Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Impressive!” her father said as she unpacked her carefully wrapped fillets. “Porgy is delicious, especially the way your mother cooks it.”

  Peyton came over to inspect the fish. “I was just wondering what we were going to make for dinner. Nice work, Max. It’s like Little House on the Prairie on the Upper East Side. I’m into it.”

  As her mother started pulling flour and chili powder and soy sauce from the cupboards, Max scrolled through the pictures she’d taken that day. There was one of Oliver’s horrified face while she sliced the bait; another he took showing her reeling in a fat thirteen-incher; and her favorite, a selfie of both of them, holding their beers and squinting in the sun. She decided to post one that Oliver had snapped of Max proudly holding up what looked like a massive, person-sized fish, using only her thumb and two fingers. Her dad had taught her which fish she could hold by the mouth and which had razor-like teeth that necessitated the use of a tool; he’d also demonstrated how to thrust the fish out in front of your body, which would make it look quadruple the size in pictures.

  “My haul,” she captioned it. Then, without thinking about it too much, she tagged Oliver’s name right on the fish’s face. She grinned, remembering Oliver’s shock when Max had planted a kiss directly on the fish’s lips.

  “Did you just kiss the fish?” he’d shrieked. The only people in hearing distance, two older men with lines in the water, had smiled.

  “Of course,” Max had said. “My father taught me that you always kiss the keepers.” Then she’d leaned over and planted one on Oliver.

  Her mother’s voice pulled her back to the present. “What are you laughing about?” she asked.

  Max could feel her cheeks redden. “What? Nothing.”

  A notification pinged: she’d been tagged on Instagram. Quickly opening the app, certain it was Oliver posting his own photo, it took her a moment to see that she’d been tagged by the American Film Institute.

  The American Film Institute had tagged her? Max frowned. Yes, she’d mentioned them in her vlog, said that it was her real first-choice school, but that didn’t explain why they’d tag her in something they’d posted. Quickly tapping on the thumbnail, she inhaled when she saw the full-sized photo. It featured one of those old-fashioned letter boards with plastic white letters, and it read will you join us, mackenzie marcus? in all caps.

  “What the…”

  We would like to invite Mackenzie Marcus to the class of 2025! Her grit, moxie, and desire to serve others aligns perfectly with AFI’s values. Max, we hope you’ll join us. P.S. New Jersey is just fine, but wait until you see Los Angeles in the winter!

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Max murmured, her voice getting louder with each repetition.

  Her mother dropped a spoon, which hit the counter before clattering to the floor. “What’s wrong? What happened?” She sounded panicked and resigned at the same time.

  “No way!”

  “Max? Honey, what is it? You’re really worrying us,” her father said.

  Max limply held her phone out. “Here. See for yourself.”

  Her father took the phone and Max watched as his eyes moved back and forth across the screen. “Amazing,” he said.

  “Isaac!” Her mother was shouting now. “What is it?”

  “Max has been offered…They posted this sign…Here, see for yourself.” He handed Peyton the phone.

  “Mackenzie! This is incredible. You are incredible! I didn’t even know you’d applied….”

  “I didn’t apply!” Max shouted. “They must have seen my vlog. I mean, obviously they know about the whole…admissions thing. And I guess this is their way of saying that they know it’s not my fault.”

  She clicked over to her email, and sure enough, there was an email from someone named Peter Handel. “It’s all here,” Max said as she read it. “An email from the dean of admissions. Their entire admissions board is so impressed not only with my talent but also with my determination and my willingness to advocate for others. They say that I’m exactly the kind of candidate that they’re always looking for, and that I’m welcome to start immediately or to defer for a year, whichever I want.”

  “Come here,” her mother said, pulling Max into a hug. Her father wrapped his arms around both of them.

  “Incredible,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “I tried my absolute best to fuck up your life, and look—you not only turned it completely around, you did it on your own terms. I…I am so proud of you.”

  Max pulled back and examined her mother’s face, searching for signs of sarcasm, of inauthenticity or martyrdom, but there were none. Only a smile that radiated with genuine joy.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to call Oliver, okay?” Max didn’t miss the look her parents exchanged, but she didn’t mind.

  Oliver picked up on the first ring. “Two actual phone calls in one day,” he answered, and the sound of his voice, its warmth and intimacy, made her smile like an insane person. “Please tell me you’re not calling to suggest night fishing?”

  “You know, I wasn’t, but that’s not a bad idea. What time are you off tonight?”

  Oliver had kept his job at the Ice Cream Shoppe despite pressure from his parents to quit. Once school started again, they’d railed on and on that senior year academics were important, that his first-semester grades still counted toward college admissions. Despite being the ones who’d insisted he get an hourly wage job in the first place because that kind of work looked good on applications, they hadn’t intended this to be a long-term commitment. His job now was to be a student, to work on his applications, and not to scoop ice cream. But Oliver had refused to quit.

  Through the phone, Max heard the shop bell ring, and Oliver said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything sugar-free. It’s only real ice cream.”

  “Unreal,” Max laughed.

  “Stormed out without saying a word,” Oliver said.

  “Put me on speaker and go to Insta for a second.” There was rustling. “Okay, now search for American Film Institute.”

  “Looking,” he said, before his tone quickly changed. “Max, this is you!”

  “Yeah, I know. Crazy, right?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and she knew he was reading the caption. “Wow! What are you going to do? Are you going to go? Like, right this second? Jump on a plane and get out of here? Go.”

  It stung for a second, this easy encouragement to leave, but he was a genuinely good person, and genuinely good people wanted what was best for those they cared about. “I mean, I don’t know?” she said. “I certainly have all the stuff ready, the shower caddy and the extra-long twin sheets. Part of me is dying to fly directly to California and not look back. But…my dad is starting his sentence the day after tomorrow, and I can’t imagine being that far away now, or leaving my mom all alone.”

  It felt strange that Oliver didn’t know the real truth—that it was really her mother who’d paid off the guy.

  “I hear that,” he murmured.

  “Besides, now that we’ve raised all this money for Skye’s residence, I’m thinking I might stick around and help my aunt get everything going again. She’s going to have a ton to do, plus a new baby. I could be a huge help.”

  He was quiet.

  “You still there?” she asked.

  “So, hypothetically speaking, were you to defer and spend this year helping out your aunt, it might make sense for you to move back to Paradise? And, like, stay with her?”

  Max could picture his pale skin reddening with embarrassment, and she was filled with the urge to reach through the phone and kiss him. She’d never admit it—not yet, at least—but she’d been thinking the exact same thing.

  “Who knows?” she asked, unable to erase the grin off her face. “Anything is possible.”

  31

  G
et in Line

  Peyton dug around in her closet until she found the black pants, the ones that looked like proper slacks but felt like sweatpants, and yanked them on. She paired them with a white V-neck T-shirt, a loose linen blazer, and a pair of insanely comfortable slipper flats that she’d purchased on a whim after Instagram told her they were Meghan Markle’s favorite. Wrapping her hair in a loose, chic knot, she applied only the barest of makeup—tinted moisturizer, a swipe of mascara, a neutral lip gloss—and appraised her appearance in her bathroom mirror. Clean, put together, and professional, without even a hint of glamour: exactly the goal. From her jewelry box she plucked a necklace that had been a Mother’s Day gift from Isaac and Max. It was a very delicate rose-gold chain with a dainty, off-center letter M. It wasn’t fancy or particularly expensive, but it was her favorite, and she smiled remembering the brunch when they’d given it to her. Lastly, she splayed her hand and took a moment to admire her most prized possession. The engagement ring was far from huge by New York standards. They’d been so young when she proposed to Isaac, and the center diamond he’d presented her with a couple weeks later was lovely but modest. He’d offered countless times over the years, on birthdays and anniversaries, to upgrade with a larger stone or a fabulous new setting, but Peyton always refused. The ring was not visually impressive, but she loved it. Maybe one day Max would have a daughter or a granddaughter, and the small but lovely ring would get passed down the generations, accompanied by the story of how much its original owners loved each other. Peyton smiled as she pulled it from her finger and gingerly placed it in her velvet-lined jewelry box. Her hand felt naked without it—she touched that ring multiple times throughout every day—but she forced herself to leave it.

  Next she flipped open her laptop and opened a folder labeled “Paperwork.” She’d been working on it over the last few weeks, adding relevant emails and bank statements. It only took a few minutes to open each file and print them all, place them in a plastic sleeve, and tuck the whole thing in her purse.

  When she finally emerged from their bedroom, Peyton felt a welcome sense of calm.

  “You look nice,” Isaac said, glancing up from the couch, where he was reading a giant hardcover memoir by Michelle Obama.

  “Thanks,” Peyton said, sitting down next to him.

  “Why’d you get dressed to go pick up the food? And why are you going to pick up the food in the first place? Send Max. Or better yet, ask if they’ll send one of the kitchen guys to deliver it. They’ve done that before, haven’t they?”

  Peyton scooted down and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt so warm and strong. “Yes, but I have a couple errands to run. I don’t mind swinging by and picking it up.”

  “Errands on a Sunday night? Are you having an affair?”

  Peyton laughed. “An affair? Add it to the list.” She reached her hand to his chin, turned his face slightly toward hers, and kissed his lips, a long, soft kiss.

  “Mmm, what was that for?” he asked, looking pleased.

  “No reason.”

  “You’re definitely having an affair.”

  Peyton kissed him once more and stood up. “Max in her room?”

  “Yes. Although I think she said something about seeing Oliver tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She frowned. “It’s your last night at home, and I’m literally on my way to pick up dinner.”

  “I’m assuming she meant afterward. Late. Like when almost-eighteen-year-olds begin their nights.” He must have noticed Peyton looking distressed, because he added, “Let her have fun, P. God knows she deserves it, and you said yourself he seems like a nice boy.”

  “He does. But tonight, of all nights…”

  “Honey, if everything had gone as planned, she’d be living in her freshman dorm right this very moment, doing whatever she wants. So I think we cut her a little slack. Let her see her boyfriend. The truth is, it’s not even our call anymore.”

  “Did she say he’s her boyfriend? Did she call him that?”

  Isaac picked up his book again. He shook his head as he reopened it, but he was smiling. “You’re an insane person. Go. Be gone. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She knocked on Max’s door. When there was no answer, she pressed her ear to the door and heard the water running. Normally, she wouldn’t barge in on Max in the shower, but there was nothing normal about that night.

  “Max? Sweetie? Can you hear me?” she called through the cracked bathroom door.

  “I’m in the shower!”

  “I know, honey, sorry. I’m running out to pick up dinner, and I wanted to make sure you were going to be home? Daddy said something about you seeing Oliver tonight?”

  The glass shower door slid open and Max stuck her head out. “You know I wouldn’t miss Daddy’s last meal,” she said, water dripping onto the floor. “I’m going to see Oliver afterward. He’s coming to the city. We’re going out.”

  “Out?”

  “Yes. Out.” Max flashed her a smile, a rare authentic one. “And since I overheard you and Daddy talking about me like I’m nine years old, and I understand that inquiring minds want to know, Oliver and I are seeing each other.”

  “Seeing each other?”

  “It’s like there’s a parrot in my bathroom.”

  “Sorry,” Peyton said, smiling. “Does that mean you’re boyfriend-girlfriend?”

  “Moooooooom! You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “In case you haven’t realized this yet, I was put on this earth to ask you probing and uncomfortable questions about every aspect of your life. And just so you know, I’ll never stop. Not when you’re eighteen, not when you’re thirty, not when you have kids of your own. FYI.”

  “Noted.”

  “I’m running out to get the food, I’ll be back in a bit,” Peyton said.

  “Can you close the door behind you?” Max called.

  “Sweetheart? I love you. More than life itself.”

  “You too!”

  There was a lightness in Max’s voice that wasn’t usually there, and it made Peyton’s heart surge. She sounded happy. She had a boyfriend and plans for her future and she had done it on her own terms.

  Her phone rang in the elevator. Why would Kenneth be calling her on a Sunday night? Probably to prep her on how to react—or really not react—when Isaac presented himself upstate the next day to begin his sentence. She figured there would be paparazzi to contend with, but she hadn’t considered what that would look like. They’d decided she would drive Isaac and accompany him inside for however long she was permitted to stay, and Max would remain at home, but that was as far as they’d gotten.

  “Hello? Kenneth? Can you hear me? Kenneth?” The call showed as connected, but all she heard was silence. They tried each other a few more times, crossing calls, until Peyton stepped out of her building and the call finally connected.

  “Can you hear me now?” he asked, sounding peeved.

  “Yes, sorry,” Peyton said. It was swelteringly hot for a mid-September night, and almost immediately she felt her blouse start to stick to her body. This was not the time to start sweating, she thought. Not tonight.

  “I’m calling with some good news,” Ken said. “Very good news.”

  “Really? I barely even understand what those words mean anymore.”

  “I just got off the phone with Joseph.” He paused.

  “Okay…”

  “And it was a very productive conversation.”

  Peyton exhaled. Her doorman turned to look at her with concern. She gave him a little wave and turned to hail a cab. “Are you going to make me beg?”

  “Not surprisingly, the ratings tanked with Vivi in your seat. They want you back, effective immediately.”

  It was exquisite. And certainly predictable. How many summer mornings had she wasted watching t
hat imbecile child flirt with Jim and fake her way through delivering the news? How many excruciating so-called interviews had she watched Vivi conduct, always wanting to reach through the screen and strangle her delicately beautiful neck? How many times had she and Sean texted during the broadcasts, wondering what had happened to their previously well-rehearsed and beautifully choreographed morning show? It had eaten at her—kept her awake at night and anxious by day—and yet here they were, not eight weeks later, and ANN was finally admitting what Peyton had known from the beginning: she was the one viewers wanted.

  “Well, not effective immediately, per se, but forty-eight to seventy-two hours after Isaac’s sentence commences, to let the story run itself though the news cycle. Is he still due upstate tomorrow?”

  Peyton hesitated for just a moment.

  “Yes. I’m driving him up there tomorrow.”

  “Well, you’re looking at Wednesday. Latest, Thursday.”

  A yellow cab pulled up to the curb and Peyton slid into the backseat. “Just straight down Park for the moment, please,” she told the driver.

  “Peyton?”

  “I’m here,” she said, checking her phone for the address. “Kenneth, I appreciate this call, I do. You told me all along that ANN would be back, and it’s very gratifying. My answer is no.”

  “You cut out for a minute. What did you say? Your answer to what is no?”

  “To ANN’s offer to return. I need time.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then Kenneth’s voice began a slow increase in volume. “What are you talking about, ‘need time’? That’s not how this works, Peyton! They put you on a leave of absence and it’s up to them to decide when you come back.”

  “I understand that. But I don’t accept their terms,” she said calmly.

  “It’s not your call!” Kenneth was all-out yelling. While he often sounded exasperated, it was unlike him to raise his voice. “You have a contract. A very detailed and expensive contract!”

  “I’m aware of that. And I’m going to depend on you to figure out some loophole to get me more time, because I’m telling you: I am not going back to ANN this week.”