Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

Cookie’s growl, which was surprisingly threatening for a four-pound dog, grew louder as Max ran, but almost immediately Max could see that Cookie was the hunter, not the hunted. A dozen or so chickens toddled around, in and out of bushes, clucking and pecking and occasionally flapping, except for the one large hen Cookie had backed up against a tree with a snarl and her bared, miniature teeth.

  “Cookie!” Max scolded, reaching down to scoop him up. “No hurting the chickens!”

  Aurora was right behind her. “You have chickens?”

  Max frowned. “I don’t think these are ours?”

  Peyton ran outside. “I see you’ve met our new summer residents. Aurora, Max, meet the Ladies.”

  “I’m sorry, the what?” Max asked.

  “The Ladies! I’ll leave it to you two to name them, but they’re all ours through August.”

  Skye stepped from the porch into the grass and shielded her eyes from the sun. “What did you say?”

  “She’s crazy, right?” Max said, as though her mother wasn’t standing right there.

  “What? I heard you all talking about getting chickens this summer. Well, I went ahead and made it happen,” Peyton said, with a sweep of her arm.

  Only then did Max notice the coop, which looked like a small-scale Frank Gehry house built around the base of a massive European beech tree. It was whitewashed like a real home and had two floors, a lofted area with a balcony, and wide swaths of screened areas for the chickens to enjoy the fresh outdoors. There were window boxes filled with impatiens and a pair of small French doors in front. The hens themselves came in assorted colors and shapes, each impeccably groomed and capped with lipstick-red combs atop their constantly pecking heads. Lined up side by side, they looked like the Victoria’s Secret Angels of chickens.

  “I love them!” Aurora squealed, and started to chase a beautiful jet-black hen that ran with surprising agility.

  Aunt Skye laughed so hard that she was nearly doubled over.

  Max’s mother shrugged, clearly delighted. “Pretty nice setup, huh? It’s all wired, with heaters or air conditioners or whatever. And of course there’s a Nest Cam so we can all watch them from our phones. The farmer recommended a nice lady in town who will make them organic food, so that’s all squared away.”

  Max couldn’t help it. Despite herself, she started to laugh. And soon, like Aunt Skye, she had tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mom, tell me this is a joke. You rented the chickens? You cannot be serious.”

  Her mother smiled. “We are in a suburb where three-year-olds have their own chess coaches. You think it was hard to find a few rental chickens?”

  Later that night, as Max was tying a towel around her wet hair, she heard an errant cluck from below her window and started laughing all over again. Yes, of course she’d rather be staying at Skye’s house as she’d been every summer, but her mother was trying, she had to give her that. Their cottage was sweet, and she loved that her room had a built-in window seat. The chickens were hysterical. And at least so far, her mom wasn’t being as controlling as humanly possible. The fireworks, which Max would have skipped if it weren’t for Aurora, turned out to be great. Not the actual show—that had to be pretty much the same in every town across America—but the experience of packing a picnic and taking it to the local high school field and eating under the stars. It all felt so wholesome, so all-American, such a welcome departure from city life. As usual, a few people had recognized her mom, but they’d been chill about it—no selfie requests, and no reference whatsoever to her dad’s recent legal trouble. Max was accustomed to being the plus-one to her famous mom, but she had dreaded the day someone recognized her as the girl who needed her father to pay her way into college.

  She pulled on an oversized T-shirt and climbed into the metal-framed twin bed with her laptop. As Max scrolled through her daily footage, trying to figure out which parts to edit together, she decided to stick to the chickens. Everyone would be doing Fourth-related posts, and was there anything less interesting than watching someone else’s fireworks show? Maybe someone else’s concert experience, but it was a close call. She’d located a hysterically funny meme of Trump doing the chicken dance in his boxers when her FaceTime rang.

  “Hi!” she said to Brynn when her friend’s face appeared on her screen. “Wait—it’s daytime there. Are you behind or ahead of us? I can’t ever remember.”

  Brynn laughed, which made it look like the freckles on her face were blending together to create a single cohesive tan. “Ahead. It’s the next day already here. So, guess what? You’ve gone global!”

  Max felt an awful sensation in her stomach, similar to when she rode that horrid swinging pirate ship ride at amusement parks. “Global?”

  Brynn held up a newspaper. It was covered in indecipherable Chinese characters, but the picture was unmistakable: it was her senior portrait, and it was placed directly next to her mother’s publicity headshot.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Max said.

  “What? Don’t they say all publicity is good publicity?”

  “My mother keeps repeating the same trite thing about how the news cycle will forget all about this soon, blah, blah, blah. But my fucking god, it’s been over a week, and they’re now writing about it in Asia? This really sucks.”

  “Sorry,” Brynn said. “I hate to even ask, but have you considered what you’re going to tell people when you actually get to campus?”

  Max yanked her backpack into bed, ferreting through it for her headphones. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know you had the grades and the scores to get into Princeton on your own, but no one there is going to think so.”

  Max exhaled. “What can I do? Am I supposed to walk around with a giant poster of my GPA and my SATs? Have them tattooed on my forehead? I mean, people will think whatever they’re going to think.” She wondered if Brynn was buying her bravado.

  “Totally,” Brynn said. “Although for the record, I think you should bail on the whole thing and come with me.”

  “I tried that already,” Max said, “and my parents flipped the F out. Said you were entitled to a gap year because your parents moved you to a foreign country for your senior year. But I, apparently, am not.”

  The jumble of mail that the doorman had given her when they were leaving tumbled out from her backpack when she removed her headphones, and Max began to sort it into piles for her parents.

  “Does everyone get this many catalogues?” she murmured as she thumbed through the Sharper Image one. “Did you know they sell vibrators on, like, every page? They don’t even try to pretend they’re something else.”

  Brynn laughed. “There’s a girl here who wears that Goop necklace one? And just in case anyone isn’t sure what it is, she tells them. It’s like, okay, we got it, you’re super into self-pleasure. Good for you.”

  As Max sorted through the letters, an envelope with a bright orange return address stood out. Princeton. It was probably another announcement of some Orientation Week activity, or an invitation to meet incoming students from her area at another picnic or BBQ. Every few weeks since she’d been accepted, Max had received some type of communication from the school, and each time she felt her initial apprehension disappear a tiny bit more. There were just so many incredible opportunities, classes, professors, programs. Despite her initial misgivings that Princeton would be a mere extension of Milford, the students in the photos looked like a glorious mix of sizes and shapes and colors. Although she’d never admit it to her parents, Max now had a very good feeling about the place they’d pressured her so intensely to attend.

  But what if it wasn’t a picnic save-the-date or an invite to coffee with the Fine Arts department heads? Her breath quickened. What if this was the notification she’d been secretly terrified of receiving?

  She tore open the envelope and started to scan.

  Dear Ms. Marcus,


  This past December we were pleased to offer you admission to the entering freshman class. This offer was extended on the basis of your superior academic record and your standout application. However, as new information regarding your admissions process has come to light, I’m afraid I have no choice but to rescind your admission to Princeton University.

  “Oh my god,” Max breathed. Her stomach roiled.

  “What are you reading?” Brynn squinted into her own screen. “Who’s it from?”

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  Brynn continued to plead for information, but Max kept reading.

  Be assured that we will also be addressing the accused party on the Princeton Board of Trustees, as new information continues to emerge. Princeton prides itself on being an institution of higher learning that is based on honesty, fairness, and, above all else, integrity.

  Please accept our best wishes for your future academic endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Patricia Palmer,

  PhD, Dean of Admissions for Princeton University

  Max read it once, then twice and, to be absolutely certain, a third time. She didn’t remember hanging up on Brynn, but the screen had gone dark. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. The word reverberated in her head as the nausea intensified. This isn’t happening, it can’t be happening. But of course, it was. She read the letter one more time, but none of the words changed. Stumbling out of bed and toward the bathroom, she made it with only a second or two to spare before the contents of her stomach came hurling up. When finally the vomiting subsided, she slumped to the floor next to the toilet, back against the wall, and waited for the numbness to follow.

  12

  My Friends Don’t Woo-Hoo

  The sweat poured down her face and chest and collected in a tiny pool between her breasts. Finally, blessedly, her Apple Watch flashed the indication that she had completed her exercise ring for the day.

  “Thank god,” Peyton murmured, as she slowed to a walk. She was only a quarter mile from Skye’s house, but she’d be damned if she was going to run another foot. By the time she rang her sister’s doorbell, it felt like the blazing mid-morning sun was crisping her skin.

  “Skye? You here?” Peyton asked, pushing open the front door when no one answered. “Aurora?”

  A cartoon was playing in the family room, and breakfast dishes were still out on the kitchen table, but there was no sign of her niece or sister. Peyton climbed the stairs.

  “Anyone home?” she called.

  “My room!” Skye yelled back.

  Peyton walked to the end of the hallway and into Skye and Gabe’s room, which had a chic, boho vibe, just like her sister. The mismatched, layered vintage rugs and hanging rope chair somehow looked high-concept, and the beautiful carved-wood headboard reached toward the ceiling and served as the perfect backdrop to an assortment of woven, embroidered, and fringed throw pillows in varying shades of brown, rose, and plum. In one corner a lone prickly pear cactus jutted from an enormous terra-cotta pot.

  “Whoa!” Peyton said when she saw Skye, who was applying lipstick at a whitewashed, shabby-chic vanity. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m meeting a bunch of local moms today to talk about the girls’ residence.”

  “Oooooh, let me come!”

  Skye turned around, frowning. “Why would you want to? These things are pretty awful. I have to hit them up for money without seeming like I’m hitting them up for money.”

  Peyton flung herself on the bed. “That’s one of my superpowers! Plus, I have nothing better to do.”

  “Was it weird not going to work today? I can’t remember the last time you missed a broadcast.” Skye rubbed something on her cheeks; Peyton wanted to tell her it was too shimmery for morning time.

  “Pouty Vivian with her bass lips and blinding veneers was in my seat this morning.” Peyton picked up a paperback from Skye’s night table and put it back again. “Whatever. It’s only temporary. A few days, at most. I’m sure I’ll be back on the air by the end of next week.”

  Skye was silent in that quietly judgy way of hers that always made Peyton want to scream.

  “Take me,” Peyton said. “I’ll help you.”

  “No.”

  “Come on! I want to meet your friends! Will Esther be there? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  Skye snorted. “No, she’s at work. Plus, this isn’t her crowd. It’s not my crowd, either. My friends don’t woo-hoo.”

  “Huh?” Peyton asked.

  “You’ll see what I mean.”

  Peyton jumped off the bed. “I’m coming!”

  “I’m leaving in two minutes, and you’re not even dressed.”

  “You’re telling me these Paradise women won’t welcome someone in workout clothes? It’s their uniform. It actually makes me very accessible, I think.”

  Skye walked out of the bedroom and Peyton followed her.

  “Where’s Aurora?”

  “Playdate. I have to pick her up at twelve.” Skye grabbed her car keys from the table in the mudroom and turned to Peyton. “Are you serious? You actually want to come? Even with everything that’s going on? What happened to lying low?”

  Peyton shoved past her sister to the garage, where she climbed into the passenger seat of the Subaru and called, “What are we waiting for?”

  Shaking her head, Skye climbed in beside her. “They’ll be so impressed. A real, live celebrity in their midst.”

  “See? That’s the spirit!”

  Skye backed out and started to navigate through the leafy streets. “My god, I’m dreading this so much.”

  “Don’t stress! These things are easy. Remember, keep it light. Be appreciative. Don’t pressure. Float the creation of a possible board—these women love boards!”

  “That’s a really good idea.”

  “If you approach it as primarily an update and not a solicitation, they’ll feel respected and respond better. But if they do seem amenable—and trust me, they also looooove giving away money for public credit—keep the focus on tangible items they can buy rather than the poverty of the recipient children. Shopping: fun. Poverty: depressing.”

  Skye laughed. They pulled into the sweeping circular driveway and past a half dozen Land Rovers and Tesla SUVs—the same ones from the school, or maybe different ones entirely. “I can do this,” she said.

  “You can do this! You’ve already purchased the house—all from raised funds! That’s so impressive. Now you show them how they can decorate it!”

  “I still need the real cash from Henry to do all the construction. I mean, this is a small, run-down family home and it needs to be converted to a residence where eight girls and two housemothers can sleep, study, and eat. There’s a lot of work to be done from a conversion standpoint and—”

  “Boring! You are boring me! That all might be true, but I want to hear about fluffy towels and cute duvet covers, not plywood and particleboard. Next!”

  “Okay, I hear you. Can I tell them that their donations will also go toward hiring the necessary staff and helping with weekend transportation for—”

  Peyton pressed both hands against her ears and started humming loudly.

  “Gotcha. Stick to back-to-school clothes and throw pillows.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!”

  After she parked in front of a Suburban covered in stickers from Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, and Cape Cod—with an i my sweet laxer and a hockey mom thrown in—Skye shot Peyton a warning look and rang the doorbell.

  “What’s that look for?” Peyton asked innocently.

  “Behave yourself,” Skye said.

  “Hiiiii!” sang Vanessa, the homeowner, as she swung open the door, a madly yipping Maltese under her arm. Her hair was white-blond down to her pink scalp, the kind of blond you just knew was natural, and
her body was long and muscular. And of course, she wore high-waisted bike shorts, a too-cropped-for-her-age tank, and a pair of $200 sneakers in an aggressive shade of hot pink.

  Peyton discreetly poked her sister in the side.

  “Hi!” Skye sang back, too loudly. “I hope you don’t mind, but my sister wanted to tag along.”

  “Oh my, that’s right! I totally forgot your sister was Peyton Marcus,” she lied, as though this wasn’t the primary biographical fact most women in Paradise filed away for Skye—or that Peyton wasn’t standing right there.

  “Can I just say, I love your tank? I could never pull it off, what with my crazy short torso,” Peyton said, reaching out to tap Vanessa’s shirt. “But it looks so good on you. My god, woman, what’s your secret?”

  Vanessa’s white scalp flamed red, and she couldn’t mask her delight. “Stop it! You are so amazing on TV,” she breathed, not even bothering to hide her awe. “I mean, on mornings when I’m not at the gym, I, like, never miss your show. Oh, look at me, I’m so rude. Come in, come in!”

  Vanessa led them into an expansive open space, where the Paradise Kitchen (white marble countertops, double Miele dishwashers, Viking stove with cherry-red knobs) gave way to a Paradise Family Room (gas-burning fireplace, Restoration Hardware Cloud sectional in gray linen, wall-mounted TV the size of a mattress). Vanessa had also clearly abided by the Paradise Rules of Home Decor and proudly displayed Diptyque candles, fur throws, a gorgeously styled bookcase that contained no actual books, and a family photo collage featuring towheaded children frolicking in autumn leaves, on New England beaches, and on puzzlingly uncrowded ski slopes. All four kids were so universally gorgeous—so unnervingly without flaws—that one couldn’t be faulted for wondering if Vanessa had simply failed to remove the frames’ stock photos before hanging them.

  Skye had told Peyton in the car that the six women in attendance were all generous donors and zealous fundraisers. Together they’d helped Skye raise enough money to purchase the residence—no small feat even considering the home was a bit run-down and located close to the border of New Rochelle, a less desirable town. These women were ballbusters, accustomed to getting exactly what they demanded, whether that was a particular teacher for their fourth grader, a seven o’clock reservation on a completely booked Saturday, or a check toward the “really important cause” of their choice. Among them they had an MD, two JDs, a PhD, twenty children, and god knew how many millions. They had dated celebrities and married the most eligible men. They regularly traveled to exotic countries, could speak intelligently on current events, could recommend “the very best” person to do anything: landscape the yard, book first-class tickets on miles, eliminate that irritating pocket of fat between bra strap and underarm. They instinctively knew what to wear to every event, whether it was a fundraiser gala, a moms’ night out, or a Sunday afternoon bar mitzvah. Their skin was smooth and plump thanks to Botox every ninety days, Juvéderm every six months, and five-hundred-dollar creams as often as needed. They could throw an elegant dinner party for twelve with two hours’ notice. “Sold out,” “booked,” or “unavailable” simply didn’t apply to them. Neither did waiting in lines of any kind. They expended stupendous amounts of time, money, and effort ensuring that their children had the very best of everything, including but not limited to an endless stream of therapists and services for young children with no discernible diagnoses; Invisalign for every tween daughter who complained about the social suicide of metal braces; new luxury SUVs—chosen for their “safety features”—for every freshly minted teenage driver; and the usual array of expensive electronics, designer clothes, and mind-blowing vacations. And while Skye was put off and intimidated by these women, she admired their ruthless determination.