by Amy Poeppel
“It’s what?” Kenneth asked.
“That rock star line is bullshit,” she said and swallowed hard.
“Excuse me?” Kenneth asked.
“You showed me that talent show clip. That was air guitar, for God’s sake. Tell me truthfully—can Dillon play? Or does he just fake it and put on a show?”
The Blakes looked confused.
“Does he take lessons? Can he read music? Does he even want to learn how to play?” she asked. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say probably not, given that he has a guitar without strings.”
“You’re a very mean person,” Silvia said.
“No, I’m asking a question: can Dillon play the guitar?” Kate asked.
“Only a little,” Kenneth admitted. “Maybe a chord or two. We may have overstated his abilities.”
“Okay,” Kate said, feeling emboldened with her new tack. “Dillon is no guitar prodigy, so let’s not pretend he is. You’re padding his résumé instead of presenting his qualifications. It would be better to stick with his strengths.”
“I see,” Mr. Blake said. “Point taken.”
“Is there anything he can do well?”
“You are so rude,” Silvia said.
“No, I mean, tell me what he’s passionate about. What are his actual strengths?”
“How about the pretty picture we sent?” Silvia asked. “The landscape.”
Kate looked through the file. “Ah yes,” she said, finding the artwork and looking Kenneth directly in the eyes. “You want my advice for next year? Don’t send in stuff like this. What were you thinking when you put this in an envelope and mailed it to us?” she asked. “I mean, what are you trying to say with this? That Dillon’s an artist? First of all, we’re not an art school. And second, unless your kid is da Vinci, and—trust me—he’s not, you have no business sending your kid’s doodles to an admissions department, and certainly not this admissions department. This picture shouldn’t get sent further than your own refrigerator, and even then, I’d think twice.” Kate noticed that their posture had changed. Kenneth looked angry, but he was leaning forward, actually listening to her, and Silvia, struggling to focus, had put her bag down on the floor. Kate’s adrenaline kicked in, and she kept going. “This scribble? That Dillon has somehow titled, ‘Upstate Farmhouse #7’? Come on, as if I’d believe that he even knows what ‘upstate’ means. Oh, yes, Dillon, tell me what you mean by ‘upstate’—oh, wait, you can’t because you have some kind of undiagnosed processing disorder. And ‘#7’? Are you kidding me? This drawing is part of a series? A series? Like Monet’s haystacks? And by the way,” she said, holding up the drawing, “this does not even call to mind a farmhouse. Where’s the farmhouse? Hm? Where exactly on this piece of paper is the farmhouse? And don’t tell me it’s Dillon’s abstract representation of a farmhouse because I’ll puke.”
“Jesus Christ,” Silvia said loudly.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Kate said truthfully. “You’re here, asking me what went wrong, and I’m telling you how this works.”
“So what do you want us to say when you ask about what activities a little kid likes to do?” Kenneth asked.
“It’s not a trick,” Kate said. “Be honest. What does Dillon like to do? Reading? Legos? What?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. He watches TV?” he said.
“What else?” Kate asked. “How does he spend his time?”
“Monkey bars,” Silvia said. “He’s very at home on a jungle gym.”
“Okay, good, monkey bars. Anything else?” Kate asked.
“Soccer,” Kenneth added. “The kid can really run.”
“Great,” Kate said. “It sounds like Dillon is very athletic.”
Silvia perked up suddenly. “Tape!” she said. “He likes tape. He likes tape a lot. He makes things out of tape, and he likes to tape things together. And wrap things up in all kinds of tape, but especially duct tape and red masking tape. You can’t imagine how much tape we buy.”
“He does like tape more than the average person,” Kenneth admitted reluctantly.
“Okay. Then you need to find a school that embraces a kid who struggles with subtraction, loves sports, and is creative with duct tape. I wish you’d told me about the tape thing when you were here. You say that I misled you during the interview? Well, maybe I did but at least it wasn’t on purpose. You intentionally misled me.”
“Wait a minute,” Kenneth said, “so I’m supposed to believe that if we had walked in here and said, ‘Take our kid; he loves tape,’ you would have accepted him?”
“Absolutely not,” Kate said emphatically. Final arguments, she thought. “That’s precisely my point. Hudson is decidedly not a tape-friendly school. It’s serious and demanding, and no one gives a shit about tape. And the sports program is totally mediocre because it’s just not a priority here. If you had thought about it and thought about who Dillon really is, my guess is you would have crossed Hudson off your list.”
“And send him where?” Kenneth asked. “I’m not sending my son to some second-rate, lousy school.”
“This isn’t the time to be a snob, Mr. Blake, honestly,” Kate said. “It’s not about that, first-rate or second-rate. It’s about Dillon. Do you want him to thrive in school? Or do you want him to feel every single day that there are expectations put on him that he can’t possibly meet?”
There was a loud knock on the door that startled Silvia and made her jump. Henry walked in, wondering who would be having a closed-door meeting with Kate at the tail-end of the season. He looked alarmed when he saw who it was.
“Henry, you remember Kenneth and Silvia? Dillon Blake’s parents.”
“What is this?” Henry asked sternly. “I explained to you repeatedly that we don’t change decisions, or explain decisions . . .”
Kate wondered if he was addressing her or the Blakes or all three of them.
“Oh, ppsshhht,” Silvia said, spitting a little. “We’re in the middle of something here.” She grabbed her bag again and reached her hand in, as Kate considered the option of tackling her onto the floor. This time Silvia pulled out an empty bottle of Smartwater.
“It’s okay,” Kate said, wondering if her armpit sweat was actually visible through her dress. “They just want to talk. We’re wrapping things up.”
“I don’t know about that,” Silvia said. “Don’t be rushing me, lady. Could I get a drink around here?” She shook the empty bottle. “I’m thirsty.”
Henry looked at Kate and started to say something.
“Trust me,” she told him. “It’s fine.”
He stepped back and made a weak version of his chivalrous arm gesture, allowing Kate to go on.
“No, I mean, would you mind excusing us?” Kate said.
Henry looked stunned. “You’re asking me to leave?”
“Could you please go refill Silvia’s water?” she asked, taking the bottle from Silvia and handing it to Henry. Anything to get him out of the room. Kate felt she was close, so close, to getting them to understand, and the last thing she wanted was for Henry to get in the middle of this mess and end up getting shot.
Henry looked furious, but he walked out of the office and closed the door behind him. Kate figured he was either going to tell Maureen to post a job opening for Kate’s position or, more likely, he was going to alert Albert; either way she knew she didn’t have much time to end this meeting in a peaceful and even positive way.
“You guys seem like good parents,” she said sincerely, “to be advocating for Dillon like this, and I know you want him to be happy.”
“I want this school to make him happy,” Silvia said sadly. “This is the school we want,” she said.
“I know you think it is. But you need to understand that it’s the wrong school for Dillon.” Kate scooched her chair closer to Silvia and spoke slowly. “Think of it this way: it’s like when you’re crazy in love with a guy, and you try really hard to be what he wants, but he treats you like shit an
d rejects you. And you’re completely devastated about it, you’re so sad, until one day you wake up and realize, ‘Wait a minute, that guy is a total dick,’ and then you think about it a little more, about how bad he made you feel, about how he wanted to change you into someone else, and then you think, ‘That asshole? He’s not my type at all. I wouldn’t go out with him if he were the last man standing.’ Finally you see it, and—even if it’s too late—you’re like, ‘Oh my God!’ And you reject him.”
Silvia leaned in and tried to take in what Kate had said. “Ohhhhh,” she whispered.
“Right?” Kate asked.
“Right,” Silvia said. “I reject you!”
“Yes! Exactly! You reject Hudson, because for Dillon, Hudson sucks. It’s the last place you’d want him to go.”
“You suck,” Silvia said.
“I see what you’re saying,” Kenneth agreed.
“Exactly,” Kate said. “Hudson sucks. Screw Hudson. What you want is the best school for Dillon, the right school,” Kate said, “and I’ll help you find it. I’ll sit down with Henry tomorrow, and we’ll come up with a list for you. I’m sure we can help find a good solution for this fall.” She wasn’t actually sure of that at all, but she felt there was momentum; she was making progress with them and didn’t want anything to mess it up.
“That’s so sweet,” Silvia cooed. She looked sleepy and was slouching sideways in her chair.
“That would help, yes,” Kenneth said. “I admit my knowledge of private schools is pretty limited to the top tier.”
“Why don’t we do this: I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon,” Kate suggested. “That will give us some time to pull together a good list of options for Dillon. I can also put you in touch with Mel Branson. He’s a school placement guy. He’ll take a lot of the pressure off of you and Silvia because he can handle most of the details.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Kenneth said.
“By this time tomorrow we’ll be well on our way to solving this,” she said, speaking more quickly now, placing her hands on her thighs, and starting to get up, a move she hoped signified the end of the meeting.
“Just as long as it’s all over soon,” Silvia mumbled. “I can’t take any more of this, I swear. It’s killing me.”
“I’d better get her home,” Kenneth said, getting up and helping Silvia to her feet. “So did you say you’ll call me, or I should call you?” he asked.
“I’ll call you,” Kate said.
Kenneth let go of Silvia and shook Kate’s hand. “This has been so eye-opening,” he said. “I mean it, I really appreciate this. You’re very good at what you do.”
Silvia wobbled and tried to steady herself. “I reject you,” she said emphatically. “I like that. It’s so much better than the other way around.” She hauled her purse up on her shoulder and turned a sickly shade of gray. In no particular order, she threw up on the carpet, dropped her bag, and the gun fired.
June
In less than a year, Kate went from catatonic loser on the sofa to local hero and celebrity. She claimed everyone had the facts wrong, but the news anchors said she wrestled a gun away from a lunatic woman, saving countless children and teachers from imminent death. I was proud of her, I’m not going to lie.
“They’re making such a fuss about it,” Vicki said. “It’s not like she got shot in the face.”
“What are you saying?” I asked. We were having drinks with Vicki and Robert, for what I hoped would be a chance to salvage some remnant of our relationship. It might have been a lost cause, but it was important to me to try.
As I sat there in our favorite bar, holding George’s hand under our usual table, I wondered if there was much of anything the four of us had to talk about. Vicki was in a fierce mood, and Robert was, of course, Robert.
“Chloe, Chloe. I can’t believe you would pick theees bar of all ze places in New York City for us to have our reunion. A ‘dive’? Eeez that what you called eeet? I would like to say eeet has character, but eeet’s too sticky to be charming.” He was using a napkin to wipe the grime off his elbow.
“This wine is god-awful,” Vicki remarked. “Tastes like Welch’s grape juice.”
“Do you want to send it back?” George asked.
“I can choke it down,” she said.
“We met Kate and her boyfriend here not too long ago,” I told them. “Before the incident.”
Vicki threw her hands up. “Kate’s upset, Kate’s depressed, Kate’s employed, Kate’s a goddamn hero. I get it.”
“Anyway,” George said, trying to change the subject. “So whew, Paris to New York, New York to Paris? You two must have some carbon footprint.”
“And since when does getting shot make you a hero anyway?” Vicki went on. “Dodging a bullet should make you a hero. And it’s not like she sustained some sort of permanent injury. It barely grazed her calf. It’s a flesh wound. Why do we have to make a saint out of her?”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Kate was eeen ze hands of a maniac,” Robert said, “and a centimeter away from certain death. You can’t eeegnore a beeeg story like that.”
“It was more like three feet from fatal,” Vicki argued.
“Let’s just talk about something else,” I proposed. “How are things with you?”
“Everything’s fabulous,” she said and moved her chair a little closer to Robert’s.
“I have stuff to catch you up on,” I told her, “about me and George, some really good things.”
“Speaking of catching up, let me ask you something,” Vicki jumped in. “What did Kate say when she heard about us?”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about Kate.”
“That’s what she says,” Robert laughed, “but then she always does.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. This is about us,” she said.
“Kate was surprised,” I told her, “and incredibly understanding.”
“You see? Ancient history, what did I tell you?”
“Except that she doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore. With either of you.”
“Kate will come around,” Robert said casually. “We are all adults, after all. I don’t see ze problem.”
“Well, I do,” I told him. “I think it’s a big problem. You two didn’t give her even the slightest consideration before you . . . you . . . She’s not your friend anymore, you know.” I winced at how childish I sounded.
“We are civilized people,” Robert said. “All except for Doug, who proved himself to be an absolute brute. But Vicki and I will be friends with Kate again one day, you’ll see.”
“That would be nice,” George said, “I think.”
“What do you want me to do?” Vicki said. “Break up with him? Some of us want what we want, when we want it. Maybe that’s hard for someone like you to understand because you’re always so fulfilled doing everything for everyone else in the world, passing out blankets and free fucking sandwiches, while you practically starve yourself, but some of us are a lot more selfish than that.”
“Good grief,” George said.
“That’s really . . . bitchy,” I told her, “on so many levels.”
“I’m only trying to make a point,” Vicki said.
“Well, thanks for the critique. Maybe we should just call it a night?” I suggested.
“Oh, come on, Chloe,” Robert said. “Seeet down. Victoria eeez only teasing you, and we are so happy to see you finally. You have no idea how much we miss you and how often we speak of you. There’s no need to have an argument.”
“What are you so mad at me about?” I asked Vicki. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Because you won’t even try to see this situation from my point of view. You two always take the same side; you gang up against me.”
“No we don’t.”
“She’s jealous,” Robert said, chuckling. “Sometimes eeet’s hideous, and other times eeet’s ador
able.”
“I am jealous,” Vicki said. “I admit it. It’s very upsetting that you refuse to be happy for me.”
“I’m trying. Why do you think I’m here?” I asked.
“Try harder,” she said. “I’m your friend, and you’re not allowed to be mad at me anymore. Whenever you want something, I always encourage you, don’t I? I wouldn’t tell you you’re an asshole for wanting to run a half marathon.”
“Sure, but who am I hurting if I run a half marathon?”
“You’re running a half marathon?” George asked.
“Even if you trampled over someone in the marathon,” she said, “and you just kept on going, I’d still cheer you on. I’d still be your friend. I wouldn’t sit there and make you feel like a bad person.”
“But it’s Kate you trampled, and it’s not nice.”
Vicki looked at Robert and rolled her eyes.
“But hey,” I went on, “I saw her, and she’s fine, so it’s fine, whatever. I’ll try to be happy for you, just like I’m happy for her. She has a boyfriend who adores her.”
“Jonathan, yeah,” George said, nodding. “Great guy.”
“I’m relieved to know she’s doing well,” Robert said. “After she threw a suitcase at my head eeen ze airport, I really thought she had lost her mind for good.”
“Can you blame her?” I asked.
“Mmm, no, not particularly.”
“Good. Because you were a total asshole as you well know.”
“Coupable,” he said.
“Did you ever officially apologize?”
“Officially?”
“At all?” I asked.
“I would like to, but how can I apologize eeef she won’t speak to me?” he asked.
“You could write a letter,” George suggested.
“I don’t see what he has to apologize for anyway,” Vicki said. “It wasn’t entirely his fault.”