mother had undoubtedly meant well, but every comment had informed Libby that she was a disaster.
Her mother had been beautiful, and still was. Her father appreciated his wife’s beauty more than any of her other traits, which was probably a good thing, given that Libby’s mother had been a dreadful cook, an even worse housekeeper, a dilettante who always swore she’d get a job but never did, and a sometime volunteer who complained about the hard work she was doing without compensation. “I’m answering phones for this outfit all day. The least they could do is pay me,” she’d grouse, even if the outfit was a soup kitchen or an organization raising money for research on dyslexia.
“Better yet, they should make you their spokeswoman,” her father would say. “A beautiful woman like you, all you’d have to do is smile and the donations would pour in.”
Libby had promised herself then that she’d never harp on her own daughter’s appearance—assuming she ever had a daughter. Once Reva had been born, Libby held on to that promise. In truth, she believed Reva was the most beautiful girl in the world, but she never said so. If she did, she would undoubtedly embarrass Reva. To be thirteen was to be overly conscious of every minor flaw, every misplaced freckle and torn cuticle. If Reva asked, “Does this shirt match these pants?” or “Is my hair straight in back?” Libby would answer honestly, but other than that she kept her mouth shut about her daughter’s appearance.
Through the closed bedroom door Libby heard muffled giggling and shrieks. She turned her attention back to the application open in front of her. Phoebe Evans was apparently quite the four-year-old, already capable of writing the entire alphabet backward, a talent Libby supposed wouldcome in handy if she ever became a subversive inventor like Leonardo da Vinci and wanted to write her notebooks in code. Her parents pointed out on the application that they’d managed to secure a place for her in her extremely prestigious preschool two months before she was born. “We believe in planning ahead, and so does Phoebe,” her parents wrote.
Libby set aside Phoebe’s application and opened the next folder. Madison Harkinian was a spectacular gymnast, according to her father, with hopes of competing in the 2016 Summer Olympics. This sounded familiar to Libby…and then she saw the Post-it fastened to the inside of the folder, with her preliminary notes on Madison’s application jotted onto it. She’d already reviewed this application. Her piles must have gotten mixed up.
She leaned back in the dining room chair and groaned. Not even two weeks into the process, and all the applications were sounding alike to her. She’d read at least four essays about youngsters who hoped to compete in the 2016 Summer Olympics, and a few more who expected to compete in the 2018 Winter Olympics. Shoving Madison’s folder away, she reached for the next one in the pile and prayed that the child had no Olympics aspirations.
She opened the folder and immediately noticed a Post-it with her handwriting on it: “Fin Aid App.” This was Eric Donovan’s application. She’d jotted the reminder to make sure his father filed the form. Flipping through the folder, she found a copy of Eric’s financial-aid application, several faxed sheets. Tara must have filed them.
Libby pulled out the financial-aid application and studied it. Ned Donovan was neither rich nor poor. He lived in New York and worked for a firm called Greater Manhattan Design Associates, where he got paid what would be considered a comfortably middle-class income in any othercommunity but what in Manhattan was a just-getting-by income. He’d bought his apartment for a typically obscene amount of money. He had a savings account but no investments. He and his son were clearly not caviar class.
But he owned his apartment outright. Libby would be thrilled just to have a mortgage. To qualify for one, however,
Her mother had been beautiful, and still was. Her father appreciated his wife’s beauty more than any of her other traits, which was probably a good thing, given that Libby’s mother had been a dreadful cook, an even worse housekeeper, a dilettante who always swore she’d get a job but never did, and a sometime volunteer who complained about the hard work she was doing without compensation. “I’m answering phones for this outfit all day. The least they could do is pay me,” she’d grouse, even if the outfit was a soup kitchen or an organization raising money for research on dyslexia.
“Better yet, they should make you their spokeswoman,” her father would say. “A beautiful woman like you, all you’d have to do is smile and the donations would pour in.”
Libby had promised herself then that she’d never harp on her own daughter’s appearance—assuming she ever had a daughter. Once Reva had been born, Libby held on to that promise. In truth, she believed Reva was the most beautiful girl in the world, but she never said so. If she did, she would undoubtedly embarrass Reva. To be thirteen was to be overly conscious of every minor flaw, every misplaced freckle and torn cuticle. If Reva asked, “Does this shirt match these pants?” or “Is my hair straight in back?” Libby would answer honestly, but other than that she kept her mouth shut about her daughter’s appearance.
Through the closed bedroom door Libby heard muffled giggling and shrieks. She turned her attention back to the application open in front of her. Phoebe Evans was apparently quite the four-year-old, already capable of writing the entire alphabet backward, a talent Libby supposed wouldcome in handy if she ever became a subversive inventor like Leonardo da Vinci and wanted to write her notebooks in code. Her parents pointed out on the application that they’d managed to secure a place for her in her extremely prestigious preschool two months before she was born. “We believe in planning ahead, and so does Phoebe,” her parents wrote.
Libby set aside Phoebe’s application and opened the next folder. Madison Harkinian was a spectacular gymnast, according to her father, with hopes of competing in the 2016 Summer Olympics. This sounded familiar to Libby…and then she saw the Post-it fastened to the inside of the folder, with her preliminary notes on Madison’s application jotted onto it. She’d already reviewed this application. Her piles must have gotten mixed up.
She leaned back in the dining room chair and groaned. Not even two weeks into the process, and all the applications were sounding alike to her. She’d read at least four essays about youngsters who hoped to compete in the 2016 Summer Olympics, and a few more who expected to compete in the 2018 Winter Olympics. Shoving Madison’s folder away, she reached for the next one in the pile and prayed that the child had no Olympics aspirations.
She opened the folder and immediately noticed a Post-it with her handwriting on it: “Fin Aid App.” This was Eric Donovan’s application. She’d jotted the reminder to make sure his father filed the form. Flipping through the folder, she found a copy of Eric’s financial-aid application, several faxed sheets. Tara must have filed them.
Libby pulled out the financial-aid application and studied it. Ned Donovan was neither rich nor poor. He lived in New York and worked for a firm called Greater Manhattan Design Associates, where he got paid what would be considered a comfortably middle-class income in any othercommunity but what in Manhattan was a just-getting-by income. He’d bought his apartment for a typically obscene amount of money. He had a savings account but no investments. He and his son were clearly not caviar class.
But he owned his apartment outright. Libby would be thrilled just to have a mortgage. To qualify for one, however,
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