Diamond Girl (15 page)

Daddy and Aunt Georgia looked at each other and burst out laughing. Daddy stood and walked over to me, putting his arm around me. He guided me back to my seat and Aunt Georgia, still wiping tears of laughter out of her eyes, leaned over and kissed me. Speaking to Daddy she said, “Kells, what is she talking about, getting into Brown?” She looked at me. “
Carey, is that what your darling little film is for? I thought it was a present for Kells.”

Daddy interjected laughing. “I did too.”

I stared at both of them, non-plussed. “You guys, what are you talking about?” I looked at Daddy. “Daddy, I made the film as my admissions essay. I’ve worked on the script and the editing for the last three months, I even …” I was starting to have trouble speaking because of the lump in my throat, “… I even sold one of my horses in secret so I could pay for the essay myself. I wanted, I mean you wanted me to go to Brown and I wanted you to see I could do this. I did it for you and I don’t understand why you guys are laughing at me.” 

Daddy looked helplessly at Aunt Georgia.
More messy, needy emotion from his apparently clueless daughter. Aunt Georgia grabbed my waving hands, stilling them in her own. “Carey, there’s nothing to be upset about, darling. Your father and I weren’t laughing at you. We were laughing because you thought you had to do all this to get into Brown.”

Daddy explained further. “You see, Carey, sweetheart, Kellehers and a few of our better colleges, well
it’s always been …” He shrugged helplessly and Aunt Georgia continued for him. “What your father is trying, and failing, to say, Carey, is that a Kelleher is always welcomed. We don’t apply for entrance, not to Brown nor to Harvard, nor to silly organizations. We don’t ask because it’s understood that we enhance the places we choose to be.”

“But Aunt Georgia, if any idiot with an old name can get into any one of the Ivies, wouldn’t they be kind of, I don’t know, academic disasters, I mean ranking wise? I know they do have colleges for rich morons, but Harvard and Brown?” 

Daddy laughed, relieved that I was calm again. “Of course they do, Carey K, but first of all you’re no moron, and secondly the great institutions are not going to open wide the doors to anyone with a checkbook. Take Harvard as an example. It’s not famous merely for the level of its education, sterling though that might be, it’s famous because the sons, and more recently the daughters, of the great founding families have always attended its hallowed halls. Millions dream every year of those places more for the cachet of sharing the classrooms where John Kennedy and Vincent Astor, and now Carey Kelleher, will roam than they do of receiving a first class education. Do you see now, sweetheart?” 

I nodded, managing a smile. “I do, Daddy, and aren’t I lucky because, grades or not, I’ll still enhance Brown just by my name, right?”

They nodded a little doubtfully.

Aunt Georgia was getting bored and replied briskly. “Yes, that’s right, Carey, or right enough anyway. You don’t need to over-
think everything … and, Carey …?” 

“Yes, Aunt Georgia?” 

“Give the tape of your little movie to your father as a present. Kellehers don’t hand out videos of themselves, no matter what the reasoning might be.”

Chapter 16

Contrary to my sweet father’s belief, my arrival at Brown wasn’t greeted with any shock or awe.

Actually, I hold the rare distinction of being suspended from the campus within twenty-four hours of arrival. I was ordered out without having even done anything fun, or at least anything funny and stupid that I could make a cool story out of later. I didn’t bring a guy to my dorm room, or get high and crazy at a Frat party that was raided.

It was Petal. It turns out that dogs, even one pound really beautiful teacup poodles, are not allowed in Brown’s dormitories, no exceptions and no pardons. Well, there is one, say if you are blind or in a wheelchair, or even probably have a dangerous form of diabetes, which given that I am apparently slipping away to the great beyond right now, I obviously do have. Anyway, if you have any of these disgusting physical handicaps, and I do mean disgusting, and obviously the Ivies think so too - if you don’t believe me, the next time you are visiting Harvard yard, for example, take a long look around at all the disabled people you see flapping their arms and being wheeled around the campus - you may have an assist-animal live with you. They don’t like it, and I know they would prefer not to deal with handicappers and their quadrupeds, but there isn’t much they can do about it without ending up the focus of some really embarrassing
60 Minutes
piece.

So when they first sent up some huge dykey-looking security guard to my room to try and get Petal away from me, she and I made a dash for the nearest coffee bar and I speed-dialed Herbert, our family
lawyer, who makes problems like this go away. Herbert is definitely a guy who says, “I’m on it” because he is on it, whatever
it
is. That’s why Daddy has kept him on some humongous retainer for longer than I’ve been alive.

Herbert wasn’t rattled by the Petal crisis. He laughed and told me to sit tight. He would make a few calls and get right back to me. That sounded good to me, so Petal and I settled into the booth, I had a latte and she had the foam which she loves, and we let ourselves be admired and, in Petal’s case, petted by everyone that walked by. I looked great that day but, as I quickly noticed, I also looked totally wrong. My Miu Miu dress and sandals were kind of so not Ivy League. It wasn’t like a fashion train wreck or anything, it was more like I was just too ahhbviously New York, New York. Besides, my look wasn’t off-putting to any of the guys in the place but the girls were giving me shady looks. Milan totally loves that kind of thing, but back then I was still hoping to make friends, so I killed some time by calling Net-a-porter.com and ordered a couple dozen of the season’s Chloe cotton blouses, some boyfriend sweaters and some Missoni and Stella McCartney cargo pants.

I thought about calling Petal’s PS at Fifi and Romeo to order her a new more collegey-looking wardrobe too, but I could tell that everyone thought she looked perfect already. I had dressed her all in black because the contrast with her white curls is so adorable and I wanted her to appear serious about her new educational experiences. Milan hates black, but Christy lives in it, and everyone calls her the serious Marin girl.

On our first day at Brown, Petal was wearing a black faux-Persian Lamb coat, matching black Duggs ... the doggie version of Uggs - and a hat. Petal hated the outfit but that is only because doggies can’t see their reflection in mirrors so she didn’t understand how fabulous she looked. There wasn’t a girl who could resist petting her and asking about the outfit, or a guy who didn’t at least use her as an excuse to come talk to me.

Really, we were having such a good time that I was shocked when Herbert called back and said that Petal had to be sent back to New York. He told me that the whole assist-dog argument had fallen apart when the Dean had asked what breed Petal was.

I didn’t get upset, I just told him to lease me an off-campus apartment. He cleared his throat and told me that all freshmen, no exceptions, no Kelleher name droppings excluded, had to live in the dorms freshman year.

I hung up on him, made a date with a cute guy named Ryan or Brian for later that night, and went back to my dorm room. I had decided to just ignore the stupid regulation.

As soon as Petal and I got back to our room, the bitchy dorm monitor walked in without knocking. She stared at my Petal like she was an unexploded land mine.

“Out, out, no dogs in the dorms.”

I laughed at her. “Really, you need to calm down or get on some meds. Tell me who I can talk to about this, someone in authority, maybe
…” I looked her up and down, “… someone who isn’t wearing scary man-made fabrics. You make me itch just looking at you.” 

That didn’t go over well. She did call someone and the upshot was that Petal and I were escorted off campus like we were criminals. I drove a couple miles over to the Hotel Providence and checked in, and then called Daddy. It hurt my feelings that he acted like this was too stupid to bother him with,
this
being my college career. He told me he would send a car up for Petal.  That bothered me even more. I told him not to bother and, for the first time ever, hung up on him.

Petal was my baby from the moment Aunt Georgia handed her to me. She became my best friend, my baby, and the first thing – well, person - to love me unconditionally. To me she has always been a person who belonged totally to me. I love her more than anything and she loves me that much right back. Petal doesn’t even weigh two pounds, and the bulk of her weight is her heart, and all her heart shows in her little bright eyes. Even now, when she is old and blind, her eyes light up when she hears me. She may not be able to see anything else but I know she still sees me. Petal sees me with her heart, and nobody in their right mind would willingly give up that kind of love. We have never been apart till now. 

The next morning Herbert called me and told me he had spoken to some people on the University’s Endowment Board and that I could return to Brown as soon as I wished.

“Thanks, Herbert. Does that mean Petal and I can return, or just me?”

“Just you, Carey. I’m sorry but you must understand that Brown isn’t going to reverse hundreds of years of tradition for a poodle, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t like the way he had said
poodle
. it was the same way that other people might use the N word, or the L word, L being for lawyer, a breed that tended to be a lot less endearing than poodles. I told him thanks for nothing and simply snuck Petal back in, which is what I should have done in the first place.

*  *  *

I tried at Brown, I really did, but it just wasn’t working for me. I was lonely, I missed Milan and Christy, and I missed New York. I tried to fit in and make new friends but that isn’t something I am good at.

I was rushed for sororities, naturally, and I went to a few parties. I tried to blend and socialize and be wanted, and I should have made it, but it was so obvious that the girls had only invited me because of my last name and it was worse with the guys. They liked the way I
looked, they liked my dimple and, if all a girl had to do to make a boy fall in love with her was to look good, I would have been fine.

No, that’s not right; a girl
can
make a guy fall in love with her because of the way she looks. Boys want to love beautiful girls. They are hard-wired for it and a girl can make a guy her slave without having to say much of anything. Milan is living proof of my theory. Even back then she collected marriage proposals on a weekly basis, and she did it by letting boys, and men too, just look at her and project their fantasies onto her. She’s so much smarter than people know.

If I hadn’t been so fucking insecure all the time, and so fucking desperate, I could have done that too. But I am - so fucking desperate,
that is. The minute a guy, almost any decent guy with a minimum of hotness, would approach me, I would start running this film in my head. Before the poor guy could ask me if I wanted a beer, I had us in love, married and raising kids and poodles in Connecticut. With that kind of weird disconnect, it’s no wonder I messed up, talking a mile a minute, asking them probing personal questions, worse, telling them my personal thoughts, and all the while there is this cute young guy standing there who had innocently approached a pretty girl hoping for, at the most, a random drunken hook up.

By the time I had been at Brown two months, I would watch as a new frat boy would start to cross the room towards me only to have one of his friends pull him back and shake his head. They would whisper something and laugh. The girls all knew it too, knew that, despite my looks and my name, I was fast gaining a reputation as a loser, and, because of my looks and my name, they loved watching me standing there alone, trying so hard to pretend that was exactly how I wanted it to be.

I started drifting home to New York, at first on the weekends so I had an excuse not to show up at college mixers and be stared at uncomfortably or, worse, not to spend the weekend huddled in my dorm room clutching Petal and trying to convince myself that I was all right, that it was just other people, that Brown didn’t feel almost exactly to me like Menninger’s had.

After the second boy I brought back to my room didn’t call me again, the weekends in New York started stretching into four or five days at a time.

When I showed up on a Tuesday unannounced, I was waylaid in my room by my mother.

She walked in and sat on the edge of my bed, looking a little unkempt, a little frayed at the edges. My mother has always been a nervous, high strung woman.
Most of the time she can pass it off as a kind of brittle social charm shared by all the other trophy wives. That day no charm was showing, just her nerves. I looked at her curiously. She wasn’t in the habit of stopping by for girl chats when I was home. I thought she was starting to look her age, and seeing it made me smile and she, misunderstanding me as always, attacked.

“I have no idea what you find amusing, Carey. Is it your obvious failure at college that you are smiling about, or do you have some other news to share, maybe you’re pregnant?”