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  She was off to a good start: Vicki had secured the possibility of a promising career. She had snagged a high-paying, kick-ass job at a New York marketing firm where she would be branding and rebranding businesses, creating hot, sophisticated campaigns that would define her clients’ images. The potential for upward mobility was sky-high, and Vicki intended to go straight up.

  Kate had something of both her parents and her sister in her; she was professorial but pretty. Appealing in a way that seemed effortless, accidental, which was part of her charm. Slightly disheveled, but able to pull it off just by opening her mouth and letting big words pop out. She could clean up when she needed to. Kate was trying to become some sort of expert on people, but mostly in the abstract. She studied past and present human behavior, examining how people live and why, observing their interactions more than she ever engaged in them. It got on Vicki’s nerves because what difference did any of that make? What could you actually do with it? Nothing. Kate was smart enough to go into business or finance or corporate law if she wanted to, but she was clearly a snob about professions with such a heavy commercial bent to them, as opposed to those with loftier goals, like the ones that aim to contribute to the collective knowledge of the human race. Kate and Chloe both seemed to turn their noses up at money. Money? What’s wrong with making money? Vicki wanted to yell at them. She’d never had any in her life and certainly didn’t feel bad about wanting to get her hands on some now.

  As every year of college passed, Vicki felt that she and Kate had a little less and a little less in common. In fact, all of senior year, Kate had been distant, committing herself entirely to scholarship rather than friendship, submitting a research paper called “Thinning the Hominid Herd” that was getting published in some geek journal that no one would ever read. The week of graduation, while everyone else was celebrating and socializing, Kate was mostly holed up in the library, preparing for her job as an assistant lab manager in the anthropology department at NYU where she would be helping a professor of human origins analyze fossil data he’d collected in Tanzania. Kate was smart, and so her habit of forgetting to brush the hair on the back of her head was something most people could easily overlook. Vicki couldn’t.

  After the Baccalaureate Concert, there was a supper served in Alumnae Hall. Kate, having skipped the concert, had lost track of time in the library and hadn’t shown up yet, but her family didn’t seem to mind: The lovely pregnant couple, Angela and Doug, sat together romantically at a corner table like they were vacationing at Sandals, and Kate’s parents had a marvelous time engaging the other students, asking them about their majors and recommending further pertinent reading. Vicki walked over to a table where they were now talking to her brother about their upcoming sabbatical; he had somehow managed to steer the conversation to the existence of topless women on Danish beaches (real or mythical?), and they were only too happy to give an impromptu lecture on body, shame, and taboo, a talk without the chalk. The upshot was: what’s wrong with showing a little tit in public? Vicki’s brother couldn’t agree more. Vicki was grateful; it was the first conversation the poor boy had had all week. It occurred to her that she hadn’t been very nice to him or her parents since they’d arrived, so she went back to sit with them, to make an effort.

  Her father hugged her and pulled her chair closer to him.

  “My Big City girl! I feel like I’m in a room full of lady celebrities,” he said. “The next Sarah Palin and Rachael Ray everywhere I look.”

  “They’re just people, Dad,” Vicki said.

  “Smart girls,” he said proudly.

  “Women.”

  “What?”

  “Women,” she said, “not girls.”

  “What’s the difference?” he asked.

  “If you ask me,” her mom said, “I’m looking at the next Ellen DeGeneres and Michelle Obama, and I don’t like it. And I’ve never seen so many Orientals.”

  “Asians. You want a glass of wine or something?” Vicki asked.

  “Goodness, no,” her mom said. “I’ve had two this week already.” She had changed into the blue dress, and Vicki saw that the skinny belt had a hard crease in it from being folded in the suitcase. The gold color was flaking off the buckle. It made Vicki sad.

  Chloe, on the other hand, sitting several tables away, was looking perfectly content, tipsy, and relaxed. Like Vicki and Kate, Chloe already had a job lined up in New York; she would be earning less than a living wage as the volunteer coordinator at an organization for the homeless. Chloe’s very elegant, stylish aunt had come all the way from France, and she and Chloe’s mom were having a tête-à-tête, taking advantage of being together, ignoring everybody else at the table. Chloe was wrapped up in conversation with her cousin Robert. Vicki knew him already, and she watched him closely, waiting for just the right moment to approach. She wondered how in the world those two were related. He was tall and eye-catching, while Chloe was mousey and modest. He was rich and leisurely, while Chloe was perpetually broke and committed to staying broke by choosing a career in social work. She involved herself in causes like picketing for universal health care, fighting for world peace and nuclear disarmament, and raising people out of poverty, while Robert seemed oblivious to anyone or anything outside his beautiful, aristocratic bubble.

  “Who’s that man with Chloe?” her mother asked. “He looks like a movie star.”

  “It’s her cousin,” Vicki said. “I met him in Paris.”

  “Paris!” her dad said. “Oooolala, kay sirrah sirrah.”

  Vicki tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t his fault he’d never been anywhere. “That’s not even French, Dad,” she told him.

  “It’s not? Well, what is it, then?”

  Italian? Spanish? Vicki realized she didn’t know.

  Just then Kate arrived, breathless, visibly trying to adjust from the quiet and solitude of the library to the demands of a noisy social gathering. She looked pretty, Vicki noticed. She’d braided her thick hair and put on makeup, and one could almost ignore the fact that she was wearing a backpack. Vicki watched as Chloe jumped up to drunk-hug her and then pointed to where her professor parents were sitting with Vicki’s brother, but Kate didn’t go to them right away. Instead she made a colossal mistake and simply stood there, looking out over the room, holding on to her backpack straps and bouncing up onto her toes. Chloe hesitated and then introduced her to her handsome cousin who had jetted in from France for the party.

  After graduation, Vicki, Chloe, and Kate moved to New York, and for about a year, life went swimmingly for all of them, until Kate fell to pieces. All Vicki could say was, it sure as hell wasn’t her fault, but somehow she found herself in the position of having to console Kate all the time, telling her, “There, there, everything will be okay,” passing her tissues while she boo-hooed all over the sofa, listening to her go on endlessly about how she had been wronged.

  Listening to other people’s problems wasn’t Vicki’s strength; she didn’t have the patience for it. So after a year of trying to help Kate rebound from her painful breakup, Vicki was happy to get to talk to her on the phone about something else for a change. An upcoming job interview was exactly the sort of topic Vicki preferred.

  “Wear something tasteful,” she said, “but don’t be afraid to show a little leg.”

  “So a skirt?” Kate asked. “Like the one I used to wear all the time?”

  “The denim one?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I thought maybe I could dress it up.”

  Vicki closed her eyes, trying to picture it, and smiled. Kate, for all her so-called brilliance, was just plain stupid about matters such as wardrobe dos and don’ts. “Absolutely not. You must have one black skirt in your closet. Do you have a blazer?”

  “I hate blazers.”

  “Wear your black skirt with heels, a blouse, and a cardigan. It’s frumpy but classic. Is the skirt short?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s fine, bu
t the heels can’t be too high or you’ll look whorish. And Kate, sweetie, you can’t go in rumpled. You’re not in college anymore, and you need to look presentable. Iron everything.”

  “I don’t own an iron.”

  Vicki didn’t say anything.

  “I’m so nervous,” Kate said. “He’s not going to like me.”

  “Stop it. Everyone likes you.” Vicki made her voice go up high to mask her irritation. Insecurities were so unattractive. “You need to be confident. Present yourself with an air of authority. Or fake it, anyway.”

  “Fake it?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think people can see right through me.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I won’t mean to, but I’ll project incompetence.”

  Vicki considered feigning a lost cell phone connection. “Kate,” she said firmly, “you can’t let one bad episode define who you are. If you want the job, march yourself right in there and take the job. Just give yourself a pep talk before you go into the interview. I always look at myself in the mirror and ask: Who am I? I am a brilliant, capable woman, or whatever it is I need to be, and watch it happen. It works.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Knock ’em dead. Gotta run, sweetie. Meeting.” And because she’d spent a week in Italy as a college student, she said, “Ciao,” before she hung up.

  Kate had never been to Italy but said “Ciao” back, just because.

  September

  The day I found out that Kate was taking the big, bold step of interviewing for a real job, George came home from work to find me creating a profile on a dating site. I wanted it to be clever, original, full of personality.

  “Are you leaving me?” he asked.

  “What should her favorite movie be? Something edgy. Unpredictable. Something with a minor cult following.”

  “Cute pictures,” he said, looking over my shoulder.

  “But do I use a group picture and have him guess? Or do I just use pictures of me?”

  “I’m confused.”

  “How does this sound?” I asked, and I read with expression: “ ‘Cute, lovable intellectual with a weakness for romance, looking forward to a brand-new chapter in life. I’m in search of a smart and steady companion to turn the pages with me. Plot to be determined, and . . .’ ”

  “What?” George stopped me, shaking his head. “No, not appealing and certainly not sexy.”

  “BookWorm. You don’t think that’s a clever handle?”

  “Worm? No, it’s a turnoff.”

  “BookTrollop would be better, I suppose?”

  “Under the circumstances, I don’t think any of this is a good idea.”

  “If she’s ready to look for a job, then she’s ready to go on a date, and since I’m the one who screwed up her personal life, I should be the one to fix it.”

  “To be honest, Chloe, I don’t get why you take responsibility for any of this. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I won’t be let off the hook until she gets her life back.”

  “Who says you’re on the hook?”

  “No one says it. But it’s what everyone’s thinking.”

  Kate was sitting on a park bench—a strange addition for an indoor lobby—waiting for someone to come fetch her. Her stomach made an impolite noise. The woman at the front desk was on the phone and unlikely to hear anything low and gurgly from such a distance, but the large, uniformed security guard sitting silently nearby, very still, eyes glued to the entrance, suddenly raised his eyebrows and glanced at Kate over his left shoulder. She looked away at the clock on the wall and waited, unable to do so calmly. Her skirt was too short, so she could feel her ass on the wood slats, and she tugged to give herself some fabric to sit on. She did tasks, every one of which was fake: looked for something in her bag, pushed random buttons on her cell phone, and blew her nose. She hoped this whole painful exercise would be over with as soon as possible so she could get back to her couch. No way she was going to get this job, so she sat there, trying to ignore the ambitious part of her that was really starting to want it.

  Two kids, resembling little Wall Street workers, walked by and Kate wondered if it was “dress like your parents” day, until she realized that they were in uniform and had to wear this formal attire every single day of their lives. Their behavior matched their outfits; they were serious, subdued, and orderly. Tomorrow’s investment bankers and corporate lawyers. The girl was carrying a laptop, telling the boy with her, “We have to meet with our group after school.”

  “Can’t,” said the boy, checking his phone. “I have an orthodontist appointment at three thirty.” He had a mouthful of braces, so Kate figured his story added up.

  “Before school tomorrow, then. I’ll do the PowerPoint tonight.”

  “I’ll have the graphs ready. Avery’s in charge of writing up the final argument.”

  “Good,” she said, clearly satisfied. “Good plan.”

  They went their separate ways, and Kate turned around to watch them leave, expecting them to shake hands or exchange business cards. Hard to believe a couple of kids could make her feel even more insecure and unprepared than she already did, but that’s how it was. Where’s my PowerPoint? What’s my plan? Do I need a final argument? She turned back around on the bench and was startled to find a tiny woman planted directly in front of her, blocking her from running out the door. It was the director of the school, a breathy, wound-up lady, who put out her hand, introduced herself, and asked only one question phrased as a statement: “I assume you like working with children?”

  It was yes or no, but Kate hesitated in spite of the simplicity of it. She honestly didn’t know. With no evidence to the contrary, she said, “Yes.” After all, she didn’t not like working with children. The woman stared at her intensely and said, “Wonderful. Call me Janice. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kate said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Wonderful,” Janice repeated. “If there’s time, we’ll chat again after you meet with Henry. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful?” Kate answered.

  “Come with me.” She walked Kate down the hall to introduce her to middle-aged, puppy-faced Mr. Bigley. He was in his office with his assistant, Maureen, who looked Kate up and down and asked her if it was hot outside. Why was everyone so old here? Kate wondered. Not a soul under forty. She started to feel outnumbered and anxious. While Janice mumbled things to Mr. Bigley, Maureen tucked one calf behind the other and fiddled with her skinny gold watchband. It pinched her wrist in a painful-looking way, and she was trying to squish her pinky under it as if to get some breathing room.

  “How many schools have you been in?” Maureen asked.

  Kate misunderstood the question and said, “Four,” referring to her own elementary, middle, and high schools plus college. “Almost five.”

  “Humph. You get around, don’t you?” Maureen said. “For someone so young.” Kate suddenly felt slutty. She wished her skirt were longer, her shoes flatter.

  “Are you nervous or something?”

  “A little,” Kate admitted.

  “It shows,” Maureen said. She stood up and stretched. “School year started, and you know what that means.”

  Kate hadn’t a clue. She nodded and looked at the art on the walls. It was terrible. Disturbing even. A portrait of an ugly, bulgy-eyed girl. A demented still life that looked stupid and out of proportion, like a child could have done it.

  “Our student work,” said Mr. Bigley, noticing Kate’s expression and mistaking it for admiration. “Fabulous, isn’t it? We have some real talent in this school.”

  “We’ll leave you two to talk,” Janice said. “I’ll be in my office,” and she walked out with Maureen, closing the door behind them. As Mr. Bigley swiveled his chair to face her, Kate noticed an oversize framed picture of the Colosseum in Rome on his desk. He had a rubber band in his hand that he stretched, wrapped around his fingers, and accidently shot ac
ross the room.

  “Whooops,” he said and settled back in his chair. “So tell me about yourself.”

  His request was so wide open, so broad in scope, that Kate felt completely untethered. Where to begin? And realizing that the interview was actually starting, she got even more flustered, which caused her to make a string of mistakes.

  “I should probably tell you right off the bat—I’ve never actually had a real job before, so I don’t really have many of what you might call skills. Well, no, maybe I do have some skills, even if I can’t, like, articulate them very well. For example, I’m trying to become a better judge of character, or at least better than I used to be. These days I don’t tend to like anyone.”

  Mr. Bigley looked confused.

  “What I mean is, I’m discriminating. But I’m not an asshole. I bet that’s a good quality for anyone working in admissions. Right?” Her armpits were going damp, and she glanced up to see the bulgy-eyed girl looking dumbstruck. “And in case you’re worried—I know that you shouldn’t say ‘asshole’ in front of kids or their parents. So I would never do that. In fact, I remember all the school rules—no swearing, no stealing, no biting. No bullying ’cause some kids take it to heart and”—here she put a finger gun to her head and made a credible shooting sound—“so no using words like ‘gay’ or ‘retard’ unless you actually mean gay or retarded and you’re being nice about it.” Shut up, she said to herself. Please shut up.

  She got a tissue and dabbed her cleavage discreetly. “Whew, it’s been a while since I wore something so buttoned up.” Mr. Bigley kept his poker face, hands clasped under his chin, and Kate felt an uncontrollable need to fill the silence. “By nature I’m more of a T-shirt kind of girl, but I can tuck in a grown-up blouse when I have to. Of course, in some cultures, women don’t wear shirts at all, so I guess in that regard I’m way ahead of the game.”