Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “About that. There’s something I need to tell you, and I don’t want you to—”

  Isaac appeared in the office door, his robe hanging open over a pair of pineapple boxers. His expression was serious.

  “Skye? Never mind, I’ll call you in the morning, okay?” she said quickly, and hung up. She moved to wrap her arms around him, but he slid past her.

  “I think Nisha’s right,” he whispered, no doubt to keep from waking Max.

  “Right about what?”

  “About us needing some time apart. From each other,” he said to the hallway carpet.

  Peyton could feel her eyes widen. “She was only suggesting that for appearance’s sake.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Isaac. Look at me!” She whispered too, but her voice was urgent.

  He ran his hands through his thick dark hair. Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I need some time to think about everything—you, us, Max, how all of this happened. It’s not forever. And I don’t care what you tell people.”

  “But, Isaac, we just need—”

  Abruptly he turned around and said, “Don’t tell me what we need! You gave up that right the second you broke your promise. Have you considered for one minute how all of this is going to play out for Max? Or me? We certainly doesn’t seem to be your default these days. I’m going back to sleep in my own bed; you take the office.” He slammed their bedroom door.

  Peyton stood there, shocked, staring at the back of the door. She could hear the toilet flush, the covers rustle, and then nothing. He hadn’t locked it—nothing was preventing her from climbing into bed next to him. But the pitchfork had returned to her temples, and her stomach had started to cramp. What have I done? Her body on autopilot, she sank to the floor of the hallway and curled herself into a ball. Max’s room was only a few feet away, and Peyton didn’t want her daughter to find her like that, but she couldn’t move. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, shivering, before she finally fell into a dark, drugged sleep.

  9

  Matchy-Matchy

  Skye stared at her laptop screen, wondering how to address the email. Dear Parents wouldn’t do, since one of the girls was being raised by her grandparents, and another was in foster care. Dear Guardians sounded so cold. Chewing on the pen propped between her teeth, she finally decided on Dear Parents and Guardians.

  Dear Parents and Guardians,

  I’m excited to be writing with an update! As you already know, we have purchased the home that will be used for our girls’ residence while they attend Paradise High School. A local architect—my husband—has drawn plans to transform the space to fit our needs, and I’ve already begun sourcing the furniture and soft goods that will make it feel like home. We are expecting the last of our financing any day now from a generous local investor, and we will immediately begin the renovations needed to make the space our own. I’m thrilled to write that we are on track for a late-summer move-in, and the girls will hopefully be ready to start the school year with the rest of the Paradise students.

  Please don’t hesitate to get in touch with any questions or concerns. I look forward to greeting each of your girls soon!

  All the best,

  Skye Alter

  Executive Director, Serenity Home for Girls

  She read it, spell-checked it, and, feeling satisfied, hit send. The clock on the kitchen counter read 2:46 p.m. Less than a half hour until she needed to meet Aurora’s bus. She should really go for a walk—she hadn’t left the house all day. Feeling a burst of motivation, Skye went to close her laptop, but the little icon of the Amazon cart caught her eye, and she clicked on it. It was already full from earlier that morning. Eight desk lamps with dimmers. An assortment of drawer organizers. An enormous rice maker. Wall-mountable shampoo dispensers. Click, click, click. One product took her to the next and the next, every minute a new screen popping up, showing her something she hadn’t realized the residence needed until it blared its own benefits like a bragging Real Housewife: Enriched! Redesigned! Back in stock! 2,041 five-star reviews! Click, click, click, her fingers went, adding things to the cart almost faster than her brain could process them.

  It took twenty minutes to edit and purchase the cart, which meant another exercise opportunity squandered. Taking the stairs two at a time, Skye grabbed the first sweatshirt she saw, pulling it on as she headed back downstairs and out the front door. It wasn’t until the driveway that she realized she’d pulled her old Amherst zip-up that was two sizes too big and so gloriously mushy and over-washed that it felt like silk against her bare skin. She and Peyton had bought them together at the campus store on a random weekend when Peyton had come to visit during Skye’s junior year.

  “I’m never going to take this off,” Peyton had announced, as she spun in front of the store’s floor-length mirror. “I’m going to go back to Penn State wearing this so everyone will know that my sister is smart enough to go to one of the best schools in the country.”

  Skye could remember searching Peyton’s face, hyperalert to any hint of jealousy or mockery, but there was none. “Come on, I’ll buy it for you,” Skye said, pulling the sweatshirt from Peyton’s hands.

  “You mean Mom and Dad will buy it for me,” Peyton said, laughing. “But you have to get one, too. Let’s be matchy-matchy.”

  Skye already owned a half dozen Amherst sweatshirts, but it was easier to buy another than stand in the way of Peyton when she had her mind set on something. They’d worn their matching sweatshirts all across campus to Skye’s apartment, arms linked, and Skye could still remember the feeling of walking with her sister, laughing and singing, a few rare rays of the Massachusetts sun warming their faces. When they’d arrived back at Skye’s off-campus apartment, Peyton had poured them vodka cranberries from a bottle of Absolut she’d brought with her, and they sipped and gossiped while they got dressed.

  Skye could remember that night, twenty years earlier, like it had happened the previous week.

  “You’re wearing that?” Peyton had scrunched up her nose at Skye, who’d emerged from her bedroom in a shapeless burgundy maxi dress.

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s just so…awful.”

  Skye sighed. “It’s a dress. I don’t really care.”

  “Well, that much is obvious.” Peyton disappeared into Skye’s small bedroom. “Can you come in here for a minute? I think we can do better.”

  Resisting Peyton was like standing on tiptoe in front of a rogue wave. Skye rolled her eyes but followed her sister. “What?” she asked, hand on her hip. Peyton’s perfect denimed ass stuck out from Skye’s closet.

  “Here, look! These are bordering on cute. I bet they’d be flattering, too.” She tossed a pair of wide-legged trousers to Skye, who caught them. “Then…let’s see here,” she said, flipping through hangers. “Pair it with…this!”

  Skye accepted a sleeveless white silk shirt that her mother had bought her for an internship interview last summer, and she shrugged it on over her head.

  Peyton tucked Skye’s shirt into the jeans, added a belt she ferreted out from god knows where, and said, “Wait, I’ll be right back.” She returned with her own overnight bag, from which she removed a handful of necklaces and a pair of red patent leather pumps that had at least three-inch heels.

  “No freaking way,” Skye said, eyeing the shoes.

  “It’s a cocktail party!”

  “At my professor’s house! And one I’m hoping to ask to be my advisor.”

  “So? Since when aren’t you allowed to look good? Are you worried he won’t think you’re smart if you wear heels?”

  Skye rolled her eyes, but the answer was simple: yes. That’s exactly what she was worried about. “It’s ‘she.’ ”

  “Whatever. Just try them,” Peyton urged, and once again, Skye submitted. She slipped her feet into the sho
es and glanced in the mirror and nearly fell over staring at the reflection that peered back. The wide-cut pants made her waist look even smaller than normal and her legs like they were a mile long. The silk shirt skimmed her small breasts and highlighted her narrow shoulders, and although she wasn’t sure what was doing it—the heels, or just her own awareness—she seemed to stand taller and look more confident.

  “You see?” Peyton said.

  Skye couldn’t stop staring at herself.

  “It’s the best I can do with this.” Peyton waved her arm toward the closet. “It still kills me that the sister without a shred of fashion sense got the better body and face. That feels really unfair. Come here, I’ll do your makeup and they’ll think you’re a complete shallow fucking idiot by the time I’m done with you.”

  Peyton went to work, and ten minutes later Skye examined herself in the mirror. She was glowing. It was almost unnerving how pretty she looked and felt. How had she never known how gifted her sister was with a random assortment of drugstore makeup and some old brushes? She watched as Peyton zipped herself into a black sheath dress, curled her eyelashes and then her hair, and literally painted on a perfectly proportioned face in fewer than fifteen minutes. “Let’s show this professor biatch that she cannot, should not, mess with the Alter sisters,” Peyton announced, jutting her hip out in front of the mirror and blowing herself a kiss.

  Skye felt a flash of irritation. Or was it something else? “Look, I’m all for having fun, but can you please remember that these professors are…serious people? They’re scholars, not partyers.”

  Peyton’s eyes widened. “Of course,” she said, nodding gravely. “Scholars. Noted. Got it. You know, because I’ve never met a real, live professor before.”

  “P, that’s not what—”

  “Come on,” Peyton laughed as she walked out the door. “I’m just teasing you.”

  Peyton yammered on about her sorority as the girls walked across the Main Quad at dusk. “I had no intention of running—zero—but they basically begged me to. I mean, social chair determines the entire social schedule of the whole sorority for the year. It’s, like, why we joined a sorority in the first place,” Peyton said, waving her arms. She stopped and looked around at the ivy-covered buildings, the massive expanses of green grass, and the fiery color of the changing leaves. “My god, it’s gorgeous here.”

  Instead of agreeing, which she did—even after three years on campus, she could barely believe how beautiful it was—Skye said, “I can’t imagine going to a school where the Greek system has such an enormous influence.”

  Peyton peered at her. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I mean, nothing against fraternities and sororities,” Skye continued, “but thank god that’s not the scene at Amherst.”

  Skye felt awful the moment she said it. Peyton had driven five hours to visit her for the weekend, and she’d been nothing but great the entire time she’d been there: she’d whipped up cheddar cheese popcorn and milkshakes last night when they stayed in and watched a movie; she’d made a thousand comments about Amherst being spectacularly beautiful; she’d been super friendly to Skye’s roommates and friends. There was the styling and makeover, and the fact that Peyton had cheerfully agreed to accompany Skye to a cocktail party at her history professor’s house, a task even Skye was dreading.

  “Are you trying to be a raging, snotty bitch?” Peyton asked. “Because if so, you’re doing a really good job.”

  “Sorry,” Skye said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Just like you didn’t mean it when you also reminded me that Amherst doesn’t even have a journalism major? I’m guessing because you’re all supposed to major in English literature instead? That’s much more elite. But guess what? I’ve wanted to major in broadcast journalism since I was fifteen, and I’m happy to be at a school where I can do that. When I transfer to main campus next year, I’ll be in one of the best programs in the country.”

  Skye thought about Peyton’s life at Penn State, where despite being on a small branch campus in the middle of nowhere, it seemed her sister had carved out a pretty great niche for herself. She thrived as the social chair of her sorority, adored her lacrosse player boyfriend, and spent her weekends going to football games and her weekday mornings at the campus television station. Peyton seemed to embrace college, actually, in a way that Skye couldn’t really imagine. Of course, she loved the intellectual rigor of her classes, and the access to world-class professors, and she had been lucky enough to meet a handful of really great friends from all over the world. But she certainly wouldn’t describe her three years so far as fun.

  “I’m insufferable,” Skye said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, please, dear sister, can you use a word that a state schooler at a branch campus might understand? Please?”

  Skye jabbed Peyton in the arm. “This is it,” she said, relieved at the change of scenery. “But we’re still early. Let’s wait here for a little.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Peyton said. She climbed the porch stairs and rang the doorbell before Skye could stop her.

  “I’m not ready!” Skye scream-whispered, suddenly desperate to turn around and leave. One-on-one with some real conversation and no small talk? Fine. But Skye hated big groups and parties and knew she was awful at faking it.

  “What are you so stressed about? It’s cocktails! It’s your professor! We’ll have two glasses of bad wine, smile, and leave.” Peyton fluffed her hair. “Seriously, I don’t know where you get your social anxiety from. It’s so strange to me.”

  Skye didn’t have a chance to respond, because the door swung open and Professor McCann and another woman smiled at them.

  “Skye, you are the first to arrive!” Professor McCann said, stepping back so the girls could enter.

  “Professor McCann, I hope you don’t mind that I brought my sister?” Skye asked. She hated hearing her voice shake.

  “Come in, come in,” the professor said, ushering them to the surprisingly traditional living room, where a few platters of cheese and crackers were stacked on top of coffee table art books. “This is my wife, Brenda. Brenda, this is Skye Alter, a junior history major, and her sister…”

  “Peyton,” Peyton announced with a huge smile and a proffered hand. “I know Skye has been looking forward to tonight for weeks, and I’m so glad I’m able to join her. Thank you for having us.”

  Skye inhaled. It was too much. Peyton was always too much. She needed to tone it down a little, not be so casual and enthusiastic. Show proper respect. But to her surprise, Professor McCann smiled warmly and said, “Please, both of you, call me Amanda. Come, sit down.”

  Brenda, who was surprisingly attractive and looked at least ten years younger than middle-aged Amanda, poured each of them a glass of white wine.

  “Oh my goodness, look at that sweetness!” Peyton crowed, and again Skye cringed. Couldn’t she keep it down? But it was too late—Peyton had already leapt up and headed toward a mammoth, furry dog. “Oh, good boy! Aren’t you just the most gorgeous thing! Who is this?”

  Professor McCann’s face lit up in a way Skye had never seen in class, or anywhere else. “That’s Martin. He’s very pleased with the attention.”

  “Oh, of course he is,” Peyton crooned, sticking her face in Martin’s. “He’s an Alaskan malamute, isn’t he? I’ve always wanted one, they’re just the most beautiful creatures ever! Does he shed?”

  “A ton!” Brenda answered, sipping her wine. “But he’s worth it.”

  “Yes, he is! Can I ask you both—does he hate the summertime? Growing up, a friend of mine had a malamute, and I remember it used to beg to go outside all winter long and then it would just plop right down in the snow.”

  Skye nearly bit her tongue at Peyton’s insipid line of questioning, but then she realized that both Professor McCann (she just couldn’t call her Amanda
) and Brenda appeared to be enraptured by this conversation. She was the one who was sitting there stupidly, saying nothing.

  When Peyton had exhausted every possible line of inquiry about the dog, she began to ask about Brenda’s career, their historic home, even their summer plans. She chatted so easily, so effortlessly, that Skye soon lost any self-consciousness about Peyton’s behavior. She began to feel grateful. What would Skye have done if she’d arrived alone, before any other guests? She couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say or ask! Maybe she’d have inquired about something Professor McCann had assigned in class, but it was rude to talk about work at a party, wasn’t it? Or was it? She took a long swig of her wine and savored the feeling of the first sips hitting her empty stomach. Thank god for her sister.

  By the time more students arrived, Peyton had made Professor McCann belly-laugh with an off-color but funny joke about hand jobs, and Brenda had sat beside Peyton, captivated by Peyton’s charming retelling of some travel mishap. She’d always known her sister was more socially adept, but Skye had almost forgotten to what extent. The new sorority, college-loving Peyton was even more socially gifted than Homecoming Queen Peyton, and that was saying a lot. When, a couple of hours later, they thanked their hosts and left, Skye was almost hyperventilating with appreciation.

  “Thank you,” Skye breathed.

  “You’re welcome,” Peyton said as they pulled the door behind them.

  “You totally saved me.”

  “What was the big deal? I know they’re supposedly hotshot, fancy professors at this super prestigious school, but they’re just people, you know?”

  “I think I forget that sometimes.”

  Peyton grinned. “Everyone loves dogs and hand-job jokes, remember that.”

  Skye laughed. “Noted.”

  “Can we go to a real party now? A bar? Something?” Peyton asked.

  Skye looped her arm through her sister’s. “Yes,” she said, squeezing it. “I owe you that at least.”