gingerbreads.
Stace and Dad dropped me off to the embarrassing tune of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic” and were singing along—“Come, oh come into my arms. Let me know the wonder of all of you. Baby, I want you!”—as I scrammed up the path-lit flagstones.
My cheeks were still burning when Mimi answered. Real Mimi was just like photos Mimi, a smirking beanpole in Chuck Taylors. “Looks like I owe my sis a tenner,” she said. “I never thought she’d make friends with one of Sophie’s Girls.”
“Oh. Well, here I am.” Mimi meant Sophie Fulton-Glass, whose trust endowment paid for my scholarship. Swathed in a cape and clutching a spray of violets, Sophie’s homely portrait judged me every morning when I walked through Fulton’s doors.
Sophie Fulton-Glass, the original Nerbit.
“My year’s Sophie was my best friend, Andy,” Mimi continued as she led me through the double-high front hall and then under a vaulted arch into what I knew rich people called the great room. “Now Mom and Dad are thrilled Ella has a Sophie Girl of her very own.”
“Andrea Caplan.” I remembered. I’d seen a copy of Mimi’s yearbook. Andrea and Mimi had done a double-spread, overexposed film print of themselves, bare feet dangling from the branches of a huggable oak. Very retro-hip seventies. Was that what the Parkers wanted from me? Another scholarship Sophie Girl for their other daughter, a smart sidebar benefit to pad the Fulton experience, with an arty yearbook page to prove it?
Past the great room, I glimpsed a formal living room of stiff furniture and bold paintings, mostly pop art. I recognized a Warhol and a Lichtenstein. Were they real? They looked so confident that you didn’t want to doubt their worth. Sort of like both Parker daughters.
But Mimi led me under another arch, and into a kitchen double the size of a Fulton squash court. She tossed me a Coke from the fridge and took one herself. “Hey, Mom, here’s Raye, your Sophie Girl. Just like you ordered.”
The woman had slipped in through a swinging door. “Hi, Raye. I’m Jennifer Parker. Now, Mimi, don’t be horrible. Ella knows she can be friends with anyone she wants, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mimi repeated, reloading the word with friendly sarcasm.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said nerbitishly. Ella’s mother looked like a teacher, with silver-threaded hair, bifocals, and the look of having just misplaced an intelligent decision.
“We’re down to the wire. Two receptions. Both at seven,” she said to Mimi. “One’s sculpture. The other’s fish photographs. Which?” She held two printouts for Mimi to examine.
They were still deciding between them when Ella bopped down, dressed in dark jeans, a fitted top and loose, shining hair. She was so beautiful, I felt a sudden surge of insecurity. I could obsess on myself all day and never look that good.
“You’re fancy for homework,” Mimi commented.
“We’re going to Luddington. Which is a public place, even if it’s a library, so excuse me for not wearing a Slanket,” said Ella.
“Saturday night at the library? That’s different.” Jennifer Parker smiled at me, then reached out and tucked a piece of Ella’s hair behind her ear. “Does that mean you’ll spend the night in the stacks whispering about boys and hair mousse?”
“What the hell is hair mousse?” Ella stepped outside her mother’s reach. “And I’ve got other interests than guys.” She began to tap-tap-tap a nail on the kitchen counter.
Mimi feigned surprise. “And they are?”
“Like you care.”
“I do. Tell me.”
“Let’s just say you’ll find out one day.”
“Really? As in, when you declare your major at Tragic U?”
“Mimi, please.” Their mother frowned. Then turned to Mimi. “Photography or sculpture? I’ll need to call Dad and tell him. And then where to, for dinner?” All of her body language was flexed for Mimi’s opinion.
Ella took photography. That was one
Stace and Dad dropped me off to the embarrassing tune of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic” and were singing along—“Come, oh come into my arms. Let me know the wonder of all of you. Baby, I want you!”—as I scrammed up the path-lit flagstones.
My cheeks were still burning when Mimi answered. Real Mimi was just like photos Mimi, a smirking beanpole in Chuck Taylors. “Looks like I owe my sis a tenner,” she said. “I never thought she’d make friends with one of Sophie’s Girls.”
“Oh. Well, here I am.” Mimi meant Sophie Fulton-Glass, whose trust endowment paid for my scholarship. Swathed in a cape and clutching a spray of violets, Sophie’s homely portrait judged me every morning when I walked through Fulton’s doors.
Sophie Fulton-Glass, the original Nerbit.
“My year’s Sophie was my best friend, Andy,” Mimi continued as she led me through the double-high front hall and then under a vaulted arch into what I knew rich people called the great room. “Now Mom and Dad are thrilled Ella has a Sophie Girl of her very own.”
“Andrea Caplan.” I remembered. I’d seen a copy of Mimi’s yearbook. Andrea and Mimi had done a double-spread, overexposed film print of themselves, bare feet dangling from the branches of a huggable oak. Very retro-hip seventies. Was that what the Parkers wanted from me? Another scholarship Sophie Girl for their other daughter, a smart sidebar benefit to pad the Fulton experience, with an arty yearbook page to prove it?
Past the great room, I glimpsed a formal living room of stiff furniture and bold paintings, mostly pop art. I recognized a Warhol and a Lichtenstein. Were they real? They looked so confident that you didn’t want to doubt their worth. Sort of like both Parker daughters.
But Mimi led me under another arch, and into a kitchen double the size of a Fulton squash court. She tossed me a Coke from the fridge and took one herself. “Hey, Mom, here’s Raye, your Sophie Girl. Just like you ordered.”
The woman had slipped in through a swinging door. “Hi, Raye. I’m Jennifer Parker. Now, Mimi, don’t be horrible. Ella knows she can be friends with anyone she wants, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mimi repeated, reloading the word with friendly sarcasm.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said nerbitishly. Ella’s mother looked like a teacher, with silver-threaded hair, bifocals, and the look of having just misplaced an intelligent decision.
“We’re down to the wire. Two receptions. Both at seven,” she said to Mimi. “One’s sculpture. The other’s fish photographs. Which?” She held two printouts for Mimi to examine.
They were still deciding between them when Ella bopped down, dressed in dark jeans, a fitted top and loose, shining hair. She was so beautiful, I felt a sudden surge of insecurity. I could obsess on myself all day and never look that good.
“You’re fancy for homework,” Mimi commented.
“We’re going to Luddington. Which is a public place, even if it’s a library, so excuse me for not wearing a Slanket,” said Ella.
“Saturday night at the library? That’s different.” Jennifer Parker smiled at me, then reached out and tucked a piece of Ella’s hair behind her ear. “Does that mean you’ll spend the night in the stacks whispering about boys and hair mousse?”
“What the hell is hair mousse?” Ella stepped outside her mother’s reach. “And I’ve got other interests than guys.” She began to tap-tap-tap a nail on the kitchen counter.
Mimi feigned surprise. “And they are?”
“Like you care.”
“I do. Tell me.”
“Let’s just say you’ll find out one day.”
“Really? As in, when you declare your major at Tragic U?”
“Mimi, please.” Their mother frowned. Then turned to Mimi. “Photography or sculpture? I’ll need to call Dad and tell him. And then where to, for dinner?” All of her body language was flexed for Mimi’s opinion.
Ella took photography. That was one
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