“Britney’s nervous about middle school,” said Sarah. “She won’t admit it, but I can tell by the way she’s acting.”
“You know she’ll be fine,” said Karen. “Give her a week, and it will be like she’s been there forever.”
“At this point, I just hope she’ll get there on time. She spends so much time in front of the mirror, making sure she looks good from every angle. I’ve even caught her practicing her smile.”
“Rebecca’s the same way. Her appearance is suddenly everything to her. She can’t walk past a mirror in the house without gazing into it.”
“I’m ready to take them all down. Vincent and I know already what we look like, and it’s not getting any better.”
“And Jeremy couldn’t care less, right?”
“I don’t think he’s ever looked in a mirror.”
Rebecca and Britney turned into a store called Young Thing. The mannequins in the windows wore low-rise jeans topped with cotton camisoles and button-down shirts worn open like jackets. The exposed midriff was everywhere, still.
“I’m so tired of seeing everyone’s belly button,” said Karen, running her hand along a rack of colored T-shirts.
“And I’m so tired of talking about it,” said Sarah. “Britney, age twelve, tells me I have no fashion sense. She goes off to school in one outfit, but more than once last year, I found a cropped T-shirt in her backpack. She tells me she wears them just for gym class, but I don’t know. The teachers can be pretty lax about the dress code. And I understand that; they’ve got other things on their minds.”
“So how do we control this?” Karen asked, selecting a pale purple and hot pink striped T-shirt for her daughter. “How do you set guidelines and stick with them when everyone else is doing something different and your daughter wants more than anything else in the entire world to fit in?”
“You give and take.” Sarah refolded a pair of pants that another customer had draped over the others. “We said no to eye makeup and yes to cropped shirts that touch the top of her jeans. We said no to skintight, spaghetti-strap camisoles unless they are worn underneath something else. We said yes to short skirts as long as the hem is no more than six inches above her knees. But it’s a battle. It seems like she’s always pushing and we’re always pulling.”
The girls approached their mothers, smiling and carrying the same outfit: cropped pastel short-sleeved sweaters and madras skirts that looked like, if folded, they could fit in the back pocket of a pair of men’s jeans. “That’s cute,” said Sarah. “Try it on. I want to see where that skirts hits.”
Britney glanced askance at Rebecca. “My mother likes my skirts to hit my ankle bones,” she said on their way to the dressing rooms.
“See what I mean?” asked Sarah, when the girls were gone.
Karen smiled. “I do. Second verse same as the first, as Bob says. But I’m with you on this. If we stick together, we just may prevail.”
At lunch, they talked about their jobs while the girls talked about school. Karen knew Sarah would have very little free time, so she made a mental note to call her in a week or so, and invite her over for afternoon tea. She didn’t want to lose touch, now that they were both working.
On her first day of work, Karen stood in front of her closet, feeling a kinship with Rebecca, who still complained, even after a couple of shopping trips, of having nothing to wear. Karen, like Rebecca, had a closet full of clothes; it was choosing the right outfit for a particular day or event that was the continuous issue. And while Karen had guessed and dressed correctly the day of her interview, blending in nicely with the newsroom reporters when she wore khakis and a cotton sweater, on her first day she wanted to wear something that would help her stand out. What she wore, how she looked would form Nick’s second and perhaps lasting impression of his new hire, and Karen wanted to get it right without kissing up or being viewed by her new colleagues as a dilettante. She selected a just-above-the-knee denim skirt, which she paired with her brown suede boots. Her new paisley shirt, wide brown suede belt, and light makeup completed the hip, casual look she was hoping to achieve. She was pleased with her reflection in the mirror. Once she was dressed, her thoughts turned to the day ahead and an uneasy feeling churned the bran flakes and strawberries in her stomach. What would Nick expect of her? What about the other reporters—would they accept her or dismiss her for what she was, a stay-at-home mom looking to spice up her life. Was this a mistake? Maybe she, like Caroline, was now wired for friendly competition on the tennis court and socializing with other well-off women rather than the production of something that mattered, something that people outside of her family counted on. This was not her grandmother’s chicken pot pie proudly placed on the table for dinner; this was a series of related paragraphs that would routinely run on the front page of the region section—on page one of the front section on slow news days—of The Record, delivered to fifteen thousand homes and businesses by four in the afternoon seven days a week.
As it turned out, she made an excellent choice in apparel. Three female reporters complimented her on her outfit, an immediate confidence booster. Everyone was friendly, but busy, especially the reporters close to deadline, so the introductions made by Nick were quick. Karen met two dozen people in the newsroom, the advertising department, and in the front office in ten minutes. As soon as Karen and Nick walked back into the newsroom, Gerry, the sports editor, called Nick to his station.
“Sit here,” said Nick, gesturing to an empty desk with a computer and handing Karen a copy of yesterday’s newspaper. “I’ll be right back.”
Karen had been thoroughly reading the paper at home every night as soon as she knew she had the job, a practice she had not made time for since she had children. She glanced down at the familiar headlines and inhaled sharply, as she had the previous night, when she saw the story about the helicopter crashing into the Aegean Sea on the anniversary of 9/11. It was a sharp reminder; something bad happened each anniversary, and Karen suspected the trend would continue until those responsible were held accountable. She turned her attention to the local stories, to what she would be producing: “Reading, Writing, and ’Rithmetic,” “Sidewalk Ordinance Challenged,” “Mother of 7 Boys Has Daughter.” It was this last headline that caught Karen’s attention, as it had the night before. She read the article again and thought exactly what she had thought last night: The reporter, Kate Anderson, could have been more thorough. Why did the woman want a daughter badly enough to have eight children? What did the boys think of their baby sister? How did the family support themselves financially? Some of Kate’s descriptions felt forced. There was very little transition from paragraph to paragraph, making it a choppy read. She used the word ecstatic three times. And Karen would have led the article with a description of the baby followed by her name, rather than the labor story.
“So what do you think?” Karen looked up and saw Nick standing over her. “About the baby story.”
“Ah,” said Karen. “Well, it’s a sweet story, if you like kids.”
“I don’t know why anyone would want a daughter or a son badly enough to have eight children in that pursuit. I wonder if that was the goal from the beginning or whether it evolved after the birth of the second or third son?”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“Kate’s young,” Nick said. “Her writing is a bit stilted. I’d like you to work with her when you have some extra time. She’s one of a rare breed who welcomes constructive criticism.”
Karen laughed. “I’ve never met anyone like that before.”
“She’s a good kid. All she really needs is a good editor. Sometimes we’re just too busy.”
“You want me to work with her today?” asked Karen, swallowing air. What would she say to this young woman? What if her counsel disappointed Nick, or what if Nick uncovered in this process that she, too, needed an editor. Was this a test?
Nick smiled. “No,” he said, pulling up a chair. “I have other plans for your first day on
the job.” Karen watched him take a notebook out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and turned several pages before he stopped. “His name is Brendan Pettis,” Nick said, reading his notes. “He’s eight years old and just took the SATs.”
“The college entrance exam?” asked Karen, incredulous.
“Indeed. You have a noon interview with him at Parkdale Elementary School. You’ll meet him in the principal’s office and talk to him for about thirty minutes during his lunch hour. I’ll give you directions. Afterward, I want you to come back here and write the story. We can go over it when you’re done.” Karen took a deep breath. “It’s okay to be nervous. Better questions come to us when we’re on edge. Yes, he’s really smart, but he is also just a boy. Ask him what he likes to do for fun.”
“Should I leave now?” asked Karen, looking at her watch.
“You’ve got a few minutes before you have to go,” said Nick. “Let’s get a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and I’ll show you around the rest of the building.”
Parkdale Elementary School was a seven-minute drive from the newspaper. Karen parked her car in a free visitor space and walked along the wide, white sidewalk, past the giant flagpole just outside the front doors, and into the lobby. Navy blue signs led her down the red brick hallway into the main office, where a cheerful Mrs. Betty Jones greeted her, then phoned the principal. Within a minute, Mrs. Grant walked out of an inner office with a small boy at her side.
“I’m Sophia Grant,” said the principal, extending her hand, “and this is Brendan.”
Karen shook Sophia’s hand and then turned to Brendan. “I’m Mrs. Parsons,” she said, looking at him and smiling. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“I have to take care of a few things in the building,” Sophia said to Karen. “You two can talk in my office while I’m gone.” She led them back down the short hallway and into her office, a light airy space with cream-colored walls and sturdy oak furniture. Her bookshelves were filled with neatly stacked textbooks and education paraphernalia, and her desktop was tidy, half covered with stacked manila folders and paper booklets held in place by glass paperweights. “Feel free to sit at my desk, Mrs. Parsons,” said Sophia. “Brendan, you may have a seat on the couch.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting gently down on the front half of one of three tan and cream-striped cushions.
“Buzz Mrs. Jones if you need anything. She’s good at just about everything, and that includes making coffee,” said Sophia, turning to leave. “I know you two will have a good chat. Brendan’s such a nice, polite boy. We’re all so proud of him.”
“Yes,” said Karen, walking around Sophia’s desk to the black ergonomic chair behind it. “I’m sure you are.” Sophia smiled reassuringly at Brendan and then walked out, leaving the door open behind her. “I’ve never sat at a principal’s desk before,” Karen said to him. “It’s pretty cool.”
“I got to sit there once. Last year, I was the principal for a whole day.”
“Was that fun?” Karen broke eye contact for a moment to remove her notebook and mechanical pencil from her leather book tote.
“It was awesome!” he crowed. “I was everyone’s boss.”
He looked, Karen wrote in the notebook, a little bit like Robert. They were both skinny and wiry, like sprinters, with thick brown hair that refused to stay tamed by a comb or a sweep of their fingers longer than it took to snap a picture. Robert had brown eyes; Brendan had blue eyes. Brendan had freckles; Robert did not. They both had dimples that appeared around their tiny mouths whenever they smiled. Robert struggled in school; Brendan excelled. “Are you smart, Brendan?”
Brendan looked at Karen blankly for a moment before answering. “I guess so,” he said finally.
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I get good grades. And my teachers tell me how smart I am all the time, and so do my parents.”
“What does it mean to be smart?”
Brendan moved back on the couch cushion, his feet now off the beige carpeting. “It means you know things. You know things other kids your age don’t know. It means you can do your work fast and get it right the first time. It means you get a lot of attention.”
“Smart kids get a lot of attention?” asked Karen, flipping a page.
“Tons of it. The only people who get more attention than me are the troublemakers and the kids who aren’t smart.”
“How do you know who’s smart and who’s not?”
Brendan looked at the ceiling. “The kids who aren’t smart can’t do three plus five on the blackboard, or they can’t spell a word like tractor. The teacher helps them all the time, especially Jimmy.”
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“He’s a kid in my class. Some of the kids laugh at him because he’s so dumb.”
Karen looked at Brendan as she flipped another page. “Do you laugh at him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he can’t help it,” said Brendan. “He was born the way he was born, and I was born the way I was born. My mother tells me my brain is a gift from God and that it’s important I share my gift with others.”
Karen sat back in her chair and studied this kid-sized genius for a few moments before she asked her next question. His looks were so typical, like any unremarkable boy, with a fresh chocolate milk stain on his T-Rex T-shirt and new, back-to-school sneakers covering his white-socked, size-five feet. It was his invisible qualities that set him apart. “And do you share your gift?”
“I try to,” he said. “I try to help Jimmy. Yesterday, we worked on math problems during recess. He’s pretty good when he can count something he can see, like pennies. He’s not that great when he has to count it in his head. If he can’t see it, he can’t do it.”
Robert, Karen thought, is a lot like Jimmy. Did his classmates laugh at him? “You didn’t mind giving up recess?”
“I’m not big on recess,” said Brendan, sitting on his hands. “It’s too noisy. Running around that playground is not my idea of fun.”
Karen smiled; Robert loved recess. “What is your idea of fun?”
Brendan answered immediately. “Building model airplanes. My dad’s a pilot.”
“No kidding. That sounds exciting.”
“Oh, it is,” said Brendan, sliding off the couch so he could put his hand in the front pocket of his pants. A moment later he pulled out a picture and then walked around the desk to show it to Karen. “This is my dad. And this is his plane,” said Brendan, pointing at the military jet in the photo background.
“That’s some plane.”
Brendan’s smile grew, then faded. “What he does is dangerous. Since September 11, 2001, he has been busy protecting our country. And he’s gone a lot.”
“I know he thinks about you all the time when he’s away.”
“How do you know that?” asked Brendan, his expression hopeful.
“Because dads always think about their sons when they can’t be with them,” said Karen, knowing she was telling a fib and wondering if Brendan knew. She handed him the picture, which he looked at again before pocketing it. “Tell me about the SATs.”
Brendan said the math section was easy and the rest of it was just okay, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the results were mailed to him. He said he was interested in how he did, but not half as interested as everyone else seemed to be. He had a hard time being around teenagers when he went to the high school for math classes. Most of them were okay, but some of them called him a geek or a freak. He liked being smart, but it was hard sometimes too. “My mom tells me I’ll appreciate it more when I’m older and can do something to change the world. And I know what she means. But on some days, I’d rather be better at kickball than at math.”
They talked about changing the world, the Internet, video games, geography bees, and swimming before the principal knocked on the door frame and walked in. “How are we doing?”
“We’re just wrapping up,” said Karen, standing.
/> “Thank you, Mrs. Parsons,” said Brendan, also standing.
Karen walked around the desk and shook his hand. “Thank you. Tell your mom you don’t have to wait until you’re older to change the world. Today, you changed mine.”
He smiled. “That’s our Brendan,” said Mrs. Grant.
Karen walked out of the building and then jogged to her car. She drove quickly to the office, anxious to tell Nick about the interview, as if she had been keeping a secret that she was finally allowed to reveal. On the way, her mind spun with ideas for the lead paragraph. There were so many options: the picture of his dad in his pocket; his willingness to help Jimmy; his mother’s forecast that he would change the world; taking SATs at the age of eight. Karen pulled the car into the newspaper employees’ parking lot and hurried into the building. She walked briskly into the newsroom, which was quiet now that the reporters had filed their stories. Many of them had gone home for a few hours, taking advantage of their midday downtime before sporting events or meetings later that afternoon and evening. The editors were still working—they would until two, finishing their pages and prepping for tomorrow’s paper—as were the advertising people in the adjacent office who worked from nine to five.
Karen walked across the room to Nick’s tiny office. He was on the phone, with his back to her, so Karen stood in the doorway and waited for him to notice her. Within seconds, he spun around to face her. “I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone. “Yes. Can we talk more about it tonight?” Nick motioned for Karen to sit down in the chair next to his desk. “I understand. Of course you have to make this trip. Well, no. Then go ahead and book the flights.” Nick held up one finger to Karen. She smiled indulgently at him. A few seconds later, he hung up the phone. “Tell me everything,” he said.
A Changing Marriage Page 21