Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  Alexa gave me a sideways glance, and I managed a nod, though I wasn’t sure how I felt about her taking “advantage” of me.

  “Lemme get my notebook.” Alexa went upstairs, leaving Kiki and me on the deck.

  “I thought you said she was a bitch,” Kiki whispered.

  “I said she could be bitchy. She’s a lot nicer with you here.”

  Kiki leafed through a magazine in the hammock while I helped Alexa with an essay using the imperativo and preterito tenses. Afterward, Alexa offered to drive Kiki and me around Armonk. “Not that there’s much to see,” she added. “Main Street, a gazebo, a duck pond, and mi escuela.”

  “You have a car?” Kiki asked, incredulous.

  “It’s just a Jetta, and it’s used, but it works.”

  “You’re lucky,” Kiki said circling it. She laughed at Alexa’s bumper stickers: “My honors student can beat up your honors student” and “Make Out Not War.”

  “I don’t know a single Halsey kid who has a car,” Kiki said.

  “Most seniors don’t even drive,” I added.

  “My mom doesn’t drive!” Kiki said. “And I probably won’t learn till I’m thirty.”

  Alexa looked shocked. “How do people get to school?”

  “Kiki and I walk. Lots of kids take a bus or subway. A few bike or take taxis.”

  “Rich kids get dropped off. Some days, there are limousine traffic jams at the lower school,” Kiki said.

  “Around here,” Alexa said, “everyone gets their license the minute they can.” We got in the car. I let Kiki climb in front, and I sat in the back and put on my seat belt. It was the first time I’d ever been in a car with a teenager at the wheel.

  Alexa drove us to Main Street, then up Route 22 and down Tripp Lane. “That’s Byram Hills High School,” she said. “Seniors park here, but on weekends, everyone parks everywhere.” We got out. “My mom went here too.”

  “Your mom went here?” Kiki asked. “Dear Kate?”

  I’d been looking at the oval track and wondering if I might see Sam running. Now I looked at the football field and tried to imagine Dad hanging out with “Katie” and her big sister.

  “A few of my teachers taught her!” Alexa added.

  “Must be weird having teachers who taught your mom,” Kiki said.

  “Weird,” I ventured, “is having teachers come to your parents’ parties and poke their heads into your bedroom.”

  “Weird,” Alexa said, “is when your mom gives talks about boobs and period apps and Love 101. I made her swear never to talk to my grade.” She looked at me. “Please don’t tell me your dad gives vagina monologues.”

  “He doesn’t.” I remembered once seeing that Playbill in my parents’ culture bowl.

  “Hey, what’s the difference between a genealogist and a gynecologist?” Alexa asked as we walked toward the school entrance.

  “What?” Kiki asked.

  “A genealogist looks up your family tree, and a gynecologist looks up your family bush!” Alexa said, and Kiki laughed. “Oh crap!” Alexa said. “Door’s locked.”

  I cupped my eyes and peered inside at the empty hallways.

  “What’s your school like?” Alexa asked as we got back in her car.

  “It’s over two hundred years old,” Kiki began. “And it goes from kindergarten to twelfth. The building goes up instead of out.” Kiki turned to me. “I can’t believe we’re about to be in the upper school. When we were in lower school, the older kids looked like giants.”

  “‘Upper school.’ ‘Lower school.’ Sounds so snobby,” Alexa said. “When my mom told me how much your tuition was, I thought she was kidding—and that Sofia was going to be totally stuck up.”

  I wondered what her opinion was of me now.

  “They give some scholarships and free rides,” Kiki said. “But yeah, we know a lot of rich kids with country houses.”

  “Country houses?” Alexa asked.

  “Weekend places. Like our friend Natalie used to have a penthouse in New York and a beach house in Southampton,” Kiki said.

  “How many kids in your grade?” Alexa asked.

  “We’re down to fifty,” Kiki said. “And we’re about to lose Natalie.”

  “That’s small!” Alexa said. “Our grade has two hundred, which is perfect. Whenever I get sick of one group, I just hang out with other people.”

  “Our grade is pretty diverse,” I offered. Was I feeling defensive of Halsey?

  “Diverse?” Kiki laughed. “Sofia, you and I are ‘bicultural,’ and yeah, there are lots of ‘kids of color.’ But, c’mon, there are no boys! They call Halsey single-sex. What they mean is ‘no sex’!”

  “You going out with someone?” Alexa asked.

  “I was,” Kiki answered.

  “Was?” I looked at her.

  “Trevor is over. I don’t even know who dumped who.”

  “Happens,” Alexa said. “But hey, there’s a lot to be said for experience.” She flashed Kiki a devious smile. “Since my mom is going to the opera with her dad tonight,” she said, “I invited this hot freshman to come over. I told him I was going to Canada this summer so he had to say a proper good-bye. Then I said, ‘But not too proper!’”

  Kiki laughed.

  I considered asking if Alexa knew Sam, the lanky guy with the sandy hair and slow smile. But I didn’t want Alexa to make fun of me or pronounce Sam geeky or taken or whatever. I wanted to get to know him on my own.

  I hoped I wasn’t making too much of one stone-skipping lesson. The stones had all ended up at the bottom of the lake after all.

  But a few had skipped.

  A few had defied gravity.

  • • •

  On Memorial Day, Armonk was blooming with irises, peonies, and azaleas, and Windmill Club was open. At the lakeside party, Dad, Kate, Alexa, and I stood with paper plates topped with hot dogs, salad, baked beans, and watermelon. I studied Kate and Alexa, their blue eyes and rosy-blond hair catching the sun, and I scanned the crowd, searching for Sam.

  Dad went to join the beach volleyball game, and Kate and Alexa climbed to the top of the tall slide and splashed down into the cold. I followed them, feeling brave, and swam after them to a float in the lake.

  “I want to get a tan,” Alexa said, adjusting her bikini straps.

  “Did you put on sunscreen?” Kate asked.

  “Are you kidding me, Mom? The sun isn’t even strong yet!”

  I stretched out and hoped I wasn’t intruding on mother-daughter time.

  “Can I tell you girls about an email I got this morning?” Kate asked.

  I was about to say sure when Alexa answered, “Mom, why would we care?”

  “You used to love hearing about my letters.”

  “Back when I was ten!”

  Kate frowned and looked a little hurt. “I beg your pardon.”

  Neither of them said anything else, and I pretended to be dozing. Finally, Alexa said, “Oh, go ahead and tell us. You’re going to anyway.” Kate remained quiet. “I’m not gonna beg,” Alexa added.

  After another silence, I muttered, “Yes, tell us,” but so softly I didn’t know if Kate even heard.

  “Well,” Kate said, “a girl wrote to say that at camp, she gets homesick, but at home, she gets campsick. Don’t you love that: campsick?”

  The tension disappeared, then so did Kate. She dove into the water and swam toward shore. I sat up, dangled my legs over the float, and looked once more for Sam. “Listen,” Alexa turned to me. “I know you idolize my mother—”

  “I don’t idolize her.”

  “Yeah, you do. Kiki does too. It’s fine, whatever. But I can feel you judging me—”

  “I’m not judging you.”

  “Let me finish! What I’m saying, and sorry if this sounds rude, but if your mom
were around—”

  She is around! I wanted to shout.

  “—you two would be at each other’s throats too. It’s what moms and daughters do. By the time you got to be my age, she’d be driving you insane, guaranteed! If you don’t believe me, ask Dear Kate.” I didn’t respond. “Seriously, who cares about her pen pals and their endless problems? Sometimes, she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice…”

  Whoa! I was one of her pen pals! And I’d give anything to hear the sound of my mom’s voice! And I didn’t want to imagine the fights we might have had.

  “Think about it,” Alexa continued. “Fifth graders want their mommies to chaperone their field trips. But by high school, those same girls are praying their moms won’t sign up because they need space, you know?”

  Obviously, I did not know. “I’m going to swim back,” I mumbled.

  Alexa said, “Fine,” then dove in first and passed me doing the butterfly. She scrambled up the shiny ladder, and I emerged behind her. Kate was on the grass in a sundress and straw hat, a shirt draped around her neck.

  “Mom, can I have your shirt?” Alexa said.

  “Sure.” Kate peeled it off. “You may have the shirt off my back.”

  How could anyone take that kind of love for granted? I thought. Maybe I would ask Dear Kate about mothers and daughters. I could email her from Kiki’s screen name.

  “Guys, I’m outta here,” Alexa said. “I’m going to Amanda’s.”

  Kate looked disappointed, but she and I walked toward the beach where Dad was playing volleyball. Wait. Was that Sam on the other team? Yes! It was! In shorts with no shirt. I looked at his abs and shoulders and tried not to gawk. He was…well, Kiki would have said “ripped.” I watched him stretch and crouch, pass and set the ball. I admired how quick he was and how the other guys high-fived him after a spike.

  “He’s something, isn’t he?” Kate said.

  I started to blush, then realized Kate was talking about my father, not my crush.

  “Want to go closer and watch?” Kate suggested.

  “No. No. Here is fine!” I replied too quickly.

  Kate walked toward the game, and I went to rinse off in the outside shower. Afterward, I stood at a distance from the beach and gave a shy wave. Dad waved back.

  So did Sam.

  • • •

  That evening, back in Manhattan, Kiki and I emailed Dear Kate from Kiki’s computer, and Kiki showed me some Chinese martial arts movements and made us spiced tea.

  “Get it?” she said, looking pleased with herself.

  “Get what?”

  “Tai chi and chai tea! How funny is that? I was waiting for you to notice.”

  I rolled my eyes, then heard a ping, which meant an email had landed in her inbox. Kiki looked at her screen. “It’s from Kate!”

  Kiki’s new setup copied the original email on top, so Kiki read the emails aloud: first my question, then Kate’s answer:

  Dear Kate,

  Do teenagers and their moms always drive each other crazy?

  Kikiroo

  Dear Kikiroo,

  Not always. It’s normal when they do. It’s nice when they don’t.

  Kate

  June

  The school year was ending. Everyone at Halsey was in the final stretch, gearing up for camps or trips or unplanned weeks of sleeping in and hanging out. Even Kiki, who would be putting in long hours at her mom’s restaurant, could not wait for summer to start.

  I’d missed the previous summer. It had mostly come and gone without me, though I did remember one August weekend in the Hamptons, back when Natalie’s family still had their beach house. Natalie and I were bobbing in the Atlantic, and I’d started thinking about how my mom had loved that the ocean linked New York to Spain. Suddenly, a giant wave had knocked me over, and I’d gotten rattled and teary. But Natalie hadn’t been able to tell because both of our faces were wet with seawater.

  She also showed me how to water-ski. At first, just standing up had seemed impossible. I was too exhausted, too discouraged. But then I was on my feet, whizzing—no, flying, across the bay! I’d found my balance! For a moment anyway. Seconds later, I lost it and went under again.

  This year, I was looking forward to summer—deep-red tomatoes and corn on the cob, street fairs in the city and swimming in Armonk, and walking through Central Park with swirly scoops of Tasti D-Lite or melty sticks of Ben & Jerry’s. And all we had to do was get through our tests and reach the finish line, the afternoon when the last teacher said, “Pencils down,” and the last girl said, “I blew it” or “I nailed it,” and everyone—everyone!—knew that what really mattered was that it was over. Middle school was about to be over.

  • • •

  “I took the morning off,” Dad said, handing me a blueberry-banana smoothie.

  “The first three rows are for the eighth grade parents,” I reminded him. Mom used to be the one to stake out seats at school events. She’d found moving up day moving even when it starred other mothers’ daughters.

  I was wearing a new floral dress and heels. Alone in the elevator, I studied myself in the mirror. My hair had grown long and my smile was no longer metallic. I’d even put on eyeliner and mascara. “Spanish Eyes,” I thought. Mom had loved that song.

  Kiki met me in my lobby. Her dress was coral and fitted. “Happy MUD,” Kiki said.

  “Mud?”

  “Moving up day.”

  “You are so weird,” I said.

  We hurried to our homerooms and were soon filing into the auditorium. So many things had happened in this room! I’d sung in choruses and cabarets, and I’d met Dear Kate here too. Here was also where, just over a year ago, the school had held a memorial service for Mom.

  The entire school community had shown up—from Inez, the security guard, to all our teachers and neighbors. I’d felt so wrung out, and the person I’d really needed to talk to was the person who wasn’t there.

  Mrs. Morris, from 6C, had helped me put together a photo presentation. Look! It’s Maria! A baby in Spain! A toddler in a flamenco dress! A girl on a bike! A teen at a dance! A bride! Look! The couple is expecting! And now there’s Sofia: infant—toddler—girl—teen!

  As background music, we’d picked “Iberia” played by Alicia de Larrocha. It was a parade of happy photos, but everyone had known where it was leading, and it was over all too soon. The last photo was of Mom alone, a close-up of her beautiful face, her Spanish eyes.

  The headmaster had spoken, then the chaplain and principal. Dean Isaacson had read excerpts of adoring emails from former students. A surprisingly elegant reception had followed, arranged by the head of the dining hall. I’d hated every minute, but Mom would probably have thought it was nicely done.

  Now, my classmates and I were seated toward the back of the room. The lights dimmed, and a different slide show began—this one featuring not my family but the Halsey family of fifty eighth graders, onstage, on courts, on fields, in labs.

  Were we really graduating?

  We walked down the center aisle to the front of the room in single file. The dean handed each of us a thornless white rose, and we stepped onto the stage clutching our flowers as HSG alumnae had done for two centuries. Principal Milliman told the audience to refrain from clapping until all the names had been called, and then she presented us one by one to the upper school principal.

  “Sofia Wolfe,” she said when it was my turn. I held the rose in my left hand and shook Principal Milliman’s and Principal Kapur’s hands with my right. After the last girl (Xia Zhu) stepped onto the stage, the headmistress said, “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Rising freshmen, prepare to throw your roses!”

  We faced the crowd. I’d never seen so many parents. Kiki’s dad had taken a bus up from DC, and even the celebrity parents and grandparents had shown up. There wa
s a famous actor mom, a former mayor of New York, a world-class tennis player. But my own family was so…tiny. Was it really just Dad by himself out there? Should we have flown in Abuelito? Or convinced Grandma Pat to leave Florida one more time? Amazing to think that Dad still had his mom. For a second, I wished we’d invited Kate. But no. Halsey was Mom’s school, and in this room, Kate was Dear Kate. Besides, I still had mixed feelings about Dad and her dating.

  The headmistress leaned into the microphone. “On your mark. Get set. Throw!”

  I threw my rose. Fifty white roses sailed through the air like arrows in a western. Each family picked up a rose and waved it at their daughter. A lot of moms and dads had tears in their eyes. Looking at them got me choked up too.

  Soon, we broke rank, and group hug followed group hug. Everyone went to find her family, and I silently congratulated myself—not because I’d made it through middle school, but because I’d made it through the past fourteen months.

  • • •

  “It sucks,” Alexa was saying on the phone. “Sofia’s all proud of herself because she ‘moved up,’ whatever that means, while we still have finals and Regents exams.” I was in the upstairs bathroom in Armonk and hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but Alexa’s complaints were coming through loud and clear behind her closed door. “In English, we finished Nine Stories, and I’m supposed to write a tenth! In world history, I have to draw a map of Europe with the names of forty-five countries, including Andorra, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. And when I look out the window, there’s Señorita Sofia chilling in the hammock!”

  Excuse me? It was my fault that our schools were on different schedules? Her words stung, and I hated that she was talking to her friends about me.

  Fortunately, Alexa was about to go on a wilderness adventure in the Canadian Rockies—for six weeks! Dad told me that her father had provided the frequent flier miles.

  Well, good. A little distance would be excellent.

  A lot of distance, even better.

  • • •

  Dad volunteered to make Alexa a farewell dinner and told me he wanted me there. He said Kate was going to drive Alexa to Boston the next day and would meet the program director before the group flew to Calgary.