I try to digest this concept, and... Christ on a bike, that sounds exhausting.
Mallory’s words do make me think, though. What do my parents expect of me, I wonder? With their track record, I’d say they expect me to:
embrace life.
find beauty in unexpected places.
seek out what makes me happy.
experience the world with an open heart and mind.
That’s what they did at my age and it worked brilliantly for them. Hell, Mum didn’t even finish high school before she left New York, running off to Europe. People had been telling her she should be a model since she was nine years old—at seventeen, she went for it. For a ten-year period, you couldn’t open a magazine without seeing a million shots of Fiona Whitley Suri, known to the world simply as Fi.
Once she tired of being in front of the camera, she stepped behind it. While Dad made it into university in his native Northern England, he quickly realized he couldn’t sit still in a classroom and took off for the Big Smoke (London) before his second term. They like to tell me that if they hadn’t followed their hearts, they’d have never met and I wouldn’t be here today.
Looking at Mallory, I’d wager our parental units have trod different paths. For one, hers are probably legitimately married to each other and not just common-law. Suspect her dad did not become world-renowned by sculpting a fetus out of crystal meth, either. (Said piece is still on display at Tate Modern, if you’re so inclined.)
After Owen passes by, a boy built like a wall comes up behind Mallory, yanking her ponytail with a blindingly white, toothy grin on his face. He’s wearing a football jersey. She flushes bright red, but I can’t tell if that’s from embarrassment or pleasure. She shoos him off without introducing me.
“Your boyfriend?” I ask.
“Oh, honey, no.” She wrinkles her nose, as though the idea of dating this boy is simply too distasteful. “That’s Braden, my brother’s friend.”
“Lucky you! I wish I had a brother with attractive friends. Total convenience, right?”
“Please. Braden’s practically family and hooking up with him would be creepy. Like, unimaginable.”
I persist, “He’s awfully cute if you fancy that massive, Channing Tatum sort of thing. You’ve really never considered—”
Mallory clears her throat and shuts me down, conversation over. “As I was saying, for us, it’s not enough to be, say, decent equestrians or quick speed skaters. Riders will be going to the next summer games. The school allows them to do half days to accommodate training.”
“Wait, the Olympics? To compete?” I ask. I clarify because she says it so casually, as though earning a spot on the USA roster were no more difficult or unusual than watching a show on Hulu.
She furrows her perfect brow. “Obvi. And the skaters have cadres of—” she looks up at the brilliant blue late summer sky as she begins to tick off the experts on her neatly manicured fingertips “—coaches, managers, sports agents, trainers, nutritionists, branding experts, publicists, attorneys, and social media gurus to help them reach their personal bests on and off the ice. There are six North Shore Knights with an eye toward 2018 and 2020. Like I said, we breed excellence.”
I stifle a laugh—both my folks are legitimately famous in their fields and their “cadres” consist of one agent apiece and a financial guy who stops them from blowing all their money on impulse purchases, à la Michael Jackson. It’s only because of Mr. Hochberg that we don’t own fifteen capuchin monkeys or every Aston Martin ever used in a James Bond film, I’m sure of it.
I realize that I’m drifting, which is rude.
Time to focus. I fight my instincts, which trend toward sitting in the back of the classroom, tuning out whatever the teacher’s saying while I daydream about what piece of jewelry I could make next. Often, when I’m introduced to someone new, I create a piece for them in my head. Like when I met Mr. Gorton today? I envisioned a thin, gold tie bar, very simple and tidy, perhaps engraved with his initials on the end in a nice font. With serifs, I think. For Owen, I pictured an etched shark’s tooth, strung on braided leather cord.
For Mallory?
I imagine she’d appreciate a gift certificate for Tiffany & Co. instead.
Mallory leans in, all conspiratorially, as though she’s about to share the secrets of the universe. Her breath is overpoweringly minty, but with a faint trace of ammonia behind it. Wish I’d thought to stock up on tubes of Ultrawhite before we left England. I don’t care for the scent of American tooth polish. I should have Cordy ship me some.
“Here’s what you need to understand about this place. We’re winners. Hashtag champions.” She forms a pound sign with the first two bony fingers on both hands when she says this. “All of us. Like, if music is our jam, we expect admission to Juilliard. If we’re actors, we’re so getting in to the Yale School of Drama. And for the rest of us, hello, top-tier college of our choice.”
Her confidence takes my non-mint-and-ammonia-scented breath away. What would it be like to have such self-assurance? To be so convinced of my own abilities?
I do appreciate having inherited the family’s artistic perspective, though. We view situations through the eyes of an artist and see something entirely different than a casual observer would. So, when everyone else looks into a forest and spots nothing but trees, we three are endlessly fascinated by how the faint rays of crepuscular sunlight filter down through leaves and branches like spotlights, illuminating carpets of moss and tiny mushrooms and woodland creatures.
Although, let’s be honest—I bet a lot of their artistic vision is due to the metric shit-ton of drugs they took twenty years ago.
Mallory notices I’m losing focus. Mum says my face is easier to read than a Dr. Seuss book, so I should never play strip poker...unless I’m looking to experiment and then I should relax, tune in to my body, and enjoy myself.
Mallory explains, “While it sounds like we’re arrogant, as the old saying goes, ‘It ain’t bragging if it’s true.’ You’ve seen our stats, right? 156 Illinois State Scholars? A 27.4 ACT composite? 97 percent of us score 3+ on AP exams? I mean, we have thirty-five interscholastic teams that have won more state championships than any other school in Illinois history.”
Should I respond that my old school was next to Soho’s number one falafel stand?
Mallory hustles us to the main building, where the walls are covered with a century’s worth of ivy. I’m loving the gravitas of this campus. I assumed everything in this part of the United States would be like a shiny-new strip mall, just constructed last week, so I’m pleasantly surprised to see buildings with history. I love anything with a past.