by Alli Frank
I remind myself I have made it further into this school year than in years past before I start to hate Nan all over again. Once a year, somewhere between early November and mid-December, Nan does something to remind me how my professional enjoyment and satisfaction is directly linked to how threatened she is feeling by me at any given moment. Usually the abuse takes place in private, but this year she has ratcheted it up a notch by taking her superior stance against me public.
“In fact, Nan, we use the same admissions evaluation and measurement standards as every other private school in the Bay Area. The directors of admissions across all the schools spent two years developing the standards together, beta testing it together, and it has now been in use in all the schools for four years; a decision we agreed upon—together. You would know this if you had ever bothered to attend an admissions committee meeting prior to today.” I’m swinging just shy of the fences by putting Nan on Front Street like this. I can’t afford to get fired, but I certainly am not going to take Nan’s humiliation in front of my committee lying down.
“Well, this system of yours had better produce enough money, I mean, quality families, to build my STEAMS program. Good to see you all. Don’t let me stop your work from continuing. I’m sure you eight educational powerhouses can more than make up for Josie’s shortcomings. For your commitment and service to keeping Fairchild a highly regarded school, I have Jane’s on Fillmore delivering a selection of healthy, organic, locally sourced salads, a vast assortment of baked goods, and an array of juices for your lunch. And, Josie, I haven’t had time to tell Aunt Viv about the fabulous party I’m throwing for her. Since it’s almost the holiday break I’ve decided I’m indeed going to leave it to you to give her the good news. Oh, and, Roan, don’t worry, I remembered that the beet, carrot, apple, and ginger juice is your favorite.” Nan gives Roan a smile and heads out the conference room door.
“OH GOODY!!!!!” Roan squeals, clapping his hands together like a toddler moving up the line to see Santa.
“Touch that juice when it’s delivered and you’re dead,” is the only thing I can think to say to control my temper and also reestablish some sense of governance in the room. Yeah, that’s right, I’m making Roan pick between Nan and me over a juice that makes you shit red.
STRESS SEASON
FIFTEEN
Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I still haven’t mentioned anything about the anniversary party to Aunt Viv. This is my silent protest against The Man or, really, Nan.
If I’m truly laying it all out there, I was hopeful Nan’s recent rant against me had forced her to reconsider if she wanted to celebrate any Bordelon at all. Or at least not spend Fairchild money on an event Aunt Viv would detest: two hundred people stuffed in gowns and tuxes crowded in Fairchild’s grand black-and-white foyer to celebrate her famous third Friday of the month macaroni and cheese. For weeks after Nan suggested the party I had night terrors that she would insist there be a receiving line for people to offer Aunt Viv their congratulations and for Nan to receive accolades for dreaming up such a glorious celebration. Nan loves any formality that reeks of royalty and power. If I can make it to the New Year without Nan asking if I shared the news of the party with Aunt Viv, perhaps we will all be off the hook.
“Come on, Aunt Viv. If you take much longer you won’t officially be the first person seated for this year’s Nutcracker. Do you really want to ruin your ten-year early bird record?” I yell down the hall. Etta’s final year attending the San Francisco Ballet School and she’s been selected to dance the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy. She burst into tears when she found out in early November and it gave me a tinge of warm fuzzy that Jean Georges could put aside our differences and grant Etta this iconic solo for her final season. I send myself a reminder e-mail from my phone to put Jean Georges on the list of people in Etta’s life to receive a senior picture and a graduation announcement. Though he’s one of my least favorite people, Etta would not be the person she is without him. E-mail sent, but still no Aunt Viv. I scroll through my Fairchild account pretty sure I won’t have any new e-mail on a Sunday afternoon, but thinking I can use these few minutes of quiet to clean out my in-box while Aunt Viv finishes getting ready.
FROM: Jean Georges Martin
DATE: December 9, 2018
SUBJECT: Sugar Plum Fairy
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
It has come to my attention that Etta has twice left Nutcracker rehearsal early and she has requested her understudy for not one, but two performances so she may work on her college applications. I’m sure this brings you great joy to know Etta is neglecting her role in one of the top Nutcracker performances in the country. Instead she is using her time to apply to colleges she has no desire to attend, but apparently you do. I hope the parents’ weekend lives up to your expectations.
While I have never been a parent I have had the best interest of over 800 students in my heart and in my mind for the 18 years I have been Artistic Director of the San Francisco Ballet School. It seems to me that you, as a mother, could take a mere moment to do the same with your one child.
I expect Etta will not need to miss any rehearsals or performances after you have read this e-mail.
May the holidays bring good tidings to Etta and Aunt Viv.
Merci beacoup,
Jean Georges Martin
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR
SAN FRANCISCO BALLET SCHOOL
And with one click my Nutcracker has been ruined. That wrinkled rat king really knows how to piss me off. I didn’t ask Etta to miss rehearsals or performances to work on her essays; she concluded that she needs that time to honor our arrangement all on her own. If she can get the essays and applications done without missing any ballet that’s fine by me. My only request was to get it done by December 31 and like you said, Herr Drosseldick, she is my daughter and my word is the law.
Aunt Viv walks down the long, narrow hallway from our bedrooms toward the light streaming through the bay window at the front of the apartment. She is wearing her best suit, the one that’s reserved for homegoings, important church meetings, and the occasional wedding. Until Aunt Viv is clearly in the light it’s difficult to distinguish between the dark roast of her skin and the midnight-blue of her suit. Her red lipstick outlines the greatest smile and the wickedest tongue I’ve ever known. Her matching purse and white gloves pick at a memory so deep in my mind I’m not sure if it’s real. I vaguely remember my grandmother extending her white-gloved hand to hold mine as we walked to church when I was still living in New Orleans. Or was it my mother? Or was that Aunt Viv when I first arrived in San Francisco?
“You look beautiful, Aunt Viv.” I get up and walk across the room to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Don’t be wastin’ that nonsense on an old woman like me,” Aunt Viv scolds, but I know she loves the compliment. “You have that special phone of yours that takes pictures and videotapes?” Aunt Viv is still working on the ins and outs of her flip-phone, circa 2004.
“It’s called an iPhone, Aunt Viv, no one videotapes anymore, but yes, my phone does take video.”
“Good. Give it to me. I’ve been reading on the computer how to take good video when people are moving around a lot. I do believe I know what I’m doin’. I just want to do a little practicin’ in the car.” Aunt Viv sees my phone on the coffee table and swiftly picks it up and drops it in her purse. She gives it a pat to make sure it’s landed where it’s supposed to. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
“And what do you think you’ll be doing with my phone?” I ask, elbowing her in the side knowing she and technology will never be friends.
“I will be gettin’ Etta into Juilliard, that’s what I’ll be doin’. Now what you don’t want to be doin’ is makin’ me late for Etta’s performance.”
* * *
• • •
“Josie. Josie! JOSIE, DEAR!”
Aunt
Viv is busy talking with Krista from college counseling and her three-year-old daughter, who just saw her first Nutcracker. I turn to try to locate who in the crowd is calling my name.
“Josie, it’s Meredith Lawton and Vanessa Grimaldi. What a surprise to see you here.” Meredith yells over the crowd then begins to push her way toward me dragging behind her someone who could only be Harrison. Vanessa follows suit with Antonia drowning in layers of pink tulle.
“Darling, wasn’t that performance absolutely grand?” Vanessa purrs in her Italian accent. As much as I dislike running into potential parents outside of school I could listen to that accent all day, the perfect mix of culture and sex. “That Sugar Plum Fairy was simply magnificent. Maybe one day that could be you, darling?” Vanessa coos, brushing Antonia’s flushed cheek with the back of her hand.
“That was my daughter.”
“Who’s your daughter?” Meredith asks, looking behind both shoulders.
“The Sugar Plum Fairy.”
“No! Really? Beatrice never told me you have a daughter who is a talented ballerina.”
“Well, I don’t talk to Beatrice all that often since her children graduated Fairchild, so I can’t imagine an occasion where I would have shared that piece of information with her.” Can Meredith not stand on her own two feet without the mention of Beatrice?
“You mean you haven’t spoken to her on Harrison’s behalf yet?”
“Not yet.”
Meredith is visibly flustered. Or maybe she’s shaking from lack of nutrients, her leather pants hanging loose over a nonexistent backside. All I can think is that someone needs to get this woman a cheeseburger and some self-love.
“It’s five-thirty, we need to be heading backstage to grab Etta,” I say to Aunt Viv, loud enough for Meredith and Vanessa to hear. “It was lovely to see you both.” I put my hand on Meredith’s upper arm to give her a reassuring squeeze; all I get is a handful of bone. I thank God borderline anorexic has never been a black beauty standard as my stomach rumbles for the fried chicken Aunt Viv promised Etta post performance. I bend down to Harrison’s and Antonia’s eye level before I go. “My name’s Josie, and I think in a couple of weeks you’re going to come to my school to play and meet other kids and have loads of fun. I can’t wait for you to visit so I can show you all the interesting things we have to play with at Fairchild Country Day School.”
“Do you have a drone?” Harrison asks with eager eyes.
“No drone.”
“Do you have robots?” Antonia asks, twirling in her tulle.
“No robots.”
“Then what kind of toys do you have?” Harrison questions, genuinely perplexed.
“Everyday toys like basketballs and blocks. See ya in a few weeks.” I stand up and leave the mini MIT graduates-in-training wondering what’s “everyday” about playing with drones and robots before age five.
* * *
• • •
Even during vacation Lola and I stick to our Tuesday afternoon Absinthe date. The Nutcracker is over, and the fall karate session is done, but there are still inappropriate topics to discuss, champagne to be drunk, and children to be avoided. Most people teach for the great vacation schedule and summers off. Lola may be the only teacher I know who lives for when school is IN session. For her, vacation is akin to being taken hostage in a zoo full of foul smells, two-hour feeding schedules, and the messy habits of four males. Lola always returns to school looking more haggard than when she left after a week or two or ten spent with her boys. This is why we generally start drinking earlier than four o’clock during holidays. We make our annual winter break meet-up a champagne brunch—shake it up a little. The time, not the cocktail.
I roll into Absinthe with an infinity scarf wrapped around my dreads, the San Francisco staple puffy coat to fight off the winter wind and fog whipping through the city, and a pair of red patent leather Chelsea boots I snuck from the set of a Jimmy Choo shoot back when Tamara Mellon was just launching the company and no one knew how loco Jimmy or Tamara really were. The boot never made it to market because it’s a flat.
First thing I notice when I walk in Absinthe are the two women, who are not me and Lola, sitting on our stools. I’m thrown. Lola comes in right after me and stops dead in her tracks when she sees the imposters.
“Oh no they didn’t,” Lola snaps a little too loudly.
“Oh yes they did.”
“How dare they?”
“I know, right?” I say back to Lola, unable to take my eyes off the interlopers. They’re probably having a bit of a rest after shopping for precious pastel macarons, organic persimmons, and chemical-free makeup at the boutique marketplace that used to be a corner liquor store and hooker hangout when I was a kid.
“Well, we actually need table space this morning anyway. Two, please,” Lola tells the hostess. I don’t say a thing; I’m too busy wondering if it will feel weird to drink champagne at a table.
Once we’re seated, Lola reaches into her hobo bag, pulls out her laptop, and scoots her bistro chair closer to mine. I pluck a feather out of a seam of her down jacket.
“I have a Christmas present for you,” she says tentatively.
“You givin’ me your laptop?”
“Girl, please. No. Your present is on my laptop.” Lola hugs the laptop to her chest as if she’s adding another protective layer between her and the cold.
“Oooh! You’re going to show me something online, so I can tell you if I want it or not?” I ask, slightly giddy with anticipation. It’s been a long time since someone has bought me a present.
“Something like that,” Lola says, putting down the laptop and opening Safari. “I signed you up for Bumble and I made you a profile page.”
“That definitely is not on my Christmas list.”
“I know, I know, but hear me out. One month is all I ask. Try it for one month, and if you don’t like it we close down the account. Thirty days is not going to kill you, and I’m paying for the first month anyway so, you know, Merry Christmas.” I can’t stand listening to Lola whine and beg at the same time. “I don’t suppose you got me anything?” Lola asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, another year of friendship unless this online dating thing goes sideways. How does this even work? I’m not up for men judging me by a couple of pictures, which, by the way, I have yet to approve.”
Lola takes this as a yes and claps her hands with the enthusiasm of a little kid.
“This is Bumble and the best part is the women have all the power. Men can’t choose you, you choose them. How great is that! Let’s take your profile for a little spin.”
“Right now?!?!?”
“Yeah, right now, what else you gotta do? I know you can drink and type, I’ve seen you do it a thousand times.”
“Jeez, okay, but let me see my pictures first.” I have to give it to Lola: She has chosen four quality photos of me. One is a little misleading, I don’t usually parade around in head-to-toe motorcycle chic. That photo was from a fund-raiser at the Ritz-Carlton, Leather for School Lunches. I know these pictures are going to attract bees to this honey, but I just want to be sure I don’t get stung again. Other than that Lola did okay. Even her write-up is spot on, with a touch of exaggeration. I’m ready. “Okay, now what do we do?”
Lola looks at me funny. I think she was expecting more of a fight, not complete participation.
“Well, we actually search on your phone.” Lola grabs my phone and in a matter of thirty seconds the Bumble app is downloaded. “Next we start looking through the men. We swipe left to look at their pictures and read the profiles and right if we want to tell them we’re interested in a match. I mean, if you’re interested in a match.”
“No, you were right the first time, this is definitely a WE project.”
“Are you ready to give it a try?”
“I’m a thirty-ni
ne-year-old swiping virgin. Alright, let’s do this.”
Tavis
Restaurateur, 39
San Diego State, 2000
Swipe left.
Andre
BMX Racer, 36
Sonoma Community College
Swipe left.
TJ
Architect, 55
University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1984
“TJ’s not bad looking and he might be kinda interesting. And trustworthy since he’s a Midwestern boy.” Lola’s squinting at him two inches from the screen like she’s examining his pores. “Swipe right?” she asks tentatively, unsure of TJ’s qualifications to date her best friend.
“Swipe left, he’s fifty-five. I’m looking for a boyfriend, not a father. Can you change my age range to just below when a person qualifies for AARP?” A girl has to have standards.
Lola and I get a feel for the swiping thing pretty quickly and also for the hidden language of online dating. “Self-employed” means “Unemployed.” “Entrepreneur” means “three failed start-ups and no one wants to hire me,” and “looking for a casual relationship” means “booty call.” A picture that looks like it has been torn in half means the wife is on the discarded side. Sunglasses in all the pictures means serial killer. And then we land on one that takes my breath away.
“Oh shit, Jo.” Lola grabs my hand. I’m busy reading and not blinking.
Michael, 45
Environmental Lobbyist
Howard University, 1994
He’s as beautiful as I remember. Close-shaved head and beard, sleepy eyes, teeth so bright his smile is blinding. And in one of the pictures he’s wearing the Battistoni Roma tie I bought him on our trip to L.A. I had to come home and quit my gym membership for the year to pay it down, but seeing him wear it always made me smile and then rip it off him.
Looking at Michael makes my heart hitch. The only man I allowed to become part of Etta’s life, breaking my no men around my baby rule. I had been so certain he was “the one.” With a career on the upswing, money in the bank to put a down payment on a house, flawless manners with all the women in my life, and only eyes for me in the bedroom, he could do no wrong. I was ready to have eighteen more babies with that man, I was so sure he was going nowhere anytime soon.