Esther laughed. “You’re the reason our public school is one of the best in the state. We need moms like you!”
“I’m not done!” Skye said. “I haven’t told you about all the workshops I’ve attended. So many workshops. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do with my wealth of knowledge, but on top of the ones we did back when we adopted Aurora, I’m now an authority on stress, anxiety, social-emotional intelligence, overuse injuries from sports, ADHD, vaping, power parenting, gifted kids, and bullying. I’ve listened to experts tell me I should be Aurora’s biggest advocate, and I’ve heard from other experts that I should back the fuck off if I want her to stand any chance of becoming a functional adult.”
“Stop!” Esther laughed.
“I’ve also raised money. You name it—dogs, softball, literacy—and I’ve fundraised for it. I’ve sold everything from brownie pans to car decals, all so Abington Elementary could bring in famous children’s authors and cultural dance troupes from Brazil and renowned jazz quartets for the second-grade assembly.”
“Didn’t we just host the Bush sisters? With their new children’s book?”
Skye nodded. “I’m tired. And burnt out. And I know I shouldn’t say it because I’m hashtag grateful and humbled and lucky, and I realize that, I really do, but…” She leaned in closer to Esther and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m also severely bored. I don’t think I realized how bored until Aurora went to first grade full-time this past year. It’s time for me to go back to work.”
“Are you considering it?”
“For years, but it always seemed silly to hand over my salary to a nanny. But now that she’s in school all day…” Skye’s voice trailed off. “I’m just not thrilled with the idea of teaching around here.”
“No?” Esther said, laughing. “I can’t imagine why not.”
“I’m going to get the girls’ residence set and running, and then the plan is to look into getting a teaching job in the city again. Queens or the Bronx, maybe—it’s not such a terrible commute.”
“What does Gabe think?”
Skye shrugged. “He’s supportive. I mean, if it were up to him, we’d bag the whole thing and move to Australia. He talks a lot about the higher quality of life we would have there.”
“Yes, but no jobs. Or serious people. Although you probably wouldn’t have all these lunatic parents, either.” Esther stopped. “You’re not moving to Australia, are you?”
“No! Absolutely not. Gabe’s not serious about it. He loves Paradise, always says what a perfect suburb it is, straight out of the movies. But I do really miss the city. Maybe not living there so much, but teaching there. Connecting with all different kinds of kids, from so many varied backgrounds and perspectives. It was incredible to see how their cultures and traditions informed how they looked at learning and creativity: I loved watching them make that connection after days—sometimes weeks—of trying. I’m not explaining it well, but it was…different from here. Better.”
“I can totally understand that,” Esther murmured.
“I’ve put together an informal group of…what should I call them? Consultants, I suppose, for lack of a better word. Four total, all women of color, two educators and two mental health professionals, who will advise on the best way to smooth the transition for the girls. Aside from being tremendously helpful, speaking to them regularly has me inspired to get back to my educational roots.”
Skye glanced at her phone when it shimmied on the table. “I hate to do this, but Gabe texted that his meeting got bumped a half hour earlier and he needs to get to the office.”
Esther hit the table. “Let’s go save him. Can Aurora come to us for the rest of the morning? It’s easier to have her there—at least then my monsters have something to do.”
“Skye! Is that you?” a voice rang out from somewhere near the coffee counter.
“No!” Esther whispered as she watched Skye wave back.
“They’ve already seen me!” Skye said back through a gritted smile.
Three women, nearly identical to the ones they’d seen at yoga, crowded around the table.
“Do you all know each other?” Skye asked. “This is my friend Esther. Esther, this is Becky, Denise, and Ana, all moms of…” Skye pretended to think for a second. “…third-grade boys, am I right?”
Esther brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Oh, really? And you’re all at Abington? My son is in third grade there, too.”
Silence. All three mothers turned to look at Esther for the first time. She was suddenly interesting. Relevant. “Who’s yours?” asked Denise, Skye’s Girl Scouts co-leader.
“Crew. In Mrs. Goodwin’s class.”
“Oooooooh, you got Mrs. Goodwin this year? How’s that going?” Ana asked, leaning forward.
Esther shrugged. “Fine, I think? Crew hasn’t complained.”
“She’s supposed to be brutal!” Denise said, bouncing her waves. “Like, so old-school. Very strict. I mean, it’s great that your son doesn’t seem to mind, but maybe he’s too scared to admit not liking her? In my letter to the principal last year, I insisted that we not get Mrs. Goodwin for third.”
The others nodded. “A teacher like that can have lasting repercussions,” Becky announced gravely. She tried to look concerned, but her Botoxed forehead was uncooperative, creating the impression that she was staring, either dispassionately or drugged, into space.
“Oh my, it’s almost nine,” Denise said. “I’m going to be late getting Bryson to his baseball game if I can’t get to his lax scrimmage in Larchmont in fifteen minutes. I mean, who does the scheduling around here?”
Ana and Becky also stood and announced, in case anyone cared, that they had two swim meets, three softball games, and a six-hour soccer tournament between them. “Jake better not think for a single second that he’s going to sit around and watch baseball all day,” Ana said, slinging her enormous Chloé bag over her shoulder—its heavy, hanging metal lock narrowly missing Skye’s cheekbone.
“That’s why you have to sign them up to coach everything,” Denise said authoritatively. “Having a husband around without a team to coach is like having another child.” She turned to Skye. “I’ll see you next week for our last Girl Scouts of the year. Will you check the schedule and confirm with the Snack and Stay mom?”
“On it,” Skye sang brightly.
The three women left.
“Wow. They’re…a lot,” Esther said.
“You have no idea,” Skye said.
“No, I’m starting to. You have to deal with that every day?”
Skye thought back to the parents of her fourth graders in Harlem, people who could have moonlighted as diversity models. There had been a radio DJ, a midwife, a social worker, and two dentists. A smattering of parents who worked for the city, mostly the MTA, and a few in-home health aides. There was one father with reputed ties to the Russian mob, although Skye had always found him extremely attentive and involved. A few of the parents she’d never even met, as they’d been unable or unwilling to attend Curriculum Night or the Christmas concert or the Valentine’s Day party, and they never returned an email or phone call. Every year she would count the languages spoken by her students; one time there was a record-setting sixteen, not including English or Spanish.
“No,” Skye said, gathering up their trash. “Definitely not in Harlem. A little more so when we first moved out here and I was still teaching in White Plains, but nothing is like Paradise. You know Denise?”
“The one just now with the Kardashian-sized ring?”
Skye nodded. “Last fall her husband got into a fight with another dad at their son’s flag football game.”
“A fight? Like, a disagreement?”
“A fistfight! A physical altercation! Two grown men rolling around on the field and shouting about the best way to get the team to the Super B
owl. The Paradise Super Bowl. For children. Thank god Gabe was there. He and another dad broke it up, but not before every single six-year-old on the team saw the whole thing. I mean, seriously: I challenge you to come up with a single scenario with lower stakes than a first-grade flag football playoff game.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course not. Because it doesn’t exist.”
Together they got into Esther’s car and drove the short distance home. After saying goodbye to Gabe and watching out the kitchen window as Aurora made her way to Esther’s backyard, Skye climbed into the shower and stood under the pounding water for a full ten minutes. When she came out with one towel wrapped around her chest and another knotted atop her head, she flipped on the television in search of a music station, but a blaring breaking news graphic caught her attention.
“What now?” she murmured to herself, squinting at the screen.
The camera zoomed in on the face of the man being nudged into the backseat of an official-looking car. Skye frowned and leaned closer.
“Oh my god,” Skye breathed. “Is that—?”
Skye glanced around their room, trying to remember where she’d left her glasses. What was going on? There must be some mistake. Where was Peyton, and what did she know?
The reporters on the screen started scrambling and shouting. “Can you comment on the charges against your husband?” one called out, louder than the others.
Despite her semi-blindness, Skye would know her sister anywhere. It was like recognizing one’s own baby in a nursery of identically swaddled newborns. She stood so close to the television that water droplets from her hair peppered the screen. Oh my god. It was absolutely, one hundred percent Peyton. Skye had long gotten over the odd sensation of seeing her sister on the air, but this was different. Why was her sister wearing spandex and a sports bra? Why the crazy hair and red face and terrified expression? Skye realized she’d been so mesmerized by Peyton’s appearance and Isaac in handcuffs that she’d missed the accusation. She sank to the floor, her body understanding that something terrible was happening, but her mind unable to process it. For that moment all she could think was: Max.
A phone rang from somewhere. She scrambled up and found it on the bathroom sink.
Neither she nor Peyton said a word. They waited, breathing together, both too terrified to speak. Then, finally, Peyton asked, “Are you watching this right now?”
Skye took a deep breath and said, “You are so totally and completely fucked.”
5
We Have a Problem
For the twenty-second time in the past hour, Peyton’s phone rang. She snatched it from its charging stand on the kitchen island.
“Kenneth, I don’t have anything more to report than I did seven minutes ago,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
“Well, I have plenty to say,” her agent of nearly ten years said with his standard gruffness. Bald and overweight, Kenneth was a throwback to the two-martini-lunch era. Old enough to be Peyton’s father—maybe, in some circles, her grandfather—he was the best in the business, and he didn’t take any bullshit from anyone, especially Peyton. Which she usually appreciated, but today she could have done without.
“I told you before, this is all a misunderstanding.”
“That very well may be, and I hope for your sake it is, but it doesn’t change the fact that ANN is—how shall I put this?—displeased at the fact that their favorite female morning co-anchor is making headlines of her own. I need some clarity, Peyton, if you want me to handle this for you. What the fuck is going on?”
Peyton touched two fingers to her temple. There was no way she could tell him the truth-truth.
“We’ve known each other a long time, Kenneth. You’re just going to have to trust me that we don’t have a problem here.”
“Don’t have a problem? Who doesn’t have a problem? I don’t have a problem, but it appears that you very much have a problem. Joseph is agitated, to say the least, and your boss is not taking kindly to me reassuring him that it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
Her phone beeped. This time it was Joseph calling her himself. Her stomach lurched. “I’ve got to take this,” she told Kenneth, and hit Swap before he had the chance to respond.
“Peyton,” Joseph drawled. “Care to tell me what in God’s name is going on?” His Southern accent was slow, syrupy, but she knew him well enough to know that he liked to lure people in before crushing them.
“Joseph,” Peyton murmured, trying to summon her most soothing and professional tone. “I know this looks bad, I do understand that, but I want to assure you that—”
“Looks bad?” he interrupted. “America’s sweetheart’s husband just got arrested on national TV! Now, tell me. Do you think the housewives in Oklahoma who tune in every morning for stories on hero firefighters really want to picture your husband in prison for bribery? For writing a check that’s more than their family’s annual salary to get your kid into an Ivy League school?”
“Isaac didn’t bribe anyone,” Peyton said, trying not to sound defensive. The official charge was mail fraud, which she didn’t completely understand yet.
“Did you know about this?” Joseph asked, catching her off guard. “You must have. I know Isaac. He’s a hell of a guy, and there’s no way he would have done this without you.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m asking you point-blank. Were you involved in this? I need to know how much more in the shit we are before I can make a decision on how we’re all moving forward.” Peyton felt sweat prickle under her arms. “What role did you play in this?”
Peyton froze. Joseph loved her. He had wooed her from MSNBC with a series of lunches and dinners and turned to all-out stalking when she’d broken the story about illegal fracking in an Alaskan nature preserve. For the last five years, he’d mentored her and promoted her. He personally had sent her a magnum of Dom Pérignon with a gushing note when she’d won an Emmy for television news programming. Was it possible that he wouldn’t even give her the benefit of the doubt?
“Can you hear me?” His drawl had somehow vanished.
“Joseph, I’ve already hired the best attorney, and you’ll see that this has all been—”
“Clean. It. Up. Do we understand each other?”
Peyton opened her mouth to reassure him again, but her voice was blocked by another incoming call. Joseph hung up, and her screen showed that it was Nisha.
“Hi,” Peyton said, finally exhaling.
“I spoke to Claire. She’s using every connection she has—and trust me, she knows everyone—to get Isaac out before the weekend. She’s there now. She’s not making any promises, but she’s hopeful.”
“Oh my god, Nisha, he can’t spend the night in a holding cell.”
“If anyone can get him out, it’s Claire. She’s the very best.”
“Thank you,” Peyton whispered. She felt a flood of gratitude toward Nisha for getting Claire to agree to take the case. Back at Penn State, Nisha had been the ultimate party girl. Spontaneous road trip to the nearby Indian reservation casino? Three a.m. calzone run? Tequila shots for brunch? Skip the game to keep on tailgating? Spend the night? Nisha was always down. Not even Peyton knew that Nisha also studied as hard as she played until she’d gotten accepted to Yale Law School their senior year, the only one in their entire undergraduate class to do so.
“Remember, no matter what, you stay put. He can take an Uber home. The absolute worst thing right now would be a photo of you standing outside some police precinct flashing over every television in America. I cannot reiterate this enough.”
“I know,” Peyton said, and she did.
“Do not answer any calls you don’t recognize. Assume your work email is being read, because it is. Hell, I’d assume your private email also is being read. Your entire focus right now should be on keeping quiet.
That includes Max. I don’t care if you have to confiscate all her electronics and lock her in her room—she cannot do anything stupid on social media or she’ll jeopardize your entire family.”
“I understand. I explained all of this to her already.”
“Explain it again. And then once more.”
“Copy that,” Peyton said.
“This is not a drill,” Nisha said tightly. It was jarring coming from someone who was usually telling an outrageous story about another misbehaving celebrity or billionaire. When Nisha had left her position at the U.S. Attorney’s Office to open her own crisis management firm with two other women, Peyton had been delighted: her best friend had become a constant source of great material. But now? How had Peyton ended up as one of her clients?
“No,” Peyton said.
“Listen, P? This isn’t going to be easy. I want you to know that. But I’ll be here to help you however I possibly can, okay?”
“Really, Nish, I appreciate that, you know I do. But this whole…situation is overblown. It’s ridiculous, really, and it’s not going to be a thing.”
The beat of silence made Peyton check to see that their call was still connected.
“I’ll call you when I know more,” Nisha said quietly and hung up.
Peyton stared at her phone for a moment, her hands shaking. Nisha never sounded worried. Never. Clearly she didn’t know the whole story, though, and once she did, she’d understand that everyone was overreacting. Peyton walked down the hallway and knocked on Max’s door, but there was no response.
“Honey? It’s me. Can I come in, please?”
“No!”
Peyton cracked open her daughter’s bedroom door.
“Max? I just spoke to Nisha. She recommended the best lawyer in New York, a classmate of hers from Yale, named Claire.”
Max said nothing. She was sitting atop her covers, staring at the open laptop on her outstretched legs, oversized headphones covering her ears.
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty Page 5