Counterfeit

Look, Henri, I said, pointing at a sparrow on a branch, but he appeared to only take interest in the birds of Hong Kong.

Patty-cake, patty-cake, I said, holding up my hand for him to slap.

He squeezed his eyes shut and cried harder.

Did Ms. Jenny make you feel bad? She didn’t mean to, I don’t think. Or was it Cecily? You don’t have to play with her when you go back in there.

Henri was inconsolable.

Please, Cookie, we have to go back. Just for a few minutes.

He mournfully shook his head.

Ten minutes, I promise.

And then, a gift from the heavens: a bulldozer was ambling along this very block.

Look, Cooks, I cried, and this time, he perked up and waved and waved, and the driver, a veritable angel, tipped his hard hat in response. I wiped my son’s snot, blotted the drool from his shirt collar as best I could, and hustled him inside. But by then we’d missed cleanup and sharing circle and the playdate was over.

Can we come back another day? I asked Ms. Jenny as the other parents filed out with their sweet, saintly children.

I’m afraid not, the teacher said.

Please, I said. He’s very shy. He’s an only child. He’ll get used to being around other kids.

This is our last session. Letters go out next week.

Could he sit in on a real class? Or meet a few more teachers? I could hear the frenzy creep into my voice. He’s really lovely once you get to know him.

I’m sure that’s true, Ms. Jenny said kindly, which made me feel worse. He’s going to find the right school, whether it’s here or someplace else.

It has to be here, I said. We love this school. It’s our only choice.

The teacher gave me a smile that stopped short of her eyes. It will all work out. You’ll see.

A loud crash hijacked our attention. Henri had swept every last book off the bottom shelf and cackled at his accomplishment.

Oh, Cooks, what did you do? I fell to my knees and started shoving books back onto the shelf.

Leave it, said Ms. Jenny.

Absolutely not, I said.

Her tone was sharp. No, really, leave it. She sighed. You’re shelving them wrong. I’ll just have to do it all over again.

I set down The Cat in the Hat, got to my feet, and took my son’s hand. Together he and I walked to the car, where Maria sprang up, asking, How was it? How’d he do? Did you have fun, mi amor?

I shook my head, and she pressed her lips together and said no more.

Oli, of course, would not be so easily silenced.

He called as I was pulling out of the parking spot, and I put him on speakerphone.

What do you mean? Disastrous how?

I recounted the whole morning.

He’s a baby. They of all people should know how babies act.

It’s over, I said.

Not necessarily. Did you explain that this was an anomaly? Did you ask to bring him back again?

Yes, I replied to every one of his questions, until, at last he said, We can still fix this. I’m sure of it.

If you’re so sure, you fix it. I glanced into the rearview mirror, and Maria politely avoided my gaze.

Hang on, he said.

I heard him say something brusque and important-sounding to an unknown colleague.

I have to go, he said. Call your friend Winnie. Didn’t she teach kindergarten?

I was taken aback that he’d remembered. What’s she supposed to do about it?

With exaggerated patience he said, Well, I don’t know, Ava, that’s why you have to call her and ask.



Winnie answered the phone right away.

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call you back, I said.

It’s totally fine, she said. I know you’ve been busy.

My eyes stung. It seemed like it had been weeks, maybe months, since anyone had been kind to me. I said, It’s been awful over here.

I told her about the playdate, and after I explained the teacher’s unfairness, Winnie said, To tell you the truth, I don’t know why people think that school’s so good. They don’t seem like anything special to me.

Already I felt better.

She said, Tell you what, I’ll call my friend Florence Lin at Ming Liang Academy in the Richmond.

I pointed out that it was too late. Every decent school’s application period had closed in January. Notifications would go out any day now.

Winnie gave me that bark of a laugh. Florence is a friend. We taught together in Culver City. She’ll accept Henri with my recommendation.

Was she serious? Could it be this easy? We hadn’t looked into Chinese immersion schools, since Oli was already teaching Henri French, but Ming Liang had a good reputation.

Henri will love it there, she said.

You really think this’ll work? Winnie had never mentioned this friend of hers before, and I wondered what she’d done for Florence to be owed this favor.

Of course. And if you don’t want to take any chances, make a small donation. A couple grand will do.

I hesitated.

What’s wrong? Even three, four grand is enough. Just a small percentage of what you’re already spending on school fees.

It wasn’t the money I was worried about; it was my husband. I could already hear his rant: We’re not bribing our son’s way into preschool, Ava. Don’t be absurd.

I quickly calculated how much I had left in my WeChat account and realized that just as Oli didn’t need to know about Henri’s upcoming visit to the pricey speech therapist, he wouldn’t need to know about this.

I told Winnie I’d be happy to make a donation, and she said, Great, I’ll call Florence right now.

Thank you, I said. I mean it.

She brushed it off. What are friends for?

By the week’s end, an official acceptance letter from Ming Liang Academy had arrived in the mail. My husband got his I told you so and I was further ensnared in Winnie’s web, biding time until whenever she decided to collect.





9




Winnie gave me a couple weeks to celebrate Henri’s preschool acceptance, and then she texted to inform me she was back in town. Meet me at Bloomingdale’s, Westfield Mall, 2pm. She provided no additional details.

You have the security footage, Detective; you saw how quickly she put me back to work, sending me on assignments at least once a week. Her goal was to make these store returns habitual, to help me relax. She told me I needed to stop worrying, that the more I could sink into the role, the less likely I was to actually get caught.

And I must admit, the lawyer in me appreciated the pure elegance of her scheme. Not even the most discerning shopper would doubt the authenticity of a bag purchased from a reputable retailer. The power of suggestion was too seductive, the confirmation bias effect too potent.

Soon, Winnie declared me ready to go off on my own. As your videos show, each week I would test out a different persona depending on the store. Here I am in Barneys (RIP), as the impatient, high-powered career woman on her lunch break; that’s me, too, at Saks, the indecisive middle manager who only recently started buying luxury; at Gucci, the flighty trophy wife; at Louis Vuitton, the spoiled heiress; and here at Nordstrom, my favorite of them all, I am the down-to-earth stay-at-home mom, which is to say, more or less myself.

Why did I love Nordstrom? Let me count the ways. They had the most forgiving return policy on the planet. Their sales staff were friendly and efficient, and, most importantly, refrained from asking questions. Their downtown location was busy enough that I never felt like I was being watched, which, in turn, let me do the watching.

Lurking around the cash wrap, I’d seen customers return blatantly used clothing, shoes, even underwear, with no tags, no receipts, nothing except their dubious claims. These people made me feel comparatively virtuous. After all, the store would have no difficulty selling my replica Longchamp Le Pliage (size L, in lemon yellow). Nordstrom wasn’t losing a cent off me.

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