I follow Miss Audrey through the halls toward Mrs. James’s office. My mind is a blank on the way there. I stare at floors a lot. I am so over floors.
“Coco!” Mrs. James smiles warmly. “Come on in. Take a seat.”
Mrs. James is the opposite of Miss Audrey. She’s cozy like a grandmother—mono-boob, twinsets, pearls.
“Miss Audrey and I wanted to have a little talk,” she says.
I try to smile back, but my heart hammers so loudly I actually want to put my hand over my chest to calm it.
“We’re concerned that you’re not enjoying your role to the fullest extent possible.”
“And it’s reflecting in your job performance,” interjects Miss Audrey.
“Little Gardens is a magical place,” says Mrs. James, smiling so widely that I can see her molars. “We want everyone here to be happy, including you, Coco.”
Happy?
“Are you happy?” asks Mrs. James.
“Um,” I mumble, my voice barely audible. Do you ever find it difficult to speak loudly? I do. My voice gets lost somewhere deep down inside me. “I—um, I’m happy.” I pause, choking over the word. I’m not happy.
“Are you sure?” asks Mrs. James. “Sometimes you seem a little—”
“Look, you’re not doing your job properly,” interrupts Miss Audrey. “You spend half the damn time daydreaming!”
“Maybe it’s time you took a leave of absence to think about whether or not Little Gardens is the right place for you,” says Mrs. James.
“You’re expelling me?” I whisper.
“You’re not a student. You can’t be expelled,” snaps Miss Audrey. She looks over at the principal. “See? She’s a child.”
“I’m not, I’m twenty-one…” My voice squeaks. Oh, God, shut up, Coco.
“We’re putting you on probation.” Mrs. James sounds excited, like she’s telling me about a promotion. “Between now and the end of the school year, we want to see what you can make of each and every day at Little Gardens! We want you”—she lowers her voice, as if telling me a secret—“to be happy!”
She claps her hands and stands up, smiling cheerfully.
Meeting over.
“Thanks, um, thank you, thanks, Mrs. James, thanks, Miss Audrey, thank you,” I stammer. Why am I thanking them for putting me on probation? Why don’t I just thank Ethan for cheating on me, while I’m at it? “Um, totally great to see you. Thank you so much for your time, as always, I—”
Shut up, Coco. Just shut up and get out.
CHAPTER 3
I’m not fired. I’m not fired. I’m not fired.
Yet.
I know I’m not fired, but I still can’t shake that jumpy, panicky feeling. Food. I need food. If I am chewing and swallowing, I can’t think about what just happened, and when my body is full and buzzing from sugar, everything will feel better. Right?
That’s what I always think, anyway. So when I get home I practically inhale the last slice of the pecan pie I made yesterday in a hey-my-boyfriend-cheated-on-me baking fit and a glass of nice cold milk. Why does dairy soothe my nerves? I don’t know, but it always does. Then, because I don’t know what else to do, I make some mac and cheese for everyone to have for dinner. Madeleine won’t eat it, and Pia might not either, but Julia and Angie will.
The secret to a good mac and cheese, by the way, is three kinds of cheese. I like the stuff from the box as much as the next gal, but that’s not real food. That’s what my mom always said, and I agree.
Then I go upstairs to my little attic bedroom, the same one my mom had growing up. The décor hasn’t changed in about forty years. Flowery wallpaper and faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, a pale pink curtain over the crooked little window. It still doesn’t quite feel like home—we only moved in last summer, after all. But it feels safe, and familiar. We spent vacations and weekends here all the time when I was growing up. The only thing I changed about my bedroom was the full-length mirror. I put it in Julia’s room. I hate mirrors. I never look at myself if I can help it.
Sighing, I sit down on the bed, taking in all my stuff. My books. My photos. My life.
Then I call my dad. He’s very reassuring in the same way that Julia is: he always takes charge. When I talk to him I always feel like I don’t need to worry about anything, because he’s got it all figured out.
But today he doesn’t pick up. This isn’t unusual: he works about fourteen hours a day.
I leave a message.
“Hi, Daddy! Just me … um … love you. Call me! Bye.”
I hang up and boom, the big thought that I’ve been avoiding all afternoon comes back.
What am I going to do with my life?
Then I hear the front door bang. Someone is home. Thank goodness! I run downstairs and into the living room, where Pia is sitting on the sofa, going through our mail. She starts work super early, but she’s often the first home after me.
“What up, sugarnuts?” she says as I come into the living room. “Isn’t it nuts that junk mail still exists? Like, don’t you think they should just use the damn Internet? The Internet doesn’t cut down trees.”
“Um … totally,” I say.
I suddenly don’t want to tell anyone about what happened at work today. Just like I don’t want to tell them about Ethan. It’s too … I don’t know. It’s too personal.
So I just grab an old copy of Daddy-Long-Legs from the bookshelf and sit on the sofa next to Pia. I love this book. I remember reading it, lying on a picnic rug, one summer when we went to Martha’s Vineyard. I love how, with books, you are connected to the past—and to everyone else who ever read and loved them too. It’s so comforting.
Gradually, everyone gets home from work and assumes her usual position and activity on the living room sofas. Julia settles in with a bowl of my mac and cheese, watching some crappy cop show. Madeleine’s on her laptop. Angie is sewing a little green clutch bag—she’s been working on a collection for the last few weeks, for a fashion brand called Serafina that apparently likes to develop young “up-and-coming” designers. (“They get my genius and talent. In exchange I get exposure. And basically no money at all,” Angie likes to point out.)
It would be pretty obvious to anyone who knows me really well—you know, anyone who paid a lot of attention to me—that something isn’t right with me. That I’m upset, or stressed, or whatever. My mom would have known, and she would have charmed and cajoled the truth by now. But here in Rookhaven, no one even looks at me.
“What are you doing, Maddy?” says Julia, when her show cuts to a commercial break.
“Working. I didn’t finish something for my boss today.”
“You know you don’t get extra credit for that, right?” says Pia.
Madeleine gives her the finger. Pia grins, just as her phone beeps.
“A text from your lovah?” asks Julia. “Is he coming this weekend?”
Pia reads the text, and suddenly her mood plummets. “Motherfucker. He canceled, again. He has to work all weekend.”
“I bet he’ll come the following wee—”
“Screw that,” says Pia, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sick of being in a long-distance relationship. It’s not fun. No sex, no dinners out, no hangover snuggles. All I do is plan what to wear on our next Skype call. And try to figure out good lighting tricks to make my gigantic nose look smaller. It’s just not enough. He lives on the other side of the country now! What’s the point?”
“Pia, there is nothing wrong with your nose,” says Julia.
“That’s not the point.” Pia stares blankly at the ceiling. “I just can’t see how our relationship is ever going to work like this. It’s doomed. Doomed.”
Angie glances up from her sewing. “At least you get to see Aidan once every few weeks and have sex. Sam and I literally kissed and then, sayonara.”
“Angie! He might have a teeny penis!” exclaims Julia in mock horror.
“Please. The man is hung like an elephant. I can tell these things.”
“You can?” I say. “How?”
Everyone looks at me and cracks up. Goddamnit. I hate it when I say dumb stuff.
“So, um, I was wondering,” I say, changing the subject, “what makes you guys happy? Is that a stupid question?”
“There are no stupid questions,” says Angie. “That’s a quote from Heathers. Anyone? No? My God, you people are philistines.”
“My career makes me happy,” says Julia, flicking through the TV channels. “I used to feel like I didn’t fit in, you know? But I’ve been there almost a year now, you know? I belong. And the walk from the subway through the crowds to my office every morning is the happiest part of my day. I don’t know … I feel like I’m really part of something.”
“I hate midtown rush hour,” says Madeleine. “And my job.”
“You hate your job? You never told me that,” says Julia. “So what makes you happy? Singing?”
“I guess so. Maybe.” Madeleine shrugs. We all wait for her to continue, but she goes back to her laptop. She is seriously the most reserved person ever.
“Creating makes me happy,” says Angie. “You know. Sketching, cutting, sewing, making something where nothing existed before with just my imagination and my hands. And Sam, of course. Sam makes me very happy.”
“Aidan doesn’t make me happy right now,” Pia looks like she’s about to cry again. Then she glances over at the TV and brightens. “Is that NCIS? I love that show!”
Angie is stunned. “Seriously?”
“Don’t be a snob, Angie. We already know how cool you are,” says Pia in a singsong voice, her Aidan misery forgotten.
Thank God no one even asked me what makes me happy. I mean, what would I answer? Books and baking? How lame is that? And do they really make me happy? They can’t, right? Because I’m not happy. I’m just … I’m not happy.
I will never be happy.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating. I’m going to cry, or scream. I have to get out of here.
I quietly stand up and hurry out of the living room. No one even notices. Then I open the front door and step outside onto the stoop, closing the door quickly behind me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t get enough air into my body, I’m choking, gasping for oxygen … One breath in. One breath out. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly my breathing calms as I stand on our stoop, looking out over Union Street.
It’s a beautiful sunny evening, the kind that makes you feel like you should be out enjoying every second or else you’re a failure.
Forcing myself to breathe slowly and evenly, I look out at the classic brownstones. The usual weekday afternoon suspects abound: local stay-at-home dads wearing babies in slings, competitive moms in Spandex with strollers, bored iPhone-clicking nannies, shuffling nanny-grandmas, the actors/dog walkers, the sophisti-kids skateboarding home from school with more cool than I’ll ever fake. There are a hundred ways of belonging in Brooklyn, and everyone has one.
Except me.
It’s times like this that make me really miss my mom. My dad is good at telling me what to do, but my mom was good at just making me feel like everything was going to be okay.
I don’t want to think about her too much; I’ll get upset. Today is one of those days when I can feel my grief is closer to the surface. I slump down on the stoop and put my arms over my knees, resting my forehead on them.
I will never be happy.
“Why, if it isn’t little Coco,” says a familiar voice.
I look over the other side of the stoop. It’s Vic, our eighty-something downstairs neighbor. He’s lived at Rookhaven since forever, since my mom was a baby and long before that. You can always find him outside his basement apartment door watching the world go by.
“How’s life?”
“My life sucks so hard,” I say.
Vic grins. His face is like a cartoon of an ancient oak tree, all gnarly crevices. “And why’s that?”
“Um.” I take a deep breath, and suddenly everything just spills out. “My boyfriend cheated on me. And I think I’m about to get fired because apparently I don’t believe in myself.”
“Okay…” Vic says slowly, inclining his head toward mine. I swear his ears are, like, the size of my hand. “Go on.”
“I can’t tell the girls, because they’d just hate him. And I don’t need to hear that right now, and I don’t have anyone else to tell.” The words tumble out of me. “I saw him kissing another girl on Saturday night and I haven’t said anything to him, like at all, I just really don’t want to break up—”
“Why?”
“Because then I’ll be single!” It comes out louder than I mean it to. Then I realize I don’t want to talk about my relationship with an eighty-something-year-old guy. “And, um, more important, I just got put on probation, my boss thinks I’m really bad at my job…”
“You’re an assistant at a primary school?”
“Preschool,” I say.
“Sounds fun,” he says.
“It’s not. At least, not for me. I mean, the kids are cute, but there’s a lot more to it than just kids.” Like Miss Audrey.
“So why’d ya choose it?”
“My dad and Julia said it was a good idea, you know, because I liked babysitting, and I’m not very good at being, um, aggressive? Both of them work in finance, and I guess they didn’t think I’d thrive in that particular, um”—I search for the right word—“environment.” I’m talking too much. Shut up.
“Coco, there’s a whole load of jobs that aren’t finance or teaching,” says Vic. “Maybe your destiny is somewhere else.”
“Maybe…”
But what I can’t say is the real reason my dad and Julia told me what to do with my life.
They think I’m stupid.
They’d never say it, but I know it’s true. Did you know I have an inheritance from my mom? Julia used her inheritance for college, but my preschool qualifications didn’t cost anywhere near as much as Brown. After I was certified, I heard Dad and Julia talking about it once. The rest of my money is locked away until I’m old enough to trust with it. They’ll probably give it to my husband if I ever get married, like a dowry. They never tell me anything.
I guess it’s because I wasn’t a great student in high school. I just found it really hard to concentrate, and I felt sad a lot of the time, and so I sort of got locked up inside myself. If that makes any sense. It felt like my teachers had already decided who the brainy kids were, and I wasn’t one of them. I really only did well in my Advanced Placement English class … but it’s only because I love reading. Love it. Books are like friends. They make you feel understood.
My dad always said that reading was nothing more than a hobby, that you can’t make a career out of books. I’m not sure that’s true now—I mean, what about book editors and stuff?—but at the time it made sense.
“You’ve always been the smart one,” says Vic, interrupting my reverie.
“I am not!” I say, with such venom I surprise myself. “I’m just … I’m not. My dad once said that some people are school smart and some people are people smart and I’m people smart.”
“People smart, my ass. You were sitting out here reading Little Women when you were six. You read more than any kid I’ve ever known, except my niece Samantha, and she’s got a PhD in sociology. She’s a smart one too. You’re school smart. Trust me. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Coco.”
My eyes suddenly fill with tears. I love Vic. He always tries to make us feel better. He’s like our guardian angel or something.
“But I don’t know what I’ll do if I get fired,” I say. “It’s so scary.”
“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “That’s the only thing I can promise you.”
“What if I can’t? I feel…” I pause, trying to keep my voice steady, willing my tears away before he notices. “Lost. Like my life is empty.”
“Empty? You live in the best city in the world, with your sister, your best friends…”
&n
bsp; “I know, I know,” I say quickly. “But they’re more Julia’s friends, really. Julia went to college with Pia and Madeleine, and Pia and Angie have known each other since they were babies. They only live with me because Julia and I inherited the house and they couldn’t afford to live here any other way.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not important to them.”
I nod, using my sleeve to mop up the tears sneaking down my cheeks, hoping he doesn’t notice. Vic’s being nice, but it’s totally not true. Everyone else in Rookhaven is special and beautiful and funny. I am (d) none of the above. I don’t belong.
“And I don’t usually get involved in the, uh, the love stuff,” Vic says. “But any man who cheats is not a man. Full stop, end of paragraph, end of story. So don’t waste any more tears on him.”
“Okay,” I say.
Suddenly I realize that I haven’t really cried about Ethan that much. I’m not heartbroken, and I don’t feel sad, exactly … I just feel scared. Why does everything make me feel scared? And if I don’t even like him enough to be heartbroken about him, why was I even dating him in the first place?
I just want to be happy.
And I don’t know how.
“What makes you happy, Vic?”
“Me?” Vic pauses. “Being me. No one else gets to be me except me. No one else gets my life, no one else gets my memories. I like being me.”
I don’t like being me.
Vic thinks for a moment. “There’s something else too. While I could, I made the love of my life happy … Making the people you love happy. That’s the real secret.”
I don’t have a love of my life. I can’t even imagine feeling that way. I can’t even imagine saying it.
“But how am I ever going to figure out what to do with my life?”
“Just think about what you truly love. What makes you smile. After that, everything will be easy.” I nod, gulping. Nothing makes me smile.
“So, listen. You wanna help me join up this Facebook thing?” says Vic finally.
“Sure!” I hurry down the stoop, delighted to have a distraction. “Do you have a computer, Vic?”
“I do. It’s got a piece of fruit on it.”
The Wild One Page 2