The Better Half(10)
“Did you notice how Courtney signed off on her email? Jai? What does that even mean? Speak English, Courtney. I’m not bilingual, despite Pablo’s best efforts.”
“I’m sure as shit jai isn’t Spanish. I don’t even think it’s Spanglish. And you haven’t let poor Pablo off the hook tutoring you yet? That man’s a saint for working with you and that accent. You sound like Chula Vista Barbie when you speak Spanish.” Marisol’s on the other end clucking at me through her teeth. “My offer still stands to be your teacher if you want to give Pablo a break.”
“No, thanks. Last time you gave me a Spanish lesson, you only focused on the naughty words,” I lob back. “And by the way, we were discussing Courtney, not my abysmal accent.”
“Hold on, googling now . . . HA!” Marisol snorts. “Jai means victory in Hindi. If that isn’t some subtle mind fuck, I don’t know what is. That woman is angling HARD for a board seat. Are you sure you don’t know why? Do you think she was with Winn Hawkins back in the day? Maybe she has some unresolved feelings she wants to work out between passing next year’s budget and running a capital campaign.” Marisol’s lost in writing Courtney and Winn’s imagined love tryst. “You know, the one that got away, her one true love, or just some straight-up stalker woman scorned sort of thing. Girl, you know private schools are like Japan. Proper on the outside, deviant behind closed doors.” After Marisol’s ten-day trip to Japan this summer with her younger, unmarried sister-in-law, she learned more about the sex fetish phenomena of Tokyo than about samurai warriors, tea ceremonies, and pagodas combined. Now she’s convinced kinky lurks behind every ramen joint in California.
The image of Courtney and Winn knocking boots is more than I can handle on an already queasy stomach, so I bypass Marisol’s speculation altogether. “I swear I feel like I’m having a bonding moment with President Obama right now. Is it a good or bad thing being called the first Black president of the United States? Or the first Black head of school? Or the first Black anything?! I don’t know. Yeah, it’s the truth, but does it matter? Do I care? Or do I only care because Courtney’s the one always saying out loud what most people are thinking?” I need to remember to read up on how Obama responded to folks when he was referred to as the first Black president versus plain ol’ president. Or how FLOTUS dealt, since we all know who wears the pants in that family.
“Oh no, you did not just compare yourself to President Obama, Nina. He was president of the United States, you’re not even president of your HOA. You go saying something like that in front of your father and let’s see what happens.” Marisol laughs out loud at the thought. “Fitzroy will have zero patience for you comparing yourself to Black royalty knowing you used to wrap a yellow bath towel around your head as a child. I never get tired of hearing him tease you about trying to have long blonde hair like Christie Brinkley.” Marisol’s howling. In Fitzroy Morgan’s world hierarchy there’s Jesus, there’s Martin Luther King Jr., and right in between, there’s Barack Obama.
“Gotta go search Roan’s office for Red Bull and a pack of Pop Rocks to wake myself up.” Bless him, I was warned when Allister and I hired Roan as our director of admissions that he had some “unconventional” practices and whispered a little too loudly at school events. But his boss—Josie Bordelon, the head of school at Fairchild Country Day in San Francisco—assured me that Roan was relocating to Pasadena for love and to settle down and that taking a chance on his audacity was worth it for his hard work and daily entertainment. It’s a rare occurrence that I meet another woman in my same occupation, let alone a sister, so I knew Josie was serving me the truth. I was the final decision maker as Roan would work only one year under Allister, then his second year as director of admissions would be my first as head of school. Given Josie’s recommendation and confession that she was devastated to see him go, I hired Roan without a second thought and prayed he would be more class than ass. Best executive decision ever.
“The board meeting starts soon, and I look tore up from the floor up. Thanks for absolutely nothing, Marisol. I’ll remember this conversation next time you want to trade tea about Jaime, your stanky sons, or one of your waxing girls.” Marisol’s the founder and self-titled chief extraordinary officer of the Clean Slate, a one-stop-shop for waxing, buffing, sugaring, painting, spraying, and scrubbing any body part a person might request. BEST part, every studio has a fully stocked bar for hours of grooming with a side of day drinking. I was client zero in the basement of Marisol’s house twelve years ago when she was perfecting her signature waxing technique up to my knobby knees. Now with twenty-two locations throughout Los Angeles County and clients who schedule out weeks in advance, the Clean Slate is harder to get into than most restaurants. Aside from being the only person I trust to wax my legs, Marisol’s also the only one I immediately forgive for calling truth on me. We’ve been working out our dreams together since childhood.
“That’s wax women to you. Even Obama knows girls is insulting. I’m just saying. Fact: you ARE the head of school. Fact: you are nursing a wounded ego.”
“Heart,” I correct her.
“There, case in point. Maybe you’re a little touchy today. And fact: you ARE Black. Like real Black, not the diluted kind like Obama. Courtney was just honest enough to point out what everyone’s talking about behind your back. You know there are parents who want to send their babies to Royal-Hawkins for 50K so they can appear woke to their neighbors and tennis partners.”