The Smash-Up

by Ali Benjamin

  Evie had flashed only the briefest smile before disappearing into the audition room with Randy. It had taken everything Ethan had to stay focused on his work.

  Ethan tried to remain nonchalant, later, as Randy raved about Evie. This girl’s got everything, Ethan. I’m telling you: Evie Emerling is going to be a superstar. And we’ll be the lucky bastards who discovered her.

  Now, as Ethan stands in the parking lot of the Rainbow Seed School, watching his wife step out of the car and try to catch his eye—time for the conference, apparently—he hears Randy say, “You know how much Evie Emerling earned in her latest movie? Twelve million dollars.” If Ethan’s not mistaken, Evie’s latest movie was Pandora, a Guillermo del Toro fantasy about the woman formed from clay as a punishment from Zeus. Opulent, the reviews had called it. Lavish. The film had been greeted by nationwide protests from conservative Christians, who saw too many parallels between Pandora and Eve. Ethan had wondered, at the time, if those protests had been artificial—a sly way of generating buzz. For all he knows, Randy himself had staged the protests; this was precisely the sort of thing Bränd did for clients these days.

  Guerrilla marketing at its best.

  Ethan hadn’t seen Pandora. He didn’t like seeing Evie’s movies; he could never quite reconcile the onscreen star with the human being he’d known, the person with whom he once stood in late-night Manhattan, traffic swirling around them as late night gave way to early morning. Her movies made him feel uneasy, like he couldn’t trust his own memory.

  Across the Rainbow Seed parking lot, Zo waves her arms at Ethan, taps an invisible wristwatch. Time to go.

  “You know what the kicker is, E?” Randy asks. “Evie Emerling knows what Bränd did for her. She knows we’re the difference between Zac Posen designing a custom gown for her Oscar ceremony and the clearance rack at Marshall’s. So you tell me. You tell me about all the ways I’ve damaged her life, okay? I made Evie Emerling’s life, that’s what I did.”

  It occurs to Ethan, though he doesn’t say it out loud: Hadn’t Evie, in a way, made them?

  “Randy, I don’t see how any of this involves me.”

  “I need you to talk to Evie.”

  By now, Zo’s motioning with a wild swing of her arm: Come on.

  “You talk to her, Randy.”

  “Right, sure, that’ll work. You think Evie’s going to talk to the very person she’s trying to sue? Evie liked you, E. The girls always liked you. You had that whole choir-boy thing, you were the good cop to my whatever.”

  Ethan’s suddenly not sure what, exactly, Randy’s “whatever” was.

  “So…you think I can just call Evie Emerling,” Ethan says. “The movie star. Like, I’ll call her home number and say, ‘Oh, hey, Evie, I just happened to be thinking of you, and by the way, will you drop the lawsuit against my old friend Randy?’ ”

  “No, you’re going to run into her. Be all, Oh, hey, Evie, what a nice surprise, or whatever. Do that whole sheepish good-guy routine of yours.”

  Across the parking lot, Zo’s given up trying to signal to him, given up on him entirely, and is marching toward the Rainbow Seed front door alone.

  “Sure, Randy, okay,” Ethan says. “If I run into Evie Emerling out here in the middle of—”

  “Well, it just so happens that Evie’s in your neck of the woods this week. She’s doing a reading of a new David Mamet play up at that theater near you. What’s it called, the Hampton. The Hemingway. The Hurley. Something like that.”

  The Humphrey. A mostly summer theater festival in a small college town about forty minutes north of Starkfield. A celebrity favorite, the Humphrey: one of those theaters that gets Times reviews, because the shows are considered a prequel to a Broadway run. If Evie Emerling was going to be anywhere around here, of course it would be at the Humphrey.

  “Okay, she’s at the Humphrey. So?”

  “So the reading’s Friday afternoon. Go see her there. Remind her where she came from.” Randy pauses, lets this sink in before continuing. “Bränd can settle with the rest. None of the other women will generate news and they know it. Without star power, all of this goes away. But if Evie’s with them, we’re talking headlines. Front-page. And that, my friend, means massive payouts from Bränd—to lawyers and to these women. We’re talking bags of money.”

  Bags of money. Ethan’s money. Those checks he needs.

  Texts from Zo now:

  ETHAN. COME ON.

  STACY/SHREYA IS ALREADY WAITING

  FOR GOD’S SAKE DO NOT MAKE ME DEAL WITH THIS WOMAN ALONE.

  Ethan sighs. He’s already exhausted, and it’s not even nine in the morning.

  “I’m telling you, everyone out here is spooked,” Randy says. “That scene of Harvey walking through New York City in handcuffs? It’s got folks shitting in their skivvies.”

  Ethan remembers that morning, the one when Harvey Weinstein, one of the biggest movie moguls on the planet, turned himself in to police headquarters in Manhattan. Zo had turned on the news so she could watch the scene over breakfast. Alex had peppered them both with questions. So the bad guy is wearing the blue sweater? What are those books he’s carrying? What exactly did he do? Why did the women go to his hotel room? How come nobody told the police? Aren’t you supposed to go to the police when something bad happens? Mom, what do you mean “systemic power imbalances”? Wait, what’s patriarchy again? Daddy, Mommy’s not answering so will you please?

  And now here’s Randy, explaining that “Harvey” might actually have something to do with him. It’s the strangest sensation, as if a fictional character has reached right through the TV screen and grabbed Ethan by the throat. Ethan waits a long time before asking, “Did you do something, Randy? To Evie? To any of them?”

  “Did I do something to them?” Randy roars. “I made them famous, that’s what I did. Or even if I didn’t, at least I fucking tried. And I tell you what: everything I said or did was to help them. Because I’m the guy who knows what sells. Like it or not, beautiful women sell. No, you know what? Women who feel beautiful sell, which means yeah: sometimes I reminded them that they’re beautiful. So sue me. Oh, wait, they already are suing me. E, I’m warning you: this is not a moment to go all knight-in-shining-armor. In this day and age? A lawsuit like this could end us. Kaput. Lights out for Bränd.”

  Ethan holds the phone away from his ear as he moves toward the school’s entrance.

  “Listen,” Randy’s saying. “The world sucks, women have it tough. Really tough. I get that. But I’m the guy who was trying to help them. I didn’t make the rules of this game. I just explained the rules, so these girls had a fair shot at stepping into a better life. And by the way, E, you’re welcome.”

  Ethan, almost to the front door, takes in the kid-painted murals on the side of the building. Repect Our Earth, says one, with exactly that spelling. Kindness Matters, says another. Namaste to Everyone, a third.

  “What exactly am I thanking you for?” Ethan asks.

  “For being the guy who was willing to go out front, to take some risks. You got to play it safe, futz around with spreadsheets, declare yourself holier-than-thou. Meanwhile, I was out there placing my balls in a fucking vise grip. So you’re welcome, and fuck you very much.”

  Ethan’s about to hang up on Randy for the second time in as many days, when Randy lowers his voice. “I’ve got tapes, E.”

  “Tapes?”

  “Yeah. Tapes. Stuff Evie wouldn’t want the world to see, you follow?”

  “Like, you mean…”—Ethan glances around nervously—“sex tapes?”

  “No,” Randy says. “God no, Jesus, I wish. What I’ve got is way worse than sex tapes.”

  Ethan closes his eyes, tries to imagine what Randy might have, worse than a sex tape, that could convince Evie to drop a lawsuit.

 
“Look, I can’t explain it now,” Randy says. “The walls have ears these days. Check your messages. I’m sending you a file that I swear will make this whole thing disappear once and for all.”

  There’s a click, then Randy’s gone, and Ethan’s opening, at last, the door to the Rainbow Seed School. He does his best to put on his best Good Dad face. But apparently something new’s been added to his to-do list: Save Bränd.

  They hadn’t wanted to send Alex to private school—Ethan and Zo believed in public schools, that was the thing. But Alex’s energy, her outbursts, her difficulties with transitions, her inability to stay focused on whatever early elementary task was at hand proved more than the Starkfield Elementary School seemed equipped to handle.

  The school’s go-to disciplinary action? Missing recess. Alex missed recess for making armpit farts during an all-school assembly. She missed recess for tipping in her chair. She missed recess for letting the sand out of the sand table, and for writing I hate you on the board, for eating a classmate’s Oreos, for swiping a Beauty and the Beast cake topper from some kid’s birthday cake, then flushing it down the toilet to hide the evidence.

  When Zo and Ethan learned that she’d missed, collectively, an entire month’s recess, Zo had fumed, “Alex needs recess more than any of those kids.” They began looking around for other options. When they visited the Rainbow Seed School and saw the colorful Recess is a right mural outside the head of school’s office, Zo’s eyes filled with tears.

  Then they saw the acres and acres of property. The frog pond. The petting zoo (Goats! Sheep! A flock of chickens whose eggs students collected for use in the school lunches!). At Rainbow Seed, Alex could learn about fractions not from worksheets but instead by baking apple pies using fruit handpicked from the campus orchard!

  They decided on the spot: this was what they wanted for their child. And they’d give it to her. Whatever it took.

  * * *

  —

  One of the things that had most charmed them at that first visit was that Rainbow Seed School had a real, live mascot, a rabbit called Mr. Pancake FuzzyPaws, who lived in a rabbit hutch next to the lower school playground. Last spring, though, coyotes discovered the poor animal. Children found tufts of fur and smears of crimson in the grass; a first grader found a bloody ear in the sandbox. Now there’s a new Mr. Pancake FuzzyPaws who lives in the foyer, which means the school smells like a rabbit hutch.

  Amid the stink, Zo and Shreya Greer-Williams wait together outside the principal’s office. Neither looks up to greet Ethan when he enters. Shreya, all decked out in Lululemon, is twirling her blond ponytail with frantic energy. Zo, in turn, keeps her eyes fixed on a bulletin board decorated with children’s handiwork: diamonds of colorful yarn wrapped inexpertly around popsicle stick crosses. God’s eyes, Ethan once called these crafts. Except, of course, they’re almost certainly not called that anymore. Perhaps these days they’re just called yarn diamonds, though he’s pretty sure diamonds, too, are problematic, even if he can’t quite remember why. Whatever these crafts are called, he’s troubled to see Alex’s name next to one. Is this what they’re doing in sixth-grade art?

  Add art curriculum to the things he needs to ask about.

  Except, wait. Hold on. If Randy is right, if Bränd really is in trouble, he and Zo might need to ask for financial aid next year. He’s not sure why that changes the dynamics of whatever meeting they’re about to have, but it does. For him, it very much does.

  * * *

  —

  The head of school, Mr. McCuttle, greets them slowly, as if he’s Fred Rogers speaking to a television audience of toddlers. The man’s outfit seems perfectly curated: colorful bow tie, fleece vest, khakis, Converse sneakers. Ethan looks the man up and down, remembering something Randy used to say: Everything about us is a symbol, every choice a way of telling the world who we aspire to be. In this case, McCuttle’s outfit seems to be screaming, I can be serious, and I can be fun! Both, at the same time!

  “So, I tend to approach conversations with parents as I do with students,” Mr. McCuttle says, in his PBS singsong. Next to Ethan, Zo’s arms are folded tight against her chest. Shreya sits on the other side of Mr. McCuttle, rod-straight.

  Ethan smiles at the man, a little ridiculously. Be a good guy, he wills himself. Show Mr. McCuttle what a great family we are, in case we need some financial aid. Temporary.

  And it would be temporary, right? Surely this Randy thing will settle itself, or blow over eventually. It’s a minor setback, that’s all.

  “We’ll follow a three-part approach.” Mr. McCuttle smiles, seemingly oblivious to the energy in the room. “First, I’m going to ask you to place a pin on our mood board.”

  He points to a cork board, divided into four quadrants, each painted a different color. He explains that each color represents a set of emotions. “See, up here we have yellow. That represents high-intensity positive, like joy, or eager anticipation. Green is low-intensity positive. Think of green as a nice, calm focus. Blue is low-intensity negative, like sadness or boredom. Red, as you can probably guess, represents high-intensity negative. For example, irritation, impatience, frustration. Anger.” McCuttle’s voice goes quiet on the word “anger,” the way Ethan’s mother used to drop her voice to a whisper whenever she said the word “cancer.”

  Mr. McCuttle hands Ethan a pushpin in the shape of a cartoon dog. Or maybe it’s a wolf. A jackal. Ethan glances at Zo, who’s staring at a pink flamingo. Shreya’s lips are pressed together: she’s holding a squirrel.

  No one approaches the mood board.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. McCuttle encourages, like they’re five-year-olds hesitating before show-and-tell. “Place yourself somewhere on the board. Wherever happens to feel right. As your mood changes, you can move your pin. I’ll tell you the same thing I tell the children: whatever quadrant you’re in is okay with me. All feelings are important, all have their uses. What’s important is that we know where we are on the board.”

  Ethan looks down at the jackal. It’s not the worst idea, this mood board. Might be useful with Alex, at home. But for a parent conference? Really?

  Zo jabs her flamingo into the intersection of the four quadrants. “I’m neutral,” she says, in a voice that suggests otherwise. Ethan places his jackal not far from Zo’s pin, but firmly in the green zone. Low-intensity positive. Mellow. Good-natured. No need to start in a negative place.

  Shreya slams her squirrel smack-dab in the middle of the blue quadrant, the morose zone. She looks right at Zo. “I’m sad,” she says, though to Ethan’s ears, her voice sounds more like red-zone-fury. “I’m sad, because your daughter bullied my son.”

  “Good, that’s very good,” Mr. McCuttle says. “What a great beginning. Thank you, Mrs. Greer-Williams, for stating your feelings so clearly. Feelings are always with us, see how that works? Now, for the second aspect of our three-part approach…”

  On the whiteboard behind his desk, he writes, “PARKING LOT.” “This here is our parking lot,” McCuttle explains. “Sometimes in conversation, issues arise, concerns that perhaps are a little off-topic. Not unimportant, mind you, just off-topic. When that happens, we park these topics here, in the parking lot. We can return to them later, after we’ve resolved the issue at hand. Does that make sense?”

  Zo and Shreya stare at Mr. McCuttle. Ethan finds himself nodding. He can’t help it. He feels sorry for the guy.

  McCuttle smiles at him gratefully. “And then finally, we follow these rules.” He points to a poster:

  1. Tell the truth.

  2. Listen as much as you talk.

  3. Choose kindness.

  4. Assume good intentions.

  5. Know that people have different experiences.

  6. Remember, at The Rainbow Seed School, We are all Friends!

  “So.” Mr. McCuttle settles into his chair. “Let’s turn our
attention to the…interaction…that the children had last week.”

  “ ‘Interaction,’ ” says Shreya. “Is that what we call it when one child tries to sprain another child’s arm?”

  Zo closes her eyes, too long to be a blink. “Alex did not try to sprain Trenton’s arm. This was an accident.”

  “Tristan,” snaps Shreya. “Our children have been in the same class for three years. I would hope that you know by now that his name is Tristan.”

  Zo takes a long, slow breath. “Alex acknowledges she twisted his arm, but context is important: they were having a thumb war at the time. She was trying to get leverage in a thumb war. It was exuberance, that’s all. She got a little carried away, as children sometimes do.”

  “Yes,” says Shreya pointedly. Eyes fixed on Zo. “It does seem to be what some children do.”

  Mr. McCuttle shifts in his seat, suggests that this is a good moment to look at rule number four: Assume good intentions. “I checked in with Ms. Miller, the art teacher, about the matter,” he says. “She tells me that the children had been laughing before, during, and after the incident, and that there was, indeed, some sort of thumb…competition…going on. So I think in this case, we can assume good intentions on Alex’s part….”

  “Thank you,” says Zo.

  “But at the same time,” Mr. McCuttle continues, “we also must keep in mind rule number five: Tristan seems to have experienced the incident in a different way than Alex did. It’s important to honor his experience too.”

  “Well,” Shreya says, “even if Ms. Miller were correct that this was all in fun—an assumption I’m not yet ready to grant, by the way—I suspect it’s difficult for Tristan to give Alex the benefit of the doubt about anything. After that whole Valentine sticker thing at the start of the year.”