My muscles tightened once more.
Beige and black is our most popular color combination. The wait list’s a mile long. You’re sure you don’t want it?
It’s not really my style, I said. And then hastily added, I mean, I thought it was when I bought it, but I changed my mind when I got home.
Shut up, I told myself. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I reached in Winnie’s bag for my phone and checked the time.
The associate regarded Winnie’s Evelyne. I understand. You’re more of a minimalist.
Exactly, I said. What had Winnie said about her bag? I repeated, I prefer things that are understated, less flashy.
The associate’s eyes lit up. I know what you mean. She lowered her voice. To be honest, even I sometimes find our things a little fussy. She pressed an index finger to her lips and giggled.
I grazed her forearm with my fingertips and giggled along.
Giving the Gabrielle one last cursory glance, she scanned my receipt.
Do you need my credit card?
No, you’re all set. Four thousand six hundred and sixty-five back onto your Visa. She printed out a new receipt, attached it to the old one with a glossy black paper clip, and then folded both into a cream envelope.
I thanked her and then willed myself to walk slowly out of the store, one step at a time, like a bridesmaid proceeding down the aisle.
Have a good day, the security guard intoned, and I couldn’t help breaking into a grin.
When I emerged, Winnie was still seated at the same table, looking at her phone. Like a fool, I waved madly. Her face twisted into a grimace. I dropped my hand.
Miss! a voice called from behind me. Miss! Hang on!
My stomach lurched, as though spurring me to take off running down the exquisitely landscaped path. What choice did I have but to turn around?
The associate held out my cell phone. You left this on the counter.
Oh, I said, retrieving the phone. Thank you so much.
Not at all. Come back and see us again. We’ll find something that’s more your style.
Winnie and I headed for the parking lot. I waited until we’d rounded the corner to collapse against a pillar, euphoric with relief. Never again, I said. I’m not cut out for this. My nerves can’t handle it.
She shook her head. You’re absolutely right for this. You have an honest face, and you’re Asian American. No one would ever suspect a thing.
8
After Chanel, I resolved to be done with Winnie once and for all. I made it clear that I could not work for her. I screened her calls, claimed to be too busy to meet up when she came to town. And there was plenty of truth to my excuses. We were entering that fraught and stressful period known as preschool interview month, and I had to keep my calendar open in the event that one of the eight schools we’d applied to summoned us in for a visit.
I spent the rest of February refreshing my email and scanning the mommy message boards, torturing myself by reading every celebratory thread. In March the rejections streamed in, one after another. We regret to inform you. Record number of applications. Many more qualified students. We are sorry, truly wish, sincerely hope.
Oli coped by making barbed jokes of the they-don’t-deserve-our-son variety. Me? I cursed myself for telling everyone in our circle that we’d applied this year and prayed they wouldn’t bring it up. I wondered if I could spin a credible tale about deciding against sending Henri so early; after all, he was not yet two and a half.
But then, one afternoon, seven rejections later, our last hope, Divisadero Prep, wrote to tell us we’d been moved on to the next and final round. The playdate-slash-interview was scheduled for the following Tuesday at 9 a.m., and I set out to do everything in my power to ensure it would go smoothly.
On the morning itself, Maria and Henri and I were fifteen minutes early. As the message board moms advised, arrive too early and your toddler might get bored; arrive too late and he won’t have time to adjust and could grow cranky and confused. I parked on the shady side of the street and rolled down the windows to let in the breeze.
In the back seat, Maria and Henri played round after round of patty-cake. Each time she chanted, Roll it up, pat it, and mark it with an H—drawing the letter across his belly with her finger—he bounced up and down like a bobblehead doll. Everything had lined up in our favor. Henri was in a great mood. He’d slept well the night before, waking briefly only once. Maria had made his favorite breakfast of blueberry-chocolate-chip pancakes, which he’d downed with gusto. I’d dressed him in the cutest little peach Lacoste polo shirt that brought out the pink in his cheeks. (Do your best to ensure that your toddler is neither hungry, nor thirsty, nor exhausted, nor dirty, the moms counseled.)
From time to time Maria’s eyes flickered down to her watch, a tic that revealed her to be as anxious as I was. With ten minutes to go, she lifted Henri in the air, sniffed his butt, and patted it twice. Smells like roses, she said. I think he’s all set. She cupped Henri’s face in both hands. Have fun at school, mi amor.
Not for the first time I wished I could send Maria into the classroom with him. When the school had specified that each prospective student arrive with one caregiver, they’d obviously meant a parent, but what if I gave a valid excuse? Like, I had to leave town because of a death in the family? Or I was busy getting chemo? Yes, that’s how much of a wreck I was.
Let’s go, Cookie, I sang inanely. Maria, we’ll be back in an hour. I opened the passenger door and hoisted Henri out of the car, and he twisted around and held out his hand to his nanny.
Her smile froze. I’ll be right here, mi amor, she said, waving.
He opened and closed his palm insistently, a tiny despot demanding to be paid.
It’s just you and me, Cooks, I said, steering him to face me. It’ll be fun. You’ll get to play with your new classmates.
I tried to lead him away but he squirmed out of my grasp and clung to the hem of Maria’s T-shirt. She gently pried him loose. Go with Mama.
He scowled and tugged on his ear.
Okay, okay, I said. What if Maria walks us to the gate and we say goodbye there?
She was already getting out of the car. She hefted Henri into her arms, and the whimpering stopped. This was precisely the scenario we’d hoped to avoid, for surely there would be a teacher standing at the gate to greet us, and her first impression could not be of a boy screaming for his nanny.
We walked slowly, Maria and I searching for a way to avert the impending disaster.
Remember what I told you? she said to Henri. You’re a big boy now and big boys go to school.
He gnawed placidly on a hank of her hair.
There’ll be lots of new toys. And the teacher will teach you games and songs and give you yummy snacks.
By now we were half a block away from the school, and I said, How about Mama carry you now?
Maria freed her hair from his grasp. Yes, go to Mama.
She and I had landed on the same plan; she would slow down behind us, and I would hurry him inside and distract him, hopefully before he noticed she was gone. But when I extended my arms to him, he burrowed his face into Maria’s bosom.
Mi amor, she whispered, it’s only for a little while. Maria will be right outside waiting. Had the stakes not been so high, she would never have said that in front of me—she, who always took care not to spark parental jealousy.
Honestly, though, I was too stressed for her words to sting. (Try to exude tranquility, the moms cautioned. If you’re tense, your toddler will notice and tense up too.) We were no more than ten paces from the school gate. I watched a tall white woman with a platinum-blond ponytail stride toward it with a matching oversized blond child, who enthusiastically high-fived the teacher standing guard.
Frances Wright, the woman said, holding out her hand. Tell her your name, honey, she prompted her son.