Authors: Emily Franklin
Asher laughs, “You’ve got us all pegged.” He tilts my head back up to his which no doubt gives him a lovely view up my nostrils, but also affords the opportunity to kiss me very softly on the lips. “What’s the story with your clan, then?”
“Oh, dear. The question…well, you know my dad is — as the parenting mags call it — the primary care giver.”
“And Mable’s, what, the secondary?”
“She’s incredible. And my dad is…well, I’ve never really felt like my situation is weird, even though it is to some degree. I mean, aren’t all our definitions of what constitutes a family changing?”
“Yes, newscaster slash journalist Love.” I laugh and then switch positions so now we’re facing each other despite the fact that I am precariously close to toppling off the narrow couch onto the floor, especially since the wind seems to have picked up causing the boat to rock more. “Don’t you have anything to say about Mater? That’s mother, in Latin, for the grim uneducated among us.”
“My mother’s…well, no I don’t have that much to say. I mean, her name is Galadrielle, that I know. What else…she…You know how I was searching through the shelves in here? It’s like instinct — my whole life I’ve always devoted bits of my week or month or day to digging for clues.”
“You have heard of the internet, right?”
I shake off the thought. “It’s not like that. I trust my dad — and there’s probably a good reason why he’s chosen to raise me like this, without knowing the whole story.”
“It just seems odd somehow, for someone who’s so into knowing the details, that you’d just accept being kept in the dark. I know if I were in your position, I’d just look and track down all the information I could. So how come you don’t?”
“I do — kind of. I found all this clothing of hers last term and I wore it which pissed my dad off. These boots — those on the floor — are actually hers. My mom’s. Or they were.”
Asher leans over and grabs a boot, examining it. “London made — good choice.” He nods his approval.
“When I was coming here my dad said they were the last thing he ever got her — Gabrielle.”
“Well, they’re from Bella James,” Asher says and drops the boot. “So he probably got them here, since they’re not sold anywhere else. Monti’s friends with Bella, which is why I know such fascinating shoe trivia, just so you don’t think I’ve got some bizarre foot fetish.”
I try to let this sink in for a second and then talk. “You know what, though? Maybe he did buy her the boots here, maybe she took off or something and he couldn’t give them to her and he shoved them into the basement because he couldn’t deal with getting rid of them. But…you asked why I’m not furiously trying to find her or find out what happened.”
“Right — I mean, she’s not my mum and I’m dying to know…”
Asher holds my right wrist and circles it with his thumb and pointer. Then he takes both my hands and sandwiches them between his. It’s comforting and exciting at the same time. “Here’s the real thing,” I say and stare at our hands. “I’ve been curious. Of course. I mean, I do ask about her…But I’ve never
needed
to know. There’s a difference. My life, with my dad and Mable, it’s enough — and maybe if it weren’t, if I were just a big fuck-up or felt like such a huge part of me was missing, maybe I’d feel more compelled to go on some mega-search.” I stand up and stretch, then jog in place to get the blood flowing to my legs again. “But I don’t have that gaping hole. Just some mild curiosity that gets inflamed once in a while.”
“Fair enough,” Asher says. “But when you do find out — some day — even if I don’t know you anymore, or we’re like eighty-nine years old and living right here together, will you tell me?”
I nod. “If I ever know, yes.” Before I get hung up on the prospect of not knowing him ever or of living with him on this houseboat, I find my boots.
Asher does the same, slipping into his shoes without untying them and then, gallant boy that he is, kneels down to help me with my boots.
“I feel like Cinderella,” I say.
“I was brought up to be honest, not charming,” Asher says, beating me to my princely comment.
“Oh, I think you’re charming enough,” I say, trying not to gush, and semi-succeeding. Asher puts his hand on my cheek and just looks at me, then we head off the boat and back to dry land where everything’s stable.
We kiss goodbye, and he undoes my hair from its ponytail. “You should wear it down in your headshots. It’s looks so…just unbelievable.”
“It’s not…”
“Just take the compliment,” he grins. “And sorry I had to reschedule the shoot…” He sounds almost embarrassed, but maybe he is — from what he said, he got in trouble for assuming I could just show up and steal the limelight (or whatever special lights they have) from the gazelle-like models. “But we will find a time — I promise.”
“I know,” I say. “And it’s not like it’s an urgent matter, anyway.”
Asher thinks for a minute and says, “Maybe the simplest thing is to have you come to the gallery. One night soon?”
We look at each other without speaking, and there may as well be subtitles under us like in
Annie Hall.
It’s obvious — at least to me — that going to his gallery (fight off the image of him kissing that ex-girlfriend) is really code not just for headshots…but for bedshots — one night soon. Soon.
“Soon?” I ask, then try to make it a confirmation, not a question. “Soon. Right. Sounds…good.”
“Good then.” Asher give me a kiss on each cheek, then comes back for one on the mouth. Yes, I think. Soon.
My mail still arrives at LADAM due to the slightly prickly point that while I have permission from my
in loco parentis
(pointed accent on the loco part), Monti and Angus Piece, they’ve yet to inform my father that I am a mere seventeen years old, living in a two million dollar flat with my best friend without rules or supervision. This is a small issue with which we will all have to contend when — or if — Dad visits. For the meantime, I dutifully check with the ancient porter for any packages or letters. The thick overnight envelope contains the following note on Hadley Hall letterhead:
Love — here’s the latest from Mrs. Dandy-Patinko. I made sure to express mail it so that you’d have all the information the same day as everyone else
.
All the class II’s are very busy with college prep — including practice SATs (I’m sure you’ve been doing yours) and even brainstorming ideas for upcoming essays!
I decipher as I read: express mail shows Dad’s clear need to demonstrate the importance of this packet; God forbid it arrive three days later, I might miss out on Harvard if a postal delay occurs…“All the Class II’s” (Juniors=Class II, seniors=Class I — figures) is meant to defer the pressure from parental to peer — all the kids are doing it, you should too. Heh. And Dad’s surety about my practice SATs is just a little jab to say that if I haven’t been, I should. Ah, I am fluent in Dadponese. And unless my college essays have something to do with my current obsession with chips (French fries), how to deal with the Asher-Arabella conundrum, or how to complete my coursework here while still having a life, I don’t think it’s fair to say I’ve been “brainstorming”.
I head over to said chip cart, get a paper cone filled with hot fries, douse them with vinegar and retreat to the student café for a five-minute perusal of the rest of the college package.
Here is a delicious sampling from TCP (the college process). It’s thirty-eight degrees, I’m three thousand miles away from all things Ivy League or (gasp!) safety, and yet the fact that college looms ahead is inescapable after reading this from the counseling office.
1. To get ahead on your college process over the summer, we suggest the following:
· Do extensive research about the colleges to which you might apply. Use the Internet (I love the way they change it to “your college process”, so it’s just that much more personal)
· Visit colleges, if you can, and have interviews at places that offer them (when am I supposed to do this? While I’m trekking to Body? While hoofing it to my Shakespearean heroines elective?)
· Begin to work on your applications. Colleges often do not have their applications available until late August, but you might find the updated versions of the applications on websites long before they are available by mail. (Thanks for the added pressure…like it’s not already looming enough)
· Write essays over the summer; this will keep you from having long nights of anguish in September. (But I live for long nights of anguish!!) At the very least, keep a journal of ideas and opening paragraphs. Feel free to email the college office with your essays for feedback during the summer months. We would love to hear from you!! (My journal is not filled with college ideas. I doubt Yale would be interested in my half-completed songs, my lists of weird words and English phrases, the merits of various crushes over other ones. In other words, I fully expect those long nights of anguish this fall.)
2. Remember to “demonstrate interest” at colleges to which you may apply: schools will waitlist or deny a perfectly qualified applicant if they feel that you have not demonstrated enough interest in attending their college. Showing ample interest is YOUR responsibility…this includes not just your “reach” colleges, but especially your “possible” and “likely” colleges as well! You can “demonstrate interest” in the following ways: have an on-campus or alumni interview, attend an information session and tour campus, connect with college admission reps at our two fall mini-fairs, and/or contact professors in your areas of interest. (Um, difficult to show interest from three thousand miles away. Read: I’m screwed.)
3. Get cracking on those SATs! Register now! (Yay — here’s one thing I actually got right — seven weeks and counting)
4. Email us at Hadley Hall for a form that will help you evaluate colleges. Keep these forms with you during your college tour; they are sure to be of help when the time comes to answer application questions such as “Why Bowdoin?” or “Why, in particular, do you wish to attend Wisconsin at Madison?” or “Why are you attracted to UCLA?” (answer= because it’s hot?)
Blah Blah blah. It’s an all-encompassing task that lies ahead of me. Maybe all this leads to my needing a “gap year” like the one Asher is taking before he heads off to Oxford. Being out of Hadley, out of any school, sounds like the key to recharging prior to another solid study period. But maybe this is just laziness talking. Besides, I’d still want to apply, with the option to defer. I eat the last French fry and try to find solace in the fact that I can harass Mrs. Dandy-Patinko by phone, mail, or email all summer long. Hadley even gives you the option of setting up a FTF (face-to-face) meeting if you are in danger of self-imploding.
I plan on memorizing the number for her office, but in the meantime, all of this is so far away from the ringing bells of Big Ben, the smells of London at night (smoke, bus fumes, the sugar-slicked roasted nuts sold from a cart near the Tube entrance, vague whiffs of perfume and cologne), classes where everyone’s in leotards or practicing stage rage; basically my entire life here. So I make a note to write to Mrs. Dandy-Pantinko, (college counselor or shrink, hard to tell) and then shove the manila envelope into my bag until later (later=spring? Can I hold off until summer?).
Aside from actually finding a place where I’d like to live and study for four years (three if I come back here — hey — that’s an idea), I don’t really want to spend my last high school summer plodding along scripting out those all-important essays. Aunt Mable’s offered at least a couple times to have me work at the new Slave to the Grind on the Vineyard, and if Arabella can come, too (read: if she can pry herself away from Tobias), it has the makings for a perfect summer. Especially if Asher — wait. No. I won’t do this. I, Love, the Zen Master, will live in the now and now not try to push past the present to a future that may or may not include a boy I like so much I’ve kept it hidden from my best friend. Oh dear.
Arsenio Hall once said that “success is preparation and opportunity meeting.” Of course, I’m too young to have seen his late night talk show, but I happened to catch him on an VH1 eighties binge last year, and the words have stuck. For some reason, while I watch Arabella’s millionth rehearsal for Damn Yankees, it suddenly hits me that this is what she has. She’s totally prepped, and has opportunity all around her at LADAM. Then her dad, English playwright extraordinaire, will no doubt hook her up with some choice casting director and she’ll be set for life.
I, on the other hand, will need to either audition for a reality show or happen to sit next to some music executive on the oh-so-many bi-coastal flights I take in order to hand over the non-existent demo tape. But I don’t begrudge Arabella. Being critical of the hand-me-down effects of wealth and fame won’t help me.
In between reading King Lear and re-reading Hamlet, I allow myself the treat of Chris’s latest letter (it’s really an email, but I printed it out so as not to deal with the sneers from the long queue — er, line — in the computer centre — er, center).
Lovey Dovey —
Valentine’s Day passed with nary a phone call nor flower from Chicago — guess my boyfriend ain’t so much a boyfriend as a boy, friend. But did get quickie note from Alistair the American in London — semi-sordid, semi-platonic. Oh well. What about you and yours? Any hearts, chochie, pressies, anything?
As for non-sequitors, you’re so right about Bitch Thompson — I am stuck with her this term for my calculus add-on (yes, I do kiss butt for credit) and she sucks. But it’s better than Mr. Chaucer’s idea of college prep (your boy Jacob — oops, not your boy — is one of several people writing novellas on the side of all the usual coursework just to stand out from the college app. crowd — um, no thanks).
And cleverly segueing into Jacobland, let me tell you his tryst with Linsday Parrish fallen on its superficial, sucky face. His newest amore is Dillon Fuchs — (that’s fewques, not fucks) is dating him now. Fade-in on Jacob, pouty with his acoustic, cut to Lindsay in a new demure Marc Jacobs ensemble. Like Mary Janes and pleats can mask how cruel she is. She’s probably plotting Dillon’s demise while you’re away (I mean, the girl doesn’t do any actual schoolwork, so what else is she supposed to do to keep herself busy?). Meanwhile, Cordelia, our fave fac brat has managed to acquire herself a little teeny weeny drinking prob, and is thusly on probation! Call it karma, baby.