Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  I decided to believe Etta would do this college application thing right. I chose to be the best mother of an almost college-aged kid and back off. And guess what? IT WAS A TERRIBLE FUCKING DECISION! Because here we are. No early options due to crap essays and that means, thanks to my prima ballerina, more flack to be taken from Jean Georges and the bill collectors from the San Francisco Ballet School. I promise this: Today is going to go down in history as one of Etta’s least favorite days of her life.

  “Mama, what are you doing here?” Etta asks, surprised to see me cut into her circle of friends as they pack up their backpacks at the end of physics. “Is Mrs. Chen not driving me to ballet? Poppy said she’s driving us today.”

  “Hello, ladies.” I nod to Etta’s posse. “I texted Mrs. Chen. She’s picking up Poppy, but you’re coming with me.” I grab Etta by the wrist and pull her through the circle. I usually do my best not to embarrass my daughter in front of her friends, but today humiliating her a little feels a lot good. “We have a date with Krista. Wasn’t that nice of her to invite us both to meet with her in her office? We are going to have some tea, maybe a cookie or two, and hear all about how your essays stink. That sounds lovely, don’t you think?”

  “Oh.”

  “I hope by the time we get to Krista’s office you have a little more to say to the two of us than just ‘oh.’”

  “Oh, no?”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Entering the college counseling center is like entering the television set of This Could Be Your Life. Pennants of dozens of colleges line the walls. A reader board announces the dates of all upcoming on-campus college visits. A beautiful bleached oak conference table is stacked with college viewbooks and laptops line the conference room walls, a quiet place for kids to take practice SAT tests or work on their applications. Any future seems possible in this center. How I wish I could go back in time and start over knowing what I know now.

  Etta is biting her cuticles, the true sign that her nerves are rustling and that she’s related to me. My heart softens a bit. Yes, I wish I could go back and do things differently, but then I wouldn’t have Etta and I wouldn’t have had the chance to share the majority of my life with Aunt Viv. I have become a better woman given what I have learned from being a mother and a pseudo daughter. Aunt Viv has made me tough, self-reliant, willful, and able to find humor in the worst of times. Etta has made me softer, kinder, and more empathetic to others. I have matured into a pretty good combination of Aunt Viv and Etta, if I say so myself. Maybe I don’t really want another life. I think what I really want is to get to choose this life over others, not just have this life chosen for me based on a series of thoughtless events.

  I knock three times. “Hi, Krista, we’re here.”

  “Hi, Josie. Etta, nice to see your mother brought you here in one piece.” Krista smiles at me. Etta laughs uncomfortably. Krista and I both know it will only take one meeting declaring our disappointment that Etta has not risen to her true potential to get her back on the right path. I also know Krista is going to take the lead playing good cop and once more I’ll be left to reprise my role as bad cop.

  “So, Etta,” Krista starts in from behind her desk, “I have known you your whole life at Fairchild. The good of that is I know all your talents and your exquisite personality intimately and I can share that with colleges on your behalf. The bad of knowing you so well is that I know what you sent me for your college essays is, well, garbage. And I’m not just talking about your writing ability. The topics and stories you have chosen to focus on, they make you sound like every other college-going kid in America and you, Etta Bordelon, are not every other kid. You have incredible grit, unmatched by any other student in your graduating class. You have used that grit to become an upstanding scholar, Fairchild community member, and exceptional dancer at the San Francisco Ballet School. With all that, why would you choose to write about your hamster dying when you were nine?”

  Shocked, I burst out laughing. The laughter continues, a strong cover-up for the angry cop about to go ballistic. Wow, when Etta blows it she blows it big-time. As president of the mile-high club I can say this is one of the less positive Bordelon traits for sure. “Seriously, you wrote about Husky our fat hamster?!?! Why in the world would you do that?”

  Etta turns her whole body to face me, completely ignoring the fact that Krista is in the room, or the fact that this is Krista’s office for that matter. Her voice is calm, and her body is poised.

  “If you won’t take me wanting to apply to Juilliard seriously then I’m not going to take applying to the schools you want me to go to seriously. Why would you spend all that money for the past ten years of my life on ballet if you never wanted me to be any good at it? Besides, Juilliard is a great college and you won’t even consider it for a second.”

  Etta’s adult composure is rattling me. I need to stay on top of my parental game despite the fury collecting inside.

  “Of course I wanted you to be good at ballet. I want you to work hard and be good at whatever you try. That’s why we came back to San Francisco, so you could get a first-rate education and have all options open to you. I know Juilliard is a good school. Great, in fact. Great for kids who choose to put their art first and their academic studies second. That is not what is going to happen here, Etta. You will be putting your academics first. And let go of the idea that I don’t care about your dancing—that’s not true. All the universities I have on our college list have dance classes available to non-dance majors and have many dance troupes for extracurricular activity. Juilliard, on the other hand, offers only three majors—drama, music, and dance. A school like Dartmouth or UC Berkeley has, I don’t know, hundreds if not thousands of majors for you to explore and choose from. Back me up here, Krista, why should Etta limit herself to just dance? Baby, trust me on this one, you want access to as many choices as possible, to figure out what you really want.”

  “You raised me, Mama, so why don’t you trust me? All I want is the option to apply to Juilliard. I’m not saying you have to let me go. All I’m asking for now is that you let me apply. That you help me apply. And that maybe you spend more time on you and less time tryin’ to fix me. I think Aunt Viv’s right: Being single makes you cranky.”

  I can see by the way Krista is looking at me that she’s trying hard not to bust a gut laughing. The tables have now turned and she’s sliding toward Etta’s side, even after my eloquent explanation of how it’s going to be. Yet again, the bad cop stands alone.

  I hesitate, but knowing I’ll win in the long run I concede. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. If you put your very best effort into your college essays, and I mean write like your continued invitation to be a part of our family depends on it, then I will give you the money to apply to Juilliard.”

  “Mama, I thi—”

  “Not finished. Cornell and Dartmouth are the FIRST essays you will finish, followed by the other schools that I have on the college spreadsheet. And when I say, ‘put your very best effort into your college essays,’ I mean that Krista and I both get to see them by December 1 and you best impress us beyond our wildest imaginations or else there is no applying to Juilliard.”

  “Okay. It’s a—”

  “Still not finished. The only way you get to go to dance on the weekends is if you show me you’ve been working on your essays during the week AND over winter break, if that’s what it comes to. Because those college applications WILL be sent by December 31.”

  “And if you want good essays and applications done by December 31, then in exchange you are going to have to help me get my Juilliard portfolio ready, which is due at the same time. I get a fair shot at every school—your favorites and mine.” I’m not sure where Etta has picked up her strong negotiating skills, but I have to say I kind of like that she’s throwing down and making me work for it. Maybe she could hold her own in a big city, after all.

  “Before I
agree, because let it be understood that your future is based on my generous spirit and good mood, I want your absolute promise that there will be no essays about Husky. Those are the kind of essays I get for kindergarten applications. ‘Taylor is an animal lover and expresses sincere interest in being a small-animal veterinarian.’”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “And you will keep your opinions and, apparently, Aunt Viv’s opinions on my dating life to yourself.”

  “That’s going to be tough one. Aunt Viv and I talk about it all the time.”

  “Why you two caught up in my business? Whatever, not negotiable.”

  “Okay fine. Deal.”

  “Krista, you heard her, right? So, if she falls down on the job again, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Bordelon women are known for dropping their ungrateful children off on the side of the road as deadweight on the family’s upward mobility.” I can tell from Krista’s expression she doesn’t know if I’m kidding or not. I look at Etta. She’s biting her cuticles again. She doesn’t know whether I’m kidding, either.

  FOURTEEN

  “I think Mateo is going to get kicked out of SF Children’s Academy.” It’s not like Lola to allow her concern for her boys to get in the way of our Tuesday afternoon drinking. “The ultimate humiliation, right, a teacher’s kid kicked out of school? That’s gonna mean sufferin’ at least a week’s worth of gossip on the school playground. Complete with side-glances and awkward smiles when I walk from my classroom to the faculty lounge.”

  Mateo is what teachers in elementary school refer to as “excessively energetic” or “spirited,” often having to be excused from the classroom to run a few laps around the grassy fields to burn off some wiggles, but he’s far from a bad kid.

  “Yesterday the fourth graders were lined up to go to music. Apparently, Mateo leaned over and bit the class sweetheart right on her lower neck, pretty much where your trapezoid muscle is.” Lola reaches over and pinches me at the base of my neck in case I skipped anatomy in college.

  “Ouch! Why’d he bite her there? Or really, why did he bite her at all? Seems a strange thing to do in fourth grade.”

  “Oh he had a very logical explanation, or at least logical to him. My opinion leans more toward the diabolical. When I basically asked him the motherly version of ‘WTF?!?!?’ he told me he wanted to find out if the fourth-grade cutie tastes like vanilla or tastes like chicken.”

  Any sense of self-control defies me. “HA! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard! What was his conclusion?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Hannibal Lecter’s mother’s best friend said to her when Hannibal was in fourth grade. And he said she tastes like a stale snickerdoodle. My kid is so weird.”

  “Mateo will grow up to be better looking than Hannibal Lecter. He has that swarthy Latino thing going on from his dad.”

  “Oh, well that’s comforting. I’m no longer worried.”

  “Want to hear something that will make you feel better?”

  “I want to hear it and I want to drink it. Can you get me another glass of champagne while I check to see if the school has called yet to let me know Hannibal’s fate?”

  I decide to have one more with Lola so she doesn’t have to feel like a failing parent and a lush at the same time.

  “Dr. Golden and Dad #2, Daniel, are coming in for their parent interview tomorrow. Apparently Aunt Viv promised to have her famous apple crumble coffee cake waiting for them when they show up to sell themselves to Fairchild.”

  “Don’t think there needs to be much of a sales job there. I can’t think of any affliction their kid could have that would trump getting to see Golden Boy on campus for the next thirteen years. As witnessed at SF Academy, private schools accept all kinds of families, even ones with a budding cannibal.” I always know Lola is coming out of a funk when she starts making crude jokes about her children.

  “Well, there is one sticky situation when it comes to Gracie and her eye-candy daddy.” Lola leans in, now that she’s really interested in this conversation. I know she thinks it’s something sexual, but she got to spend the first twenty minutes of our Tuesday date talking about her kid, so now it’s my turn. “Dr. Golden alluded over text that he would or, I guess, really he said he could”—I scroll back through my texts to double-check—“‘help’ Etta get into Cornell if I did my part to get Gracie into Fairchild.”

  “You text with Golden Boy?” Lola asks with a hint of excitement.

  “I’m talking about Etta’s future here and how far I’m willing to bend the rules of general ethics when it comes to taking favors for admissions. It’s always been so cut and dry for me, but now we’re talkin’ about Etta and the rules are getting a little fuzzier. I wanna play fair, I think, but I also know the backroom deals white folks have been doing forever to get their kids into college. I don’t want my kid gettin’ screwed because her mama had a brief moment of morality.” I successfully avoid Lola’s question and make her feel guilty for steering the conversation off the torturous topic of my child’s future.

  “Right, Etta’s future. Girl, you know I love you, right?” Lola asks me, pulling her barstool closer to mine. “And us bein’ sista-friends, we choose to be honest with each other so neither of us looks like a fool or makes foolish mistakes.” I know Lola is talking about the time I stopped her from shaving her head to prove the point to her husband that she feels invisible in a house full of men who eat, burp, fight, and fart all day. I literally had to grab the clippers out of her hand and point out to her that her ears are not her best feature.

  “Well then, here it is, Josie. You need to get off Etta’s back and let that girl apply to Juilliard with your blessing. Straight up. If you don’t, she’s going to go off to college and drop you like a bad habit because you don’t see your daughter for who she really is. She’s an artist, a dancer, who also happens to be good in school. Not a top student who also happens to be good at dance. You have to let her live her life, whether you agree with her choices or not, or you’re going to lose her forever. And then you are going to end up like me, no daughter to take care of you when you’re old.”

  “You’ll take care of me when I’m old.”

  “Not if you don’t let Etta seriously consider Juilliard.”

  “How do you know about Juilliard anyway?” I never brought it up with Lola before.

  “Etta talked to me since she hasn’t been able to talk to her mother about it.”

  “So Etta talked to you, Aunt Viv, and Jean Georges all about Juilliard. Any other secrets you know about my daughter that I should probably be aware of since she’s my kid?” I’m getting upset. What happened to keeping Bordelon family issues private? Unless I’m the one blabbing to Lola, of course.

  “I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Jo, you can be a one-track-thinkin’, don’t-get-in-my-way-’cause-I-know-what-I-want, the-world-best-hop-on-MY-train, stubborn you-know-what type of person. I’ve never known a woman who can dig her heels in harder than you can. And I say that with love. And awe.” Lola downs the last of her drink signaling that this conversation is done and it’s time to pick up her ninja warrior.

  “I really should have let you shave your head.”

  “But you never would have, because at the end of the day once you climb up and out of your own way you always know the right thing to do.” Lola stands to put on her coat and scarf to steel herself against the San Francisco fog and wind.

  “You think it’s so cute that Mateo can play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ on his guitar. Just wait another seven years, when he tells you he wants to run off and join some alt rock band rather than go to college. Or worse, try out for a reality television show. Then let’s talk. I’ll remind you to let him find his own way at seventeen, for you to get out of the way of his dream that is heading nowhere good.”

  “Hey, as long as that little cannibal doesn
’t turn into Ozzy Osbourne and bite the heads off birds on stage I’m all good.” I can’t wait to remind her of this conversation when Mateo goes Goth at fifteen. If creamy Latino black kids can go Goth. Never really thought about that one. Regardless, we’ll see who is the hyper-controlling, know-it-all momster then.

  Lola pushes her chair in place and leans over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “You just count yourself lucky I don’t rat you out to Aunt Viv that you failed to walk me to my car. Leave a good tip, Hugo’s my favorite bartender.”

  It’s my week to pick up the tab and I still have a sip or two of champagne left. I disregard Aunt Viv’s golden rule of friendship: “You go together, you leave together.” No one’s going to mug Lola on the way to her mini-van one block up Franklin. I stay at the bar a few moments more to think about my deal with Etta. I told Etta she could apply to Juilliard and that I would even help make her portfolio video, but I have no intention of actually allowing her to go. But is Juilliard worth losing my daughter over? Is there a middle road we could agree on, like, maybe a reputable college with a strong dance program where she could double major? Seems like Duke is that kind of school, worth double-checking my research at least. Or, if I just stick to my plan and wait it out will she come to see I’m right and thank me later? Deep down I know there is no one right path for Etta to take, but I also know that New York City is littered with many tempting wrong paths. I leave the philosophical for the mundane and signal Hugo for the check. Teenagers have no tolerance for late pickup.