squinting at them from behind her spectacles. A pang of recognition startled Sylvie—then, fear: some old, unrealized fear that, although long past the point of logic, still carried a powerful emotional charge.
It was Vicky Lalage.
Sylvie hadn’t laid eyes on Vicky Lalage since the disastrous series of events beginning with letting her mother’s dog die on her watch and being exiled to the nursery with her father’s ashes (“Contents: Marc Lalage”). Since then, Sylvie had hightailed it to Brooklyn and never looked back. She was twenty-two years old then and twenty-eight now. It came to Sylvie, looking at this young woman who she had once been friends with and who was now a stranger, that it felt like not six years but whole decades had passed.
I was so young then, she thought, remembering her first year in New York.
“Vicky!” she exclaimed. The two women hugged. Vicky, after recognizing Cassandra, too, gestured to Clementine and then to Sylvie, saying: “Oh my God, is she—”
“Mine? Oh no.”
“You wish,” said Cassandra, and the three of them laughed, on innocent ground because the presence of Clementine erased the thorny past and put everybody in a good mood.
“Everybody does say we look alike,” said Sylvie, to whom nothing could have been a greater compliment. “But no, I’m just her babysitter.”
They do kind of look alike, Vicky was thinking, but Sylvie seemed so different. She seemed like a whole other person. She couldn’t put her finger on it at first, then she realized what it was. Her haircut. Vicky stopped for a second to recall the carelessly gorgeous, brown-skinned girl on the nude beach at Martha’s Vineyard: the one with the black Italian pixie cut. But Sylvie was wearing her hair long now and Vicky thought that it weighed her down. Vicky thought that she looked tired.
“What are you up to these days?” Cassandra asked Vicky, feeling that it was only good manners to do so.
“Oh, I’ve been running this studio for this artist…” Cassandra here recalled that Vicky had been a fine arts major—ceramics or something frumpy like that. She saw flakes of plaster dotting the honey-blond hair. Vicky rambled on a bit, and then the girls heard her say: “And! I just moved into an apartment in Boerum Hill with my girlfriend. Actually…” She singled out Sylvie. “My girlfriend. Tess Fox. You know her.”
Afterward:
“Oh my God. Tess Fox. That’s that anorexic slut from Bryn Mawr!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The one who used to date Gala, right? The one you got into that screaming match with on the ferry coming back from the Vineyard?”
“Uh-huh. Oh my God. I’m going to text Gala and tell her
right now.
” Sylvie reached for her BlackBerry and began tapping away. “Also, I know that was totally harmless, but I’ve been dreading running into Vicky Lalage for
years.
”
“Well? You two are out and about in New York City. It had to happen sometime.”
That song, Cassandra thought, later that night when she was lying in bed unable to fall asleep. She couldn’t get it out of her head. She tried to resurrect her rusty French to translate the lyrics. It wasn’t a very nice song, was it? But then children’s songs so often weren’t nice. Childhood was a brutal kingdom, where only the fit and the selfish survived.
“Skylark, nice skylark / Skylark, I shall pluck you / I shall pluck your head…”
CHAPTER 17
C assandra picked up her cell phone to call Sylvie, as in the old days when they were living in different cities and loved more than anything to talk on the phone to each other. Sylvie was off babysitting, and Cassandra had just woken up and was drinking coffee alone, savoring the angelic light of Sylvie’s apartment, thinking: How good life is.
“Oh my God, guess what?”
In the background, children were shrieking. Sylvie said: “Can I call you—”
“No, no, I wanted to tell you. I’ve been thinking about it. I can handle it now.”
“Handle
It was Vicky Lalage.
Sylvie hadn’t laid eyes on Vicky Lalage since the disastrous series of events beginning with letting her mother’s dog die on her watch and being exiled to the nursery with her father’s ashes (“Contents: Marc Lalage”). Since then, Sylvie had hightailed it to Brooklyn and never looked back. She was twenty-two years old then and twenty-eight now. It came to Sylvie, looking at this young woman who she had once been friends with and who was now a stranger, that it felt like not six years but whole decades had passed.
I was so young then, she thought, remembering her first year in New York.
“Vicky!” she exclaimed. The two women hugged. Vicky, after recognizing Cassandra, too, gestured to Clementine and then to Sylvie, saying: “Oh my God, is she—”
“Mine? Oh no.”
“You wish,” said Cassandra, and the three of them laughed, on innocent ground because the presence of Clementine erased the thorny past and put everybody in a good mood.
“Everybody does say we look alike,” said Sylvie, to whom nothing could have been a greater compliment. “But no, I’m just her babysitter.”
They do kind of look alike, Vicky was thinking, but Sylvie seemed so different. She seemed like a whole other person. She couldn’t put her finger on it at first, then she realized what it was. Her haircut. Vicky stopped for a second to recall the carelessly gorgeous, brown-skinned girl on the nude beach at Martha’s Vineyard: the one with the black Italian pixie cut. But Sylvie was wearing her hair long now and Vicky thought that it weighed her down. Vicky thought that she looked tired.
“What are you up to these days?” Cassandra asked Vicky, feeling that it was only good manners to do so.
“Oh, I’ve been running this studio for this artist…” Cassandra here recalled that Vicky had been a fine arts major—ceramics or something frumpy like that. She saw flakes of plaster dotting the honey-blond hair. Vicky rambled on a bit, and then the girls heard her say: “And! I just moved into an apartment in Boerum Hill with my girlfriend. Actually…” She singled out Sylvie. “My girlfriend. Tess Fox. You know her.”
Afterward:
“Oh my God. Tess Fox. That’s that anorexic slut from Bryn Mawr!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The one who used to date Gala, right? The one you got into that screaming match with on the ferry coming back from the Vineyard?”
“Uh-huh. Oh my God. I’m going to text Gala and tell her
right now.
” Sylvie reached for her BlackBerry and began tapping away. “Also, I know that was totally harmless, but I’ve been dreading running into Vicky Lalage for
years.
”
“Well? You two are out and about in New York City. It had to happen sometime.”
That song, Cassandra thought, later that night when she was lying in bed unable to fall asleep. She couldn’t get it out of her head. She tried to resurrect her rusty French to translate the lyrics. It wasn’t a very nice song, was it? But then children’s songs so often weren’t nice. Childhood was a brutal kingdom, where only the fit and the selfish survived.
“Skylark, nice skylark / Skylark, I shall pluck you / I shall pluck your head…”
CHAPTER 17
C assandra picked up her cell phone to call Sylvie, as in the old days when they were living in different cities and loved more than anything to talk on the phone to each other. Sylvie was off babysitting, and Cassandra had just woken up and was drinking coffee alone, savoring the angelic light of Sylvie’s apartment, thinking: How good life is.
“Oh my God, guess what?”
In the background, children were shrieking. Sylvie said: “Can I call you—”
“No, no, I wanted to tell you. I’ve been thinking about it. I can handle it now.”
“Handle
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