I pull What to Expect When You’re Expecting off the shelf. My mom should have lent Nicole all her books on pregnancy and infertility and child raising. Maybe that’s why Nicole doesn’t like my mom—she’s jealous of her fertility, jealous of her wealth, her looks, her abundance.
I continue to scan the shelves for more info. In my mom’s room, I once came across The Explosive Child and knew that the explosive child was me. When I was a toddler, I was oppositional and emotional, and my parents had to combat that with praise. I was like a shrew they had to tame. On her shelf I also saw The Dangers of Helicopter Parenting, which I didn’t get at all. Not the subject matter, but why my mom would have a book like that in the first place. She’s more of a satellite parent. Well, maybe not when it comes to skating and clothes and social expectations. In those areas I can hear the engine nearby.
I wonder what’s happening in court right now. I imagine a lawyer giving an ovation-worthy speech, my dad and mom hugging. We could go back to school vindicated and victorious.
I open the Expecting book to a penciled fetus.
“What if we hear them?” I ask and hold up the book. “You know.” I circle my hips and do a little move with my arms and point my fingers.
“What was that?” Jay imitates my sex move and laughs. “The Sprinkler? The Scarface hula? Say aloha to my little friend.”
“Shut up,” I say, totally embarrassed. I don’t know sex moves. Jay’s the slutface around here. I’m so worried that the first time I have sex the guy will do the same thing: say, What was that? and laugh. I don’t want to have sex for a million years. Well, that’s not true, but I wish I had a best friend I could do it with for practice. Someone I could trust.
Once, at one of my parents’ parties, I was doing what I usually do, hanging in the pool house, watching a Western. Jackson came in, the son of one of my parents’ friends. Home from college.
“Can I watch with you?” he asked, and I shrugged, though I was excited to have company. It was the summer before high school, and I was the only one of my group of friends who wasn’t at tennis camp.
He handed me his glass of amber liquid, and I took a drink, then panted. It was like I had sipped fire.
“Try that again.” He laughed, and I did, smoother that time.
He took the blanket I had and put it over himself so that we were sharing it, our legs out on the sectional couch. I couldn’t focus on the movie, and when he took my hand under the blanket, I knew he wasn’t focusing either. He put my hand over his pants and moved it back and forth, until I was doing it myself. Then he unzipped his pants, and I put my hand on his penis, but I didn’t really know what to do or for how long, and shouldn’t we be kissing? I stopped, and he looked at me and laughed, then got up and stumbled out. I felt so gross, so clumsy and stupid, and when I finally got up and went outside, my parents and everyone were out on the patio, having a great time. I walked up to my mom, but she gave me that look, the one that says, Not now, and for some reason, my first thought was I don’t want to be like you. I want to be tougher. I want to be cold.
“So they’re honored we chose them?” Jay says.
“A polite lie, I guess.” Something my mom does a lot when she needs something.
He puts on his snowboard boots, but leaves them unlaced, and I put the book back on the shelf.
“Hey, can you go to Nicole’s work?” he asks. “Skip just texted. She forgot to leave a change of clothes in her office. He asked if we could take her stuff to her. Since I doubt you have any plans, can you do it? Take the shuttle. Explore your surroundings.” He spreads his arms apart, presenting me with all the possibilities, then heads to the door.
“Where do I go?”
“The Lodge and Spa.” He pats his pockets, grabs his goggles off the hook by the door. “Skip said you go up Overlook until you see . . . it. Okay? Okay.” He leaves, highlighting my solitude. How does he already have plans in a new place? How is he so comfortable? I reattempt the sex move, widening my stance and scooping the air with my pelvis. I’d do me. So there.
* * *
• • •
I take the shuttle down Main Street, which lasts a second. What do people do in this town? The buildings look fake—like we’re on a studio lot. I’m the only one on the bus not wearing ski clothes, and the passengers seem to be holding their gear as if they’re angry with it. At the end of town the shuttle stops and everyone gets out. I stay on, and the driver moves past the last hotel and then up Overlook. Up and up and up. It’s quite nice, this view. It reminds me of home, being up on the mountain and looking down, as if leaving everything behind. My aunt and uncle should have built a house up here. It’s then that I remember she ran up this damn hill. Holy moly, no wonder. A baby probably couldn’t hold on.
I walk into the hotel with Nicole’s things and go to check-in, hoping I get the better-looking guy to wave me forward. That doesn’t happen. I get the skinny dude with the pit bull ears.
“I’m looking for Nicole Town,” I say.
“She’s in guest services,” he says. “Her office is right down that hall, past the checkers table. Or chess. Not sure.”
“Thanks.” I smile, but too much, since this made him happy and confident.
“We should play sometime,” he says as I’m walking away. “Checkers. Or chess.”
I fake laugh. “Sounds horrible,” I mumble. If I were in a movie, I’d say it real loud.
I knock on her door even though it’s open. She’s standing up while talking on the phone, but gestures for me to come in.
“Tell them the sledding package is just as amazing.” She rolls her eyes. “They don’t need the bonuses. Make cocoa at home. Hey, my niece is here, so I should . . . What? No, it’s fine. . . .”
She glances at me. I look around her office: books on resort tourism, framed pictures of trees and wolves.
“Not sure,” she says, “and she’s right here, so . . . anyway. No, I don’t mind. I love the twins. Okay. . . . That’s so funny, all right. . . . Well, I’ll let you go. . . . That works! Okay, buh-bye—uh-huh, uh-huh, perfect. Okay. Talk to you later!”
She hangs up and sighs. “I swear you think you’re almost to the end of the conversation, then bam! She hits you again.” She plops down onto her chair.
“I can’t believe you ran up that hill,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, as if understanding it was crazy. “It helps me sleep.”
“God,” I say. “So would Scotch or an Ambien.” Saying this makes me miss my dad. He always has a Scotch with his cherished ice cubes. My dad has some pretty cool things, but I’ve never heard him rave about his cars or toys the way he raves about his gourmet ice maker and top-hat ice.
“You need to use the cleanest, purest, most elegant cubes,” he told me in the downstairs den, then made me examine the ice in his glass. “They won’t alter the flavor or water down the Scotch. They’re perfection. Why age something so perfectly, then destroy it?”
Nicole moves her bangs out of her eyes while typing. She could use a Scotch with some excellent ice cubes. Except those ice machines are ten grand. It’s crazy my dad would spend so much on something like that. Even though people chose to invest, I feel a little guilty that his—that our—lifestyle isn’t dependent on their loss, but still good in spite of it. Though isn’t that what business is about? We’re in it too—probably lost a lot alongside everyone else. You work so hard to build something. If it doesn’t pan out, that’s unfortunate, but you put yourself in a position where you don’t lose it all. You’re smart. And when others aren’t as smart, you don’t just tear it all down. Why age something so perfectly, then destroy it?
“What was she saying about me?” I ask. Nicole was clearly talking about me with whoever was on the phone.
“Who?” She doesn’t look up.
“The person you were talking to on the phone.”
&nbs
p; She stops typing. “Tanya? Oh, just . . .” She holds her hands together and looks at her fingers. “She said you must be having a hard time seeing your father behave so unethically.”
“Wow.”
“I’m honest when asked direct questions. I don’t want to be, but I have trouble lying. It never comes off right. But neither does the truth, obviously. Sorry. People are kind of pissed at your dad right now.”
“I don’t know why,” I say. “People make their own choices. I happen to believe in him.”
“Of course, I—”
“He can’t control the real estate market. People need to be responsible for themselves.” My heart quickens. I feel like I’m in a courtroom defending myself.
Nicole just nods, seeming to know I’m reciting something I don’t fully understand.
“I thought you were supposed to hide our identities.” I smirk.
“Yeah, I guess I told Tanya you were coming before I got your mom’s memo. And Skip is a little more into that than I am. Why hide is what I say.”
“Here.” I walk to her desk to hand over her things.
“Oh gosh, thank you.” She walks around the desk. “I have a black garment bag. I guess Skip forgot to tell you.”
Something drops, and I reach to pick it up. The item happens to be big purple panties, which don’t seem to be the best choice as far as baby making goes.
“Next time I’ll bring the bag,” I say.
She balls the underwear up and makes them disappear.
“Not like there will be a next time,” she says. “I mean, you don’t have to bring my things up here. I usually have spare clothes.”
I walk toward the window to look at the mountain range. I feel her looking at me.
“You’re so . . . dressed up,” she says. “You going somewhere?”
I look down at my outfit. Brown knee-high leather boots, a fitted sweater, and a suit jacket with suede patches on the elbows. Not really a big deal.
“I’m just wearing jeans,” I say.
“You just look so adult,” she says. “Professional.”
I shrug. It’s a pretty basic outfit. “So what do you do?” I ask, turning to face her.
“Guest relations,” she says. “I’m a concierge, pretty much. I design packages for the guests. Help them organize their days, book experiences. People don’t know what to do with themselves. Or they know exactly what to do and what they want, and I scramble to make it happen. People are pretty chill here, though. It’s not like Vail or Aspen. More about keeping the kids squared away.”
I go back to the desk and sit down like a client, and she follows suit and sits down.
I imagine visitors doing various things: an awkward teen learning to “pizza” at his ski lesson, a couple dogsledding, kids tubing, a woman getting a massage at a spa.
“They get nervous they’re not making the right choices,” she says. “So I tell them how to spend their money, which costs money.”
I look at her desk. My dad’s home desk has outdated pictures of us. It’s kind of weird when people don’t have kids. Do you put pictures of your husband up? Your cat? Some wildflowers? She has no pictures. I can feel her watching me, checking out her life through my eyes.
“Didn’t you work somewhere else when I was young?” I ask.
“Yup. As a waitress. Your mom, too, before she had you. I convinced her to move here with me after I graduated from CU. I met a dishwasher—Skip—and she met your dad.” She laughs to herself. “We had fun. Your parents partied.”
“Really?”
She’s remembering something. Her face is relaxed and full of warmth.
“They were fun. They were nice.” She continues to gaze off into Memory Town.
I’ve always liked hearing stories about my parents and about myself when I was young. There’s something comforting in knowing you’ve done something worth remembering, or that someone took the time to craft a scene for you. Also, the things you did to bother people sort of become what you’re fondly known for later on. I like hearing about my parents, considering all the life that existed before me.
“Your parents have changed so much,” Nicole says, her gaze still far off, but then she comes to. “Us, not so much.” She furrows her brow, then types something into her computer.
“So what experience should I have today?” I ask.
She looks toward the window. “You could ski, I guess.”
“That’s what you’d say? Fired.”
She smiles, but not too much, which I like. She’s not like other adults, who act like everything you say is funny or interesting, or who ask too many questions about school and hobbies.
“Okay—if you were really a guest, I’d first get to know you.” She lets her hair out of her rubber band. It’s a stylish, longish bob, and this paired with her high cheekbones makes her look sort of posh.
“I’d do a kind of interview. I’d ask what you like, what you want to get away from. We’d think of things you could do here that you couldn’t do anywhere else.”
“How do you keep the kids squared away?” I ask.
“First I ask the parents what their kids like, what they’re afraid of. We think of things to occupy the children so the parents feel okay about leaving them.”
“So what did you and my parents come up with to occupy us?”
“You’re a funny one,” she says.
“I use humor to mask my pain. Kidding.”
“Me too,” she says.
I lean in and squint. “Look at your eyebrows.”
“Now, how am I supposed to do that?” she says.
Her brows are dark and thick and perfectly uniform except the little curl on the end. “You have rogue eyebrow hairs on the left.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot to trim them. Only on the left side—the weirdest thing.”
“Jay has the exact same thing. Except he wouldn’t think of trimming them. He’s not really a grooming type.”
She touches her eyebrow and looks down, and I worry I’ve made her self-conscious. She then stammers, “Is it h-hard?”
“His eyebrows?”
“No,” she says. “Having a sibling who’s so different from you.”
“Sometimes,” I say. “Do you mean because he’s likable and I’m not?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Nicole looks back at her computer and begins to type quickly. “I was just thinking about me and your mom.”
“Who was the likable one?” I ask.
Nicole stops typing. “I think you know the answer to that.”
I don’t think it’s hard to be the less likable. Not when it’s my choice. Maybe I work at it—being unliked, being feared. Maybe I reject everything or everyone who wouldn’t have me anyway. My brother can look stupid with no consequence.
“What happened to you guys?” I ask. “To you and my mom.”
She looks up at me, and I think she’s deciding how much to say. Something had to have happened, and yet how bad could it be if we’re staying with them now?
“I don’t even know anymore,” she says. “We don’t get along.” She looks up. “Until she needs me.”
“Did something specific happen?” I ask.
Nicole smiles to herself and shakes her head. “Maybe a whole bunch of specifics. It’s her story to tell.”
“Well, then,” I say. “I’ll let you get to it.”
“I’ll see you at home,” she says, which sounds so strange. “One sec,” she says before I walk out the door. I hear a printer hum. She reaches under her desk, then hands me a piece of paper. “Thanks again for bringing my things.”
I leave, even more determined to figure out what happened between them.
7
I catch a shuttle back to town and look at ANNIE’S ITINERARY designed by Nicole Town, Guest Concierge. At the t
op: TUBING.
There’s no way I’m going tubing by myself, and while the Barney Ford House Museum looks interesting—he was an escaped slave who became a famous entrepreneur and a civil rights pioneer—I don’t feel like nerding out right now.
The shuttle ride feels different going back down. I’m more sure of myself and have warmed up to the vibe of this place. Colorful buildings, homey, people in comfortable clothes, cinnamon-scented air.
I get out at the first stop and walk—bumps of ice on the sidewalk, wreath-wrapped streetlights. Music blasts out of the burger place, and I pet a gray-and-white dog that’s tied up outside of a coffee shop. I let him smell my hand first, rub the soft fur between his ears, then look at the name tag: BOB BARKER. I’m in love.
Everyone around me seems to be in love as well, or to be celebrating something. Celebrating fun, friends, the fact that their family isn’t being scrutinized. Rejoicing in fathers who aren’t being demonized. The sun is dazzling, the air chilled, and when I notice a group of people my age looking at me, I smile, feeling a little smug, until I really take them in and realize Nicole’s right. I look strange to them. Overdressed. Someone not their age, irrelevant. I get the urge to fix it.
The stores on this side of the street are in two-level clusters. Some shops are around a little bend, sunken like deep pockets. I step into a boutique called Canary in a Clothes Mine and browse the too-cute clothes, most of which you wouldn’t really wear here at this time of year, or ever. The clothes smell like hot irons and wildflowers. The music is loud, which makes me feel like buying things even more. I touch the garments and put on a face like I’m considering something far more important. A mom and daughter are browsing next to me, so I can hear everything they say, which isn’t much, just a lot of “This is cute.” “So cute.” “Super cute.”
I browse the rack, and for the first time I’m sorta glad I’m here. Why not make the best of it? At the bottom of Nicole’s itinerary for me, she wrote Be yourself (or whoever you’d like to be). Even my attempts at casual wear can come off overly polished, like I’m dressing for an interview. Be who I would like to be? Well, I like these clothes. I’m Annie Town, and this is what she’d wear. I take off my stiff jacket and tie it around my waist.
Testimony from Your Perfect Girl Page 5