Love And Miss Communication Part 10

Chapter 9.

Brrrinnnggg. Brrrinnnggg. Brrrinnnggg. The ringing was incessant. Evie panicked as she watched the bronze bell rattle against the peeling yellow paint on the wall. She gripped her pencil tighter, but her fingers cramped. She wiggled them in an attempt to stop the spasms.

The question at the top of the paper on her desk read: Discuss the symbolism of ivory in Heart of Darkness. Do you think Conrad intended that symbolism? What are some other possible interpretations of the role of ivory and how would that fit in with the overall themes of the book?

s.h.i.t! She hadn't even read that book. In fact, she didn't even remember it being a.s.signed. All her cla.s.smates had weathered copies with dog-eared pages on their desks. How was it possible? She was an A student.

She was being asked to write about the symbolism in a book she'd never touched. And the G.o.dd.a.m.n bell was ringing. How could the cla.s.s be over already? She looked down at the page in front of her. It was blank. Normally she could fill three to four pages in the sixty-minute exam period. She was going to get an F.

The ringing got louder and louder. Why wasn't it stopping? The teacher was coming down each aisle to collect the papers. How would she explain to Mr. Londino, her favorite teacher, about her abysmal performance on the final? Maybe she could lie and say a family member was sick. Wait, that was actually true.

The bell continued to sound its infernal blast. Instead of Mr. Londino coming toward her to collect the exam, she saw Jack. It didn't make sense that he'd be there collecting the papers, but all of her cla.s.smates were comfortably handing over their papers to him, making easy chitchat with him as he pa.s.sed their desks. He had a Band-Aid around his pointer finger. Must have cut himself slicing again. There was a succulent turkey on his desk with a first-place ribbon pinned to the wing.

"Evie, are you done? Time is up." Jack was standing in front of her desk, wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a crumpled half ap.r.o.n sticking out of his back pocket, brown spots visible on the loose strings. "You need to put down your pencil."

Evie didn't want to look up. She had no makeup on. Her clothes were mismatched. She remembered staying up until 1:00 A.M. the night before with Jack, making love and laughing intermittently. So why was he acting like she was a stranger, asking for her test paper like she was just any other student?

"I'm sorry, Jack, I need more time. Please come back to me." She still wouldn't meet his gaze. She was whispering, and it seemed Jack couldn't hear her over the blazing bell.

"I think you mean 'Mr. Londino.' Evie, your time is up." Evie looked up to see his face. It wasn't Jack after all. It was her high school English teacher, speaking with a c.o.c.kney accent, a bizarre perversion of Jack's intonation. Mr. Londino reached forward with his arm, and she noticed the tattooed inscription of a poem on his bicep, visible through his shirtsleeve, but she couldn't make out any word other than ANGUISH. He started to pull the exam from Evie's hand, and though she tried desperately to clutch the test booklet, her fingers and wrists were limp.

And still the bell rang out so loudly she couldn't audibly beg Mr. Londino for five more minutes.

Suddenly she heard the sound of a throaty-voiced woman saying the Dow Jones futures were way up, unusual considering the start of fall was known to be a brutal time for the equity markets. But that didn't make any sense. Final exams were always in the spring. So why was this woman talking about September in her news report?

Evie's panic gave way to confusion, and then after a treacherously long two minutes of delirium, to clarity. She located her hand, buried under the pillow below her head. It was tingling from lack of blood flow. The ringing she had heard was her alarm clock, which after five minutes of growing increasingly loud automatically switched to the local news.

It was all a dream. What a relief not to fail senior English. In reality she got an A in that cla.s.s and earned a five on her AP exam, all thanks to her profound exposition on Heart of Darkness. But seeing Jack, even in her subconscious, still left her feeling squeamish. She hadn't seen his face so vividly since the night they broke up, which was now almost a year ago. The Facebook images of him-the ones where she saw him as a grinning groom-were grainy at best. But his real face, with its shadowy cheekbones and ski-accident scar that divided one of his eyebrows in half, appeared to her in her slumber. And he looked good, with his beautiful bride reimagined as a juicy bird. The turkey from Turkey.

There was no need to disinter Freud, Evie thought as she hoisted herself out of bed. She was headed back to high school that day for her interview with the Brighton headmaster, Thomas Thane, an alumnus of the school and a celebrated Shakespeare scholar. The part with Jack appearing as her teacher-grading her, testing her, making her feel small, that was just another REM-sleep twist on reality.

She dressed quickly in a conservative wrap dress with a subtle checked pattern, downed a fistful of oatmeal squares cereal, and hailed a taxi outside her building. Her cell phone rang as she was giving the cabdriver Brighton's address.

"Hi, Trace. I'm on my way to the interview."

"I know. Just wanted to wish you luck."

"Thanks, I'm feeling okay. Can't imagine what he's going to ask me. I hardly think my hostile takeover experience will be relevant."

Evie felt surprisingly nostalgic referencing her Baker Smith work. She wondered if Marianne liked the new a.s.sociate she was working for more than Evie and if the Calico merger had been derailed by the commodities crisis in Venezuela. When Annie last called, Evie had prodded her for office gossip but didn't get much in response. ("Haven't pa.s.sed by Marianne's station lately. . . . No idea if any a.s.sociates in the California office made partner. . . . The frozen yogurt machine has been broken for two whole weeks and n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n.") A similar call to Pierce, her fellow Gossip Girlaficionado from the office, yielded nothing of note. ("Sorry, Evie, the boss-man is five feet away. . . . Can't dish now.") "Oh, it'll be fine," Tracy rea.s.sured her. "The headmaster's nickname is Headmaster Tame because he's a softie."

"Well that's good for me, I guess. I'll call you after," Evie said.

"Wait, there's one thing. I'm sure it won't come up, but if it does, I wouldn't really mention the whole off-the-web thing at the interview."

"Yeah, I can see where that might be a problem if I have to do legal research." Evie had already fretted about how she would maintain her web celibacy with a job. She vowed to only use the Internet for work if it proved absolutely necessary. If so much as a tempting pop-up ad appeared, she would log off and figure out how to be a lawyer the old-school way.

"There's that, and Brighton's whole shtick is technological preparedness. They host these lectures like 'Teach Your Kids to Google a Bright Future' and 'Is Your Child the Next Mark Zuckerberg?' I think maybe it's so the parents don't feel bad that they themselves are always checking their phones."

"Yikes."

"Yep. The administration even suggests that faculty members familiarize themselves with the cla.s.s list, which I'm pretty sure means look up the parents. Sounds awful, I know. But if it weren't for a few really generous families the school wouldn't be able to give out any financial aid. I wish I could siphon some of the money for my New Orleans kids."

Evie recalled Jerome and Caroline making a sizable donation to some prestigious nursery school so that Grace could join the other three-foot t.i.tans sucking on silver spoons. And that was just for Finger Painting 101. Evie couldn't imagine the stakes for high school.

"Got it. I'm sure it won't come up anyway. I'll call you after I'm out or maybe swing by your cla.s.sroom. Thanks again for setting this up."

Evie tossed her phone into her purse and focused her eyes on the TV in the back of the taxi, a marvelous enhancement to traveling around the often gridlocked Manhattan. On the screen she saw a half-naked perky news anchor with a covetous silky bob being manhandled by a grandfatherly figure in a white coat. She leaned over to the screen to turn up the volume, grateful for the distraction.

"And so, you take your hands just like this," the man in the white coat said, extending two fingers like he was directing traffic at an airport, "and work your way around the breast in a clockwise fashion, feeling for any new swelling or lumps. If you prefer, you can do a wedge or up-and-down motion. This should only take you one full minute in the shower."

The anchor kept her plastic smile firm while the old man, who Evie determined with relief was a doctor, squeezed her covered-only-by-a-lace-bra b.r.e.a.s.t.s on national television.

"Thank you, Dr. Liman. That was very informative." She paused to b.u.t.ton up her red blouse. Her coanchor, a dapper man about ten years her senior with a thick coat of silver hair, leaned into the camera with a coy smile.

"Of course, JoAnne, all the better if you have someone at home who can do the exam for you." The anchors chuckled in unison while the doctor, clearly not used to being on camera, stood awkwardly, watching the banter. Evie turned off the television, thinking she really should call the physician that Dr. Gold recommended for a proper checkup.

Brighton-Montgomery was located on the northern tip of the Upper East Side, where Tracy had told her most of the students hailed from. It was housed in a handsome redbrick building with an American flag and another flag, gold and navy blue bearing a lion's face, hanging from the fourth floor. The marble-stepped entrance to the school was framed by intricate wrought-iron railings, which she admired as she climbed the steps. The building looked more like an emba.s.sy than a high school.

Cla.s.s must have been in session because she only saw one or two students ambling in the hallway. At the front office the headmaster's a.s.sistant, a barely legal woman named Keli ("with an i!" she proudly declared), greeted Evie. She explained that Headmaster Thane was called away unexpectedly to a lunch with an "esteemed" alumnus who was in town from Paris, so she would be conducting the interview. The collage of kitten photos on Keli's computer screen and her rampant use of "like" relaxed Evie's nerves considerably. After studying her resume for a minute, Keli asked a few softball questions about her work style and what excited her about the Brighton job.

After the interview concluded, Evie lingered outside the building, debating whether to wait for Tracy's lunch break. She leisurely traced her fingertips on the cool metal of the railing, acclimating to the feel of the wrought iron. Everything at Baker Smith was new and modern, with the best in Italian furniture and sleek office equipment, but it felt more satisfying to be surrounded by something historical. When a few teachers burst through the front door and eyed her with a suspicious curiosity, Evie moved on. She alighted the steps and took a left around the corner, heading north on Lexington.

The neighborhood deteriorated quickly and soon Evie was surrounded by run-down bodegas and housing projects. The streets were littered with soda cans and torn candy wrappers that whirled around the scrawny ankles of the kids dancing to somebody's beat-up stereo. New York City was crazy like that-a few blocks in any given direction could transport you from the lap of luxury to someplace downright d.i.c.kensian.

Evie wondered if Brighton students did any community outreach. If not, maybe she could start a buddy program-matching uppercla.s.smen with elementary school children who lived just a stone's throw from Brighton's hallowed halls. At Baker Smith, Evie had done pro bono work for nonprofit organizations, helping them obtain tax-exempt status and reviewing their leases and contracts. It was definitely one of the more gratifying aspects of her job, and something she genuinely missed. When she left, she was in the midst of helping a homeless women's shelter in Battery Park City file a request for more government aid. She asked Julia to take over the project for her, and hoped she had been more successful than Evie at battling the bureaucratic red tape. The shelter was probably better off with Julia. Not only would they get her attentive legal work, but she'd probably also drop off cherry scones for the residents on the weekends.

The organizational charter for the Brighton mentoring program was already taking shape in her mind when her phone rang. She hoped it was Tracy so she could share the idea with her, but it was Paul. Her impulse for altruism would have to wait.

"h.e.l.lo there Miss MIA," Paul chirped. "So nice to actually have some contact with you."

"And with you, my friend," she responded, laughing. She had been lazy about making plans recently, paradoxically finding herself less motivated to do so now that she had more time on her hands. When she was working, each dollop of free time was like a gift that had to be enjoyed to the fullest. Now that she could be social whenever she wanted, there was less pressure to reach out to friends.

"How's life among the Amish treating you? I sent out some racy photos from our jaunt to Ibiza and when I didn't get a snide comment back from you, I figured you were still unplugged."

She sighed into the phone. "Yep, still off the web. It's been okay. Boring, therapeutic, isolating, cathartic. I've got mixed feelings."

"Well, I admire your discipline. What's new with you?"

"Well, if you can believe it, I'm possibly going to be working at Brighton. I'm worried about Tracy though because-"

"I know, her cervix. She texted me from the doctor's office." Evie couldn't deny the jealousy she felt hearing that Paul was being kept up to date in real time.

"She seems to be taking it in stride, though. Anyway, my other news is that my grandmother's sick. My father's mom, Bette. You know the one I'm really close to that I visit in Florida and who comes up to see me every year. She has breast cancer." The words felt heavy on her tongue, like mola.s.ses.

"Oh sweetheart. I'm so sorry. Can Marco and I do anything for you?"

She paused before responding. Did she need anything? Maybe some company. The time when reality TV marathons could keep her warm at night had come and gone.

"Well, maybe we can all go out to dinner. I'd love to take my mind off of things."

"Done and done. I was actually calling to schedule some plans with you. Marco and I miss you. Next week's out because I need to go to L.A. for work. Some tart on the Disney Channel was caught doing cocaine in the bathroom of her little sister's elementary school in Beverly Hills. My boss thinks we should have her become a spokesperson for abstinence or something until the dust settles. No pun intended."

"Sounds scandalous. I can't wait for dinner to hear more." Evie reveled in the gossip. Without Perez Hilton and The Superficial, her only dose of Hollywood drama came from the magazines lying around her sketchy nail salon, which she was patronizing less and less since Caroline had exposed her to the real deal at the Plaza.

"But remember, I am computer-less these days. You'll need to pick up the phone again to make plans. Don't forget."

"Understood. You're living under a rock. I got it. Oh, and Evie, we have big news to tell you when I get back. Huge."

"Let me guess. You saw Hugh Jackman in a gay club, confirming what you claim to always have known."

"Wrong! This news, if you can imagine, is even bigger. But I want to tell you in person."

"Okay-well I'm looking forward to dinner now more than ever. Make sure to call me. No e-mail!"

"Yes, weirdo. I will call you. And Evie, your grandma is going to be just fine. Don't worry."

She decided to walk all the way home from Brighton, letting Paul's plat.i.tude soothe her for the time being. The sun shone brightly and the air was dry and cool. Evie cherished the clarity in the atmosphere. Central Park, as usual, was overflowing on a nice day-filled with New Yorkers eager to see sunlight reflecting on gra.s.s instead of bouncing off concrete. She pa.s.sed a noisy playground on the east side of the park and paused to watch the schoolchildren and toddlers run amok gleefully. She loved the cadence of their laughter. The shrieks, the chortles and the squeals. They were all so pure.

Evie focused her eyes on a set of identical towheaded girls climbing up a slide. The girls' mother, who looked to be about her age, stood about ten feet away from them. She, chicly clad in an all-ivory ensemble and leaning cautiously against a metal fence, was gripping her PDA tightly, like it was a bomb that might explode if she stopped transmitting bodily warmth to it. She only looked up once to see her kids, presumably to check that they hadn't been kidnapped while she was busy uploading photos of them to Instagram. Ahh, the irony.

"Mom, look at London," one of the twins yelped. "She's sitting backward!"

The mom looked up for a millisecond and gave her daughter a smile that utilized the minimum number of cheek muscles necessary to lift the corners of her mouth upward.

"Good job, honey," she said. If she'd actually been listening, she would have told her daughter to face forward and quit horsing around. Instead, she returned to her electronic coc.o.o.n, oblivious to Evie's disdainful stares.

Evie was grateful she was raised before the era of 24/7 connectedness. Fran's biggest indulgence was to bring along a House and Garden to flip through while Evie played at her feet in the sandbox. Sometimes Evie would grab the magazine from her, using the pictures to inspire her imaginative sandcastles. Fran was a working mother, but when she was with Evie she was truly off-duty. If she ever had children, Evie vowed to devote herself to them, and not waste the precious early years pounding away on her phone. Caroline would surely scold her for such sanctimonious thinking. "Wait until you sit on the floor for two hours playing princess," she would say. But Evie liked to think she'd be able to put down her computer if her children needed her, especially if they were precipitously dangling from monkey bars by their kneecaps like the twins she was watching were doing now.

Back home in her apartment, Evie had flopped onto her couch and flipped on the TV, expecting a quiet night, when her phone rang. The number was marked private.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Evie, hi, this is Edward Gold calling. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

"No, no, I'm just watching TV," Evie said. "Is Bette okay?"

"Oh, yes, she's fine. Status quo. I'm out of the office this week and wanted to check in on you and your family. Make sure you don't have any questions for me," Gold said.

"We're good, I mean I'm good," Evie said. "The break before the surgery gives us time to rest I guess. Then the hard part starts, huh?"

"Maybe. Try to stay optimistic. Anyway, you have my number if you need me. I'll let you get back to your show," he said.

"Oh, it's fine. It's just Antiques Roadshow. I'm kind of addicted," Evie said.

"I love that show. Have you seen p.a.w.n Stars?"

"Every episode."

"So what's the item? On Antiques?"

"Right now it's a hideous vase that some guy is claiming was pa.s.sed down to him by his great-great-grandmother who was one of Peter the Great's mistresses."

"And what do you think?"

"Well, I know it's a reproduction. But that's because I've seen this one. I'm not that clever," Evie said, laughing into the phone.

"Hang on, let me flip it on too. Let's see if I'm any good."

Evie heard some rustling and then the echo of the TV show she was watching. What in the world was going on?

"Now that is ugly," Gold said, referring to a piano being wheeled out that might have come from Liberace's collection.

"You don't like rhinestones on musical instruments?"

"Only on my medical instruments."

"Very funny. So what do you think? About the piano?"

"I'm going to say it's authentic. No one would ever reproduce something so awful. Am I right?"

"Yes!" Evie exclaimed. "Very good. You have experience with this." She settled herself more deeply into her couch, hoping they'd continue to watch the show together.

"I'm just very smart," Gold replied deadpan. "But actually I have to hang up. My daughter just woke up crying. Enjoy Antiques Roadshow, Evie. Fill me in on the rest when I see you in a few weeks."

"Okay, bye," Evie said, and hung up disappointed. Where was he calling from? She had a.s.sumed he was calling her poolside, but with a crying kid in the next room and Antiques Roadshow at his fingertips, Evie surmised his vacation was far less exotic.

Chapter 10.

"Here goes nothing," Evie said aloud as she ambled to her coffeemaker. At least she legitimately needed the caffeine boost this morning. It was her first day at Brighton. True to his a.s.sistant's word, Headmaster Thane had indeed called her just hours after her interview with a few questions and an on-the-spot offer for the position, which he said would remain hers until they hired permanent counsel, a process that could take up to six months.

The school was in the midst of purchasing the adjacent two-story building to create a new computer lab and student lounge, and she would be involved in the contract negotiations. Real estate wasn't her area of expertise, but after eight years of handling multibillion-dollar transactions, the project didn't seem particularly daunting, especially since she'd have outside counsel to call upon.