by Lian Dolan
Well, in truth, the Eastmont School for Girls did have a sushi chef and a forty-seven-ingredient salad station, so her wish for a coffee bar was not completely unreasonable. “From what I can see, your generation needs less coffee and more sleep. My students are exhausted but wired most of the time. It’s not a good combo. What’s happening at school?”
“I’m in the middle of AP tests, so it’s been really brutal. I have sooooo much work to do. Did you take all these tests?” Maddie often used me as a cultural historian, which delighted me but also made me wonder for the millionth time why her mother had left her. It’s like she was trying to create a high school yearbook for her MIA mom. Did your parents let you go to a lot of concerts? Only to see the Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl. Did so many kids smoke weed in your day? Yes, but it wasn’t as strong as it is these days, so nobody cared. Did you really wear those high-waisted jeans? No, those were for moms. We were the first generation of leggings-wearers, with slouchy white socks and Keds. Super-hot. I loved my role. “You are the standardized-test generation. We didn’t have a million AP classes, only a couple, and some people took the class without even taking the test. I feel sorry for you all, having to be judged all the time, having your intellects poked and probed and labeled. It’s crazy.”
“Don’t let my father hear you say that. There’s nothing he loves more than a standardized test!” Maddie was right. Congressman Ted was pro-testing, both publicly and privately. The papers referred to his stance as No Test Left Behind. On the home front, Maddie had already taken the SATs three times, starting in her freshman year.
“So, I wanted to ask you something. I don’t know what your plans are for the summer, but you may have heard that I’m going to Ashland to work on a production of. …”
“Midsummer Night’s Dream with FX Fahey. Yes, I think I’ve heard, Elizabeth.” Maddie was on top of things.
“So I was wondering if you might want to come with me to Oregon. To work for me as my assistant. I’ll need some help on the production and I’m working on a book. …”
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. YES! I can’t believe this. Thank you. I’ll do anything. Get coffee. Make copies. Scrub floors. Anything!” Maddie was beside herself, and I had suddenly become World’s Coolest Aunt, as if that title was in jeopardy. “Oh, wait, did you ask my dad yet? He might want me to do one of those summer school sessions at Stanford. I so don’t want to go back there.”
That’s why I loved Maddie, because Stanford didn’t impress her. I laid down the law in my best Professor Lancaster, Academic Advisor tone of voice. “I did. It’s all cleared with your father. You’ll live with me, and there’s even a salary involved. But I want to be clear, this is a real job. It’s work, not camp. I’m not your babysitter.”
“I get it. I’m so excited. Best summer job ever. Oh my gosh, this experience will make the best college essay! I will work so hard. Thank you. Wait until I tell Emma!” Maddie really seemed to understand, because she was already texting her people. Then she added, “And FX Fahey is so cute!”
Oh boy.
The message read: I am here. Where are you?
It was either the existential question of all time delivered via text or my father was wandering around the PCC campus looking for me. I guessed the latter and responded: In my office. Will meet you in sculpture garden in 5.
My mind was racing. What was my father doing on my turf? The text was slightly alarming, but it did serve to jolt me into action. I had been daydreaming at my desk, more focused on what to pack for Ashland than grading my students’ final papers. At this point in the semester, my students were barely hanging on, and I was even more burnt trying to get them to the finish line. King Lear was the final play on the syllabus, and it always freaked me out a little. The powerful father, the three daughters vying for his attention, the ensuing battles. It was all a little too close to the Lancaster family teen years, so the interruption from my father at this particular moment was eerie. I gathered my folders and headed out the door, happy to escape yet another paper entitled, “King Lear and the Origins of Tragic Irony.” Really? Ya think you’re the first to think that one up? I wanted to scream. That kind of attitude was my clue that the school year needed to come to an end.
My father had been on campus only a few times, even though we worked less than a mile apart. I’d occasionally invite him to a president’s reception or trustees’ cocktail party if I’d been summoned to attend. We didn’t have too many of those in the community college system, but when we did, I realized the advantages of arriving with a Nobel winner. You could walk straight up to the president and shake hands, and then leave early because you’d brought such a distinguished guest. It was an excellent partygoing strategy, and my father was happy to oblige because afterward we always hit Señor Pescado for fish tacos.
But today’s visit was so unexpected it made me worry. Was he sick? Was my mother sick? Oh my God, did Roger Federer die?
I hustled over to the Boone Sculpture Garden to find out. Though the PCC campus lacked the romance and history of Caltech, it was bright and inviting in its own way, a jewel in the California community college system. Current budget issues aside, the campus featured new buildings, well-maintained gardens, and athletic facilities that rivaled those of any private college. The school was well supported by a foundation that made sure the campus befitted the impressive list of alumni and the aesthetic standards of Pasadena. It was a pleasure to stroll the grounds on any given day, but especially on a beautiful April afternoon like today. My office was a short walk from the sculpture garden, and I spotted my father immediately, wandering the outer perimeter of the Jody Pinto–designed water feature.
He waved me over, pointing to the massive water channel and sweeping his hand outward to invoke the whole plaza. “The water creates the effect of a galaxy spinning on its axis. All the forms seem to rotate around the center of the plaza. This is a special spot.” He didn’t look well.
“It is. It’s also a great place to have lunch.” I laughed, reminded of the mantra with which my father approached life: Physics is everything and everything is physics. Charming now as he stood mesmerized by the massive public art installation, not so charming when he tried to teach me how to drive, yelling phrases like “gyroscopic force” and “threshold of motion” instead of “Turn!” and “Stop!”
“This is a special spot, Elizabeth,” he repeated, as if he was working up to something bigger.
“Yes.” Again I agreed but was pretty sure the next sentence out of his mouth was going to include the words “brain tumor” and “three months to live.”
Much to my surprise, he offered some unsolicited advice. “But maybe you do need more of a challenge. In your career pursuits.”
Relief then anger rushed over my being. Oh, I see, he wasn’t dying, but my career was. I sighed, “Et tu, Brute.”
“Now hear me out. I’m not like your mother, but I don’t understand this nonsense this summer. Why are you running off to Oregon with that actor if you’re satisfied with your work? It’s a sign that something is off.” I was taken aback at his surprising display of emotional awareness. He’d never acknowledged my emotional equilibrium before. (There’s no crying in physics!) If I wasn’t so annoyed, I might have been touched.
“Nothing’s off. I just need to get away.” Mainly from these kinds of conversations. “The work sounds fun and challenging, that’s all. I’m not pining away for my ex-husband, if that’s what everyone is concerned about. It’s a change of scene, and I need the money to remodel my kitchen. It’s a smart work move, not a step backward.”
I was stomping around the plaza a bit, behavior not befitting a grown woman. And that indeed was my problem: Outside my family, I was capable; inside my family, I was thirteen. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”
“Your mother and I are worried about you.”
“Both of you are worried?” I was skeptical that worry was the main motivator here. My father neve
r, ever worried; he believed in the Theory of Everything, so for him, things happened whether you worried or not. And my mother wasn’t a big fan of worrying either; she was a doer, not a thinker.
“‘Well, I’m worried. I don’t trust that man. Is he really being honest with you? Your mother, on the other hand, is enjoying spreading the news,” he admitted, not making eye contact. Richard Lancaster was not a big fan of the heart-to-heart (kinetic friction!), but I could tell he was really trying to have a meaningful conversation. He must really not trust FX. His instincts were worth something.
I backed off. “There’s nothing to worry about, Dad. It’s a couple of months and then I’ll be back, hopefully recharged and ready to remodel. Maybe even with a book deal. See, all good. But I won’t be back with my ex-husband. I promise you.”
He looked relieved and satisfied, as if he had to hear me say out loud that I had no interest in FX so he could really believe it. With newfound confidence, he took in the scene around him. Maya Kim, a student from last semester, walked by and waved. I returned the gesture. My father noted the exchange. “You know, you’re a much better teacher than I am.”
Okay, now I was slightly astonished. “Really? Then where’s my Nobel?”
“That’s for research, not for teaching. I hate teaching. It’s a necessary evil so I can continue my work.”
That’s not the reality I remembered. “Your students love you. I grew up with all those adoring grad students hanging around the house, drinking Mom’s coffee. I saw the way they looked at you, like you were Jesus with a laptop.”
He laughed. “My students don’t adore me, they fear me. And they should. I have no patience for fools, and most eighteen-year-olds are fools.”
“Some, not all,” I countered.
“See, that’s what makes you a better teacher. Every couple of years, a kid comes along with real talent, someone who deserves my time. But most of them? They’re smart and they end up with PhDs, but then they go into managing hedge funds or writing computer models for the oil industry, not advancing physics. But you believe in your students and their promise.”
I was touched. And then I felt a little foolish. I really did think every kid deserved a shot. So many of my students had done amazing things to get this far: escaped extreme poverty, learned English from cartoons, worked two jobs to support their families and pay for college. They embodied the work ethic of yesteryear, not the expectations of the entitled generation. True, not every student was a poster child for the American Dream, but a lot were. “Is that a weakness?”
“No! Have you seen your ratings on rottenprofessors.com?” I let out a big belly laugh. The image of my father checking out the evil but all-powerful professor-ranking site was too much. “You have four out of five stars! And three chilies for hotness. I only have two stars and no chilies.”
Now he was killing me. “That’s because you have like ninety percent men in your classes. I’m sure the few female students you have think you’re hot. They just don’t rate statistically. You’re at least two chilies.” And then, because it seemed impolite to ignore his efforts and because it had been on my mind, I asked, “Do you really think I should put together a resume and send it to your friend at Redfield?”
“Nah. Not unless you really want to. But tell your mother you did and then we’re both off the hook.”
FX had taken to texting me at all hours of the day and night with little bits of information and inspiration: Heard Ashland has great farmer’s market. Or: Theseus is asshole. Don’t remember hating him this much in college. Even quotes from the play that tickled his fancy: Joy gentle friends. Joy and Fresh love accompany your hearts.
The texts were little pick-me-ups and a way to stay close but not too close, as I finished up the last few weeks of school and prepared for the summer. I’d spend a few moments composing witty replies, then get back to grading papers or doing research.
But on this particular Wednesday, FX texted me with a simple statement: Taz is in. Then he followed up separately with a message that seemed less than manly: !!!!!!!
I’ll be honest, of all the aspects of my gig with FX, working with noted director and creative genius Taz Buchanan was the most terrifying. Advising a movie star ex-husband was nothing compared to monitoring the man Time magazine called “The Visionaries’ Visionary.” (Guess they needed to sell some magazines that week to the TED crowd.) Taz Buchanan had pushed theatrical productions to the level of grand opera and turned small, dark stories into movie mega-musicals. No Taz Buchanan production was ever just on the surface level. He dug deep. He dug sideways. He turned things up on end and over again. His take on Death of a Salesman, set against the fall of Lehman Brothers, was currently burning up the boards in the West End, thanks in part to the brilliant casting of Jon Bon Jovi as Willie Loman. He had an innate understanding of the material, the ability to see the contemporary in the classic, and a rocking sense of theater. Love it or hate it, a Taz Buchanan production was always an event.
There’s no telling what Taz might do to Midsummer to put his personal stamp on it. And it was my job to make sure that his personal stamp didn’t become Coriolanus, Part Deux and ruin FX’s reputation. I considered Googling “How to tame a wild director.”
Instead, I texted FX back: !!!!!
Which
Shakespearean
Bad Boy
Is for You?
ARE YOU AN URBAN GO-GETTER? You work hard, you play hard, and lately, you’ve been finding that old reliable boyfriend a little soft. You don’t have a lot of time between your high-pressured job, your parcours workouts, and The Bachelorette. You’re just looking for someone exciting you can squeeze in every so often.
YOU NEED A GUY WHO: Puts the booty in booty call.
MEET: Bertram, the cad from All’s Well That Ends Well. He’s rich, he’s hot, and he’s totally above you. Plus, he’s married. But that doesn’t stop him from stepping out on his wife, so if you can put up with his attitude, give him a call. Like Tiger Woods before rehab.
ARE YOU A NAVEL-GAZING BROOKLYN BOHO? If only you had a hit TV show and a wardrobe of unflattering Peter Pan–collared dresses like Lena Dunham! You’re so close to full-fledged self-absorption, with your Chinese character tats and low-paying job in publishing.
YOU NEED A GUY WHO: Makes you feel worse about your body than you already do but will also be the heartbreaking subject of your bestselling memoir in twenty years.
MEET: Prince Hal. Someday he’ll become the honorable Henry V, but now Prince Hal is a spoiled rich kid who parties hard and loves a good prank—just like a Kennedy! He’s the kind of guy who might take an interest in the intellectual girl in the corner, if only to win a bet with his drinking buddies. And you can bet he’ll never call back! But think of the advance on your book: My Night with Prince Hal.
ARE YOU A SUBURBAN SORORITY SISTER? Five years from now, you’ll be walking down the aisle in a big white dress with ten bridesmaids and a wicked hangover. Until then, you’re going to have some fun, fun, fun, especially on football weekends!
YOU NEED A GUY WHO: You can’t take home to Daddy.
MEET: Falstaff. Yes, that Falstaff, the pleasure seeker, the lover of wine, women, and song. He’s way too old for you, it will never last, and besides, he’s a liar, a thief, and a cheat, but he epitomizes the lovable rogue. Think Vince Vaughn circa 2005. See? Kind of appealing, right?
ARE YOU A BOOKWORM BETTY? You were honored to be voted Most Likely to Become a Librarian, and your membership in the Jane Austen Society means the world to you. It’s just that you haven’t had a real date since prom, unless you count that hookup at the Renaissance Faire three years ago.
YOU NEED A GUY: With a large…vocabulary. That’s right, a large vocabulary.
MEET: Mercutio, Romeo’s homey. Funny, scene-stealer, life of the party. And believe me, he gets invited to all the best parties. Possible drug issues, maybe bipolar, but always a good time. Today’s version: Lil Wayne.
CHAPTER 8
Two conservative radio-talk-show hosts, Ron and Ben, made a fuss over the Pennsylvania bluestone used around the pool instead of California-mined slate, and they continued to beat that issue into the ground for weeks. Liberal newspaper editorials pounced on the enormous grill area, which was positioned as a “let them eat cake” offense, as if Ted should run a soup kitchen out of his backyard. And the outdoor fireplace, slipped in just before they were banned for airpollution reasons, had drawn the ire of environmentalists. Bumble was furious. “The guy is a self-made man, a real estate genius. Local boy makes good. Really started from zero, not like that fake self-made Donald Trump whose dad gave him zillions. That’s why they elected him! Of course he used high-quality materials! And those Brown Jordan chairs were designed right here in Pasadena! Why didn’t anyone mention that?”
The whole incident had made Ted incredibly cynical about any press coverage, and he certainly wasn’t going to open up his home and his life to any further scrutiny if he didn’t have to. Bumble had confided to me that it was the one big stumbling block in terms of running for governor. There were so many congresspeople in California that the media spotlight was on Ted only every once in a while. But there was only one governor, and he wasn’t thrilled about being a target for every pundit with a microphone or blog—not after Slategate.