1:04 P.M.
LOLA
That’s what my first graders say. C U after school.
1:05 P.M.
Lola and I meet at Bloomingdale’s in the Westfield San Francisco Centre mall. If it’s a bust, then Nordstrom is right around the corner.
“Roan’s on call. He doesn’t want either of us to buy anything until we have snapped a picture, sent it to him, and he has given his blessing. And we can’t take a picture under the horrid fluorescent lights in the dressing room. He wants us to go out onto the sales floor and take it. He says more everyday light. Dressing room light is designed to highlight all tragic flaws as well as some we don’t even know we have.”
“I prefer to call them battle scars,” Lola says, craning her neck to see her backside in a three-way mirror.
“My life is littered with those,” I mumble as I attempt to slip on a dress that doesn’t even make it past my rack.
“Josie, when is your body going to drop like the rest of us? I should have had my babies in my early twenties, too. When number three is born at thirty-seven nothing is ever the same again,” Lola says, speaking more to her naked boobs than to me as she attempts to lift them up to her clavicle.
“Maybe if you stopped wearing your saggy nursing bra that is two years past its expiration date your girls would reclaim their proper place. Or at least they might with a little help from a new friend called underwire.”
“You’re so right. I’d forgotten bras are actually supposed to hook in the back, not the front. I suppose if my baby is old enough to crack open a can of Coke it’s time to buy some new bras. Do you think Roan wants final approval on my boulder holders, too?”
In less than two hours we manage to rebuild Lola’s lingerie collection and find her a black sheath dress that skims her thick thighs in all the right places and a pair of black strappy sandals with costume amethyst–encrusted buckles. I swear Roan had a tear in his eye he was so proud of Lola and her ability to purchase something that did not come in denim or was “boyfriend” cut.
Our water bottles of champagne have run dry and so has my patience for finding something for myself. I’m heading home empty-handed. As we walk past Saks Fifth Avenue to meet Nic and the boys for dinner at Sears Fine Foods (the deviled eggs are so delicious even Aunt Viv travels from the comfort of her own kitchen for them), my dress is waving at me from the window. Literally. A saleswoman taking the mannequin down stopped and waved at me as I walked by before she tucked the mannequin under her arm and headed to who knows where. But wherever she was heading she was carrying my dress because you know who looks good in orange? This woman. And I’m not talking the fruit or bad seventies shag carpet orange. I’m talking the orange that is so rich you’ve only seen it in pictures of Tibetan monks in their prayer robes or on jeweled crowns worn by royal families. Black women are who those orange dresses are made for. And when I sayblack womenI mean those like Aunt Viv and me—even with some white blood coursing through our DNA—our black runs so dark it absorbs all the colors of the rainbow and, damn, do we wear it well.
I peel off so quickly Lola’s suddenly standing solo on the corner. I knock on the glass from inside the Saks door as Lola startles then follows me in. My dress is heading up the escalator and we hop onto rescue it. I jump off at the top and sprint to catch the saleswoman. Those quick twitch track muscles occasionally still come in handy.
“Excuse me, miss, where are you taking that dress?” I ask, stopping the saleswoman by pulling the mannequin’s hand.
“Oh, hi, yes, um it’s time to switch out the windows and, frankly, we haven’t had the best luck selling this dress. It’s a rare woman who can pull it off. The cut is quite low in the front, it takes a certain décolletage.”
“Have you met this rare specimen of a woman who I am lucky enough to call my best friend?” Lola chimes in, reaching over my shoulders to cup my breasts. I smile because the best feeling in the world is having someone in your corner, telling the world you are perfect even when you both know you’re not. Though I could have done without the public fondling.
“Do you want to try it on?” the saleswoman asks hopefully.
“What size is it?”
“It’s a size four, but runs quite long.”
“Don’t need to try it on, I’ll take it.”
“Wait. Should we FaceTime Roan before you hand over your credit card?” Lola grabs my arm before I can reach for my wallet.
“No, I got this. I know magic when I see it.”
•••
Etta hands me a small envelope at dinner. I shove it in my purse to look at later. It’s probably from Poppy’s mom, who writes me thank-you notes for every minuscule nice thing we do for Poppy. Last month she wrote me four paragraphs on my limitless kindness after I had Poppy spend the weekend with us so her mom could go visit her sister’s new baby. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the girls watched too much Netflix and ate a whole tube of raw cookie dough between dance rehearsals.
Hopping in bed that night I remember the letter and grab it outof my purse. The off-white envelope has no writing on it, nor is there a picture on the front of the card. The handwriting inside is beautiful and I turn it over to see who it’s from before I read the message. Jean Georges. I pause and blow out a huge puff of air. Do I really want to end this successful day on a sour note? I know Etta will ask about the letter in the morning so better to ruin the end of this day than ruin the start of tomorrow.
Dear Josie,
Even though we both work in schools I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on what makes for an exceptional education. I can’t imagine a life without art. You can’t imagine a life without professional success. One thing we can agree on is that Etta is capable of both. Thank you for allowing her to audition for Juilliard and giving a life of art a chance. I’m hoping I’ve misjudged you all these years.
Jean Georges
I’m speechless. I flip the card over a few times looking to see if there’s a passive-aggressive, or plain ol’ aggressive, jab hiding somewhere. Nope. 97 percent sincerity, 3 percent shade. I certainly didn’t see that coming. Maybe the magic of my dress is already spreading good juju from the hanging bag in the corner.
