the kitchen holding a tray of cookies and a wonky gingerbread house that looks as if it might collapse at any minute. “Look what Leni and I made with Gladys!” she says with mock pride.
They both had the night off thanks to their alternates, and it seems that they’ve already gotten a little tipsy. Because of Emma’s pulled calf, I’ve been dancing every performance. And I’ve found paper snow in pretty much every item of clothing I own.
I ooh and aah over the gingerbread house as if it were somerare artifact. “That’s very Frank Gehry,” I say, fingering the lopsided roof. “My dad would love it. He’s an architect.”
“I think it has Whitney Biennial potential,” Leni says, laughing.
“Totally,” I agree.
As we wander into the palatial living room, I notice Dolly tiptoeing past us and slipping out the front door in a pink chinchilla coat. She doesn’t even wave good-bye to her daughter. I don’t know why she still disappoints me after all these years—you’d think I’d be used to it. Zoe certainly is.
Zoe, Daisy, Leni, Bea, and I all huddle around the fireplace and sip eggnog. Gladys brings out silver platters with peanut brittle and sugar cookies shaped like the baby Jesus.
“Are
these
ironic?” Bea whispers as she bites into one of his feet.
We sink into the huge, plush sofas and watch
Miracle on 34th Street
on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, which, when it’s not on, hides behind a screen that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Before the movie is over, though, Zoe becomes impatient. “Let’s do presents!” she says, and so we all scoot down and sit on pillows in a circle on the floor.
The gift exchange was Leni’s idea; since she’s older, every once in a while she likes to get maternal on us. Bea gives everyone little bottles of bath salts, which are perfect for our aching bodies, especially during
Nutcracker
season. Leni gives us tins with German toffees, Daisy hands out mini lip gloss kits from Sephora, and Zoe—who could afford to go over the ten-dollarlimit—passes out Marc Jacobs key chains. I had made everyone an animal ornament out of Styrofoam balls and pipe cleaners and placed them inside little wooden boxes that I bought at the Columbus Circle crafts fair.
“What is mine?” Bea asks, holding it up.
I eye it. Honestly, it’s not easy to tell. “It’s a reindeer,” I say brightly.
“Oh,” she says. “Awesome.”
We’re busy examining our presents—Bea is trying on lip gloss while Daisy dangles her new key chain in front of Gucci’s nose—when Gladys comes in with a platter of chow mein and moo shu chicken. Suddenly I remember that I haven’t eaten any dinner, and I am so delighted I leap up and give her a big hug.
She pats me on the cheek. “I would have preferred a nice glazed ham, but Zoe insisted because this is your favorite,” she says.
I’m so touched that I dash back over to Zoe’s pillow, plop down on it, and give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, laughing and shoving me away playfully.
And she’s right—it is.
WINTER SEASON
13
“Here we go again,” Bea says as she throws her clean laundry into her theater case.
“Back to the salt mines,” I say cheerfully, which is something my dad used to say when he went to his office at the architecture firm on Monday mornings.
Today is the first day of winter season. On New Year’s Eve, we had our last performance of
The Nutcracker
, thank God. Then we had two days’ break—not nearly long enough to recuperate.
But at least it was long enough for the dressing room to get a thorough cleaning. Now it smells clean and piney, and our mirrors are no longer marred by fingerprints and smudges of makeup. The room looks as nice as it’s ever looked, and I wonder how long it’ll take us to destroy it again. Considering Bea’s leotards and tights are already spewing out of her theater case and piling up on the floor, I’m guessing about fifteen
They both had the night off thanks to their alternates, and it seems that they’ve already gotten a little tipsy. Because of Emma’s pulled calf, I’ve been dancing every performance. And I’ve found paper snow in pretty much every item of clothing I own.
I ooh and aah over the gingerbread house as if it were somerare artifact. “That’s very Frank Gehry,” I say, fingering the lopsided roof. “My dad would love it. He’s an architect.”
“I think it has Whitney Biennial potential,” Leni says, laughing.
“Totally,” I agree.
As we wander into the palatial living room, I notice Dolly tiptoeing past us and slipping out the front door in a pink chinchilla coat. She doesn’t even wave good-bye to her daughter. I don’t know why she still disappoints me after all these years—you’d think I’d be used to it. Zoe certainly is.
Zoe, Daisy, Leni, Bea, and I all huddle around the fireplace and sip eggnog. Gladys brings out silver platters with peanut brittle and sugar cookies shaped like the baby Jesus.
“Are
these
ironic?” Bea whispers as she bites into one of his feet.
We sink into the huge, plush sofas and watch
Miracle on 34th Street
on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, which, when it’s not on, hides behind a screen that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Before the movie is over, though, Zoe becomes impatient. “Let’s do presents!” she says, and so we all scoot down and sit on pillows in a circle on the floor.
The gift exchange was Leni’s idea; since she’s older, every once in a while she likes to get maternal on us. Bea gives everyone little bottles of bath salts, which are perfect for our aching bodies, especially during
Nutcracker
season. Leni gives us tins with German toffees, Daisy hands out mini lip gloss kits from Sephora, and Zoe—who could afford to go over the ten-dollarlimit—passes out Marc Jacobs key chains. I had made everyone an animal ornament out of Styrofoam balls and pipe cleaners and placed them inside little wooden boxes that I bought at the Columbus Circle crafts fair.
“What is mine?” Bea asks, holding it up.
I eye it. Honestly, it’s not easy to tell. “It’s a reindeer,” I say brightly.
“Oh,” she says. “Awesome.”
We’re busy examining our presents—Bea is trying on lip gloss while Daisy dangles her new key chain in front of Gucci’s nose—when Gladys comes in with a platter of chow mein and moo shu chicken. Suddenly I remember that I haven’t eaten any dinner, and I am so delighted I leap up and give her a big hug.
She pats me on the cheek. “I would have preferred a nice glazed ham, but Zoe insisted because this is your favorite,” she says.
I’m so touched that I dash back over to Zoe’s pillow, plop down on it, and give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, laughing and shoving me away playfully.
And she’s right—it is.
WINTER SEASON
13
“Here we go again,” Bea says as she throws her clean laundry into her theater case.
“Back to the salt mines,” I say cheerfully, which is something my dad used to say when he went to his office at the architecture firm on Monday mornings.
Today is the first day of winter season. On New Year’s Eve, we had our last performance of
The Nutcracker
, thank God. Then we had two days’ break—not nearly long enough to recuperate.
But at least it was long enough for the dressing room to get a thorough cleaning. Now it smells clean and piney, and our mirrors are no longer marred by fingerprints and smudges of makeup. The room looks as nice as it’s ever looked, and I wonder how long it’ll take us to destroy it again. Considering Bea’s leotards and tights are already spewing out of her theater case and piling up on the floor, I’m guessing about fifteen
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