ted. It was a quarter after seven.

  “Ted?” she squeaked into her wrist.

  “Good morning, Al—” he said before Alicia interrupted him.

  “Is it true?” Her voice croaked. “Is Winnie applying early to Stanford?” Alicia sat motionless, waiting for Ted’s response.

  “You know I can’t talk to you about another student’s plans.”

  She could hear the annoyance in his voice, but she pressed on anyway. “Ted, I have to know.”

  “Come on, Alicia.”

  “Maren told me last week, to my face, that Winnie wants UW Honors. But then I heard that was a lie. Can’t you just tell me if she’s planning to apply to Stanford? I have to know.” The sound of her own voice begging roiled Alicia’s stomach. Ted was probably enjoying making her grovel.

  “Look,” Ted said, clearing his throat. “From what I understand, Winnie’s pretty dug in. I think she’s planning to apply.”

  “Let me understand.” Alicia moved to the edge of the couch. “Everything she and Maren have been running around town saying about UW is a bald-faced lie?”

  “I think she’s still applying to UW as a backup, so that’s technically true.”

  “Don’t be cute with me,” Alicia snapped. “There are a dozen other highly selective schools she could apply early to, and you couldn’t figure out a way to get her to apply to one of them?”

  “What can I tell you?” Alicia could hear his exasperation. “She really wants to go to Stanford.”

  “I’m just curious.” Alicia paused. “Have you read Winnie’s essay or reviewed her application?”

  “Her college counselor is handling that,” Ted said. “It’s not something I get involved with as head of school.”

  “I see,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Why does Winnie think she’s got a chance with only one spot available? Does she have a hook I’m not aware of?”

  “Alicia, it’s really not appropriate for me to talk about other students like this. Please don’t put me in this position.”

  “What position is that? The one where you deny very basic information to the lead donor of your current capital campaign?”

  “Fine,” he said, exhaling loudly. Alicia smirked at how quickly he’d caved. “From what I understand, her essay is about her unique life experience.”

  “Isn’t that the point of every applicant’s essay?” Alicia rolled her eyes.

  “I just meant, you know, surviving a period of homelessness, working multiple jobs. Maren’s worked for you for a long time. I assume you know all this, right?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Look, Alicia, we can encourage and nudge, but we can’t control where a student applies. But listen, I don’t think you should lose sleep over Winnie.”

  “Why?” Alicia asked, latching on to what sounded like promising news. “What do you know?”

  “All I can say is that while Winnie’s an excellent student, no one gets into Stanford these days without at least one solid hook, sometimes even two. If their selectivity trend continues apace, they’ll be down to an unprecedented three percent acceptance rate by the end of this admission cycle. Winnie’s been counting on a first-generation-to-college hook, but there have been some recent developments that may make it difficult for us to support that hook.”

  “Wait, what?” Alicia shook her head, trying to clear the Ambien fog. “Oh good.” She relaxed back into the couch. “So you already know about her dad going to Yale. Why aren’t you trying to convince her to apply there instead of Stanford? At least she’d be a legacy.”

  “Yale? What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?” Alicia quickly turned the question back on Ted, realizing that maybe they weren’t in possession of the same set of facts. Shit.

  “Well, just that Maren may have attended college. We’re looking into it. Did you say Winnie has a dad?”

  “Everyone has a dad, Ted,” Alicia scoffed. “But it’s probably best if we keep that just between us.”

  10

  Maren

  As always, the Stones’ huge golden retriever, Cardinal, greeted Maren with an exuberant tackle. When Cardinal was a new puppy in the household four years before, Bryan had made it known to all he would not “break the spirit” of his new little buddy (i.e., put in the time and effort to train him in basic civility). As a result, Cardinal had the manners of a six-month-old puppy in a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame. Maren braced herself with one knee up to guard against his paws landing on her chest. She’d learned that lesson the hard way after the time Cardinal managed to stamp two perfect muddy pawprints on her white blouse, one on each breast, like sponge-on tattoos. Of course, Bryan had a field day teasing her about that. “You’re such a kink puppy, Maren.” “Love the paw pasties. Can you do pussies tomorrow?” Even the fleeting memory of his raunchy comments still repulsed her.

  Cardinal finally tired of humping her, which allowed Maren to get through the foyer and make a break for the kitchen. On the way, she peeked in the main floor guest room and caught a glimpse of the ferociously unmade bed, a clear indication Bryan had received another demerit from his perpetually pissed-off wife. What a mess. How did he manage to kick off not just the blankets and sheets in his sleep but even the mattress cover? Was this something all men did? Or just slobs like Bryan?

  Bryan was likely already off at one of his country clubs, but just in case, she lightened her footsteps in hopes of getting a jump on her work without having to interact with him. Her first errands were across the lake in Bellevue: dropping off the kitchen knives for sharpening and delivering the super-automatic espresso maker to its routine maintenance appointment at the European coffee gear shop. On the way back, she’d stop to pick up Alicia’s newly tailored suits. If traffic cooperated, she’d be back by eleven a.m. and could dive into the pile of bills that awaited her. Peeking in the kitchen, she saw that the coast was clear and made her way over to the storage drawer where the chefs stuck the dull knives until they could be sharpened and put back into rotation.

  As she tucked the last knife into the bag with padded sleeves she’d found online for this purpose, a hint of warmth brushed across her neck. She whirled around to find Bryan’s face inches from hers, his body bare save for crumpled Brooks Brothers boxers.

  Startled, Maren slid a few steps into the coffee
alcove. “Oh hi, Bryan. Sorry—I was just about to take the espresso maker in for cleaning. Have you had your coffee yet?”

  Bryan moved in again, instantly canceling out her sidestep maneuver. “Who needs coffee when I have you to get me going?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Very funny!” She’d come to think of Bryan as her number one occupational hazard, but a bit of lighthearted banter always cleared a path to the exit. This morning, though, he was a little too close for comfort. It was only eight thirty a.m. Was that booze on his breath? “Hey—I forget. Are you taking Cardinal for his morning walk today, or am I?”

  “We could just skip his walk and get another form of exercise.” He reached out to touch her forearm, but Maren saw it coming and turned away to unplug the espresso machine.

  “Don’t you have a golf game or something you need to be leaving for?” Maren suggested.

  “Come on, Maren,” Bryan pleaded. “Alicia’s got me sleeping in the guest room.”

  “Bryan,” she said, shaking her head. “When are you going to accept no as my final answer?” She took a step toward the kitchen to grab a rag so she could wipe down the machine, but Bryan remained in her way.

  “You know you’d miss me if we had to let you go,” he said, grinning down at Maren.

  Maren froze. Was Bryan just being his usual audacious self, or was he actually threatening her job? She forced a chuckle. “What are you talking about?”

  He abruptly dropped the grin. “Just that Alicia is super pissed about Winnie applying to Stanford.”

  “What? No, Alicia’s got it all wrong. Winnie’s applying to UW. I swear! We wouldn’t do that to Brooke.” Why would Alicia be doubting their intentions? Especially after the crystal-clear missive withdrawing college tuition and putting Winnie’s last semester at EBA at risk. They’d have to be out of their minds to cross her under these circumstances.

  “I really want to believe you,” Bryan said, leaning heavily into her personal space again. “But I don’t know, people are talking. And we both know how ruthless Alicia can be when she doesn’t get what she wants.” He made a show of scratching his unshaven chin. “Now, don’t you think I deserve a little thank-you for this heads-up?” Bryan asked in a tone that was both menacing and whiny, something only a rich white man could pull off.