earn Mom’s approval, I head down to the kitchen to see what’s happening for dinner.
There, I find Mom and Marina working on hors d’oeuvres. Two platters filled with lean meats, cheeses, olives, and a loaf of bread sit on the granite countertop. Mom is circling a separate veggie platter like a vulture.
I slide onto a stool at the island. “What’s going on?”
“Peter and Maura Phillips are coming over to discuss your father’s campaign,” Mom replies, popping a baby carrot in her mouth. She passes me a cocktail plate and gestures for me to grab anything I want. I choose a few olives and a slice of salami.
“What’d you do this afternoon?” Mom asks.
“I drove over to the Galleria and got some jeans.”
“Did you get any other clothes?” she asks eagerly. Mom loves shopping.
“Nah. I didn’t want to use any more of my allowance.”
She furrows her eyebrows. Then a sly look crosses her face, and she smiles conspiratorially. “Do you need anything else besides jeans?”
Every year, Dad gives us kids a clothes budget, but Mom has always felt it wasn’t enough—certainly not enough money to buy clothes befitting a senator’s kid , so she’s been known to slip us some cash here and there if we need something in particular, like when I needed a new outfit for the governor’s Independence Day Ball this past July. According to Mom, nothing in my closet “would do,” so she swore me to secrecy and swept me off to Nordstrom for a new cocktail dress.
“I could use leggings and a few more shirts for school,” I whisper in case Dad is lurking about.
“We’ll get you some,” Mom says with a smile. “You know, you could probably afford more clothes if you’d kick that coffee habit.”
“Get us a Keurig and I’ll stop blowing money on lattes.”
“Amen,” Marina says, while Mom rolls her eyes.
I pop an olive in my mouth, then open the folder Miss Brady gave me during counseling today. It’s a list of all Hundred Oaks’ clubs and activities.
“What’s that?” Mom asks.
I scan down the page. “I need to choose another extracurricular besides soccer.”
“Why? Don’t you feel like you have enough on your plate?”
I shrug. “Not as much as at St. Andrew’s. I need to add to my résumé, or Yale will wonder why I started slacking during my senior year.”
“But Taylor,” Mom says quietly, not meeting my eyes. “Don’t you think you should relax a little? I don’t want you turning back to Adderall.”
“But my early decision app for Yale is due November first! I can’t stop working now, Mom.” My voice is full of desperation. “Not after all these years.”
“I know you work hard, Tee,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “But we can’t risk another incident like this.”
Another incident?
“You need to concentrate on taking care of yourself right now,” she adds. “I’m sure Yale will accept you. You’re a Lukens, for God’s sake.”
Clearly, she is not in the know. “Dad said he won’t give the alumni association a heads-up that I’m applying.”
Mom practically chokes on an olive.
“My application is no different from anyone else’s,” I add. I have killer grades, and I do amazing work. I shouldn’t need a name to get ahead. I can do this on my own. And I’m going to do everything in my power to get in.
Dad strolls into the kitchen, looking tired, probably because he flew back from DC this afternoon, but he perks up when he spots the food. He loads a cocktail plate to the brim with cheese and ham, which earns him a slap on the wrist from Mom.
I continue to pore over the list of clubs and activities. Maybe I could do Quiz Bowl. I mean, who doesn’t like shouting answers at the TV when Jeopard y ! is on?
The Dinner Club sounds fun too, but it turns out to be cooking. I’d join if it were only about eating. Then there’s the Polar Bear Club. They jump into freezing cold bodies of water. Ooh, skeet shooting!
Not much on this list appeals to me. I
There, I find Mom and Marina working on hors d’oeuvres. Two platters filled with lean meats, cheeses, olives, and a loaf of bread sit on the granite countertop. Mom is circling a separate veggie platter like a vulture.
I slide onto a stool at the island. “What’s going on?”
“Peter and Maura Phillips are coming over to discuss your father’s campaign,” Mom replies, popping a baby carrot in her mouth. She passes me a cocktail plate and gestures for me to grab anything I want. I choose a few olives and a slice of salami.
“What’d you do this afternoon?” Mom asks.
“I drove over to the Galleria and got some jeans.”
“Did you get any other clothes?” she asks eagerly. Mom loves shopping.
“Nah. I didn’t want to use any more of my allowance.”
She furrows her eyebrows. Then a sly look crosses her face, and she smiles conspiratorially. “Do you need anything else besides jeans?”
Every year, Dad gives us kids a clothes budget, but Mom has always felt it wasn’t enough—certainly not enough money to buy clothes befitting a senator’s kid , so she’s been known to slip us some cash here and there if we need something in particular, like when I needed a new outfit for the governor’s Independence Day Ball this past July. According to Mom, nothing in my closet “would do,” so she swore me to secrecy and swept me off to Nordstrom for a new cocktail dress.
“I could use leggings and a few more shirts for school,” I whisper in case Dad is lurking about.
“We’ll get you some,” Mom says with a smile. “You know, you could probably afford more clothes if you’d kick that coffee habit.”
“Get us a Keurig and I’ll stop blowing money on lattes.”
“Amen,” Marina says, while Mom rolls her eyes.
I pop an olive in my mouth, then open the folder Miss Brady gave me during counseling today. It’s a list of all Hundred Oaks’ clubs and activities.
“What’s that?” Mom asks.
I scan down the page. “I need to choose another extracurricular besides soccer.”
“Why? Don’t you feel like you have enough on your plate?”
I shrug. “Not as much as at St. Andrew’s. I need to add to my résumé, or Yale will wonder why I started slacking during my senior year.”
“But Taylor,” Mom says quietly, not meeting my eyes. “Don’t you think you should relax a little? I don’t want you turning back to Adderall.”
“But my early decision app for Yale is due November first! I can’t stop working now, Mom.” My voice is full of desperation. “Not after all these years.”
“I know you work hard, Tee,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “But we can’t risk another incident like this.”
Another incident?
“You need to concentrate on taking care of yourself right now,” she adds. “I’m sure Yale will accept you. You’re a Lukens, for God’s sake.”
Clearly, she is not in the know. “Dad said he won’t give the alumni association a heads-up that I’m applying.”
Mom practically chokes on an olive.
“My application is no different from anyone else’s,” I add. I have killer grades, and I do amazing work. I shouldn’t need a name to get ahead. I can do this on my own. And I’m going to do everything in my power to get in.
Dad strolls into the kitchen, looking tired, probably because he flew back from DC this afternoon, but he perks up when he spots the food. He loads a cocktail plate to the brim with cheese and ham, which earns him a slap on the wrist from Mom.
I continue to pore over the list of clubs and activities. Maybe I could do Quiz Bowl. I mean, who doesn’t like shouting answers at the TV when Jeopard y ! is on?
The Dinner Club sounds fun too, but it turns out to be cooking. I’d join if it were only about eating. Then there’s the Polar Bear Club. They jump into freezing cold bodies of water. Ooh, skeet shooting!
Not much on this list appeals to me. I
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