By the Numbers (9 page)

Probably not the worst choice on her part.

“Fine, then who do you know in fashion in Chicago that can help her, Jessica?”

“‘Chicago fashion' is kind of an oxymoron,” she replies.

“Surely you have a contact or a designer friend here. We have thirty-three hours until this wedding and we will find a fix for this.”

Jessica glances at her phone and begins to scroll through her contacts. “Hmm . . . Who to call? Who to call? You know what? I'd probably talk to the tent rental people. They're used to dealing with large swaths of fabric.”

Kelsey's friends gawp openmouthed at Jessica, and Kelsey's cries assume a fresh urgency.

Even Patrick, Patron Saint of Snark, is appalled by the casual cruelty of her remark. “You do not throw that kind of shade at your
sister.
Get on your broomstick and fly away, Jessica. Now.”

She saunters out of the room with deliberate slowness, while Bella mutters, “At least her dress is paid for,” but I don't have the time to deconstruct that sentence and find the hidden meaning. I have a situation to resolve. I am Ed Harris's character in a vest, and this dress is my busted oxygen tank on the
Apollo 13
. Failure is not an option.

“We are going to divide and conquer,” I say. I point to the girl with the pale blue bobbed hair. “Delilah, you help with the zipper. Bella, you go to Twitter. Get recommendations on local tailors, dressmakers, even dry cleaners who are open late.”

I gesture toward Zara with the duck tattoo and whose plastic, lens-free glasses take up most of the real estate on her face. “Zara, you handle Instagram, but DO NOT take a picture of this dress, because I'll tell everyone you still love Justin Bieber and not because he's ironic. That's right, I ride the train with your mom; you'd better
belieber
it. Now post a selfie or something. Start the conversation.”

I turn to the tall one with the messy red bun. “Brianna, you scour Yelp. Nothing under four stars.”

And to the girl with the pierced cheekbone—pierced cheekbone, oh, your poor parents—and Katniss Everdeen braid, “Gemma, you're on Facebook.”

“Ugh,” Gemma says, “no one's on Facebook anymore.”

“Would you rather man the phones?” I ask. “You're welcome to make calls.”

“I'm down with Facebook,” she quickly replies.

Recently I heard on NPR that eighty-five percent of millennials have smartphones and this surprised me—honestly, that figure seems low, as does the stat that they touch their phones an average of forty-five times per day. Perhaps I only know the ones who skew toward heavier use?

Everyone busies themselves with their tasks/smartphones while Patrick, Delilah, and I see what we can do with the dress. Kelsey bawls, but who can blame her?

My father, clad in an exceptionally loud pair of plaid knickers and a set of golf spikes, clacks into the room. I shudder to think of what the cleats are doing to the hardwood, but a few dings in floors
I won't own for much longer seem minor in comparison. “Don't worry; it's all under control. I took care of it.”

“What's that, Uncle Max?” Patrick asks. He has his hands on Kelsey's zipper, attempting to force it up while Delilah and I hold either side of the dress. Patrick's fingertips are white with the effort and my palms are cramping. A thin sheen of sweat dampens Delilah's brow. We can possibly do this. Maybe with a corset and some Spanx and a second corset and more Spanx . . . With Kelsey inhaling on cue, we're making slow but steady progress. We're not past the point of no return. (One more scone and we would be.) I estimate a seventy percent likelihood we can get this dress zipped, and once it's zipped, the fabric will give and this won't be so much of a struggle tomorrow. We'll give her lots of lemon water tonight and restrict her sodium intake and I believe we'll be okay.

“The junk dealers. I sent them away. They tried to leave a bunch of garbage here, but I said, ‘No way, José.' Ironically, I believe his name was José. Or are they all named José? Anyway, I said, ‘You're not leaving those disgusting old birdcages here. My granddaughter wants
new
birdcages, and you're not going to pass off rusty bits of tin as long as I'm around. Listen, this isn't the
Sanford and Son
set.' This is
Glencoe
, not a Dust Bowl–era garage sale. Oh, and I tried to get him to take the tub. Unfortunately, it was too heavy. Or they might have just been lazy; you never know with
those people
. No need to thank me.”

When Kelsey screams—and believe me, she does scream—the force of air being expelled from her lungs is such that the zipper separates violently and entirely from the dress.

Everyone in the room gasps, except for Max.

Without missing a beat, he says, “Okay, then. I'm meeting
Bunky Cushman for a quick nine holes before the rehearsal dinner. If you see Marjorie, tell her I'm leaving. And, Penelope? Is that what you're wearing tomorrow? Don't love it on you, nope, nope, nope. You remind me a bit of that handsome octoroon in those car movies your mother won't admit she enjoys. Muscly fellow with all the big white teeth? What's his name, the Stone? Not a fan.”

My father seems absolutely immune to Kelsey's shrieking. Then again, he's been tuning out Marjorie for more than five decades.

“I do not enjoy the Rock; that is balderdash,” Marjorie says, shoving her way past Max in the doorway, holding an empty bottle. “He practically ruined
San Andreas
. Didn't even take off his shirt . . .”

“What's an octoroon?” says Bella, glancing up from her phone.

Zara answers, “A French cookie, made with coconut. They're super-delish.”

Marjorie clucks. “And don't get me started on what that half-blood behemoth has done to the
Fast and the Furious
franchise. A travesty. He fancies smiling and flashing his pectorals as a substitute for acting; well, it isn't.”

Kelsey's wailing continues, unabated.

Max taps his cleated foot, upset that I may have missed his earlier point. “I'm just saying with your dress, Penny, you can do better. You have too many muscles to look pretty. Can't get a man if you look like a man. No offense, Patrick. Alrighty, I'm off.”

“Penelope, love, we have a major problem,” Marjorie says.

“Yes, thank you for recognizing that,” I say, gesturing toward Kelsey. “Anyone? Any luck yet?” The bridesmaids all shake their heads no. “Marjorie, who's
your
tailor up here? Or, who do you know who can get here quickly and can help us?”

She waves me off. “Oh, darling, everyone I knew has retired.
I have no bloody idea where the good help is now. All the Mexicans have taken their jobs anyway. When is
someone
going to build that wall?”

“
Damn
, your Mimsy and Gumpy are bigots, Kels,” Bella remarks. “What's up with that?”

“Racism is
not
okay,” Delilah agrees. “One world, one love.”

“But what if it's a British thing? Like a cultural difference?” Zara suggests.

“Don't defend her, Zara. You don't even know the difference between a duck and a swallow,” Bella retorts.

“Wait, were you British earlier, Mrs. Bancroft?” Gemma asks.

Marjorie snaps her fingers to get my attention. “Penelope, focus, please. I need you to be a love and pop over to the shop. We're out of Boodles gin. I can't make a proper Gibson without Boodles.”

This inspires a fresh round of yowling from Kelsey. I'm tempted to join in with her.

“Is this real life?” Patrick asks, still holding Kelsey's now detached zipper.

“Anyone? Does anyone have anything?” I ask, feeling a rising sense of anxiety, filled with dread, then wrapped in trepidation, like a gordita, only made out of panic instead of taco shells, ground beef, and flatbread.

“I do!” squeals Zara, holding up her iPhone. “I have fifteen likes so far on my selfie, and that fly bartender from Violet Hour thinks my brow game is on fleek.”

“Anything
useful
for
Kelsey
,” I clarify.

“It's useful if she wants to start seeing my brow girl,” Zara says. “I feel like the place she gets threaded is leaving her way too Demi Lovato up there, you know?”

So. Much. Crying.

The force of this round of caterwauling splits another seam.

“Was this the wrong time to tell her that?” Zara asks.

“You think?” Patrick spits.

Uncle.

I give up.

I am beaten.

This is my Waterloo. I have officially reached my capacity for dealing with this situation. I'm swinging outside of my weight class and I cannot hold out until the bell ends the round. I'm punch-drunk; I'm tapping out.

“I was afraid it was going to come to this,” I say to myself more than to anyone else.

Patrick blanches. “Penny, don't. You can't. You've come too far.”

“I'm at DEFCON ONE,” I reply, pitching my voice to be heard over Kelsey's sobs. “I have no choice. I have to go nuclear. I swore I would never do it, but it's what has to be done.”

Patrick lays his hand on my newly squared shoulder. He's still holding the zipper. Stray bits of white thread dangle from it. “Godspeed, Penny Arcade. You're the bravest, most selfless person I've ever known.”

I march down the hallway to the master bedroom to retrieve my cell phone, about to make one of the hardest calls of my lifetime. I punch in the number and pray for voice mail.

But the odds are not in my favor.

He answers on the first ring.

“Chris, please pack a bag and come to Glencoe. Yes, right now. Plan to stay here tonight. I can't do this alone. I need your
help.”

October 2002

“Y
ou sure you can handle the next few days all on your own? They can be a lot to take. They're good kids; you know that. Topher's a dream, but the girls take some finesse. Plus, Jessica's got play practice, tennis, and French club this week, and Kelsey's doing soccer and dance. There's a lot of coordination involved, many, many moving pieces.”

“Of course I'm sure. I'm not some random stranger off the street; these are my
children
.”

“There's no shame in bringing in a babysitter to help you. No shame at all.”

“We're not going to need a
babysitter
. I'm not incompetent.”

“No judgment if you did need one.”

“If you don't leave soon, you're going to miss your flight. You have to budget at least two hours for security at O'Hare. They're really taking safety seriously since 9/11; it's a different world now.”

“Listen, I don't have to go to this convention. I can cancel if you need me to cancel. Should I stay here? I should probably stay here.”

“Go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but at a minimum, don't concern yourself with making dinner. You cooking? That's the last thing anyone needs. There's cash in the cookie jar. Tonight, get some pizzas from Barnaby's in Northbrook. It's Jessica's all-time favorite.”

“I know. I've met her
and
the dog she named after the place.”

“Right. Everyone will eat salad, too, as long as no tomatoes touch Topher's portion.”

“Salad, yes, tomatoes, no. Easy-peasy.”

“Avoid peas. No one will eat peas. Serve peas and you'll have a riot on your hands.”

“Just an expression, not a dinner plan.”

“Also, order one plain cheese—Kelsey's a vegetarian this week.”

“That is news. That I did not know.”

“And
please
make sure all of her leggings are clean. She says she's ‘not into' wearing jeans right now. I suspect she's feeling self-conscious because she's in a growth spurt. Eleven is so awkward, right? Fifth grade is hard. Anyway, she doesn't remember to toss her leggings in the laundry basket, so she leaves them wadded up by the side of the bed when she puts on her pajamas at night. She'll freak out when she can't find the ones she wants in the morning. After she goes to sleep, I make a point of picking them all up and running them through the wash, even if I'm not sure they're dirty. Sometimes she'll try on three or four pairs before she figures out what she wants to wear, so it's best if all her options are available. Trust me, your morning will go one hundred and fifty percent more smoothly if you do this.”

“Sounds a lot like you're negotiating with the terrorists, and I thought we didn't do that as a nation or as a family.”

“No. This is a pick-your-battles situation. Don't fight this fight. You will lose. She's not trying to be difficult with the pants; it's legitimately hard for her to make decisions about what to wear, so I'm taking one of her stressors off the table. You realize that's why I fix her cereal, too. The kid doesn't know her own mind yet. That's why she's so easily swayed, always jumping from one trend to another. She's not mature enough to trust her own judgment. That's why in cases like the pants and breakfast—
and only those cases
—I help her. Again, I pick my battles.”

“Sounds like capitulation.”

“It's not.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“So, your plan is to . . .”

“Wash leggings, got it.”

“Do you want to write this down? I feel like you should write this down.”

“And
I
feel like you should get going or you'll miss your flight.”

“Okay, okay. I'm going. You've got the hotel's info and I'll have my phone and pager with me at all times. If you need anything, anything at all, call, please. Remember, there are no stupid questions.”

“Understood,” I say. I steer Chris toward the door because if he doesn't leave now, he really will miss his flight. Those security lines are no joke. I should know. I've been in them every week lately because of my consulting engagement in Omaha. “One more thing—which kid goes to which school, again?”

All the color drains from his face. “I should stay.”

“I'm kidding! Chris, I'm their
mom
. I've got this, okay? I did this myself for a long time, remember? We're going to be great. Love you! Have a great time at your boring builders' convention in tedious old Las Vegas!”

He kisses me and says good-bye, glancing over his shoulder so many times on his way down the walk that I start to feel insulted.

Granted, he's morphed into more of the custodial parent because he's self-employed. He's arranged his schedule so that he's home once the kids finish school for the day. Yet that doesn't mean I'm not involved or am less invested in their lives, just because I'm not there to make their snacks.

Because I'm the primary breadwinner now, I'm not able to attend every soccer practice or dance recital. We fought hard to stay in this school district, knowing the opportunity the education would afford our kids later in life. If the cost of admission is that
I'm
not always there, but Chris is, and we can still give them all that they need to be successful? Well,
I'd
be the selfish one if that were a price I wasn't willing to pay.

Anyway, I don't know why Chris is so concerned that I'm not going to be able to handle the next few days as a full-time mom. Given the complexity of what I do in the office, coordinating carpool and slicing oranges seems more like a vacation to me.

• • • •

“She won't stop crying. She's eleven. Why is she crying? Isn't eleven kind of old for crying? Is this a hormonal thing? She says I humiliated her with the oranges. How could I humiliate her with
oranges
?”

“How'd you slice them?” Chris asks.

“I don't know—I guess in slices, like when Marjorie makes an old-fashioned?”

“There you go. You're supposed to quarter them so when the girls bite into them, they look like mouth guards.”

“How could I have possibly known that?”

The slot machines chime merrily in the background as we speak. Chris hasn't even been in Vegas a day and I've already gone off the rails here at home. He tells me, “I'm going to say this as gently as I can, but I did suggest you write everything down.”

“You did not tell me how to cut oranges.”

“I did. You said we'd use fewer bags if they were sliced thinner. Something about wasting less negative space if you cut them your way.”

Oh, yeah. “Shit. How do I make this right?”

“Are you able to turn into Superman, reverse the earth's orbit, and go back in time to before you cut the oranges wrong? If not, say you're sorry and move on. You can't fixate on this mistake because that will make it worse. You have to trust me here. Acknowledge and proceed. If you wallow in how bad you feel about this, you're going to give Kelsey all the power. Don't do that. You're the adult; be in charge. Tell me something, Penny—is this the hill you want to die on?”

“No, but she's making me feel terrible!”

Chris laughs. “She's making you feel terrible because she's a manipulative little shit. That's what she does. She's eleven, and it's how her brain is wired. Acknowledge and proceed. Don't give in. Pick your battles.”

“I will,” I say, but I sound about as confident as I feel.

He laughs. “You are a terrible liar. The girls are like sharks, Penny. The minute they smell a drop of blood in the water, well, then, Chief Brody, you're going to need a bigger boat.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“That means you're the only person in the world who's never seen
Jaws
. And it means don't give in. Do we have a deal?”

Why do I want to disagree with Chris? He's right. I'm crazy to even consider allowing an eleven-year-old to call the shots.
I'm
the adult here. I make the rules and the onus is on me to enforce said rules. I'm going to pick my battles. I shall acknowledge and proceed and that's all there is to it.

“We have a deal.”

• • • •

“Why does Kelsey get an iPod?” Jessica fumes from the backseat. “What'd she do that's so damn special? It's not her birthday. She didn't ace her report card. She can't even feed herself breakfast, and all of a sudden cool electronics are raining down from the sky for her? This is so unfair, so unbelievably unfair. Play favorites much?”

Well, Kelsey gets an iPod because she could force secrets out of the Taliban with her ability to whine. Honestly, I didn't know the human voice could be so shrill. Fifteen minutes in Gitmo listening to her and every single one of those POWs would turn on everyone and everything they hold holy, I guarantee.

The bitching and moaning about the damn oranges was like audible waterboarding. I was in pain; I mean it, actual physical discomfort. Her voice reverberated inside my ears in such a way that I could actually
taste
her whining.

I
literally
couldn't take another minute of her histrionics, and I
was so desperate for something to shut her up that the iPod seemed like the most expedient solution, especially as she'd been hinting so hard about wanting one.

So, yes, I snapped, but I can't say any of this to Jessica because it would be the equivalent of pouring a whole bucket of blood into shark-infested waters. Instead, I ask her, “Does your father know you use the word ‘damn'?”

“Obviously,” she replies. I'm going to have to double-check that. I can't tell if this is one of Chris's pick-your-battles instances or not.

Jessica rages on. “Let's not change the subject here,
Mother
.” How is she able to make “Mother” sound like a curse word? “Not only does Kelsey get an iPod for doing nothing, but
you're late
. I'm standing out here in the rain by myself where any variety of pervert could abduct me. Look at me! I'm a pretty blond girl with big blue eyes and skinny legs, just the kind the weirdos like. It's never the uggos who get snatched. You never see a homely kid on a milk carton. Fact. And you're late picking me up because Princess Kelsey couldn't decide if she wanted the iPod or the MP3 player. But do
I
get an iPod? No. I get almost abducted.
Then
, I can't even sit in the front seat like a normal person. I have to cram back here with the rest of the cootie platoon.”

“I don't have cooties, Jessie,” Topher says. “I was sprayed for them at recess. Want me to give you a squirt?” He holds out a pretend can, his finger on the pretend trigger. Jessica pushes away his hand.

Kelsey says nothing, as she's busy playing with her iPod. I realize having bribed her makes me a terrible, terrible parent, but every minute she isn't sobbing is a minute I'm not losing my will to live, so I stand behind this decision.

“Jess, until you're fourteen, the safest place for you to sit is in the backseat. You know that. You are precious cargo, and I'm not taking unnecessary risks,” I say. “The American Academy of Pediatrics says that—”

“The American Academy of Pediatrics didn't say
dick
about you trading in our big, comfortable van with the swivel captain chairs and three rows of seats for a hideous little Honda where we all have to be squished together like a bunch of veal calves in that PETA video Kelsey made us watch.”

“Language, Jessica!”

(And where is Kelsey finding PETA videos? Is this why she's abandoned her beloved cheeseburgers? Does she actually care about the cows, or is this another cool-kid thing?)

“It's like you bought the Honda to punish us.”

With the rise in gas prices because of everything happening in the Middle East, and with Topher having graduated out of his booster seat, I thought it was time to upgrade to a proper car I could drive to client meetings instead of the nightmare of a minivan I've been stuck in for the past decade. No matter how many times I had that thing detailed, I was never able to lift the fug of chicken nuggets and kid farts that permeated the upholstery. And the Cheerios. My God, the Cheerios. No one even ate a Cheerio in there for at least five years, yet they'd still magically appeared every few days, just seeping out from somewhere, like the salty efflorescence leaching out of an untreated brick wall.

“I love the Honda,” Topher says. “It's got that new-car smell and there are no footprints on the ceiling yet.”

“Kiss-ass.” Jessica deliberately knocks off Topher's Cubs hat, which he retrieves with his feet and repositions on his head.

“Jessica!” I admonish. “Apologize to your brother.”

Jessica crosses her arms over her chest. “Why? I'm not sorry. Everyone gets everything except for me.”

I look at her in the rearview mirror and try to catch her eye. “Is this really about the Honda, Jessica?”

“Whatever.” She turns her head and begins to stare out the window with an expression that seems more introspective than sullen.

“Jess, is something else going on?”

“She's not Maria,” Topher volunteers. “She's only a
girl
. I heard her tell her friend she's only a
girl
.”

Jessica tightens her arms around herself. “I lost the lead in
West Side Story
, okay? I'm playing one of stupid Maria's stupid girls. Serena Oberlin got the lead because she went to the theater camp
you
said was too expensive.”

“Sweetie, the camp cost more than a semester of my college tuition.”

Jessica pounds a fist on her knee. “
That's because it's a really good camp!
I'm just tired of everyone having everything cool and I have nothing. It sucks, okay?”