I know that they have a reputation for being too hot to handle—Pia with her European fashions, Jess with her perfect face and body, Lily with her down-to-earth indifference to her mother’s fame, and Vivian with her cutting-edge taste in just about everything—but trust me, I’ve gotten to know them. And underneath it all, their hearts couldn’t be any more golden. They are the most generous people I’ve ever had the privilege to know.
I know that I’ve blown all future chances with the gang, and in no way am I trying to get in their good graces again. But for whatever it’s worth, I’d like to state that I was a complete and total jerk. My new (and now ex-) friends took me in with such open arms and warmth that I’m almost embarrassed to think about my betrayal. If I’ve embarrassed any of them in any way, and I’m sure I have, I just want that shame to evaporate from their shoulders and settle onto mine, if that makes any sense.
I’ll never forget my first semester of tenth grade. Most of all, I’ll never forget my friends who made it the happiest few months of my life.
Never.
With love, humility, and cupcake frosting,
Mimi Schulman
Grade 10
“You sure?” Sam whistled after his thirteenth read-through. “You don’t think it’s a little—”
“Cheesy?”
He nodded and cringed simultaneously.
“No way. Not cheesy enough.”
I didn’t need to say another word. Sam understood the severity of the situation and pressed Send. It soon appeared on the special address he had created for me, www.baldwin.edu/studentwebpages/~mimischEXCLUSIVE. I was still scanning the awful online confession when I felt Sam’s hands on my shoulders. “So,” he murmured in an alarmingly low voice, “does this mean we’re letting bygones be bygones?”
Something brushed against my hair, and it took me all of .01 seconds to realize it was Sam’s hand. I shot up. “Ugh, give me a break, Sam, no way! I can’t believe after all you’ve done to me, you’re actually trying to cop a feel again. You’ve really outdone yourself!”
I ran out of the house, leaving my soul posted on the Web for the entire world to behold. Or all of Baldwin, at least. Then again, was there any difference between the entire world and Baldwin?
I for one couldn’t name it.
An Amazing Season
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, I tried distracting myself from the disaster of my life by plunging deep into the Christmas spirit, which was a first since my family tended to ignore the holidays. (Mom was Protestant, Dad was a Jew, Ariel and I were everything and nothing in between, and none of us was religious.)
This year was different, though. Dad and I loaded up on corny tinsel decorations from the drugstore and threw them around the house. We even got a tree and put a blown-up picture of “Simon the Angel” on top. Dad was beyond psyched by my enthusiasm. It was pretty clear he’d been dreading going through the holiday season without Mom, so he had no objections to my sudden interest in home life. He rented The Bells of St. Mary’s, which had nothing to do with Christmas except that Ingrid Bergman played a nun and presumably believed in Jesus.
My father indisputably believed in Ingrid Bergman. “Even in that habit,” he’d sigh every few scenes, “she’s marvelous, just marvelous.”
Because my Dad was gallant and kind, he addressed this observation to Amanda, who had eagerly shown up at movie night at the Schulmans’ with a massive bag of fat-free popcorn and a quart of marshmallow fluff-flavored Tasti-D-Lite. Old habits die hard, I guess. I’m sure deep-down she was devastated by my comments in the diary, but she had chosen not to get pissy about it, and instead seize this opportunity to force me to hang out with her. People were all so interesting and mysterious, even Amanda.
“I’ve never heard of her,” Amanda replied. “And aren’t her cheeks sort of round? It’s so sad when skinny women have fat faces. There’s like nothing they can do.” She heaved a great sigh. “What’s this movie called again?”
“The Bells of St. Mary’s,” I told her. “One of our favorites.”
“Nineteen-forty-five, Leo McCarey, a classic,” Dad seconded.
This information seemed to perk up Amanda, who’d seemed a little mopey since Dad had rejected her “party food” suggestion. “I don’t eat things with the words ‘fat’ and ‘free’ on the same label,” he had said. “And I’ve got no issues with carbs, so what say we order in some pizzas, huh, Mimi?”
Five days had passed since Sam posted that fateful Web apology letter. And nothing had happened—absolutely zilch, unless you count even more whispers in the halls and sidelong glances from upperclassmen. Most of the time, I ignored the nasty stares and looked forward to burrowing in my room at home. When the weekend rolled around again, I had no choice but to accept Amanda’s twelve-thousandth “hang out” invitation. Not, I should say, because Sam was making me. No, the bet had reached a stalemate, and not because I had lost, but because Sam had cheated. Now everything between us was invalid, void.
“Omigod, speaking of Mary, you know which movie I love?” Amanda exclaimed. “Mary Poppins—have you seen it?” She addressed us both excitedly. “Julie Andrews is really great, don’t you think? You know she started out as a model, and like—”
“Black olives?” Dad was not listening.
“It’s not just that she can sing and dance. I think she’s a really serious actress, you know?” Amanda went on. “Like she’d be famous anyway, just because she’s sooo pretty—don’t you think—but she’s also really talented, you—”
I was brainstorming excuses to ditch Amanda and retreat into the silence of my bedroom when the phone rang. My dad and I both rocketed off the couch, saying, “I’ll get it!” in unison. But I, being younger and faster, reached the kitchen first.
“Hello?”
“Mimi! Sweet pea!”
“Hey, Mom.” Amanda’s passion for the chimney sweeper dance interested me more already.
“How are you, honey? It’s been weeks since we talked. Not since—oh, I can’t even remember how long!”
Not since Thanksgiving, I didn’t fill in. It was totally typical and infuriating of my mom to gloss over my dramatic early departure, or rather not to see any drama in it at all, since drama didn’t suit her purposes. She was into communication and transference. Drama was way too lowbrow for her.
Not that I was thinking about this stuff as she talked. No, during the actual conversation I was way too busy stomaching her latest bombshell and thinking about that old Morton salt commercial, “When it rains, it pours.” Which of course reminded me of Margaret Morton and Lily and my social ostracism and unending miserable future—
“—on sabbatical together next year,” my mom was saying. “With Myrtle starting college and both of us up for a semester off, we were thinking of going to Berlin together—Maurice is giving a seminar at the American Academy next fall, and we figured, why not stay?”
“What?”
“Berlin! Maurice and I on a romantic little waltz down the Kudamm—doesn’t that sound dreamy?”
“Dreamy? Mom, are you possessed by an alien or what?”
“—I mean, I never got to do these kinds of things with your father, who seems all freewheeling and spontaneous but is really this paralyzed stick-in-the-mud afraid of ever leaving his comfort zone—”
I hung up.
Before I could return to the couch, however, where my dad was nodding all glaze-eyed at Amanda, the phone rang again. I hated, my mother. Why couldn’t she ever just give it up? Why did she have to embroil me in her every single petty decision and resentment and issue? I knew I had to pick it up, too, or my dad would come to the phone and learn about his ex’s intended romantic getaway at Zoo Station, and then it would all be over. If there was one thing I needed right now, it was my dad’s strength.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Oh, darling, Mimi, is that you?”
“Uh, yeah?” I was confused: definitely not my mom, but a throaty, smoky, indeterminately European sim
per. In other words, definitely not Myrtle, either.
“Fenella von Dix, darling, remember, from the Pazzolinis’? Well, as I’m sure your daddums told you—we had an absolutely smashing night at the BAM over Thanksgiving, and I was just calling to say that tonight only they’re showing The Jazz Singer at the Screening Room. It’s a special benefit, and, well, I happen to have an extra ticket that I’d—I’d . . .”
I felt like such an idiot. I had no idea that Dad—Daddums—had struck it up with Miss Jingle-Jangle-Bracelet Society Doyenne. Was I troubled or amused?
“Hi there,” I said. “Why don’t you tell him that yourself? He’s right here.”
“Oh, darling, yes, yes, of course. Yes. I don’t know why I assumed—”
“Dad?” I called out. “It’s for you.”
I plodded back to the sofa. Had my dad mentioned his Thanksgiving at the BAM to me—I tried to remember—even once? Had I ever thought of it once myself since my dinner in Bridgehampton about twelve lifetimes ago? When I returned from Texas, I’d been way too preoccupied with my own worries even to ask about how my fabulous setup had turned out. I felt incredibly self-centered, not to mention dumb.
“Have you ever seen The Sound of Music?” Amanda asked me. “With Julie and Christopher Plummer? It’s so wild! I would never wear a nun’s habit on TV, they’re so not form-flattering.”
“Oh, great, great, great,” my dad was saying, pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the TV room. “Yeah, of course—no, we’re not doing anything, just watching the old boob tube.”
The “old boob tube”? It was so depressing, how even the hippest forty-five-year-olds talked like bad fifties sitcoms when thrown in the same room.
“Oh, you’re coming over here? No, no, why don’t I just—? Yes, yes, that’s true—I could meet you there? . . . Oh, all right. Yes—no! That’s perfect . . . See you in forty.”
As soon as he hung up he went into a tailspin that, if nothing else, proved just how much I’d missed these past few weeks. “Quick, let’s get rid of the pizza boxes, on the double! Fenella’s coming here, to pick me up—in only forty minutes! This place is a total disaster zone!”
“God, Dad, Quinn and I’ve only been begging you for months to get a cleaner,” I said. The only thing I moved was my index finger, to press Pause on Ingrid. Amanda was staring at my dad as if he’d just taken flight with his umbrella.
Forty minutes later, the apartment was looking a little more decent, though still nothing Lily’s mom would feature. It wasn’t as if we had actually swept or vacuumed or anything, but we had cleared the old napkins and plastic forks off the coffee table, replacing them with artfully composed ziggurats of good-looking photography books. Rather than find a place for the miscellany on a shelf or in a closet, we had simply stacked everything on all available surfaces. And, of course, we made sure to put American Revelations, the book with Dad’s portrait of John Waters, on top of the heap.
Dad was getting really nervous, not actually tidying up as much as he was rearranging, pushing chairs from one side of the room to the other and back again. Amanda had found a project: She was plumping up all the cushions and throw pillows, working slowly and caressing each individual feather.
We weren’t ready when the doorbell rang, but that didn’t keep it from ringing.
“Can you get that, hon?” Dad called from the bathroom, which smelled disgustingly of aftershave.
“You got it, Romeo,” I said, and bounded toward the door. “Nice to see you, Fenella,” I began as I opened it, then gasped when I saw Lily standing there instead.
My first reaction was fear; I thought Lily had come to have her final words with me, or to kidnap me so that one of Pia’s Mafia cousins could beat me to a pulp. But there was something peaceful about her expression. It was kind of confusing.
“Hi,” I managed.
“Hi. We’ve all paid a little visit to the Internet,” she said, motioning behind her. Panic shot through my spine as I faced not just Lily but the entire gang in military formation across my stoop: Pia, Jess, and Vivian, all my executioners in tow. I looked into Viv’s eyes to try to get a better read on the situation. She was clearly pretty pissed. Looked as though Santa was bringing me coals this holiday season.
We all stood there silently, like bullfighters staring down the predator before the action begins.
Finally, Jess fired the first salvo: “We wanted to ask you something.”
“Yup?” I said meekly.
“Everything OK?” Amanda interrupted from behind me.
“It’s fine. I’ll be there in a minute.” I shooed her away.
“Well,” Pia cleared her throat, “we realize it’s a little late to be asking you this.” She, turned to Vivian, giving her the floor-is-all-yours nod. Vivian grimaced and passed the virtual baton back to Lily.
“Do you think you can lay off the tell-all diaries?” asked Lily. “They’re kind of played out.”
I nodded stupidly and whispered, “Of course.”
“And Web entries, too?” Lily asked. “Can you lay off those?”
“Yup.” I sniffled.
“Sweet. So do you already have plans for New Year’s?” Pia asked.
And that was when I noticed the golden saddle hanging from Jess’s neck. I looked from one collarbone to the next: They all had their pendants on—with the exception of Viv, whose collarbone was noticeably powder white and unaccessorized. What did that mean? That she wasn’t willing to forgive me? I suspected she was mad for reasons other than the diary. But, I decided, three out of four—not so bad. My vision blurred, but right then I knew that everything was going to be all right.
“Plans?”
“It’s just, we decided even the slimiest and weaseliest of friends deserve second chances,” said Lily. “If they’re worth it.”
“Does this mean I have plans now?”
“Our flight leaves in less than four hours,” Lily said. “That’s your flight, too.”
I couldn’t believe Sam’s assistance on the Web page had actually worked. They must have read it and taken it seriously. I wanted to uncork a hundred bottles of Moet.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate thing to do, but I reached out my arms and initiated a group hug. Viv made a scowl and stepped back. “Come on, Viv, stop pouting,” Pia said, and she was the first to reach forward and hug me. Lily and Jess followed suit, and our timid huddle soon gave way to a group hug, all of us smooshed together like commuters on the Q train at rush hour. I felt tears mist my eyes and I squeezed my friends a little tighter. So this was what it felt like to exit the gates of hell. I felt fantastically, ecstatically relieved and I squeezed even tighter.
“Watch it, girl,” said Pia. “I don’t need claw marks.”
“How about another kind of mark instead?” I asked, and immediately planted a fat pink lip print on her left cheek. “Who’s next up?”
So sue me. We’re all entitled to our Velveeta moments.
About the Authors
LAUREN MECHLING grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She writes a weekly column for the New York Sun and has written for several other publications, including the Wall Street Journal and Seventeen Magazine.
LAURA MOSER grew up in Houston, Texas. She is the author of a biography of Bette Davis and reviews books for various publications. The writers became friends ten years ago when Laura shared her acne medication in a communal bathroom. They now live a short walk away from each other in Brooklyn.
The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber Page 23