Such a Fun Age

by Kiley Reid

  “Did anyone get a video of this?” Tamra asked.

  “You guys could probably help her sue the store,” Rachel said.

  “I don’t know. I’m freaking out.” Alix placed her elbows at her knees. “I’ve been terrible to her. She’s so good and she’s so on time . . . Briar adores her and I feel like I’m gonna lose her because of some stupid fucking grocery store cop.” Alix removed the side of the seat belt from Briar’s sleeping mouth, and looked around to make sure no one had heard her say the F-word in front of her children. “I’ve just been so sloppy with everything lately that it all feels like a big punishment. I’m late with my book, I’m gaining weight, and I have a dozen of Peter’s colleagues coming over today for Briar’s birthday, which Emira was supposed to help with. But the thought of losing her forever is making me physically ill. I’ll never be able to finish this book without her.”

  “Hey.” Rachel cut her off. “You will finish this book no matter what. You’re a badass and you finish things, but right now, Emira is the first priority.”

  Tamra said, “One hundred percent.”

  “Prudence?” Jodi took her mouth away from the phone. “You have to share with your brother, is that understood?” Then, closer to the receiver, she said, “I agree with everything that was just said.”

  “Of course. I get that. And I know I need to call her,” Alix said. “But what . . . how do I go about this?”

  “Don’t tell her to write a letter,” Rachel mumbled.

  Jodi said, “Rachel, this is serious,” in the same mom-ish way she spoke to her daughter.

  “Honestly,” Tamra said, “she might not even answer. And you need to be prepared for that.”

  Next to Alix, the bell attached to the coffee shop door rang as a couple came outside. The woman said, “I bet we can rent it on Amazon,” and the man replied, “But 3D was the entire point.” Alix dipped her head and sweat fell off her nose. “I’m literally gonna be sick.”

  “Hey, if she does answer,” Tamra said, “just tell her that you’re so sorry that this happened, and that you support her in whatever she needs, whether that means lawyering up or doing absolutely nothing.”

  “Yeah, just don’t get emotional,” Rachel told her. “Not that you would, but make it all about her. Hudson, it’s okay, bud!” Rachel could be heard clapping her hand to her thigh. “You wanna go home? No? Okay, fine.”

  Alix knew that this probably wouldn’t have been so daunting if it wouldn’t be the longest conversation she’d ever had with Emira. She took a deep breath and said, “Is this my fault for sending her there?”

  “Oh honey, no,” Jodi said.

  “I would have called her too!” Tamra said.

  “It’s your fault you moved to Philadelphia,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry, but again, this would never happen in New York City. When I pick Hudson up from anywhere they literally don’t trust that he’s my kid. But when Arnetta goes, they’re like, ‘Here ya go! He’s allergic to nuts, bye!’”

  “Pru?” Jodi called. “I’m gonna count to three, young lady. One, two . . . Thank you, ma’am.”

  Alix sat back and her sweaty top clung to her shoulder blades. In front of her, in her sleep, Catherine’s bootied feet ran somewhere in her dreams. Tamra said, “Go call her,” and Alix said, “I know.”

  “Alix?” Jodi beckoned. “I love you. And you’re beautiful, you always are. But I’m being a good friend right now and asking how much weight you’ve gained.”

  Alix looked down toward her neon orange shorts. A mushy pudge made up of baby weight, a gym membership she’d never gotten, and sugar-based smoothies consumed in the sun poked out over her waistband and underneath the damp tank top. Alix sighed. “I’m afraid to check.”

  “Oh, God,” Tamra said. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

  “Okay . . . sweetie?” Jodi said. “You need to get your s-h-i-t together because you are not this person. You are so good at confrontation, and you breast-feed in front of audiences, and you are going to write a very successful book. You need to hang up the phone, beg your sitter to stay, tell Peter to watch his mouth, and get a Fitbit or something, okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s right, A,” Rachel added. “’Cause when your book comes out your photo is gonna be everywhere and book covers add like seventeen pounds, I am not kidding.”

  “Consider this an intervention,” Tamra agreed, “but a very kind and very supportive one.”

  “Do they have juice there?” Rachel asked. “Should I send you a cleanse?”

  “I think they have juice, Rach.” Jodi laughed. “It’s not like she’s in Montana.”

  * * *

  —

  Emira didn’t answer her phone, so Alix took a shower and tried her again. This time she answered, and Alix delivered all the things her friends had suggested, mentally checking off each point. But as she said the words “It’s completely your call,” Emira replied, “Wait . . . am I late?”

  Alix heard Zara’s voice in the background say, “Who is calling you so early?” Alix looked at her watch. It was 9:14 a.m. Emira, Alix realized, was half asleep.

  “No, you’re not late!” Alix assured her. “The party’s still at noon, or eleven forty-five, if you can come early . . . but you don’t have to, but I’d love for you to come. We’d love for you to come. But it’s up to you.”

  “No, I’ll be there,” Emira said. “I’m coming, don’t worry.”

  “No, Emira, I wasn’t checking up on you. I mean . . . I’m checking on you,” Alix struggled. “But just to see how you are. But okay. I’ll see you at noon? Or eleven forty-five?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Zara’s voice, now more awake, said, “Would you get a bagel if I ordered one?”

  Alix said, “See you soon!” and Emira hung up the phone.

  I called. Alix texted Tamra. It seemed like she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Tamra responded, That’s her choice. Is she coming?

  Yes.

  Okay, be cool, Tamra texted back. Drink lots of water. No pasta. But you’re allowed to eat cake because your baby is three.

  Alix looked to Briar, who was playing with two combs on the floor in her bedroom. “Bri,” she said. “Happy birthday, lovey,” to which Briar very seriously responded, “Is it happy birfday pretend?”

  If the decision had been Briar’s, the theme of her party would have been glasses because the toddler savagely wanted glasses, and to touch everyone else’s glasses, and to see how she looked in all of the glasses. But Briar also loved airplanes and pointing at them and the sounds they made, and Alix felt that this, out of all of Briar’s other interests (smelling tea bags, other people’s belly buttons, touching the soft skin on Mama’s earlobe), should be openly encouraged.

  Alix pushed the furniture in the living room back against the walls and then evenly spread out white balloons that covered the towering ceilings. Hanging at the bottom of each twenty-foot string was a blue paper airplane with curved edges and wheels. Next she set up a snack table with a cloud-covered paper tapestry; by the door, she hung up soft aviator goggles meant for toddlers to take and wear. There were mini cupcakes dyed the color of the sky, and party favors were lined up in bright blue bags with tiny white propellers that could spin. Alix took close-up photos of the propellers and the cupcakes to post on her Instagram (so close-up that they could have been taken anywhere, particularly Manhattan). Peter brought a few of the balloons outside and taped them around the jagged hole in the window. When Alix peeked her head outside, he said, “Is this dumb?” She shook her head and felt a warm and sad affection for him. She knew he hadn’t meant what he said on the news. “No,” she said. “It’s not dumb.”

  Upstairs, Alix put on a loose-fitting denim jumpsuit and straightened her hair. Peter was singing “Baby Beluga” to Briar and Catherine, who lay on the bed as he secured his belt and but
toned his shirt. Between Way down yonder and Where the dolphins play, he stuck his head into the bathroom. “She’s still coming to help out, right?”

  Alix looked at him through the mirror as she applied mascara to her bottom lashes. “She said she was.”

  Emira arrived at eleven forty-five.

  She had her own key, and when the door closed downstairs, both Peter and Alix looked at each other above their children’s heads. Briar was finally in her birthday outfit, a hunter-green jumpsuit that made her resemble a Top Gun cast extra, and Catherine was cuddled in a cloud costume. Alix handed Peter a gold winged pin and said, “Give us a minute,” before she bolted down two sets of stairs. There was Emira hanging her backpack on the wall, in dark jeans, a loose braid down her back, and chunky black eyeliner.

  In her first week of babysitting for the Chamberlains, Emira took Briar to a painting class. She’d been wearing an oversized knit cardigan, the kind that paint would never come out of, and Alix offered her one of her many white LetHer Speak polos. “I actually have tons of these and you’re the same size as my old interns,” she’d said. “Well, they might be a bit big on you, but you’re welcome to wear one anytime.” This became Emira’s uniform. Three times a week, Alix came downstairs to find Emira slipping a white polo over her head. She hung it up on the coatrack just before she left. And suddenly, as Alix walked through blue ribbons hanging from the balloons above, the tenderness of this tradition made her throat start to close. She made it to the bottom step as Emira said, “Hey,” and pulled her braid out of the back of her collar.

  “Hey. Hi.” Alix stood in front of Emira and held both her elbows. “Can I . . . can I give you a hug?”

  This promptly felt like an ignorant response. Alix didn’t want this to be their first hug, but she had offered and she had to commit. In her arms, Emira smelled like body butters, burnt hair, nail polish, and cheap perfume.

  “First of all”—Alix backed away—“you do not have to be here today.”

  “Oh no. I’m here. It’s cool.” Emira turned to her backpack and took a ChapStick out of the front pocket.

  Alix crossed her ankles and arms as she stood. “I’m not going to even pretend to know what you’re feeling right now or how you felt last night because I never truly will, but I just want to extend my support in whatever way you need it. If that’s a lawyer or . . . a civil action suit . . . or . . .”

  Emira smiled. “A what?”

  “Emira,” Alix said. She realized her shoulders were up by her ears, and she tried to bring them down into her back. “You could sue that entire store. Seeking legal action is completely within your right.”

  “Oh no.” Emira pressed her lips together and sealed the lid of her balm. “I’m not tryna get into all that.”

  Alix nodded. “And I completely respect that. We just want you to know how sorry we are and—”

  Another voice from outside said, “Alix?”

  Behind Emira, the door slid open two inches. Emira reached for the knob and revealed two little boys and their mother: a family from Briar’s swim class.

  “Ohmygod, hi,” the woman said. “I know, I know. We’re so early. Hi! I’m sure you’re not even done setting up. But we can help and we won’t be any trouble. You look so cute!”

  Alix ushered them in with his and how are yous. The boys rushed the snack table and one of them took off his shoes. As the woman began to remove their jackets, Alix whispered to Emira, “Let’s talk about this later.”

  “It’s okay,” Emira said. “It’s honestly fine.” As she said this, Emira dug into a paper bag that she’d set beneath her backpack. She pulled out a small bowl with an orange ribbon around the rim, holding a bright yellow goldfish inside.

  “Oh, wait. Emira.” Alix put her hand to her heart. “Is that from you?”

  “Yeah.” Emira placed the bowl on the mantel next to a little paper airplane that read Presents Land Here! As she turned the bowl so that the ribbon faced forward, Alix remembered. Yes. Emira had asked if she could get Briar a fish for her birthday. She’d asked both Alix and Peter days ago. Alix hadn’t considered it would be a real one, because she hadn’t really been listening, but here it was, gold and wiggling. Emira had curled the ribbon around the tiny bowl, but it had bent and flattened in transit and now hung bitterly around the rim.

  Two minutes into their earliness, the first guest’s three-year-old threw up in the space next to the toilet seat, and he began to cry in an embarrassed whimper. By the time it was cleaned up and apologies had ceased, a group of Peter’s co-workers from WNFT had arrived. Alix turned on some music, went to the door, and said, “Hi, I think we met once before, I’m Alix.” (When she met people for the first time, Alix overpronounced her name—ahh-lix—with a strong emphasis on the second syllable.)

  Peter never seemed like he was eight years older than Alix—his waist was trim and his light haircut was boyish—but when she found herself in a room of his peers, Alix suddenly felt as if she were attending a gathering of her parents’ friends and counting down till she could retreat to her room and watch music videos. Peter’s female co-workers arrived in floral fit-and-flare dresses, wedges, and pumps. Even the one black woman there arrived with her hair teased, bobbed, and highlighted. These ladies wore massive statement necklaces with costume-ish gems and beads. The men looked like grown-up Ken dolls in khakis and golf shirts.

  The most popular point of conversation was the sharp hole in the foyer window. Before she’d learned of the incident at Market Depot, as she waited for the police to finish their report, Alix had worried that Peter’s co-workers possibly felt the same as the juniors at Beacon Smith High. That Peter’s career in Philadelphia had possibly ended before it began, and maybe they’d take him back at Riverdale . . . which would have been kind of amazing if it meant she’d be back in New York. But WNFT’s reaction to the toothed hole in the window was a strange home-court pride mixed with backslapping joy. It was as if Peter, the new guy in town, had been properly and jokingly hazed. They wanted to know the story. They laughed and said, “Don’t worry.” They clinked their beers to the top of Peter’s and said, “Welp, welcome to Philadelphia!”

  No one at Briar’s birthday party had heard of Alix or LetHer Speak. As she sipped on a club soda underneath a playlist of Kidz Bop and Michael Jackson, Alix decided to consider her anonymity a research-based challenge: to develop a clear elevator pitch that might appear on her book’s dust jacket, one of the many tasks she hadn’t yet started. But none of her descriptions seemed to work.

  “Ohhh, so you’re not exactly writing the book,” one woman said. “It’s like . . . what was that thing called, PostSecret? Do you remember that? And it was like . . . super raunchy?”

  “We saw some wacky movie called She, no, it was called Her, Her?” Another wife looked to her husband for confirmation, but when he didn’t give any, she still went on. “Maybe it was Them. But anyway—this guy’s job is to write love letters for people. People he doesn’t even know. It was so strange, is that what you do?” Alix pretended to hear Catherine crying and politely excused herself.

  Laney Thacker, Peter’s co-anchor, arrived with her four-year-old daughter, Bella. She also brought yellow roses, a bottle of wine, a mason jar filled with cookie ingredients and a recipe, and wrapped presents for both Briar and Alix. She greeted Alix with outstretched hands, and a look that said, It’s finally happening. “Ohmygosh, I just feel like I know you so well,” she said. “Gimme a hug. You’re Philly Action family now.” Twice, Alix thought their hug had reached its limit, but Laney hummed as she kept her hold. She gently rocked Alix from side to side. Bella went to Briar and rocked her back and forth as well.

  Back in Manhattan, Alix went to birthday parties at least twice a month with Rachel, Jodi, and Tamra. They sat in corners drinking wine from paper cups and took turns dancing with the children. They whispered about obnoxious extravagances like chocolate fountai
ns or complete toddler makeovers, and they rolled their eyes at monogrammed favors and the hired Disney princess look-alikes who were always from New Jersey. But the guests attending Briar’s very simple birthday party seemed to be trying twice as hard. The women dressed as if they were pretending to live on the Upper East Side, not as if they actually did, or as if they’d actually been there. There was no way they were comfortable standing in pumps, and why wasn’t anyone wearing jeans? Alix felt out of place and uncomfortably large.

  But Peter had smiled through Alix’s luncheons and parties and conventions. He’d stayed up late, next to his wife, stamping five hundred letters that high school girls had written to their future selves. He’d put the children to bed when workshops ran late, after convincing Briar that her mother would come in and kiss her the very second she got home. Alix tried to remind herself of this and find someone she could relate to, someone she wouldn’t mind coming over to plop her kid in front of the TV with Briar, someone she could go to yoga with. But these women were as pleasant and sweet as they were old-fashioned and disconcertingly uncool. Peter’s co-anchor, Laney, fondled the wrap on Alix’s jumpsuit affectionately. “I always want to try one of these,” she said, “but I could never pull it off.” She leaned in to laugh and ask how Alix could pee in that thing anyway.

  Then it was apparently time for gifts. Children in Manhattan never opened presents at a party. Gifts were put in cabs and trunks, or in large, clear plastic bags to be taken home with leftover cake. If you remembered, you could hide a few in a closet and save them for a plane ride distraction, or for when your child peed in the proper place. But as Peter and Alix talked to a WNFT staff member, her five-year-old child came and clung to her knees. “When are they gonna do presents and cake?” he whined.

  Peter looked at Alix. “Should I set up a chair?”

  Briar sat on Alix’s lap while Emira handed them presents. After the second gift, Briar became overwhelmed, flapped her arms, and said, “I don’t like it I don’t like it.” Emira and Peter soothed her as Alix unwrapped each gift.