“I think so. Nick’s in favor of it—probably because he went to public schools. . . But obviously Dex and I didn’t... I think it’s all what you’re used to,” I say, hoping that this is the actual reason for Nick’s public leanings—and not that he simply wants to get out of school tours and applications and conversations on the topic.
“Yeah. I was squarely in Nick’s camp—public school girl all the way—but didn’t think we could go that route in the city,” she says as she lays one of Sarah’s little floral blouses facedown on the floor, then neatly smooths out the wrinkles, tucks in the arms, and folds the whole thing into a neat square with the skill of a departmentstore clerk. I memorize her technique, but know I will never recall it—just as I can never quite remember how to fold our dinner napkins into the origami-like shapes Nick mastered while working as a waiter at a country club during college.
“I vowed not to let it stress me out,” I say, “but now that it’s upon me, I’m right there in the frenzy with everyone else.”
Rachel nods and says, “Yeah. I was more stressed out filling out those applications for Julia and Sarah than I was when I applied to law school. It’s one thing to brag about your own qualifications and credentials, but bragging about your five-year-old—it just feels so crass . . . Dex had an easier time with it. For our Spence essay, he actually dubbed Julia a ‘bubbly, brown-eyed wonder.’”
I laugh. “He wrote that?”
“Sure did.”
“So cheesy,” I say, shaking my head, consistently amazed that my banker brother, who appears to be so cool and dignified, can be such a colossal dork behind closed doors. At the same time, I think this is part of why his marriage works so well. At heart, he is cheesy, the polar opposite of slick, and having observed many relationships over the years, I have discovered that slick does not a good husband make—my own father leading that charge.
“Yeah. No wonder they rejected us, huh?” Rachel says with a sardonic smile. For a high achiever, she seems to wear this rejection as a peculiar badge of honor, as if it is their loss entirely, and it occurs to me that although she is unassuming, sometimes even downright shy, she is actually one of the more confident people I know—as opposed to April and so many other mothers who seem to strive for perfection as a way of dealing with their underlying insecurities.
She continues, “I knew I should have edited Dex’s essays. . . But deep down, I knew Spence wasn’t the right fit for us anyway. So I didn’t bother . . .”
I ask her why, always intrigued to hear the details of their life in the city—so different from my own childless memories of Manhattan.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, pausing before moving on to a pink cashmere sweater with tiny pom-poms sewn along the neckline. All of Julia and Sarah’s things are exquisite and girly, which is incongruous with Rachel’s own wardrobe of denim; cozy earth-toned sweaters; and long, bohemian-chic scarves that she drapes twice around herneck even in the summer. “You just hear all the stereotypes of all the schools. . . Chapin is blond, precious, WASPy. . . Spence is full of wealthy, connected society girls. Or spoiled, materialistic sluts, according to the haters . . . and Dex when we got rejected.” She laughs and then imitates his low voice—“How dare they turn down our brown-eyed wonder!”
I laugh at my brother’s expense and then ask about Brearley’s reputation—which is the Upper East Side all-girls’ school that Sarah and Julia attend.
“Hmm . . . Let’s see ... I’d say bedraggled intellectuals,” Rachel says.
“You are a far cry from bedraggled,” I say, pointing to her perfect piles that she is now stowing in the girls’ monogrammed canvas L.L. Bean bags.
She laughs and says, “So is Longmere still your top choice for Ruby?” she asks.
I nod, impressed with her memory of Boston schools and even more so when she asks, “That’s where April’s daughter goes, right?”
“Yeah . . . Which at the moment isn’t a selling point for Nick,” I say, giving her the full story about Nick’s patient. “He wants to avoid the entire drama . . . Or at least avoid the types he perceives to be meddlesome, do-nothing drama queens.”
“Meddlesome, do-nothing drama queens are everywhere,” Rachel says. “Private schools, public schools. Manhattan, the Midwest. They’re unavoidable.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But tell that to Nick. He seems to have a chip on his shoulder these days.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them, both because I feel disloyal uttering them to Rachel who never breathes a negative word about her husband—and because I feel as if I’ve solidified my brewing criticisms of my own husband.
She gives me a sympathetic look which only sharpens my guilt. “Chip on his shoulder about what?” she asks.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, trying to backtrack slightly. “I understand where he’s coming from. I totally see that April and Romy and everyone in their clique should back up and give this woman and her kid some space. And I told April as much—which wasn’t an easy thing to say to a friend.”