by Leigh Stein
Not planning to have children made me feel like my future self had money in the bank.
* * *
...
“Your dad will pay for college,” my mom always promised. I assumed this meant that they had made a plan. A plan that explained those few bad years. Maybe instead of paying child support, he had been putting the money aside in a college fund.
But when we told him I got into NYU, there was no money. Nothing.
“I don’t understand, Steve,” I said. I hardly ever called him by his name, but it felt like the only leverage I had, to speak as one adult to another.
“I tried, kid,” he said.
That’s not true, I thought.
You don’t even know me well enough to have a nickname for me, I thought.
I felt my teeth vibrating with anger.
My mom and I had to downsize after she finally quit Amway. By the time I was in high school, we’d lost the little two-bedroom rental house and moved into a one-bedroom above a strip mall. She let me have the bedroom. My mom had no credit and Steve wouldn’t even cosign my loans. I should have sucked it up and gone to a state school, but that would have been an admission that I was ordinary, not destined for any life other than the one I already knew.
I went to my AP US History teacher and she helped me cobble together my financial aid, with Pell grants and merit scholarships, and tens of thousands of dollars in loans for which she cosigned.
My mom and I lived on the same flavor of hope: that someday our payday would come. We would attract abundance through our positive thinking. Our flaws were our strengths. Our sacrifice had a purpose. Our wrong turns were leading us to the right path. The cycle of circumstances that conspired to keep us broke would be broken.
* * *
...
John got the Alpine mac and cheese with Gruyère and bacon and onion rings and apple compote and a Diet Coke, and I got the Rive Gauche with Brie and figs and lobster and a fourth glass of pinot grigio. John moved a stack of books from the coffee table to the floor so there was room for us to eat. I kept thinking our relationship would improve if we could afford a table and chairs, to look into each other’s eyes when we talked, instead of at the TV. But there wasn’t any room for a table and chairs.
“Your mom called.”
“She called you?”
“She said she tried texting you.”
I hadn’t had time to look at any messages that weren’t related to what Evan had done, the question of how much Richual users were aware of, or talking about, what Evan had done, and Devin’s defense of what Evan had done.
“She wanted to ask if you needed any refills so she can meet her monthly goal.” He handed me a Post-it note, on which he’d scrawled:
True Color Smooth Minerals Powder Foundation Soft Ivory $8.99
Anew Multiperformance Day Cream SPF 25 $22.99
Breathe Again Roll-On $34.99
Forgiveness Essential Oil $70.99
In the bathroom, I had trays of product I never wore. Who wore Avon in New York? Like buying tickets to a friend’s fringe theater performance or donating to a GoFundMe, I ordered makeup and skincare products and essential oils from my mom out of pity and obligation.
“I’ll call her back after we eat.”
“I told her to just order it and you’d send her a check,” he said, his mouth full of hot yellow mush.
Thanks, John, I thought. Thanks for all your help. My wrists tingled and my hands were pins and needles. This had happened before. It was a symptom of overwork.
“I finished the scene today,” John said. “Of the couple eating the turtle.”
“I thought you wrote that scene already.”
“I had an idea for how it would go, but I wasn’t sure if I was right in how I imagined someone would eat a raw turtle. You wouldn’t believe what I found on YouTube.”
“Please don’t show me.”
“You know what this means?”
“What?” I said.
“My novel. I’m done. It’s ready for you to read. It’s eight hundred pages, but I can worry about editing later.”
“That’s great, babe,” I said. I tried to mold my face into a realistic impression of genuine excitement.
I kept my phone next to me on the couch while we ate, just in case it buzzed or rang. This must be how surgeons felt. I might be needed in an emergency. No, working online was worse than being a surgeon. Your career as a surgeon didn’t continue in virtual space while you slept or ate breakfast or had sex or shopped at Fairway.
“Are your wrists okay?” John asked. I was staring at the fork in my right hand.
“They hurt,” I said, and my eyes filled with tears as soon as I said it.
“Do you want me to feed you like a baby?”
I laughed. “No,” I said.
He took his own fork and fed me a bite of golden noodles, cupping one hand under my chin. Right now, there were hundreds of conversations happening that impacted my company’s brand, its leadership, my own brand, my reputation. I could force myself to detach, but it was going to get worse before it got better. I envied Khadijah, for whom Richual was just a job, separate from her personal life. Disconnected from her identity. How did she spend her evenings and weekends, all those hours of freedom from labor? I was only thirty-one, but already I missed my twenties, the decade of not knowing any better.
“Maren? Hello?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“You’re working right now,” he said.
“I’m not on my phone. I’m not on my laptop. I’m totally present.”
“I can tell you’re working in your head. You never take a break, even when you’re away from the office.”
I brushed away his hand, holding another bite. “You don’t even know what happened. Evan was accused of assaulting all these women.”
“I saw,” John said. “It was all over the news.”
“Devin thinks he’s innocent,” I said.
“Of course she does.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’re best friends, right?”
A bolt of pain shot through my right wrist. That couldn’t be true. I was Devin’s best friend. I had an honorary doctorate in her social media footprint. I knew her better than anyone. Not Evan. Evan didn’t care about anyone but himself.
“Well, I think he’s guilty,” I said.
“He’s definitely a creep. But did you notice that the worst accusations came from the one source who wants to remain anonymous?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What if some woman made anonymous accusations against me?”
“Why, what you have done?”
“Nothing!”
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about!” I yelled. John put his head in his hands. He was like a stuffed animal, harmless, made to be squeezed. He didn’t understand what it felt like to be responsible, to carry the burden of making the women’s corner of the internet run like a well-moisturized machine.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I kissed his forehead so many times I lost count. “I don’t mean to stress you out with my work stuff. I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s not fair. I’ll figure out how to handle it.”
I started clearing the dishes. My wineglass was empty. I didn’t remember finishing it.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Babe, at least sleep on it,” he said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Devin and Evan both grew up in New York City. They attended private schools, slept at the same sleepaway camps, and danced at the same bar mitzvahs. They knew the rules of lacrosse and where to get a fake ID on St. Marks. They had parents who understood the added value of Adderall and extortionate SAT tuto
rs, letters of recommendation from notable alumni, paid internships at some corporation where a cousin sits on the board, don’t forget the thank-you note. Devin and Evan knew the same cast of characters, including the girl on Lexapro who jumped from the top of her apartment building on the Upper East Side at the end of senior year and no one would cop to being part of the rumor mill that led her to leap, but everyone pitched in to make an epic playlist for the funeral. I’d heard them talk about the aftermath of a violent hazing incident where the attorney explained to the judge his client didn’t realize how the alcohol would interact with the medication he took for borderline personality disorder, and about another guy who swore the anal sex in the coed’s dorm room was consensual because she let him spend the night, didn’t she?, and after he was expelled his parents hired a crisis management consultant to help him write another round of college applications (don’t forget the thank-you note).
You protected the people who were most like you. Devin had to defend Evan. That was the code. Their live-in nannies raised them to be Good People, to do the right thing and tell the truth about it, but if for any reason you couldn’t do the right thing, or if your idea of the right thing was different from mine, or if you did the wrong thing and there was no way you could tell the truth and still save yourself, then Mommy and Daddy had money for extravagant arbitration, crisis comms, an educational consultant, a spirit quest, a new diagnosis, sixty days in-patient, an affluenza defense.
But I wasn’t from their world. I didn’t have to follow their code.
After dinner, I strapped on my beige wrist braces from CVS. Then I searched through the weekend bag I hadn’t unpacked after Evan’s house, until I found the photos of the two women, one in the red wig, one blond. Neither was Kimberly Hartsong.
I googled Rachelle Tanaka.
Her LinkedIn came up. She had a sweet oval face that looked familiar, but it didn’t match either of the women.
One of them had to be the ex-girlfriend from the article. She wasn’t a nobody. She had a face, a body, a brain, a heart. And he was just going to get away with what he’d done to her? Because she was anonymous? I could post these images on the internet right now. I could say I had been inside Evan’s house and found evidence of his misconduct. I wasn’t afraid of him. He should have been afraid of me. I was holding a straight flush.
Are you home? I texted. There’s something I have to show you.
Foundress Summit
Power in 2017: Are We There Yet?
8:15 a.m. (Ignite session) What’s Your Story, Who’s Your Audience, and Why Should They Give a Shit? with Clementine Hopkins-Halloway of Dragg & Dropp
Are you telling your brand’s story or is your brand telling the story of you? Reclaim the power of storytelling by tapping into experiences that only you can share—let those experiences shed light on the universal truths that align with your core values and then communicate them. Find out which stories are actually interesting to people and which are actually not, from Clementine Hopkins-Halloway, the creator of EDM Sober House and Hit Me Baby: My MMA Fiancé.
9:00 a.m. (Keynote) Our Bodies, Our Selfies: A State of the Union of Wellness Address and Fireside Chat, sponsored by Richual
When it comes to wellness, hygiene and self-care are two major buzzwords. What if you could be both clean and taken care of? Join Devin Avery, cofoundress and chief executive officer of Richual, and Arianna Tran, foundress and chief visionary officer of S’Wipe, for an illuminating conversation about cleansing our minds and bodies, even while we ascend the career ladder. Light breakfast will be served.
10:15 a.m. (Session A) Pitch Pageant: Who Is the Fairest of Them All?, sponsored by Finishing Touch
Contestants have ninety seconds to deliver their pitches in the video booth sponsored by the As Seen on TV Finishing Touch Lumina Personal Hair Remover. Mark Cuban, Chris Sacca, Ashton Kutcher, and Evan Wiley will review and score the pitches based on personality, presentation, appearance, and minimum viable product, via livestream. Winners will be announced tomorrow on Twitter. Follow us @FoundressSummit and #FoundressSummit17! Advance sign-up required.
10:15 a.m. (Session B) What on Earth Were You Put on This Earth to Do and Is Your Personal Brand Reflecting Your Calling?
Can you describe your world-changing manifesto in three words? Is your LinkedIn photo in harmony with your professional tagline? Before you take a single further step in your career, take the time to align what it is you want to do with your brand across social channels.
12:00 p.m. (Lunch) We’ve Got Issues
When’s the last time you slept through the night? Can an anti-inflammation diet slow down the aging process? By the time you’re thirty, how much retirement savings should you have?
Today, women entrepreneurs are doing more than just raising capital. They’re also raising awareness about serious issues that affect women all over the country: underbanked millennials and the true costs of having no retirement savings, the latest scientific research on why we need to sleep at night, the delicate art of negotiating for a higher salary without sounding selfish, and the superfoods that promote longevity so you can live long enough for the compound interest to grow in those retirement accounts!
2:00 p.m. (Session A) Restorative Tarot for Times of Burnout
Have you drawn a Hanged Man card on the question of your life? Learn about, and reclaim, the archetypes that promote healing, wisdom, and guidance for your venture.
2:00 p.m. (Session B) She’s a Friend of the Pod
With over 100,000 downloads every week, the Profiteering Mavens have built up a devoted fanbase of creative entrepreneurs seeking no bullshit advice for growing their side hustles in the gig economy. Find out their exact cold emailing formula that has landed them guests such as Marie Forleo, Audrey Gelman, Danielle LaPorte, and Amanda Chantal Bacon.
3:30 p.m. (Panel) Film Gives Back
What is it really like in Africa? Hear from the actresses who’ve been to the country, what they saw in terms of malnutrition and vaccination rates, and how it deepened their understanding of humanity and prepared them for some of the grittiest roles of their careers. From gaining twenty pounds to play a postpartum character, to playing a woman who has to overcome how differently abled she is, these actresses are making waves and giving back. Exact lineup TBA.
Foundress Summit is a ticketed event. Every attendee must have a ticket. To be eligible for a ticket, you must be a woman age 18 or over. Email us for a list o1f recommended childcare providers, or if you need a map to the lactation room.
Devin
The lighting in the lobby was not great. Very fluorescent, very awake-inducing. The skin on the back of my hands looked washed out, like raw fish. Let me see those hands . . . in the air: how many of you . . . think of yourself . . . as heroes . . . in someone else’s . . . story? The morning session had already begun—I could hear it from behind a flimsy black partition at one end of the lobby. And how many of you . . . think of yourself as heroes . . . in . . .
A staff member in black jeans and a black crop top that said “The Future Is Foundre$$” was shushing a group of conference attendees standing in the lobby in bodycon dresses, saying that they couldn’t talk here; they had to talk over there in a special room, because the sound was carrying over into the session. One woman, in a jade-colored dress with a gold back zipper, said, “I didn’t pay twenty-five-hundred dollars to be quarantined in the overflow room!” The staff member was apologizing and explaining that it wasn’t an overflow room—it was a conversation corner.
I had to wait my turn in line at the VIP registration desk, behind an attendee who was complaining that something in her swag bag wasn’t the flavor she wanted, or had an ingredient she was allergic to, or that her friend got something in her swag bag that she didn’t also receive, something expensive.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m one of thos
e entitled women—”
“Oh, not at all,” the staffer said, holding up a finger to me that she’d just be a minute. “It’s only that we stuffed, I mean prepared, the gift bags at a different venue, so unfortunately I’m not totally sure if I have the product to swap out for you right this moment.”
“I paid a premium for this VIP badge and honestly you’re not making me feel very VIP at all right now.”
“Would you like to leave your contact info and someone will follow up on Monday?”
“I know Michelle,” the woman said, digging through her handbag for a business card. Michelle was the foundress of Foundress. “Michelle knows me. We were at Brearley together. I was actually supposed to moderate the Film Gives Back panel, but at the last minute Michelle said it would look better to have someone who’s more diverse.”
“That’s amazing,” said the staffer, checking a notification on her phone. Her nails were painted in alternating pink and gray, to match the brand. Her name badge read “Delancey.” “I’ll be sure to pass along what happened, and again I’m so sorry about the mix-up.”
Finally, it was my turn. “And you must be Devin,” she said.
Is there any greater high in life than being recognized? From under the registration table, Delancey pulled a pink nylon weekender bag that was at least twice the size of all the other swag bags I’d seen. The number 25 was written in sequins on one side and there was a sparkly unicorn head on the other.
“Is that like the number of children who get to eat when I use this bag?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe! I thought it was the number of pounds.”
As I slung the unicorn body bag over one shoulder, something heavy and cold inside slammed against the side of my rib cage.