“I’m Ty,” says Dad #1 with a radio-smooth voice. He towers over his stumpy husband. Oh what I could do with this blond-haired, blue-eyed gabe (that’s what Roan calls a gay babe and I’ve culturally appropriated it). I immediately rename him Wonder Boy. Like, I wonder if he ever had an awkward stage. I wonder how Daniel snagged him. I wonder if he would let me feel his broad shoulders. I wonder, yet again, why the best-looking men in San Francisco are gay. If this guy were straight we’d make a fabulous salt-and-pepper set. God, I can’t wait for the admissions visit dates, when I get to take Polaroids of the families for their files. I want to pin Ty up on the “Admission’s Hall of Fame” bulletin board that hangs inside my office storage closet. I’ll just cut out Dad #2 and their offspring.
“It’sreallyquite nice to meet you.” I put my hand out to shake with Wonder Boy. His grip is firm and oozes confidence and safety. I internally shudder at my overemphasis onreally. Luckily I’m black, because beneath this ebony I’m blushing red velvet. His name already lost to my memory, I turn and smile again at Dad #2 as some sort of consolation prize. I’m sure he’s used to playing backup in this duo.
“What’s your rising kindergartener’s name?” I eke out, thrown off by Wonder Boy and his superhero bod. Roan shakes his head in disgust and leaves the conference room to greet other parents walking up the stairs. I need to steady my footing and reclaim my game.
“We have a daughter, Gracie,” Dad #2 says awkwardly, patting Ty on the shoulder and then quickly recoiling. Boom! There it is. The chink in the perfect family chain. Thirteen years in admissions and I can pick up on it with the first physical touch I spy between parents. It’s the weak smile, the lack of eye contact, the crossed arms. The dead giveaway: awkward affection.
Daniel, that’s Dad #2’s name, I remember now. I’m back from my momentary swoon. I know this story like the Aesop’s fables Aunt Viv recited to me every night as a child. Daniel desperately wants Gracie to go to private school; Wonder Boy does not. Wonder Boy went to public school and it did him just fine (which I can’t argue with, look at him); so if public school was good enough for him it will be good enough for his daughter. Daniel, however, wants this for Gracie. He wants more than what he had. The fine AND industrial arts; the four-year coding AND robotics program; the choice to take Mandarin, Arabic, Latin, or Spanish; the Pembrook Aquatics Center; AND the seventh-grade service trip to Nicaragua. Daniel wants to be a Fairchild family. Ty does not.
“Well, find your name tags, pick up any of the materials on the table that look interesting to you, and help yourself to tea or coffee. We’ll get started as soon as all the other parents arrive.” I can’t dwell too long on one family or the other families who are waiting in line to meet me will stage an uprising. San Francisco private school admissions is an ugly sport, and playground legend states that the first rule of the game is a personal meet and greet with the admissions director, who holds the outcome of every child’s future. It’s all so pretentious and overly dramatic, but I suspect many of the parentslike the pomp and circumstance of it all. I myself have enjoyed a power trip or two.
“Thank you, Josie. We’re looking forward to seeing more of this stunning school in person. Years of looking at the pictures online, and now we’re finally here!” Daniel nervously giggles, throwing a final Hail Mary pass to impress me. He needs to shut up before I start to like them less.
My phone dings. Saved by text. “Excuse me,” I say and turn to peek at my phone screen.
MEREDITH
Almost there. Don’t start without me. Thx.?Meredith
Today 12:56 P.M.
Holy hell, how’d she get my cell phone number?
•••
“Okay, I know you’re dyin’ to spill the tea. What was the most ridiculous question you got on the tour today?” By pure luck Lola’s oldest son has karate on Tuesdays two blocks down from San Francisco Ballet School, where Etta pretty much spends her life.
Every Tuesday afternoon Lola and I walk to Absinthe on Hayes Street. When I was growing up Aunt Viv wouldn’t let me hop a bus, get off a bus, or walk a block to find a bus in Hayes Valley. Back then, after the Tenderloin, Hayes was the least desirable neighborhood to walk through unless you had an urge to get mugged. Today, like so many other neighborhoods in San Francisco, Hayes Valley has been revived (or destroyed, depending on your point of view) into a precious haven of artisanal cheesemongers, handwoven rug peddlersfrom war-torn Middle Eastern countries, fair-trade coffeehouses, and snooty French patisseries. You could choke on the hipness of it all as fit lumber-sexual men cruise the sidewalks hand in hand with equally fit tattooed artistic types, male or female. Usually one of them is licking a goji berry cardamom ice cream cone.
Not that I wouldn’t mind a muscled-up Daniel Boone of my own, but Lola and I stick to Absinthe, the oldest establishment in Hayes, because their happy hour champagne is the cheapest in the neighborhood and they will split a burger at no extra cost. We could give two shits if the lettuce and tomato on our burger has been locally sourced and the cow was read Dostoyevsky out in the pasture before being led to slaughter. We talk about everything at school that is supposed to be confidential. It’s the best ninety minutes of my week.
“I had one family claim their newly minted five-year-old is doing algebra, and they want to know how Fairchild will be supporting his math genius. Because, of course, they assume their midget brainiac will get in. Oh, and when he tests out of all the math levels at Fairchild will the school pay for him to be bused to UC Berkeley for his math courses. About three other families nodded in agreement. Apparently they also have Nobel Prize–winning popsicle-eating mathematicians. Watch out, Isaac Newton.”
“Here’s to the Pythagorean theorem.” Lola cheers and downs her champagne.
“Is the Pythagorean theorem algebra?”
“No clue. Frankly, I’m impressed I pulled ‘Pythagorean theorem’ out of my ass.” Lola waves down the bartender for another glass. Occasionally it’s a two-champagne day, ifoccasionallymeans three out of four Tuesdays. “And who won the bet?”
“Roan. Now he’s even more impressed with himself that his gaydar is so finely tuned that he can detect homo steps. His words, not mine.”
“Ohhh, two dads out of the admissions gate. That is some finework, Ms. Bordelon. I daresay playing the diversity card becomes you. San Francisco Academy needs to hire a disabled Native American lesbian as the admissions director to beat Fairchild at its own game.” Lola flutters her eyelashes and puts on her best Southern accent, which, coming from a Canadian, sounds more like Fargo, North Dakota. Lola loves to tease that I’m the reason all the interesting and beautiful people end up attending Fairchild. Interesting and beautiful is code for not unattractive, not white, not straight, not Christian, not 100 percent gender specific, and not poor. And she’s not 100 percent wrong.
Thirteen years ago, when Etta and I landed on Aunt Viv’s doorstep I had about five hundred dollars to my name and big hopes of getting Etta into Fairchild. I had spent eighteen hundred dollars to fly us from Berlin, the last stop on my mediocre modeling career. Then there were the endless snacks, crayons, and coloring books so Etta could be entertained on the long flight home while I tried to figure out what exactly I was going to say to Aunt Viv.Déjà vu, Aunt Viv. I know we haven’t talked much since I sprang it on you that I was quitting NYU for a modeling career, but here I am with my four-year-old daughter I couldn’t find the time to tell you about while I was busy parading my half-naked body in front of ogling audiences all over the world. Her name is Etta and I’m praying you haven’t written me out of your life because she needs to go to school and I need help raising her; so far I’m doing a subpar job of it on my own. And then there’s the issue of needing to make some money. I’ll give you three guesses to figure out who I remind you of.
Thankfully, Aunt Viv welcomed me and Etta across the threshold of her apartment and the next day escorted me into Dr. Pearson’s office. I was looking to beg my way into the open admissions assistant job. Dr. Pearson practically fell over himself with his good fortune. Without a single lick of experience other than walking a straight line down a catwalk surrounded by well-dressed emaciatedpeople, and an unbroken Fairchild track and field record, Dr. Pearson hired me on the spot. I fought back tears in his office. I’d returned home to the place where I had always shined, was the star of the show, and would be remembered for those accomplishments rather than the mess I had made of my life during the past five years.
For Dr. Pearson, I had all the qualifications he needed for an admissions assistant, and he had zero interest in what had transpired since I graduated high school. Here was Josie Bordelon, Fairchild alum, intimately familiar with the ins and outs of tuition assistance, a good-looking first face to represent the school, related to the most loyal employee Dr. Pearson had ever had, oh and the winning lottery ticket, black.
I’ve since learned that in the private school world, hiring a black or brown person who is smart, loves kids, and sort of likes the parents is the educational equivalent of a Super Bowl ring. Parents of color like to see an ally in the school. If you want some flavor in your classrooms, then families of color better see a few administrators who look like them, or at least they better not all look like Reese Witherspoon.
I desperately needed a job, even if it didn’t pay much. After dropping out of NYU to model wasn’t the get-rich-quick adventure my twenty-year-old mind had believed it would be, I realized there was a reason my peers had taken the more traditional path of summer internships, graduating college in four years, and landing a job in finance or tech. It was called a 401(k), vision benefits, and paid vacation. While I was living leveled up in Dolce & Gabbana, my Fairchild classmates had been securing a future. Four years later, when the loudest noise in my life was the sound of a wailing toddler, I knew I would never let Etta make the same mistakes I had made. If I worked at Fairchild I could even influence hundreds of next-generation me’sto forgo the path less traveled and focus on creating a stable and secure pipeline to a solid future.
“Ohhh, I got something for you.” In addition to the champagne I’m about to make Lola’s day.
“Gurl! You had sex, didn’t you? Please tell me you had sex,” Lola says moving her barstool closer to mine, not wanting to miss a single detail.
“Uh, no, sorry for the letdown.”
