Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts

by Courtney Hamilton

  She knows that since that age of thirteen, I’ve worn makeup to run, swim, hike, scuba, study, and work.

  When I get back to my apartment, Julia is sitting outside.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “You’ve changed your locks,” said Julia.

  “I did that ages ago. Would you like to come in?”

  “Thanks. Got any coffee?”

  “I’m sure I could find some.”

  There are 15 bags of Whole Bean Guatemala Antigua in my freezer. I pulled one out, opened it, and began to grind. I know that the universal coffee-to-water ratio is one tablespoon coffee to one cup of water. Mine is closer to four to one.

  In the background, I see a brown and white streak going through my French doors.

  “Where’s your cat?” asks Julia.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  Abyss hates Julia because Julia moves too quickly and has a habit of vacuuming my place when she’s nervous. Abyss has hidden. I’m guessing she’s under my bed.

  “I need to borrow something from you,” said Julia, “something to wear.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Christmas is coming. And I’m going to have the Hamiltons over for a tree-trimming party. I’d like you to co-host it with me.”

  “Julia.”

  “What?”

  “We’re Jewish. When are you going to tell them?’

  “For a smart girl, you don’t understand much,” said Julia, “what was your IQ again?”

  “148.”

  “No… no, that’s not quite what I remember.”

  Age 9.

  Something is wrong at school. I’m in the highest reading group, the highest math group, and get straight As. But the teacher hands out envelopes to all six of my friends in my reading and math group but not to me. I know something is different because my friends seem really happy and start to play with me less, but won’t tell me what was in the envelope. They whisper, but when I ask them what they are talking about they won’t tell me. Finally, my friend Frances breaks.

  “You’re smart, Courtney, but we’re gifted and you’re not.”

  I don’t know what gifted is, but I know that it’s something I need to be. I’ve figured out that it’s my job to lead my mother and me out of the desperate mess of her husbandless and my fatherless life. I’m not sure how to do it, but I know that I better get into every good program and class that every kid with a father and mother and a big house gets into. So I shadow them and try to pick up the clues of what they, the kids whose parents are planning and paying attention, are doing. But now I know that I will not be in the gifted program. I’ve failed. I cry for weeks and make myself sick. The one thing I could always count on was my intelligence and I have failed. I’m not gifted.

  “Go to the principal,” I tell my mom.

  “I’m busy,” she says.

  I am miserable for months and put myself on my first self-improvement program. I read two books per week and command myself to be the best in everything, from reading to kick-ball. I become the best violinist in the school because I start practicing three hours per day. I get the best grades and never make any mistakes. But I have failed. I will never be gifted. I will not be in the gifted program.

  “I need you to go to the principal,” I tell my mom.

  “Stop bugging me,” she says.

  The principal calls me into her office because I’m crying in class.

  “You’re one of our finest students,” she says.

  “But I’m not gifted,” I tell her.

  The principal looks upset.

  She tells me, “Have your mother call me.”

  I tell my mom.

  “The principal wants you to call her.”

  My mom promises to call, but never quite gets around to it.

  Four months later, the principal calls my mom. Even they know something is wrong: The recent state standardized test scores have been released and I have the highest score in the school in reading and rank in the 99-plus percentile in math. I have scored higher than all of the “gifted” kids in the school, but I am not “gifted” because I didn’t show much imagination on the day that I was given my “gifted” test, which I come to learn, is called a Stanford–Binet: An IQ test.

  “Bullshit,” my mom tells the principal, “trust me, this kid has got more imagination than any person I’ve ever met.”

  I think I remember being tested. It was right after my dad died. I was hungry and cold and my shoes hurt. They put me in a room with a strange woman who asked me questions for three hours. She kept asking me, “What does it mean to ‘plug in?’” I got exasperated and told her that her questions were stupid. There were square blocks that you had to fit into round holes. Then she showed me pictures and asked, “What’s wrong with this?” I remember one picture that stumped me, the one with the cow and the sun. I couldn’t get it.

  My principal asks my mom, “What do you want us to do?”

  “If you don’t retest her, I’ll make every day of the rest of your life a living hell,” says my mom.

  “140,” my mom tells me. “You have to get a 140 this time. Remember, it’s just you and the test giver. If they like you, they’re probably going to give you the extra points. So be nice. Don’t argue.”

  I know they are going to retest me, but I don’t know when. I round up my “gifted” kids on the playground and ask them about the test.

  “What about the picture with the cow and the sun? What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

  “The shadow,” says Frances, “the shadow is going the wrong way.”

  The principal comes to my classroom one day at one o’clock and asks for me. She brings me to a small room. There’s a woman sitting at a small desk. I recognize the square-block-round-hole set-up and see what looks to be the back of the “What’s Wrong with This?” pictures. It’s the test.

  The principal tells me that the lady wants to ask me a few questions.

  I know how this works. She starts with something innocent like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and slides into the, “What’s wrong with this picture?” portion of the test.

  And she does. But I’m ready.

  When she asks me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I know that she’s expecting “a mommy” or “a teacher.” Instead, I tell her, “I’d like to enter the State Department. I’d love to study International Diplomacy at Georgetown, and hopefully, affect the foreign policy of the United States through postings in strategic areas of the world after placing well on my Foreign Service Exam,” an answer one of my mom’s brighter boyfriends has helped me work out.

  When she slides into, “Gee, could you tell what’s wrong with this picture?” I stare intently. It’s the picture with the cow with the sun.

  “Well,” I say, “to begin with, the shadow, in relation to the setting of the sun, is, well, going the wrong way.” And then, just to put some topping on it, I talk about the fact that the cow may be too big for the picture, something about proportion. I know it’s not right, but think I might get extra points for imagination. Mucho, mucho imagination.

  I love my embellishments. I’m flying along. I’m smiling. I’m soooo interested in what she has to say, and endlessly discuss the possibilities of each answer, looking her in the eye and working every moment for the most possible points.

  And then we hit the vocabulary section.

  “Tell me, Courtney, do you know what a HEE-o is?”

  I’m stumped. Usually vocabulary is a breeze for me. I never have any problem with vocabulary, and frankly, am quite used to impressing with ease.

  But I have no idea what a HEE-o is.

  “No,” I say in a small voice.

  She has a gleam in her eye, like we’re playing chess and she finally has me.

  “Well, then you probably won’t get this one. Do you know what HEEE-o-glyphics are?”

  Checkmate.

  I have just read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Cl
audia and Jamie, the kids in the story, spend a large portion of the book in the Ancient Egyptian section of Metropolitan Museum of Art attempting to decipher hieroglyphics.

  I decide to take a stab.

  “You don’t by any chance mean Hi-ro-glyphics, do you?”

  “Yes, that’s one pronunciation.”

  It’s the dumbest of dumb luck.

  “Of course. Hi-ro-glyphics are the Egyptian scroll letters, the symbols, or um, sometimes pictures used primarily by the ancient Egyptians to mean a word, a sound or like a syllable, like our alphabet.”

  “Did I get it right?” I ask.

  I think her lower jaw drops open half an inch. She is wondering how I knew the answer to that question.

  “Yes,” she says quietly.

  “I read,” I say.

  And suddenly I get it. She’s got a weird accent, and she’s messing up the pronunciation of each word.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I say. That earlier question, HEE-o, wasn’t He-ro, was it?

  It was. “Of course I know what a hero is.”

  I babble endlessly. Now that I can understand her accent, I hit my stride, relentlessly pouncing on each vocabulary word as she mispronounces them.

  I finish with a huge flourish, by endlessly discussing everything I read about HEE-o-glyphics—without revealing my source.

  She begins tabulating my IQ as I sit at the table.

  I, as a necessary survival skill, have long ago learned how to read upside-down.

  148.

  “Relax,” I tell Julia when I get home, “we’re in.”

  Of course, she knows already because she has been phoned and told of my “most impressive score” by not only my classroom teacher, but by the principal, before the bell rings to let me out for the day.

  The next day I’m hurled into the “gifted program” in world record time. There’s a little bit of grumbling on the playground about me getting two chances, “I got in the first time. She had to do it twice” type things, but after a few days, it dies down.

  It takes me almost 20 years to discover that being “gifted,” in the gifted program, or having an IQ of 148, means absolutely nothing.

  But I still wonder about the first test.

  “Try the green cashmere sweater. It’ll look great with your hair.”

  “Oh now I remember,” said Julia, “it was 148,” as she walks into my closet.

  “Aaaaahhh!” screams Julia. “There’s an animal in your closet.”

  “Abyss…” I said.

  Abyss has jumped onto my sweater shelf and burrowed into the white cashmere section, between the off-white and cream sweaters. Only her eyes are showing.

  “Comfy?” I said.

  Abyss purrs. I grabbed the green cashmere, which is cat-hair free.

  “Here you go.”

  “This will go so nicely with my black pants,” said Julia.

  “Take it, and since I don’t think I’m getting it back, Happy Hanukkah.”

  “You mean Merry Christmas,” said Julia.

  “Here’s your coffee.”

  “Can I take it to go?” said Julia.

  Julia leaves with my sweater. A pity. I really liked my green cashmere.

  “It’s interesting that you eat that toxin when you’re upset or anxious,” said Jennifer.

  “For that kind of insight I should pay you $180.”

  “Is that what you pay Roberta?” said Jennifer. “$180 an hour?”

  “No. For 45 minutes.”

  “Wow. And you’re not even going to have a good butt when you’re done with her. I think I’ll tear up my State Bar Card right now and become a therapist.”

  “Very Funny.”

  “Have you noticed? You eat that crap in moments of distress.”

  “Really.”

  Later, I check my voice mail and find a message from Bettina.

  “So I talked to my friend, and he’s interested. He’s going to give you a call.”

  Bettina’s friend is named Marcus. He calls me and we talk.

  Marcus is 39 years old.

  Marcus went to Wharton Business School.

  Marcus did his undergraduate at Amherst.

  Marcus is a management consultant.

  Marcus owns a condo in Santa Monica, three blocks from the beach.

  Marcus had a Bar Mitzvah but is not observant. In fact he’s a Unitarian.

  Marcus is in a wine tasting group and writes their newsletter.

  Marcus has a wine cellar (well, closet, because he doesn’t have a cellar in his condo).

  Marcus collects first edition books.

  Marcus has an expensive Italian bike. It cost him $8,000.

  Marcus tells me that three times. I mean four.

  Marcus rides with a bike group on the weekends.

  Marcus has an E-Series Mercedes.

  Marcus has done everything right in his life.

  Marcus is perfect.

  We agree to go out.

  “Choose some place you like,” said Marcus.

  I choose a place in West Hollywood that serves Italian. I think it will be fun to meet for drinks, appetizers, and desserts.

  “OK…” said Marcus and then laughs. “How cute.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothin…”

  We agree to meet the following Wednesday at 7:30.

  7:25—I arrive at the restaurant and check in with the hostess. I am wearing a navy blue sleeveless dress with a little box jacket—it’s a ’60s Jackie-O retro look. Also, sling-back heels. Marcus has told me that his birthday is in a few days. I’ve bought him an inexpensive first edition of a book which is in decent condition and wrapped it. The hostess tells me—No Marcus. I look for a lone male. No one is there. The hostess tells me I can wait in the bar.

  I go into the bar. The bar has a polished marble counter and 15 bar stools, a mirror and an enormous flower arrangement behind the counter. There is a couple on the other side of the bar. But no lone males, no Marcus there either. The bartender keeps bugging me. I order a glass of Chardonnay from a vintner on the Central Coast of California. The bartender gives me a basket of bread and a plate of butter. For $3.25 I can have a selection of olive oils. I decline.

  At 7:40 I check in with the waitress again. She tells me that if my friend doesn’t arrive within five minutes we’ll lose our reservation. I go back to my seat at the bar which is filling up. The bartender is shooting me dirty looks.

  7:50—No Marcus. We have lost our reservation. The hostess shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry—restaurant policy.” I go back to my seat at the bar.

  7:55—Still no Marcus. The bartender has come by twice. To keep my place at the bar, I order a refill of the Chardonnay. It sits there.

  8:00—Still no Marcus. I should go. I sip my wine.

  8:25—A lone man walks into the bar. He is about five foot five. He is wearing jeans with holes in them, running shoes, a cotton crew jacket with leather patches from the movie Pulp Fiction (“a great buy on eBay”) and a baseball hat. He takes the hat and jacket off and looks around. He is wearing a white athletic shirt. He has short, blond, ultra-fine hair which he has combed in five different directions—back, forward, right, left, and up—because he’s balding. I can see a bald spot near the front of his head and at the top of the back of his head. He looks to be in his mid to late 40s. He sees me, and walks over.

  “Courtney?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, I’m Marcus. Sorry I’m late, but I got held up.”

  “I gave you my cell number. Why didn’t you call?”

  “Don’t be such a bitch. I told you. I got held up.”

  “OK.”

  Marcus looks around. “What are you drinking?” he asks.

  I take a sip of my wine. “A Chardonnay,” I reply.

  “Why?” said Marcus. He leans over and lurches for my glass, grabbing it by the stem and knocking some wine on me. As he brushes me, I smell alcohol.

  “Whoops,” said Marcus. He pu
ts the glass to his lips, and drinks. “This isn’t bad.” He drinks my drink, the remainder of my glass which, but for my sip, is completely full.

  “Let me look at the wine list,” said Marcus. He motions to the bartender who brings him the list, a book, which is extensive. He searches the book and asks the bartender if the sommelier is available. The sommelier is summoned and he and Marcus enter into a ten-minute discussion. I sit at the bar.

  “Well,” said Marcus, “it looks like there is an extremely good and extremely rare Italian White available. It’s kind of expensive.”

  “How expensive?” I ask.

  “$300,” said Marcus, “but if we both share the cost, it won’t be too bad.”

  “I don’t think so. That glass of Chard you drank was my second, so I’m pretty much done drinking for the evening—unless it’s non-alcoholic.”

  “You’re no fun,” said Marcus. “Come on, Miss Perfect Makeup, live a little.”

  “I don’t think so. But you get what you want.”

  The bartender returns.

  “A coffee, regular,” I say.

  “And for you, sir?” said the bartender.

  “I’ll guess I’ll have a glass of that lame Chard she’s drinking,” said Marcus.

  “Shall I run a new tab?” said the bartender.

  “No,” said Marcus.

  “Yes. That way you can get whatever you want,” I say.

  “A cheap one,” says Marcus. “What do you have in your hand?”

  “Oh. I got you a little birthday present.”

  “How sweet,” sneers Marcus. “Are you going to let me admire it, or give it to me?”

  “Here,” I said. I give the gift to him. He opens it, and drops the wrapping on the floor.

  “It’s a first edition,” I said.

  “With no jacket,” said Marcus. “This significantly lowers the value. Thanks.”

  “So Courtney, where are you from?” said Marcus. “Let me guess.”

  “South Pas?”

  “No.”

  “San Marino?”

  “No.”

  “Brentwood?”

  “No.”

  “Where then?” I tell him.