Good Luck with That Read online

  And her uncle, Rafael.

  “Hi, Silvi. I’m Miss Georgia, one of the teachers here. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Yellow,” she said.

  “Mine too!” I said, and she smiled. It worked every time. But my heart was thudding, and there was a buzzing noise that I was pretty sure was coming from my brain.

  My ex-husband’s niece was going to be my student. I hadn’t seen him—or his family, obviously—in almost five years.

  “We just moved up here,” Clara said. She was six years younger than Rafe, which made her twenty-eight. “My husband took a transfer. He’s a computer geek with TechRoots. We were in New Jersey, down near Vineland, but we wanted to be closer to Mom and Dad, and . . . well. Cambry is so pretty. Great schools.”

  So she was nervous, too.

  “Mr. Trombley,” I asked, “can we have a minute?”

  He scowled—it was almost his naptime—but left. “Silvi, do you know how to write your name?” I handed her a piece of paper and a pen from Mr. Trombley’s desk.

  “Of course I do! I’ve been doing that since I was two!” She sparkled up at me, and I felt a rush of love. She was delightful.

  “Would you mind writing it for me? As neatly as you can, okay?”

  “Do you want my middle names, too? Because I can do everything.”

  “I do. That would be wonderful.”

  As she bent over the paper, I looked at Clara. “Will this be okay?” I whispered. Did she want to check with Rafe? Did he hate me? Did the whole family? What had he told them? Had they always suspected we wouldn’t last?

  “Of course it’s okay,” Clara said, smiling. “I’m sure you’re an amazing teacher.”

  The Santiago warmth and kindness was not limited to Rafael, of course. There was that poker again.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m really happy to see you. How’s the family?”

  “Everyone’s great,” she said. She patted her stomach. “Due in four months. Another girl. My parents are thrilled.”

  The thought of the elder Santiagos stabbed me. They’d always been so nice.

  “I’m going to be a big sister,” Silvi told me. “I want to name the baby Dandelion.”

  “That’s a very pretty name,” I said, and Clara smiled. “Your little sister will be so lucky to have you as her friend.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling. You had to love the confidence of some kids.

  “Silvi, are you four years old?”

  “Mm-hm.” She held up four fingers to confirm her answer.

  “Excellent! I know a lot of people who are four,” I said. “Do you want to meet some of them?”

  “Can I come, too?” Clara asked.

  “What do you think, Silvi?” I asked.

  “Sure, Mommy!” she said, taking her mother’s hand. She took mine in the other, and we left the office. Mr. Trombley was leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He jerked to attention.

  “St. Luke’s offers the very best preschool education available,” he recited. “Please let me know if I can do anything at all to make your child’s experience a rich and joyful time of learning.” He was reciting from our mission statement. I knew, since I’d written it.

  “I will, and thank you,” Clara said. “It better be a joyful time of learning,” she added in a low voice, “for what we’re paying.”

  “It’s not cheap,” I agreed, and she grinned at me, little Silvi skipping between us.

  I remembered Clara laughing on my wedding day. She’d caught the bouquet, which had made her boyfriend—God, now husband, that’s right, Marco Acevedo—so happy.

  Clara didn’t mention Rafe now. Neither did I.

  “Silvi, you’re going to make lots of new friends here,” I said as we came to my cheerful red door, which was covered in leaves with the kids’ names on them.

  “Let’s hope that’s true!” she said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh—she clearly had an excellent grasp of language. I opened the door, and fifteen little heads swiveled toward me. “Class,” I said, “we have a new friend.”

  “Yay!” the kids cheered. In most cases, four was an age untouched by bullying or spoiling or misery. There were exceptions, of course, but four was rather golden. Rumor had it that even my brother was pretty cute at age four. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been alive to witness it.

  I introduced Silvi to everyone and asked Charlotte and Bertie to be her SuperFriends for the Day, crushing the hearts of all the other kids who loved that duty. The job consisted of paying special attention to a classmate who might be new or having a tough time for whatever reason. Everyone would get to be Silvi’s SuperFriend by the end of next week. My class was a socialist nation, more or less.

  Clara bent down and hugged her daughter. “I’ll see you in a little while, honey,” she said.

  “Bye, Mama!” Silvi said as Bertie towed her away.

  I stepped out with Clara, whose eyes were starting to get shiny. “She’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Oh, I know. It’s me I’m worried about.”

  I patted her arm. “You’ll be fine, too.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s a big step.”

  If I were the hugging type, now would be the time. I patted her arm again. She brushed her tears away and took a deep breath. “Well. Thank you.” She paused. “Rafael is doing fine, by the way.”

  The sound of his name hit me hard. I swallowed. “I didn’t want to ask, in case . . . well, in case you wanted to keep things separate.”

  “Don’t be silly. You were my sister-in-law,” she said. “And Rafe loves Silvi. I imagine he’ll come to see her here at least once.”

  “I’m sure he’s a wonderful uncle.”

  “He is.” Clara looked through the door window. “Well. I should go before I start sobbing for real.”

  “Save that for the car.” This time, I did hug her, though it felt stiff and weird. “See you at two.”

  She nodded, tears slipping down her face. But she smiled and went off.

  I sucked in a long breath. Let it out slowly.

  Silvi would’ve been my niece. The thought was like a punch in the stomach. That sweet little girl, calling me Auntie, or G, the way Mason did.

  And I’d be seeing my ex-husband again. I should lose weight, came the automatic response to anything important that loomed on the horizon.

  The poker in my stomach twisted.

  I opened the door and went back in to the kids.

  * * *

  • • •

  One of the perks of teaching preschool—aside from the infinite love for and from the kiddies—was that it ended at two p.m. Most days, I met Mason around two fifteen, when high school let out, the time when he was least likely to be hounded by my brother.

  Hunter and I had gone to prep schools. Hunter went to Trinity-Pawling, which was regrettably close to home, an all-boys school he had loved, the place where he’d become a savage athlete. I’d gone to Concord Academy, farther away in Massachusetts, and by then Hunter had been in college, so our paths didn’t cross so much. Happy times.

  At any rate, I’d hoped that Mason would thrive at boarding school the way many kids did. His elementary school had been private, the same one Hunter and I had gone to, and just about every single one of his classmates went off to prep school. The plan had been for Mason to go to Trinity-Pawling, too.

  Then, at the end of April, Mason took eleven Tylenol PM tablets at once and . . . well. He didn’t go to Trinity-Pawling. He did go to the ER. No liver damage.

  He swore it was an accident, said he’d just had a very bad headache and wanted to get some sleep. Accident or not, Hunter had been scared enough to keep him home and even got him a counselor, though Hunter had resisted that at first. Counseling was for the weak, Hunter thought. The hospital wouldn’t discharge his son wit
hout one, though, so Mason had a therapist, thank God. He was allowed to finish eighth grade from home, me tutoring him, to my brother’s chagrin.

  Now Mason was attending the very excellent public school, which irked Hunter, who’d wanted him at his own alma mater. Even though I checked in with my nephew every day, I sometimes jolted awake at night, remembering the sight of him in the hospital bed, a tube up his nose, tears in his eyes. That’s when the pain in my stomach started to get really bad, and when I reverted, once again, to eating almost nothing.

  Every fat girl starves herself at one point or another. It had never made me actually thin, not like those poor girls who look like skeletons and stop getting their periods. But at different times of my life, I had enacted their habits . . . just never long enough for any real drama. The point was control . . . and grief . . . and self-loathing; when they all got bundled up together, sometimes it was denying myself food rather than drowning myself in it that worked. And after April, after Mason’s overdose, well, that was one of those times. Because on top of all the old wounds, I’d completely missed the fact that Mason was desperately unhappy.

  Since that event, Mason remained relentlessly cheerful around me. But his nails were chewed to the quick, his posture meek, his clothes oversized. He’d always been a small, slight kid, but now it looked like he was trying to disappear, and God help me, I understood wanting to be invisible. He hadn’t gone to public school before; he didn’t know the kids in his class.

  Like I had been, he was on the outside.

  Hence, a list.

  The truth was, I’d decided to do Emerson’s list even before Marley said she was in. I’d promised Emerson I would, and I owed her that much. Also, maybe, just maybe, there was something valuable about revisiting those teenage dreams.

  Mason was a teenager, and like I’d been back then, he wasn’t exactly thriving, no matter how hard he smiled. A Google search told me 5.8 million articles said writing down goals was a step in the right direction.

  Most days, my nephew and I met at my house after school so we could take Admiral for a walk. Today, Mason was already there, Admiral looking regal at his side. It was early September, and Cambry-on-Hudson was clinging to summer with shimmering blue skies and low humidity.

  “Hi, honey!” I said, unable to stop the endearment.

  But Mason wasn’t a typical fourteen-year-old boy, and his face lit up at the sight of me. Admiral put his paws on my skirt and allowed me to pet his elegant face. I smooched Mason, and we started walking down the block toward the park.

  “Greetings, good people of Cambry,” said Leo, the piano teacher, as we passed his courtyard. He sat in a battered chair, a puppy at his side. I’d noticed Leo when I first moved in—he was ridiculously good-looking, so it was hard not to. But relationships were not my thing. Been there, done that, had those divorce papers.

  “Hey, Leo. Hi, Thor,” I said, letting Admiral stop to sniff Leo’s adorable little puppy, who tried to bite Admiral’s ear. My dog put a paw on Thor’s head, gently ending that bit of mischief. “How are you?”

  “Just fine. How you doing, Mason?”

  “Great!” Mason said, picking at a shredded cuticle but beaming nonetheless, a smile that tried too hard. The boy could be standing in a puddle of his own blood, and his answer would always be the same.

  “Taking your aunt out for some air, doing your Christian duty, I see,” Leo said with a wink.

  Mason’s shoulders dropped an inch, and his smile grew more genuine. “I guess. Hey, Leo, am I . . . am I too old to take piano lessons?”

  Mason’s mother had played the piano. My throat tightened.

  “Of course not,” Leo said. “Give me a call. For Georgia’s nephew, anything.” He grinned at me.

  “Okay. Maybe I will. Thanks!”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Mason and I continued down the street.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to take piano lessons,” I said.

  “Well . . . maybe. Kind of. I don’t think Dad would let me.” He bit an already bloody cuticle, saw me looking and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Maybe we can work something out,” I said. Unfortunately, Mason was one of those overscheduled kids—therapy, tutoring in math and science (I’d been let go once Mason passed eighth grade), swimming at the Cambry-on-Hudson Lawn Club pool, CrossFit twice a week with Hunter. It would be tough to sneak in even an hour a week for a lesson, let alone practice time. Besides, Hunter didn’t have a piano.

  But I did.

  There was an ice-cream truck parked on the street. “I’m starving,” Mason said.

  “Then let me buy you a cone.”

  Eat dessert in public.

  I could have one, too. Mason went up to the window and ordered a SpongeBob-shaped ice-cream cone. “You want something, G?” he asked.

  “Um . . . ah . . .” I looked at the side of the truck, where all sorts of hideous frozen dyed offerings were painted. I could get some soft serve. Just vanilla.

  I glanced behind me. A fortysomething mother stood behind me with two kids, about eight and ten. She was slim and tall, her hair perfectly highlighted, wearing designer yoga gear, a heavy diamond band weighing down her slender hand. Everything I wasn’t—skinny, married, a mother, secure.

  “G? You want anything?”

  “No, thanks, honey,” I said.

  Fail Number One.

  Mason got his treat and ate it in about three bites as we walked to the end of the field, and I tried not to think about ice cream, or how tiny that woman’s ass was, or how she managed to keep so fit. Surgery? Lipo? Anorexia?

  At the far end of the park was the baseball field, and we brought Admiral in so he could do what he was bred to do—run. He started off, sleek and low, a blur of gray fur and canine muscle, impossibly fast as he ran around and around and around. A few people stopped to look at him, asking questions about his breed. I let Mason answer; he was so good with adults.

  Kids his own age, not so much. When Ad was finished and came over to us, panting, I clipped the leash on his collar.

  “How was school today?” I asked as we walked. I knew from experience it was easier to talk if you didn’t have to make eye contact.

  “It was okay.”

  I waited.

  “I wanted to sit with some other kids at lunch, but . . . they all know each other.” He shrugged.

  “So you ate alone again?”

  “Yeah, but it was cool. I read.” No wonder he’d been hungry. He probably hadn’t eaten anything.

  I glanced at his sweet face, still so boyish. His lips jerked in a smile meant to assure me, but instead it revealed the misery underneath. We reached a bench, and I sat down. Admiral jumped up as well, curling into his impossibly limber yoga position, almost a perfect circle, like a cinnamon roll. Mason sat down on my dog’s other side, petting his head.

  “Honey,” I said, weighing my words carefully, “you know my friend who just died?”

  “Emerson. Yeah.” Of course he remembered. He was kind and thoughtful.

  I cleared my throat. “Emerson left this list for Marley and me,” I said. “Sort of a . . . challenge list. Doing things that we want to do, but don’t because they’re, uh, outside the comfort zone.”

  “What kind of things?” he asked. He looked so much like his mom it hurt my heart. What she’d ever seen in Hunter . . .

  “Well, it was a list we wrote when we first met at camp. When we were teenagers. Things like . . . well, little things. Tuck in a shirt, which is hard if you’re fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “And you’re very sweet.”

  “Seriously, G.”

  “Anyway. It’s sort of like a”—I didn’t want to say bucket—“list of things we wanted to accomplish or experience. Have a cute guy give you a piggyback ride, flirt with you. S
tuff that felt impossible back then.”

  “Yeah. I could never flirt with a girl, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, the thing is, maybe we could do the list together. Except your list could be stuff just for you, since obviously you don’t want a stranger to flirt with you, because that would be creepy.”

  This earned a snort. “I’m fourteen, Georgia.”

  “Exactly. That’s why your list would be different than mine.”

  He said nothing, but I could feel his mood sink. Admiral put his head on Mason’s leg in sympathy.

  “It would be easier to do if I had a partner in crime, so to speak,” I said. “I mean, Marley’s doing it, too, but she’s super confident, you know? It’s harder for me.” Mason didn’t look at me. “I know you’re having a tough year, sweetheart,” I added quietly. “And I’ve been exactly where you are. Sometimes you have to push yourself to make things better.”

  Mason just continued to sit silently, staring at the ground.

  “Just little things,” I said, covering his hand with mine. Ours were about the same size these days.

  “What things would be on my list?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  He shrugged.

  “How about taking piano lessons?” I suggested.

  “Like my father would ever let me. It was a dumb idea.”

  “But that’s exactly the challenge. To stand up for yourself and do something that’s a little bit hard.” He said nothing. “I wish you saw yourself the way I see you, Mason.”

  “Right back at you, G.”

  “Touché.”

  Mason bit his ragged nail. “I don’t know. I mean, Dad always talks about setting goals and stuff, too. Just not the kind of goals I want.”

  “Yes, that’s the idea. These would be your goals, not his.” I knew it was a tall order, to ask someone like Mason (and me) what would make them happy. When you spent so much time disappointing people, it wasn’t a question you thought about much. “If you need help making your list, maybe we could do it together.”

  He looked at me, then down at the ground. “Maybe. Yeah.”

  “Want me to come for dinner one night this week?”