The Better Half(15)
“Damn those FAFSA forms. Okay, hustle if you want a ride! My two gamers and their father will grow restless if I’m not home with some grub to throw in front of them.” Marisol hands my nail technician my flip-flops to slip onto my feet so we can waddle out of here without jacking up our paint job.
“Nina, hope you’re back to your old self soon. This whole half-healthy thing is not a good look on you. Royal-Hawkins needs you on point,” Roan says as I shrug into my caramel-hue sleeveless duster that hits me perfectly midcalf; a staple piece from my closet I’ll never toss out.
“Awww, thanks, Roan.” Finally, someone who loves me acknowledges I haven’t been feeling my best self.
“Those pants you’re wearing,” he says with a small shake of his head. “They scream ‘I quit. Game over.’”
I’m horrified at Roan’s take on my high-waisted navy harem pants. Despite boarding school’s claim on my paycheck, I’ve been trying to up my style to match my salary bracket from what Marisol calls my “bank branch manager look.” Even if I don’t feel like I own the Royal-Hawkins boardroom, I need to look like I do. I paired my harem pants with gold heels, a fitted off-white silk tank top, and a chunky walnut wood bracelet. I think the ensemble is fabulous New York eighties throwback chic, minus the shoulder pads. I look to Marisol to have my fashion back.
“Sí, mami. Basta. That outfit is done. Never go shopping without me again. And that includes online. Leo’s gone, and you’ve put your whole sexuality on lockdown so soon after you got it up and running again. Is that how you’re going to survive not getting any?”
“Roan, you’re never invited back to our sip and clip club again. Today was considered a tryout, and the committee of me has unanimously decided you failed miserably,” I say, taking back the conversation. “And Marisol, you’re now on club probation. One more infraction and you, too, get the boot.”
“Uh, I own the spas and the alcohol you consume, so no, I’m not going anywhere. Besides, drinking alone is not a good look.” Marisol turns my hands over several times, making sure Clean Slate store number eight has done an up-to-standard job, and then she gives me the let’s go thumb. “Nor is it considered a club; it’s considered a problem.”
Roan leans forward enough to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Go home and rest, Nina. You’ve lost your sense of humor and your sense of style.”
SIX
A few more days of this and I’m going to get worried,” Marisol declares, circling her finger at me. “Are you sure you’re starting to feel better?”
I give Marisol the universal maybe head bobble.
“Now that we’ve ditched Roan, tell me about the board meeting last night,” Marisol says, starting the car. We use our Friday spa dates to catch up on school gossip, but with Roan in tow today I had to keep some semblance of professionalism.
Even though Marisol’s a parent at Royal-Hawkins, she was my friend first. An only child, Marisol Santiago was raised by her Mexican grandparents in Queens one apartment building over from mine. Being from Mexico, and living in New York, she was not only a long way from home, but the Mexican community was so tiny that Marisol and her grandparents were ruefully removed from their roots. So, the day I met her I brought Marisol home, and my family welcomed her with open arms. My family wasn’t much better off than hers, but my parents were just hitting their stride in the US and managed to always have enough so Marisol could be included. She came with us to church and to Jamaican festivals where she learned to love reggae more than her grandparents’ preferred Tejano music. Everywhere we went, Marisol came too. In fact, Marisol spent so much time with us that my father began affectionately referring to his adopted Mexican daughter as his little Chaco Taco.
After undergrad, Marisol and I shared an apartment together in a Harlem four-story walk-up with a hot plate, while I went to Columbia’s Teachers College and then returned to Spence to teach high school science. My love of teenagers had solidified tutoring young women in math and science while I was at Wellesley, and Marisol hopped around hawking nail polish to New York’s high-end nail salons. Edging up on twenty-five, we were both antsy for adventure, neither of us having ever traveled west of the Mississippi. Problem was, Marisol had no money. So, the little savings I had, I offered to split with her if she promised to come with me. Between the two of us we packed three duffel bags and swore to my parents we would take care of each other no matter what. All these years later, Marisol’s nickname stuck, and on campus, at the Clean Slate, really anywhere, I still have to make a conscious effort not to howl “CHACO TACO!” at the top of my lungs like my ten-year-old self when I see her. And we’ve kept our promise to take care of one another.
“Hank Chambers’s third wife dumped him over the summer, and it looked to me like Cynthia Wright is laying down some groundwork for the coveted spot of spouse number four. Also, I’m sure I spied freshly planted hair plugs on Anders Nilsson. And when the topic of our pilot year of robotics and coding curriculum came up, all eyes swiveled to the Pacific Rim contingent. Lots of eager parents wanting to know if there are multiple AP offerings with this new curriculum and how it will read on school transcripts.” I think about what other juicy tidbits I may have for Marisol. I come up empty minded. “Other than that, it was a pretty tame meeting.”