As we go around the circle, I learn that Caitlin, a third grader who is the smallest of the bunch, wants to be a singer one day. “Like Lady Gaga,” she informs us. Margarita, who is painfully shy, can barely mumble her name, but Naomi somehow gets her to share that her grandmother, whom she describes as her favorite person, is coming to visit from Mexico next week. Lisa tells us that, shockingly, she likes to watch SpongeBob after she gets home from school. And Josie, who is very pretty and appears to be well aware of it, informs us that her new brother cries too much. “I wish he would go back into my mother’s vagina where he came from,” she says and looks at the other girls, who laugh hysterically, although I’m certain the majority of them have no idea what she’s talking about.
“That one is trouble,” Naomi tells me under her breath. “She was the ringleader last year. Do your best to ignore her when she talks like that, unless she’s picking on anyone or swearing.”
As we go around the circle, a chubby girl in glasses sitting at the end of the semicircle is bouncing up and down on her knees and appears to be having a hard time containing herself. At one point, she sits on her hands as though to keep herself from waving to get everyone’s attention.
Finally, it’s her turn. “I’m Estrella,” she says enthusiastically, and slowly smiles at each girl as though they’re judges and this is her one shot to be the next American Idol. Josie rolls her eyes, but if Estrella notices, she doesn’t let on. “The one thing you may not know about me is that my name means ‘star,’” she says slowly and articulately.
“Yeah, sabemos,” a girl named Charity says sarcastically.
Naomi looks at Charity, but addresses the group. “Ladies, let’s give Estrella the same courtesy she gave you all when you were talking, and not interrupt her.” The girls settle down immediately, calmed by Naomi’s quiet authority, and suddenly I see why she was named Take the Lead’s coach of the year last season.
When we finish with introductions, Naomi, Alanna, and I take turns reading a lesson plan about the importance of appreciating individuality and personal strengths. To drive the point home, we instruct the girls to do a warm-up exercise that entails running from one end of the basketball court to the other, then back again. Upon return, each girl is supposed to yell out something they like about themselves before passing a baton to the next girl in line, who then takes her turn. “Try to say things that aren’t about how you look. For example, I’m nice to my classmates, or I’m good at math,” Naomi tells them. Then she turns to me and smiles. “Coach Marissa, why don’t you start?”
I open my eyes wide as though to say, It’s my first day. Give me a break! But Naomi just keeps smiling and motions for me to go to the red streamer we have placed on the ground as a makeshift start and finish line.
“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, then remind myself that whether I feel up to the task or not, I’ve signed on to be a role model. Which means that I will have to wait until after practice to murder Naomi.
I jog down to the wall, slap the yellow drywall, and turn back. I’m sweating profusely, not only because the gym is about a zillion degrees, but also because the girls—having never seen a woman’s boobs hit her chin before—are staring at me with their mouths open. Needless to say, I am relieved when I finally reach the red streamer. Whew.
“Coach Marissa, what’s your favorite individual attribute?” says Alanna deliberately, as though I am dense (which I apparently am; I just forgot the entire purpose of the activity).
I freeze. “Uh”—Think fast. I have nice hair. No, that’s physical. What else ...
“I’m a hard worker,” I spit out.
“Good one!” enthuses Naomi. “Now pass the baton!”
I look at the front of the line, and there is Estrella, beaming as though she were about to shake hands with Barack Obama himself. She reaches for the baton I’m holding, then leans in and says sagely, “Everyone’s nervous their first day, Coach Marissa. Don’t worry. You did great.”
“Thanks, Estrella,” I say. I just got schooled by a fifth grader, I think in amazement as the four-foot-nothing fireball jogs down the court, arms akimbo, stomach heaving up and down.
“Ha-ha, there goes thunder thighs!” says Josie, just loud enough that everyone, including Estrella, hears her.
“Josie, that’s not okay,” Naomi says pointedly. “If you want to be a part of Take the Lead, you’ll need to respect everyone here. Including Estrella.”
“Sorry,” says Josie, not sounding the least bit contrite.
After the longest two hundred yards in history, Estrella finally reaches the finish line. “I am extremely intelligent!” she proclaims proudly once she catches her breath.
She hands the baton to Josie and adds, “Not everyone can say that.”
It’s impossible to tell whether or not her dig is intentional. But as I watch Josie jog away, so graceful she could balance a book on top of her head, I find myself secretly rooting for odd, unflappable Estrella.
Nineteen
In the middle of the worst recession in more than three decades,
Dave’s law firm has decided to throw a blowout party. “It’s supposed to be a morale booster,” he explains sheepishly as he hands me an embossed five-by-seven card that’s nicer than any wedding invitation I’ve ever received. “They waited until after the holidays to save money.”
“Printed invites?” I say, unable to contain my incredulity. “Why not just write the details on hundred dollar bills and call it a day? I mean, they could at least look like they’re trying to cut back.”
“You know that lawyers tend to prosper during economic downturns.”
“Not that much.”
“What can I do?” he says, throwing his hands up in the air in mock exasperation. “Barring a major catastrophe, I have to go.”
“Don’t tempt fate,” I retort, and tack the invite to the fridge with a Gaudí magnet Julia brought me from Spain a few years ago. “Does this mean I have to go, too?” I ask. I don’t want to be difficult, but I can’t help but resent the fact that one of the few date nights we’ll have this month is for his work—otherwise known as the place where he spends more than two-thirds of his life.
“Will you? Everyone’s bringing their significant others and I really don’t want to go without you.” He walks over to rub my shoulders, knowing I’ll agree to do almost anything if there’s a massage involved.
I sigh. “I suppose.”
“Thank you, baby,” he says, and kisses my neck. “Maybe you’ll meet someone fun?”
“Maybe.”
Surveying the array of Muffies and Buffies milling around in silk cocktail dresses that each cost more than my entire wardrobe, I decide that there is definitely no one “fun” here for me to meet. Luckily, Dave’s coworker Pete has shown up. Pete is catty and callous and normally the type of person I can’t stand, but I’m convinced that his bitchiness is the result of deep denial over his latent homosexuality, so I give him a pass. And Pete likes me, which makes him more likable. It’s one big dysfunctional circle of friendship.
Pete, decked out in a tailored suit, pink shirt, and fuchsia power tie, ambles over to where Dave and I are standing. “Marissa! You’re looking . . . good,” he says, kissing both of my cheeks hello and then giving me a deliberate up-and-down.
“You’ve gained weight yourself,” I shoot back, not offended in the least. I’m wearing my favorite strapless black dress and have had my hair blown out into a sloppy, teased bob (“Like Valley of the Dolls!” Rubia said excitedly when I told her what I was going for). I feel sexy and confident, in spite—or perhaps because of—the Stepford wives I’m surrounded by.
“You know I’m kidding,” Pete says. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Delicious. Apparently domesticity agrees with you.” He raises his eyebrows approvingly at Dave.
“Apparently.” I laugh.
Dave starts chatting with a partner, so Pete and I make our way over to a waiter passing hors d’oeuvres.
“Please don’t get me started.”
“Well, your highbrow ethics sure aren’t stopping you from feasting on the riches,” Pete says as I grab a mini crab cake from another waiter’s tray.
“Aren’t you supposed to be chatting up your coworkers?”
“I’d rather mingle with the plebeians.” He smirks.
We head to the bar, and Pete fills me in on the latest at Wyman, Stewart, and Piechowsky. Among other banal exploits, I learn that Phillip Wyman himself was recently caught in flagrante delicto with Jeffrey Stewart Jr.’s legal secretary. Pete points out Wyman, who has a firm arm around an attractive older woman. “His wife, of course,” he says under his breath. “The entire firm knows, but she’s none the wiser.”
I dab at the corners out my mouth with a linen napkin and discover errant cocktail sauce on my bottom lip, making me wonder how long I’ve been walking around like that. As I blot a second time, Pete lets out a long whistle. “Fresh meat.”
“Where?” I ask warily. I am used to Pete’s cattle calls, which are reserved for the young, the gorgeous, the cosmetically enhanced—that is to say, women who would never, ever go for a guy with thinning hair and a pot belly unless he was worth at least a few mil (which Pete is not). This furthers my belief that Pete is not unlike a gay male fashion designer: His interest in the female form is strictly aesthetic.
“Ten o’clock,” he says, turning me around so I can see the sacrificial calf in question.
“Oh, no. Now I’m really going home,” I mutter, and spin around so my face isn’t visible to the tall blonde that Pete is leering at.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns, why does Ashley have to be here?
I explain to a baffled Pete who Ashley is, and that I’d rather impale myself on my stiletto than make small talk with the assistant who I suspect believes she’s better suited to be my boss. But just as I’m frantically trying to steer us toward a table in a dark corner, I find myself face-to-face with Malibu Barbie herself.
“Marissa? I thought that was you! What are you doing here?” Ashley asks, sounding simultaneously perky and perplexed.
“Oh, hi, Ashley,” I say, as though I didn’t notice her a minute ago. “I’m here with my boyfriend,” I say, nodding in the direction of Dave. In a testament to the power of prayer, he looks up as I say this, and seeing the panic on my face, makes his way over to where we’re standing.
I make the requisite introductions, and in turn, Ashley introduces me to her fiancé, Jason Benninger, who happens to work down the hall from Dave.
“Small world, huh, Benny?” Dave asks, taking a swig of his Amstel. “I can’t believe you’re engaged to Marissa’s assistant.”
“I’m an editorial assistant, not Marissa’s assistant,” corrects Ashley. To my delight, Dave raises his eyebrows at her as she says this.
“That’s right, baby. You’re going to rule the world one day,” says Jason. He puts his arm around her and says to us, “Ashley and I were engaged a few months ago, when we were in Capri with my family.”
Ashley holds out her ring for me to examine, as though I haven’t already seen her flash the sparkling boulder four hundred times already.
“Pretty.”
“Thank you,” she says, and examines the ring herself with a pleased expression on her face.
“So anyway,” I say, intending to leave the conversation at that.
Jason doesn’t take the hint. “Marissa, Ashley tells me you guys are writing a story about traumatic brain injury together. Fascinating stuff.”
We’re writing it together, are we? “Did she?” I ask Jason.
Ashley smiles, and puts her hand on my arm. “I told Jason how great you’ve been, Marissa. Teaching me the ropes, giving me a chance to work with you on this big story. It’s been such a great learning opportunity for me to comb through all those studies—thank you again,” she says, appearing sincere.
I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or Ashley’s frequent flip-flopping, but I am thrown off guard by her gratitude. No sooner have I decided that I’ve misjudged her when she adds, “Obviously, working at Svelte wasn’t exactly my first choice. It is a recession, after all, so I know that I couldn’t just walk into The New Yorker or Vogue and get a job like I’d planned. But this story gives me hope that it’s not going to be all cellulite cream and cookie diets. Brainless blather,” she says, and gives me a knowing smile.
I blink and stare at her. “You know, I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” I finally manage through gritted teeth.
Apparently, Ashley’s bronzed skin is coated with Teflon because she smiles again and says, “Well, it’s been fascinating, but Jason and I should probably go mingle.”
I toss back the last of my champagne like it’s a shot and slap the glass down on the table to my right. “So glad we’ve had a chance to talk, Ashley. See you at the office.”
Twenty
The following Tuesday afternoon, I am surprised to realize that I’m actually looking forward to coaching—particularly because it means I get to leave the office early. As Naomi and I ride the 6 train uptown to the Bronx together, where the girls’ school is, I glance through my coaching folder and see that today’s lesson is on bullying. I think of pretty, pushy Josie and make a quick wish that the lesson will hit home for her.
When we walk through the gymnasium door, the girls greet me as though I’m Hannah Montana in the flesh.
“Coach Marissa!” says Charity, and throws her arms around my waist.
“Are you going to run with us again today?” asks Lisa eagerly. “Coach Beverly never ran with us.”
“She didn’t?” I ask. I thought running was mandatory—otherwise I would have skipped the tedious laps I did with the girls last week.
“Nope,” says Lisa, shaking her head. “Not one time.” The disappointment in her voice makes it very clear to me that I will be running today, and every practice from here forth. Damn.
“Coach Marissa is way better than Coach Beverly,” says a girl named Anna, whose tight black curls are pulled into five different ponytails.
“Totally!” agrees Margarita, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes.
I am not sure what to make of this development, and eye the girls suspiciously to see if they’re pulling my leg. But unless I’m missing something, they’re being sincere.
“They just had to get used to the idea of a new coach,” Naomi tells me as we riffle through our bin of supplies to find materials for the lesson. “Now they’ll want to be your best friend.”
Good, because I could use one right about now. “Probably because I’m the freak-show adult who happens to be the same height as them.”
“Actually, Piper is taller than you,” Naomi points out with a wicked grin.
I wag my finger at her. “Now, Coach Naomi. Today’s lesson is on bullying. You don’t want to be a bully, do you?”
“Nooo hooo,” she deadpans, then erupts into laughter.
For today’s warm-up exercise, we give each girl either a pink or a green sticker, and put a rubber dodge ball in the middle of the gymnasium floor. “Anyone with a pink sticker is the person you want to keep the ball away from,” Alanna instructs the girls. “Anyone with a green sticker should try to throw the ball to another green girl. If you’re green and a pink girl gets the ball after you’ve had it, you have to go to the sidelines.” Josie, Anna, and Renee are pinks; to my relief, Estrella is one of the nine greens.
I had assumed the girls, most of whom appear about a million times more in-the-know than I was at their age, would think the game was lame. Instead, they run around, laughing and completely delighted. Even the girls who get tagged seem to be having a good time.
After almost all of the greens have gone to the sidelines, Naomi, Alanna, and I grab a ball and ask the girls to watch us. I stand in the middle, and Naomi and Alanna stand
on either side of me, saying “mean” things as they toss the ball back and forth over my head, trying to keep the ball from me.
“Don’t give her the ball—I don’t like her,” says Alanna.
“Me, neither! She’s a goody-goody who knows all the answers in class,” says Naomi. I unsuccessfully try to block her pass to Alanna. “See!” says Naomi. “She stinks at sports.”
This goes on for a few minutes, and then the three of us stop and join the girls in their circle.
“How was that different from the game you all played?” Naomi asks.
Estrella’s hand shoots up.
“Yes, Estrella?”
“You guys were mean to Coach Marissa. We weren’t mean to each other.”
“That’s right, Estrella,” I tell her. “Girls, does anyone know what it’s called when a person or group of people is deliberately mean to someone else, because they think it’s funny, want to get something from them, or even for no clear reason at all?”
Only Estrella raises her hand, and I have to bite my lip to conceal a smile; she’s nothing if not persistent.
“Anyone else want to take a guess this time?” Alanna asks. “Margarita? Jessica?” The girls shake their head no. “Okay, Estrella, what do you think?”
“Bullying!” she announces.
“That’s right, Estrella,” I say. “That’s what today’s lesson is about. Bullying.”
Naomi tells the girls how she was bullied when she was younger—which, looking at how cool and confident she is now, is especially hard to imagine—and that she used to cry every day after school. “Does anyone here want to share a story of how they’ve been bullied before?”
Instantly, Estrella’s hand is up. I look around the room and notice that Josie and Lisa are whispering nervously. “Girls,” I say, and thankfully, they quiet down.
“Go ahead, Estrella,” says Naomi after it’s clear that no one else is going to step up to the plate.
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