I didn’t blame her. I was always a little mopey in December, missing my mom, who’d loved the holidays, and always made them feel special, even though it was just the two of us. I wished I could do the same thing for my own child—engulf her with love, make her believe she was enough for me, that we were enough for each other—but I didn’t have it in me, and there was no use pretending. All I could do was hunker down and wait for January, which always felt like a fresh start, a chance to do better.
* * *
I wasn’t in the mood for Kyle’s Christmas party, but he reminded me that the entire School Board would be there, and that it would be a great opportunity for me to do some networking. So I put on the green velvet dress I’d inherited from my mother—we were exactly the same size—and drove over to his house.
I especially dislike arriving at parties, those awkward early moments when you have to wander through the crowd, searching for a familiar face. But I was spared that ordeal at the Dorfmans’。 I barely had time to unbutton my coat before Kyle materialized with a big smile on his face.
“Dr. Flick!” He was wearing jeans and a thin, expensive-looking sweater that highlighted his improbable torso. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
He said this with the appropriate level of irony. The ground floor was spectacular, a vast open space featuring a variety of living and dining areas—some sunken, some elevated—with an airy kitchen at one end, and an enormous stone fireplace at the other. The south-facing wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. The morning light must have been breathtaking.
“Come on,” he said. “They’re all waiting for you.”
He led me through the party. Andrea Palladino, Charisse Turner, and Kitty Valvanos—the three women members of the School Board, a majority unto themselves—were gathered near the fireplace, drinking fancy cocktails and laughing like old friends.
“Look who’s here,” Kyle told them. “Our favorite Assistant Principal.”
I didn’t know these women personally—I’d only ever encountered them at official functions—but they greeted me warmly and welcomed me into their circle, insisting that I switch from champagne to a Pink Negroni, which was apparently the drink of the evening. It was small talk at first—holiday plans, the greatness of Hamilton （which I still hadn’t seen）， the new Indian restaurant downtown—but we drifted, inevitably, to the subject of our kids, which led to a discussion of homework loads and standardized testing and accommodations for students with disabilities （Andrea’s daughter had cerebral palsy and required a full-time classroom aide）。 They treated me like an expert, listening carefully to my opinions and recommendations, and I knew I’d made the right decision, getting myself out of the house and into the world.
At one point, Andrea and Kitty headed off to the bar, and I found myself alone with Charisse. Her son, Marcus, was a freshman at the high school, a three-sport athlete so talented that people had begun to compare him to Vito Falcone. Charisse herself was a partner at a big law firm in Newark.
“I know you’re super busy,” I told her. “But if you ever have a spare hour to meet with our Mock Trial team, the kids would be thrilled. It would be so inspiring for them to talk to a real-life litigator. And I’d love to hear your thoughts myself.”
Her smile was equal parts pleasure and dismay.
“I’d like to,” she said. “But I’m a little swamped right now.”
“No pressure. It’s an open invitation.”
She gave me a quizzical look, as if she’d just remembered something.
“Didn’t you go to law school?”
“Georgetown,” I said. “But I never finished. There was a family emergency, and I had to come home. It’s my road not taken.”
There must have been a wistful note in my voice, because Charisse tried to cheer me up.
“You know, Tracy, it’s never too late. You can always go back. We just hired an associate in his early fifties. He’s a good lawyer.”
Over the years, I’d occasionally fantasized about returning to law school—picking up that abandoned thread—but it was just that: a fantasy, a way to relieve whatever professional frustration I was feeling at the moment.
“Oh no,” I assured her. “I’m right where I want to be. It’s such a privilege working with high school students. All that potential. It’s a gift.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She touched her glass to mine. “We need people like you in our administration.”
She finished her cocktail and set her empty glass on the mantelpiece. When she turned around, there was a sly look on her face, like we were done with the bullshit.
“I just have one question. What are we gonna do about our football coach? The man is an embarrassment. Seven losing seasons in a row? We need to find the next Coach Holleran. Someone who can get us back on the right track.”
“I agree,” I said, though I was sick of hearing people talk about Larry Holleran. “One hundred percent. It’s time for a change.”
While we were talking the room had been filling up, the noise level rising. Just as Andrea and Kitty returned, the lights dimmed and the Jackson Five’s “ABC” exploded from hidden speakers: A Boop Boop Buh Boo! A Boop Boop Boop Buh Boo! Charisse asked if I wanted to dance, but I waved her off and made a hasty exit, moving against the tide of bodies surging onto the dance floor. I was almost out of the fray when I literally bumped into my ex-boyfriend, Philip, who was grinning goofily, spinning his fists like one of the Temptations. He stopped smiling and dropped his hands to his sides.
“Tracy,” he said, with unpleasant surprise, and that was when I noticed the woman standing at his side. She was dark-haired and slender, with wary eyes and a face that looked ten years older than her body.
“Wow,” I told him. “That was quick.”
He shrugged, like I had no right to complain, and I really didn’t. I was the one who’d broken up with him, the one who wouldn’t even return his phone calls.
“Nice to see you,” he said. “Happy holidays.”
* * *
I meant to leave, but I stopped by the wall and turned around. I’d never seen Philip dance before, and my curiosity got the best of me.
He was okay, I suppose. He was definitely enjoying himself, pumping his arms and swinging his hips with determined middle-aged vigor. His companion was more relaxed, barely moving at all, except for her weirdly restless hands, which never stopped sculpting the air in front of her face.
I wasn’t jealous, not really. I didn’t love Philip, and I didn’t want him back. But I couldn’t help remembering how fortunate and hopeful I’d felt at the beginning of our relationship, the surprise of meeting a man who checked all the boxes and genuinely seemed to like me. All I’d had to do was let go a little, welcome him into my life, make the compromises everyone else made, but I couldn’t manage it. I’d never been able to do that, to really open myself up to another person.
It’s okay, I told myself. You’re on your own. That’s just the way it is.
I’m not sure how long I stood there. Two songs, maybe three. All I know for sure is that “1999” was playing when Marissa Dorfman appeared at my side. I hadn’t seen her since the football game.