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  Our fights were always bilingual; I would shout at him in English since my French vocabulary in the fields of economics, civics, human rights, and any other serious subject was lacking, and Robert would yell back at me in French. While his vocabulary in English was admittedly impressive, his accent was an embarrassment, a problem he never rectified and, in fact, didn’t seem to be aware of, even as an adult. In all the years we played, fought, drank, and laughed together, I never once made fun of how terrible Robert’s pronunciation was, while he regularly pointed out my flaws in every conceivable category.

  After we got to Robert’s apartment, Vicki caught my eye when his back was turned and mouthed the words, “He is so hot,” and she pointed—it seemed—at his ass.

  “I am going to prepare for you a fabulous dinner,” he promised and proceeded to whip up steamed mussels, sautéed asparagus, and potatoes au gratin with what seemed like no effort at all. “When you are with me in Paris, you are in very good hands,” he said. Vicki smiled.

  As we sat down to eat, Robert walked behind my chair to fill my wineglass, giving my shoulder a squeeze, forgetting his strength and gripping way too hard. His affection for me always came out in a brutal, physical way. He would give me a hug, knocking the wind out of me, bumping his head into mine accidentally and getting my hair caught on the clasp of his wristwatch. A hug with Robert often ended with me hollering in pain. For a suave, handsome guy, he could be astonishingly cloddish and lumbering, like he was my littermate in a family of big-pawed, uncoordinated Mastiff puppies.

  Perhaps to counter his unchecked, unconditional attachment to me, he constantly made little judgmental remarks in a “we’re so close I can say this to you” kind of way, and he was busy making them that night. We drank wine and told him stories about our summer, the time we this and the time we that: running out of money in Seville (“Chloe darling, will you always be my sad, destitute little cousin?”), dancing at a club until four in the morning (“I hope you can dance better than Chloe—she’s quite embarrassing!”), giving our last euros away to a homeless woman we met on a train (“Chloe will never learn what a waste eeet eees to try to help those people.”). I entertained him with a long story of an adorable boy in Portugal who fell in love with Vicki and followed us around for three days, offering to carry our bags or buy us dinner, anything to be near her. Vicki was modest and said, “How do you know it was me? Maybe he was in love with you.”

  “No, Vicki. I was there. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Then it was both of us,” she insisted.

  “I don’t think so,” Robert interjected. “I’m sure eeet was you, Vicki. Chloe doesn’t have that sex appeal, that mystique that you have eeen abundance. Sheeeez cute but not beautiful. She could never drive a man wild.”

  “Fuck you, dude,” I responded.

  “What?” he asked. “We work with what we have, no?”

  He had a harshness, a mean streak that he cleverly combined with an endearing smile and a boyish laugh, making me wish I were ten again so that I could still hit him.

  “He’s only teasing you,” Vicki said, laughing.

  “Really?” I asked. “Because it seems to me like he’s picking a fight.”

  With no warning, he leaned in to hug me, accidentally elbowing me in the cheek as he reached his arm around me.

  “There eees no person in theees world I would rather argue with than Chloe,” Robert told Vicki, and then he added, in a faux whisper, “and we all know she eees an expert at concocting an argument out of theeen air.”

  I threw up my hands. “Seriously? I’m just sitting here. You’re the one starting a fight.”

  “Perhaps in theees instance. Pardon. But don’t be angry with me; you know I love you exactly as you are.”

  Sometime after midnight, we decided to go to sleep, since Vicki and I were flying back home the next morning.

  “I inseeest you have my bed,” Robert graciously offered. “You are my guests, and I will be very comfortable on the sofa.”

  Noises woke me up at around two, and I realized that Vicki was no longer with me. I could hear the two of them, sitting on the couch, talking quietly and laughing. It seemed ridiculous to feel hurt, but I did. Vicki was being disloyal, and Robert was stealing my friend. They had left me out, and I didn’t like it.

  I sulked over on my side of the apartment, straining to hear what I was missing, until I realized they were making out. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and faked sleep, pulling the thin blanket over my head and stopping up my ears, wishing I were anywhere other than in this nightmare.

  But in the morning, in the rush of packing and calling a cab, I got over it. Maybe Vicki couldn’t sleep, and there was no crime in hooking up with someone. Neither she nor I ever mentioned it, and I put the whole thing out of my head.

  And later? When Kate and Robert started seeing each other? I never said a word about the one-night stand in Paris. I wasn’t supposed to know, after all, and why was it my place to tell Kate? But it was one more thing that needled away at me. What if I had told Kate that Vicki had been with him first? What if I had been more honest about Robert’s glaring flaws? What if I had told her that when he called me before she left for Paris, he told me all about the beautiful girl he’d met at a party, whispering because she was still asleep in his bed? At night, thoughts like these would spin through my head, keeping me from sleeping. What if I? What if I? What if I?

  Maybe the good-looking psychiatrist’s diagnosis was right; maybe I was egotistical.

  I met the third Internet guy, a dental school student who was creepy and tried to make out with me right there in the coffee shop. I admired the enthusiasm but his breath was terrible. A dentist with bad breath.

  Besides, I couldn’t stop thinking about the handsome psychiatrist, and I was hoping to find a way to get them together casually. I took a chance and called him.

  “Kate and I have plans to meet for drinks next week. What if you just happened to be there? I could introduce you to her.” I was running a bath, straining to hear him over the sound of water pouring into the tub. My plan was that George would come home from work and find me there, a Valentine’s Day surprise.

  “But who am I at the bar with?” he asked. “I’m some creepy alcoholic drinking alone?”

  “You could go with a friend.”

  “And then ditch him?”

  “You’re overthinking this,” I said, lighting a few candles and dimming the lights. “By the way, you were right. I figured you deserve to know.”

  “Oh, good. Right about what?”

  “Vicki’s sleeping with my cousin, just like you said. I feel stupid that I didn’t figure it out on my own.”

  “I’m sure you would have.”

  “Not necessarily.” I held the phone, waiting for him to say something, looking around at the romantic scene I was creating in the bathroom. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” I said. “Do you have a valentine? I’m not trying to be a jerk.”

  “We probably won’t like each other.”

  “You don’t like smart, beautiful women? It’s not like you have time to find anyone on your own.”

  “Obviously, but—”

  “Stop—you’ll thank me for this someday. How about I’ll meet up with Kate at her place, and you can just casually run into us.” I added bubble bath and started taking off my clothes. The water turned blue.

  “The timing won’t be easy,” he said.

  “Whatever, so you’ll circle the block a few times.”

  “Fine.”

  I gave him the address, and there was silence again on the other end.

  “Hello?” I asked loudly.

  “My address.”

  “I can’t hear you.” I turned off the water and tried again. “What?”

  “You just said my address.”

  “How would I know your address?” I asked.

  “You stalked me? I don’t know.”

  “I’m not a stalker.”

  “You go
ogled me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s your friend’s address?” he asked. “What apartment number?”

  “5C.”

  He groaned. “Oh God, forget it.”

  “You know her?” I asked. “You know Kate?”

  “I’m 4C. Of course I know her.”

  “Kate? Kate Pearson—lives in your building?”

  “Yes, and she hates me. She stomps around in her apartment at all hours, doing God knows what. It’s like fucking Riverdance up there.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “And when I complain, she gets louder. She’s the worst neighbor, so inconsiderate.”

  “She’s spacey maybe, in an absentminded professor way, but she’s not inconsiderate.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier to sleep.”

  “Wait a minute—she works all the time,” I said. I wasn’t ready to give up. “I doubt she’s throwing any huge parties.”

  “That may be,” he admitted, “but she’s capable of making plenty of obnoxious noises all by herself, believe me.”

  “Listen to you—you sound so hostile!” I told him. “Maybe she’d like you if you tried to be friendly. Have you ever done one kind, neighborly thing for her?”

  “I’m perfectly friendly. She’s not a nice person.”

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “It’s irrelevant, Chloe. She hates my guts. Okay? But thanks anyway.”

  There went my whole plan. I had stumbled upon more conflict when all I wanted was harmony. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day. I drained the tub, put my clothes back on, and blew out the candles.

  I sent Kate a giant Valentine’s balloon bouquet to make up for it.

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  To: Angela

  From: Nancy

  Subject: No worries!

  * * *

  Hi there,

  Huge congrats re: your new baby!! And please don’t worry that you had to cancel our plans with your sister. I did get a chance to meet her the day we were at Hudson. She gave an opening presentation about the school and took us on a marvelous tour of the building—super-informative for Gus. Also I think she must have pulled some strings because we got to interview with the head of Admissions himself. Not that it helped because Sam and I managed to screw it up completely, but I will write to thank her anyway.

  Since our Hudson visit, it’s been a whirlwind. We toured Dalton, Trinity, Collegiate, Trevor, and Graylon, and it seems as though they all went fairly well, but who knows if he’ll actually get accepted anywhere. At each school I watched Gus walk off with the interviewer, and I tried to imagine what in the world they were going to go talk about for thirty minutes. It’s so weird when you realize that your kid is an actual person, and you suddenly think, “Who is that?”

  Turns out, Gus fell in love with Graylon, so fingers crossed because we’ll be finding out very soon! To be perfectly honest, I know he won’t get into Hudson after our disastrous interview, so it’s good that he prefers another school. Graylon has a beautiful, renovated building, and it’s very artsy and nurturing—the complete opposite of Hudson in every way.

  I won’t be at yoga for a while. I’m taking a trip to L.A. with my husband for ten days—first time in years we’ve gone away together. Oddly enough, muddling through the admissions season has somehow been good for us—it got us talking. Sure didn’t see that coming.

  Congrats again on baby #2. Personally, I can’t imagine.

  Nancy

  Kate missed her apartment. She, Maureen, and Henry worked long hours, reading through every file and preparing to discuss them in committee. One folder took Kate half an hour at least, and there were hundreds of them, packed tightly together in long file drawers that ran the full length of the admissions department back wall. February was turning out to be awful, even worse than January. It was dark when Kate got to work every morning, and dark when she left to go home at night. The dark time, indeed.

  “When will it get better?” she asked Maureen. “I need to get a haircut. I need to buy groceries. I need to see my sister.”

  “You can catch up on all of that in June.”

  “I miss daylight,” Kate said. “I want a window.”

  “Quit whining,” Maureen said. She looked up at the bright red and pink balloons filling Kate’s office. Albert had walked the giant helium bouquet from the front desk to the admissions area, awkwardly steering the balloons down the hall and around corners, reminding Kate of her dog walking days.

  “Anything you need to tell me?” Maureen asked, reaching for a string and bringing down one of the balloons to her level. “I’m very tolerant.”

  “She’s just a friend.”

  “If you say so,” she said, walking out of the office. “Let me know when she sends you lingerie. Come on, time for committee. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Kate wasn’t sure what hunger had to do with it until she walked into the conference room and saw a buffet table piled up with snacks, chips, and chocolates mostly, but with a few grapes, celery sticks, and cheese cubes thrown in to mask the junkiness. The teachers who had been assigned to the admissions committee were already there, crowded around the food, piling it on their paper plates. The math teacher, Tim Mitchell, forgoing the individual plates, picked up several serving-size bowls of M&M’s and chips and moved them to the middle of the conference table for easier access.

  Maureen had a cartful of file folders parked behind her spot at the table, and she sat with her reading glasses low on the bridge of her nose, organizing her papers. Kate handed her a Diet Coke and a bowl of nacho cheese Doritos and sat down next to her. Maureen took the soda but pushed the chips into the middle of the table, saying, “Get those away from me, bitch, my skirt’s already unbuttoned.” She ate a handful of M&M’s instead.

  Kate took a look around the room, noting the cast of characters. Janice, the school head, was there of course. Kate didn’t know her well but had heard from Maureen that she was extremely opinionated and tended to slow the meetings down. Henry would see to it that every file got a thorough look, but he nevertheless would insist they keep things moving along at a reasonable clip. According to Maureen, things would get testy between them as Janice’s penchant for wasting time clashed with Henry’s need to get the job done.

  Coach Stafford was there, hoping there might be an athlete or two he could fight for. He never read any files in advance, Maureen had told her, but he would perk up as soon as he heard words like “all-star,” “trophy,” or “tall for his age.”

  The English department head, Susan Banter, sat with an enormous binder of notes she’d taken on all the files she’d read. Tim Mitchell, after transporting ample food from the buffet to his side of the table, rolled up his sleeves and settled into his chair as though he planned to feast there for days. Next to him was Dr. Chen, head of sciences (one of the teachers who drank way too much at the holiday party), and to her left was the sixth-grade history teacher.

  Henry, taking his place at the table, cleared his throat and welcomed them all to committee. He took a moment to explain the general procedures and to remind them that this was only the first of four meetings, each of which required their attendance. And then they got started with the files, beginning with the As.

  Annie Allsworth.

  “Annie has fabulous recommendations,” Henry said, “top ISEE scores in math, and she plays the flute. Kate wasn’t fond of her when she interviewed, but in terms of academic readiness, she’s a definite yes.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Janice suddenly said, “slow down.”

  “Here we go,” Maureen whispered to Kate. “That didn’t take long.”

  “I have a problem with the application essay Annie submitted
,” Janice explained.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Henry asked. “Apart from being snobby?”

  “That essay about her house in the Hamptons?” Janice said. “There’s no way she wrote it. It didn’t sound anything like a fifth-grader.”

  “Lucky kid,” Mr. Mitchell said. “I’d love to have a house in the Hamptons.”

  Maureen handed Henry the file. “There’s other evidence of her writing,” Henry said, looking through it. “She has high marks in English. Her ISEE essay was fine, and she certainly wrote that on her own.”

  “How do we know that?” Coach Stafford asked.

  “Because she wrote it at a testing site?” Ms. Banter said slowly.

  “Well, excuse me,” Coach Stafford said. “Just asking.”

  “I thought her ISEE essay was very simplistic,” Janice argued. “She may have written it on her own, but she was clearly just following a formula she’d been taught.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said, “and it was well-organized, and she used detailed examples.”

  “She could have delved a little deeper,” Ms. Banter said.

  “A lot deeper,” Janice added. “There was no originality of thought.”

  Kate tried not to get too excited to hear a bit of pushback against Annie’s application.