“So, before we take you all over to the playroom, does anyone have a question they would like to ask? I want to make sure everyone feels comfortable with the plan and the adventure we are all about to have.”
Amani raises his hand.
“Yes, Amani?”
“Ummm, when you’re playing on the slide and it’s cold outside does your pee pee tickle?”
And just like that, in thirteen years of doing this job I can still be asked a question I would have never thought of in a million years.
“Why yes it does, Amani. It really does.” It’s always best not to argue with a five-year-old and I’m pretty sure none of these parents are looking for me to launch into an anatomy lesson. Amani seems satisfied with my answer.
As I lead the line of kids from the foyer over one building to the playroom I feel a small hand slip into mine. I look down and see Ruby gazing up at me. I smile, and we hold hands in silence the rest of the way to make sure everyone concentrates on walking. I haven’t had a broken bone or a lawsuit at an admission visit date yet and I’m not about to start now.
When we get in the room, I tell all the kids to take off their jackets and hang them on the hooks. Roan quietly shuts the door, not wanting to startle the kids into thinking they have been locked in a kid clink. Ruby refuses to let go of my hand. She pulls two times on it and wiggles the index finger of her free hand signaling me to bend down. “I don’t have a mommy.” I take a moment to process this information. I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
“There’s another thing we have in common. We both think thecolor Ruby is beautiful, and I don’t have a mommy, either.” Ruby’s eyes light up with surprise.
“Is your mommy up in the clouds watching you, too?” Ruby’s same index finger points to the ceiling.
“Your mommy gets to watch you every minute of every day? That’s a lucky mommy.” I’m willing tears not to start trickling.
“That’s what my daddy says, too, but I sure wish my mommy could be here to watch me.”
“I bet she wishes that, too, baby. Wouldn’t she be so proud to see you being a big girl at a school visit date?”
“My mommy and daddy used to make funny noises in their bedroom. Did your mommy and daddy do that?”
“Yes, at some point they certainly did.”
“Help, Josie, we got a runner!” Roan yells and dashes through a now-open playroom door. For all his baby chub, Harrison certainly is lightning-fast.
After the visit, I get an almond milk chai latte from the Starbucks at the opposite end of Laurel Village from Peet’s Coffee. Groceries are in the car and it’s 3:08. I’m just going to do a quick walk by the oversized windows of Peet’s Coffee on my way to the Wells Fargo cash machine next door. I legitimately need cash, sort of. Etta better be well dressed, no leotards. I’m hoping Aunt Viv was home to give her a once-over.
I pull a baseball hat from my purse and put on my oversized sunglasses. A believable disguise for a sunny day. I pick up the pace as I near Peet’s, ready to move swiftly but staring with laser focus. Turns out I don’t have to look too hard. Etta is sitting at the window counter with a white man much older than she, who I assume is doing the interview. I guess, for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I thought a black alumnus would interview Etta. If for no other reason than to prove that it’s not only white folks or black athletes who end up at Duke. I crouch down quickly so I’m below Etta’s eyesight level,but I’m intrigued by who this older gentleman is. I back up, cross California Street, walk one block down toward the Jewish Community Center, then cross back over to the same side of the street as Peet’s so I can see Etta in her interview from the opposite view. As I approach the front door to the coffee shop I rip off my glasses in disbelief. Etta, is indeed having coffee with an older gentleman—JEAN GEORGES! I don’t even take a momentary pause to cool down the mom fire that has been lit. I throw open the door and in six swift steps I’m standing between Etta and Jean Georges, surprisingly unable to say anything I’m so angry.
“Josie,” Jean Georges says in a measured, nonplussed tone. Etta ceases to blink.
“I know why you’re here, Etta, or at least I thought I did. What I don’t know is why you’re here with Jean Georges. What I’m hoping is that it’s mere coincidence you two ran into each other here, at the exact time you’re supposed to be having an interview for Duke. And the second part of that story best be that your interviewer texted and he’s running late. Is that what you want to tell me, Etta?” I’m flexing my hands together behind my back to keep my fingers from wringing Etta’s neck.
“Mama, why are you here?!?!?” Etta whines through clenched teeth.
“I was at Cal-Mart picking up some groceries for Aunt Viv, as I promised her I would do. And as you know, Bordelon women follow through on their promises to their family members. And then I realized I needed some cash.” I’m definitely relieved I had my cover story worked out beforehand. It holds serious weight in the middle of this sting operation. “So tell me, is your interviewer early or late?” Silence.
“EARLY OR LATE, ROSETTA FAYE BORDELON?”
“There’s no interview.” Etta says, barely audible, not meeting my eyes.
“Come again? ‘There’s no interview,’ why not?”
“I canceled it.” I take a big, deep breath at this news I was not expecting from my rule-following, perfection-seeking daughter. Peet’s is a small coffee shop with not-so-great acoustics, so if I lose my shit and start screaming it will certainly reverberate off the walls.
“You better pray to God that I think the reason you canceled that interview is a good one. You have ten seconds to convince me. Go.”
“I wanted to review my performance choices for my Juilliard audition with Director Martin and this was the only time he could do it this week.”
I hold my hand up and take a step back. “I need a moment to process without any more information input.” Silence hangs in the air, again. “Just so I’m perfectly clear, there is no Duke interview.”
“Umm-hum.”
