You Should Have Known by Jean Hanff Korelitz Page B

place where how old you look depends so much more on how well you’re taking care of yourself than how many years you’ve been alive—and in that equally ill-defined terrain between heavy and thin. As Grace went through the usual motions of extracting herself from her sweaty leotard, stepping into and out of the shower, drying her hair, and opening her locker, she had gradually noted that the woman was still standing in precisely the same place and that same position: before the full-length mirror, combing her hair. Her stance and behavior added up to far more than the sum of their parts, a fact equally obvious to everyone else in the locker room, fifteen or twenty other women who studiously avoided this person, stepping carefully around her, averting their eyes. Nakedness in a locker room, of course, is far from unusual, and hair combing and looking into mirrors are also quite common. But the woman had emanated a visceral wrongness as she stood, so still, a little too close to the mirror, staring with a little too much concentration at herself, her legs a little too far apart, her left arm motionless at the hip while her right hand dragged the comb carefully, rhythmically, through her wet brown hair. That woman had had just this expression on her face, thought Grace, testing the insight by looking briefly back at Malaga Alves, then turning again to Sally in an effort to seem nonplussed. They were racing now, crossing t’s and dotting i’s, removing any possible impediment to finishing the meeting and getting the hell out. Sally, perhaps recalling the days of her “big career,” ran what remained of the session like a merciless managing partner, thoroughly indifferent to the private lives of her subordinates. Tasks were assigned and a pre-event rendezvous scheduled for Saturday afternoon at the Spensers’. (“Does that work for you, Malaga?” Sally paused to ask. “Oh, good.”) The baby continued to suck throughout, and it seemed to Grace almost bizarre that such a tiny thing could sustain hunger for such a long time. Then, without warning or comment, she turned her head away from her mother’s heavy breast and looked avidly around the room.
    â€œI think,” Sally said firmly, “that may be it. I don’t have anything else. Sylvia? Do you have anything else?”
    â€œNope,” Sylvia said, shutting her leather-encased folder with a smack.
    Amanda was already getting to her feet, gathering the papers before her as she did. She wasn’t wasting time. Malaga, having jostled the infant into a more or less vertical position, had still not shown the smallest inclination to cover herself.
    â€œIt was nice to meet you. I think your little boy is in my daughter Piper’s class. Miss Levin? Fourth grade?”
    The woman nodded.
    â€œI haven’t gotten to meet any of the new parents this year,” Amanda said, shoving the papers into her pale green Birkin. “We ought to have a get-together, just Miss Levin’s class.”
    â€œHow is Miguel doing?” Sally asked. “He’s a sweet little boy.”
    Malaga, in response, showed the slightest animation, offering a brief smile as she patted her infant on the back. “Yes. He doing well. The teacher, she working with him.”
    â€œPiper said she played a game with him on the roof,” said Amanda.
    The roof was where the elementary students went for recess. It was covered in safe, rubbery flooring and full of primary-colored playground equipment and a net, to prevent the children from flying away.
    â€œOkay,” Malaga said. The baby emitted a deep, unladylike burp. Suddenly, Grace wanted desperately to leave.
    â€œWell, bye, all,” she said cheerily. “Sally, if you think of anything else, please call. But obviously we’re in great shape. I can’t believe you’ve pulled this all together in such a short time.”
    â€œWell, with a little help from