“I have an aunt from NOLA, too,” I offer, surprising myself by sharing another personal fact.
“Does she still live there?”
“No, she lives here now. With me, actually.”
“Did you ever visit her? That place is something special.”
“I knew it once, when I was a little girl, but I don’t remember anything really and I haven’t been back since.”
“That’s a shame. Ugh, gotta go, only time for a quick lunch today. Thank you guys for sharing your picnic table and for the good company.” Ty lays his hand over mine. I feel my heart rate slow a beat and my body heat rise. This has been one of the more enjoyable lunches I’ve had in a while. “Guess I’ll be seeing you at the parent interview that’s coming up in the next month or two, right? I’m not completely sure when it is. Daniel lays out the schedule, and I do what I’m told.”
“Yeah, I prefer to be told what to do, too.” Roan stands to shake Ty’s hand, shattering my moment of bliss. Good thing our business manager never leaves campus to witness things like Roan’s half professional, half flirtatious, 100 percent unscrupulous moves. This is an HR disaster in the making.
“Bye, Josie. Good to see you, Roan.” Ty grabs his sandwich basketand looks around the grounds for a garbage can. This handsome man even picks up after himself. I give him a quick wave and then I watch Roan watch Ty walk away. He looks like a pointer dog on the brink of chasing his hunt.
“Stand down, soldier.” I pull Roan back onto the bench and hold him there. I pop another fake fry into my mouth which, admittedly, tastes pretty good and I, too, watch Golden Boy walk away, unable to avert my gaze.
SEVEN
ETTA
I’m catching a ride with Poppy. Don’t 4get 2 bring leg warmers 4 after dance, don’t want to pull hammy. Tell Lola hey. Don’t be late. Again.
3:18 P.M.
LOLA
Bruce Lee not feeling it today. Please don’t drink alone. Not a good look. Lo
3:20 P.M.
Damn. Etta’s got a ride to dance and Lola’s ditching our Tuesday date. Now I have no excuse to avoid building the applicant database, a director of admission’s Mount Everest.
I clean out my junk mail, junk drawer, and junk food cabinet. I fluff the pillows on my meet-and-greet chairs, I check the paper in the printer, and I settle into a half-full bag of chocolate pretzels. Istare at the water stain on my ceiling that I think is growing, but I’m not sure. I admire my black patent strappy flats I got for a steal off Gilt. Not terribly comfortable, but damn do they look good. I check WeeScholars—ten more applications this afternoon. I give Facebook a quiet peruse, pretending to read postedNew York Timesarticles, but really hunting for upcoming flash sales.
I have an e-mail from Nan Gooding, Fairchild’s invisible head of school. Well, invisible if you are a student or one of her administrative staff. If you are a parent or alumnus with wads of cash and, even better, a penis, you have her undivided attention. Nan has yet to find any sense of professional responsibility to mentor the next generation of female school leaders. She would rather be the scarce silk scarf in an ocean of bow ties and blue blazers than share the waters with her own kind. Dealing with her is best done first thing in the morning, when her fresh eight ounces of coffee has kicked in. I give the first of the two e-mails a quick once-over and make a mental note to return to it tomorrow morning, if action or contact is truly necessary.
FROM:Nan Gooding
DATE:October 9, 2018
SUBJECT:Next year’s potential donor list
TO:Josephine Bordelon
Josie,
I would like the list of the 20 top potential donors that you have come across so far in this year’s applicant pool. As you are aware, this is important information for the head of school to have, so I would appreciate you prioritizing it. Please send it to Elsa, my assistant, when it’s ready.
Nan Gooding
HEAD OF SCHOOL
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
Nan never just says Elsa, but “Elsa, my assistant.” It’s become one word, or one name, Elsamyassistant, and a constant reminder to everyone in school that she’s the only one with a personal assistant. Nan is like that kid in every neighborhood who runs over to your front steps to let you know you just missed the ice cream man while devouring a Big Stick inches from your face. You hate that kid, but there is also a weird reverence for the things she has that you don’t.
Once I know all the students are off campus, I open my window for the cool air and consider playing something with an old-school bass line to get myself pumped to start building. The rain is coming down hard outside, so it feels more like a Macklemore kind of day than early Jackson Five—back before Michael started playing plastic-surgery roulette and Tito fancied himself a politician. I crank a littleGemini, still unsure if I’m okay with Macklemore flying solo without Ryan Lewis, and decide to check my e-mail one more time before truly diving into learning the new CRM system Fairchild installed over the summer. E-mail is the low-hanging fruit of professional accomplishment.
