“You better get to class,” she said. “You don’t want to be late.”
First period was calculus with Jesse. “No, I definitely don’t,” I said. “Good call.”
Chapter 5
After my first week of high school, I was ready for it to be over.
I was exhausted from waking up at five forty-five every morning (while my parents got to sleep in, ugh), tired from trying to navigate crowded hallways filled with teenagers, and annoyed with the amount of homework I had. Did they assign so much just to keep us busy and off the dangerous streets of Manhattan? It felt like a conspiracy to me, and if I saw the words “Make sure to show your work” or “Why or why not?” written on assignments one more time, I was going to have a meltdown.
I had seen Jesse Oliver a few times in the hall, but I couldn’t figure out how to talk to him. He was always nodding at people, and one time he even nodded at me (I can’t lie, I was secretly thrilled), but by the time I figured out what to say to him, he had already walked away.
My parents, by contrast, were slowly going crazy at home. It was obvious that they weren’t used to not running a job, so every day when I came home, they bombarded me with questions. Did you talk to Jesse today? Did you talk to other kids? What’s the geographical layout of the school? Does anyone seem suspicious?
“Everyone seems suspicious,” I answered that last one. “It’s high school.”
And at the start of the second week, I got an even bigger surprise.
“Parent-teacher conferences?” I said, looking at the piece of paper that had been distributed during first period. My parents had been assigned Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. “Oh, no, this is not happening.”
“Tell me about it,” Roux said, coming up behind me. “It’s so elementary school. But hey, when you pay thirty thousand dollars a year for your kid’s education, I guess you want proof that people are earning their money.”
“When are your parents coming?”
“Oh, they’re not.” Roux examined one of her perfect cuticles. “They’re in London for the Frieze Art Fair. When are your parents coming? Do I get to meet them?”
Hell no was my first thought, but I kept it to myself. “Um, I’m not sure they can make it, either,” I told her, deflecting the question.
“They should come. It’s a really big deal. Like, whose parents care the most.”
“So if they don’t come …”
“People will talk about you just like they’re going to talk about me.”
I sighed. “Fantastic.”
*
My parents, of course, were thrilled that they got to finally do something. “Here are the rules,” I told them on Wednesday morning before I left for school. (They were up early that morning, those crazy overachievers). “You do not embarrass me.”
“And?” my dad asked. “What else?”
“That’s it. Consider that rule number one, two, and three.” I gathered up my bag and my coffee. “And please, don’t wear anything weird, okay? Just look like regular Soho parents. This is the most basic assignment ever. Just be yourselves.”
But even I knew the truth: in high school, that was easier said than done.
By Wednesday afternoon at 2:45, I was a nervous wreck. “Did you have a triple espresso or something?” Roux said as we packed up at the final bell. “You look all wobbly.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I replied.
“Here,” she said, shaking a bottle in my direction.
“What is that?”
“Xanax, duh. Never leave home without it.”
“Are you crazy?” I snapped at her, throwing a quick glance down the hallway to make sure no one saw us. “You could get us both suspended for having that here!”
“Oh, relax. I have a prescription.”
“You do?”
“No, I lied. It’s my mom’s.”
I shoved the bottle back in her bag. “Here. Go. Do something.”
“I will. I have a massage appointment with Rosie the Miracle Worker. It’s not her official title, but it should be. She’s way better than a parent-teacher conference.”
“Well, enjoy your relaxing life,” I said. “I’ll be here, dying of embarrassment.”
“Ta-ta,” she said, wiggling her fingers at me. “You probably won’t recognize me the next time we meet, I’ll be so mellow.”
“We can only pray,” I replied.
But when my parents showed up at school, I realized that I should have gone with Roux.
“Um, excuse me,” I said to them, “but what in the world are you wearing?”
My mom was wearing a Chanel suit and taller heels than I had ever seen her wear before, making her an inch or two taller than my dad. A double strand of pearls hugged her neck, and her makeup looked professionally done. She had a wig on, a blond bob that hid her black hair and looked completely natural. I smelled perfume, too, something strong.
“Too much?” my mom asked.
“Too much perfume,” my dad told her, waving his hand and wrinkling his nose. He had a suit on and kept tugging at the collar, but his shoes were polished and his hair looked newly cut. They seemed to be the perfect Upper East Side parents I had never had.
“One problem,” I said, then stopped myself. “Actually, there are multiple problems, but this is the main one. You look uptown and we live downtown.”