The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs: A Novel Page 8

  She was unbuttoning her jeans when she heard Polly’s voice in the other room.

  “Hello, this is Caroline Jacobs in room 208 again. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

  “Polly?” Caroline shouted. She quickly rebuttoned her jeans and pulled open the bathroom door.

  “Are you in charge this evening, or is there someone above you in the chain of command?”

  Polly placed a finger over her lips in a vaguely conspiratorial gesture. “Perfect,” she said. As she moved her finger away from her mouth, Caroline saw that her daughter was grinning. “Here’s the problem: I paid for a nonsmoking double and you put me in a room that reeks of cigarette smoke. And now I’ve been offered a single and a cot in exchange. This is not acceptable.”

  Caroline opened her mouth to speak but Polly appeared to anticipate this, widening her eyes in disapproval and holding up an index finger to signal that she needed a minute. In that moment, Caroline saw her own mother in those green eyes and that snap of disapproval.

  “Hold on, Tina,” Polly said. “I’m not finished. Here is what I will do. If I am not placed in a nonsmoking double or better, I will be placing a call to the Holiday Inn corporate offices tonight. I don’t think anyone will answer, but I’ll leave a message on as many voicemails as I can find. Then I’ll get online and start talking about how my asthmatic daughter is being forced to sleep in a room that smells of cigarette smoke. I’ll e-mail every organization I can find that deals with children with asthma, and then I’ll ask my ten thousand Twitter followers to retweet my posts. You know how social media works. Right?”

  Polly paused a moment, still grinning and then said, “Sure. Call me back.” She hung up the phone.

  “Polly!” Caroline said. “What do you expect them to do? Build us a nonsmoking room?”

  “Gimme a break. They’ll find something.”

  “I didn’t know you have a Twitter account.”

  “I don’t. Twitter’s for assholes. Just trust me, Mom. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t have any idea what you’re doing. You’re fifteen years old, for God’s sake.”

  “Just trust me. Please?”

  As if to offer Polly support, the phone rang.

  “This is Caroline Jacobs,” Polly said, flashing a smile at her mother. Polly listened for a moment and then said, “That will be perfect, Tina. Thank you. And I’m sorry I had to be so bitchy. I just get a little crazy when it comes to my daughter.”

  Another longer pause and then Polly said, “Perfect. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “What?” Caroline said, trying to hide her grudging admiration.

  “We’ve been upgraded to one of their executive suites. Someone will be up here in a second with our new keycards.”

  Caroline just stared. Despite her overly earnest, aw-shucks father and her uncertain, nonconfrontational mother, Polly had somehow grown into a person who could manage people and solve problems with efficiency and ease. She reminded Caroline of Tiffany. Okay, Polly’s ability to lie with so little effort was troubling, but she had also managed to exhibit more self-confidence and nerve than Caroline had exhibited in most of her life.

  “You’ve really become your own person,” she said.

  “What did you expect me to do? Become another you?”

  “Hey!”

  “I’m not saying that you’re lame or anything. You’re not half bad. And if I’m ever a mom someday, I’d totally want to be like you. At least try to.”

  “Yeah?” A smile filled Caroline’s face.

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “No chance of that,” Caroline said.

  “And even though I’d want to marry someone way cooler than Dad, at least you guys are still married. It’s more than I can say for most of my friends’ parents. It’s kind of cool. I hope my husband is still into me when I’m as old as you.”

  “As old as me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did.

  “And you take great pictures,” Polly said. “You’re totally wasting your talent, but at least you got some.”

  “Thanks,” Caroline said. She felt herself blushing and turned away.

  “But Mom, you can be such a pushover.”

  “I know,” Caroline said. Her smile had diminished, but it was still there. “And I’m glad you’re not. It’s just—it’s strange how a person can become something so unlike either of her parents.”

  Polly smiled. “Henry Shrapnel’s father was a vicar.”

  “What did his mother do?”

  “That was like two hundred years ago. She was a housewife. Women couldn’t exactly have careers back then.”

  Some don’t exactly have careers even today, Caroline wanted to say.

  “So?” Polly said. “Are you impressed? With the new room, I mean.”

  “You got us the room, but it wasn’t right,” Caroline said, more out of a sense of parental duty than genuine belief. “You can’t just lie to people to get your way.”

  “And Tina can’t just stick us in a smoking room or make one of us sleep on a cot. They should have upgraded us when you first called.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  “I’d tell you to get your bag packed,” Polly said, “but we still don’t have any clothes.”

  “We’ll get some tomorrow. Okay?” she said. “No, forget the okay. We’ll get them tomorrow. No more complaining.”

  “I was just kidding. Geez, what’s your deal? I just got you into an executive suite. I’d think you would be happy.”

  “I am,” Caroline said. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she had been happier.

  ten

  When Caroline left the room, Polly was lying on the bed, watching a movie on an enormous flat-screen television and eating a bowl of ice cream—compliments of the management. She was still gloating, and rightfully so.

  Caroline needed to call Tom. But she also needed her own victory. That’s why she was seated here, in an armchair chosen for its stain resistance, in front of a fireplace never designed to hold a flame, listening to music that was written for its propensity to be forgotten. She chose this spot in the lobby because she was well out of earshot from the comatose desk clerk. A perfect spot to call Wendy.

  It was late, but Caroline knew her friend would answer. Wendy possessed the energy of a thousand angry bulls and was up at all hours of the night.

  “Sorry, my arms were full,” Wendy said, a little out of breath. “What’s up?”

  “Hi,” said, Caroline, pushing back with pleasantries. Her simple “What’s up?” already felt judgmental. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Just bringing in some groceries. What’s up?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Caroline said, feeling more foolish by the second. “Maybe I should just go.”

  “All the more reason to talk. Tell me what’s going on.” Caroline could practically hear her friend settling in an armchair, ready for a good story.

  “Okay,” she said. “But no laughing.” Caroline took a deep breath and told Wendy about the events of the past twenty-four hours: the PTO debacle, her extraction of Polly from the clutches of Mr. Powers, their upgrade to the executive suite, even the apparent similarities between the Queen of England and topless women in New York City. “If Polly could con someone into giving us some clean clothes, we’d be all set.”

  “I don’t get it. You broke Polly out of jail so you could visit your mom?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Good, because as a story, that sucks.”

  “I wasn’t finished,” Caroline said.

  “Then finish already.”

  “Remember Emily Kaplan?”

  “Of course,” Wendy said. “What kind of friend do you think I am?”

  “I’m going back to Blackstone to confront her.”

  In the silence that followed, Caroline could see her friend’s nose wrinkle and her eyes narrow to slits. Her c
onfused look. The one she’d seen a million times before. “To what—?”

  “To tell her off.”

  There was a longer pause. Three full seconds this time. Three endless seconds to allow Caroline to come to grips with how completely insane her plan sounded.

  “Are you serious?” Wendy finally said.

  “Am I crazy?”

  “Yes,” Wendy replied. “Bat shit crazy. Loony toons. Certifiable. But—”

  “But…?” Caroline repeated hopefully.

  “I kind of love the idea, too.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah,” Wendy said. “Who doesn’t want to get revenge on their high school bully?”

  There it was. The b-word again.

  “She wasn’t exactly a bully,” Caroline said, defending Emily once more.

  “Don’t be stupid. She was a total bully.”

  “I don’t know if what she did qualifies as bullying.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Wendy asked. “Emily Kaplan was the worst kind of bully. She was a bully with a smile. She isolated you.”

  “I don’t know if that makes her a bully.”

  “Why are you defending her?”

  “I don’t know,” Caroline said. “I just think, well, that I probably played a part in everything that happened, too. It wasn’t all Emily. She wasn’t required to be my friend.”

  “You’re an idiot. If that had happened today, Emily would be sitting in the principal’s office with her parents. Kids kill themselves over shit like this. You didn’t lose your friends. She stole them from you. All of them.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a bad idea? Going back to find her?”

  “I didn’t say that. I think it’s a great idea, but it might be a great bad idea. I’m worried that it sounds better than it actually is.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “I assume that Emily still lives in Blackstone?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said.

  “Figures.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning people like Emily never leave their hometowns. As long as she stays in Blackstone, she’ll always be the goddamn prom queen. If she ever moved, she’d just be the girl who likes to tell everyone that she was once the prom queen.”

  “Okay.” Caroline didn’t argue the point.

  “So let’s say you find her and tell her off. Tell her to go to hell. Tell her that she was a bitch in high school. What does that get you?”

  “Satisfaction?”

  “Only if your words hurt her in some way,” Wendy said. “If she just fires back and calls you a loser or tells you to fuck off and walks away, what good was the trip?”

  “Do you think I’m pathetic for even thinking this was a good idea?”

  “Of course I don’t. Caroline, you are one of the best people I know. You’re smart and honest and kind. You’re a good mother to Polly, which—you and I know—can’t be easy at times. And you’ve got a great marriage. A great husband.”

  “Thanks, Wen—”

  “Don’t interrupt me. You’re gifted, too. If you’d stop being such a coward and let me see more of your pictures, I think I’d find that you’re a more talented photographer that I’ve seen already.”

  Caroline warmed inside. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  “So we’ve had the Hallmark moment. Back to Emily Kaplan.” Caroline laughed. This was the Wendy she knew and loved. “What if she tells you to fuck off? What if she just walks away? Do you feel any better then?”

  “I don’t know. But I know that at this moment, I feel good.”

  “Okay,” Wendy said, sounding less than convinced. “I just don’t want this to go bad for you. It really is a little crazy.”

  “I know.”

  “What does Polly think of it?”

  “She thinks I’m nuts, too,” Caroline said. “But it’s better than getting suspended. And I think she sees it as an adventure. We’re actually getting along a little.”

  “But if it doesn’t last, just remember: It’s not you. Teenage girls are fickle. And despicable.”

  “You’re telling me?” Caroline laughed a little. “Anyway, who knows? Maybe she’s finally coming out the other side.”

  “Maybe,” Wendy said, sounding unconvinced. “And I think it’s great that she’s with you. Just don’t screw this up.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I’m serious,” Wendy said. “This is the kind of thing that works well in the movies but bombs in real life. Just be ready for that.”

  “Even if I bomb, at least I tried.”

  “Sure. I can just hear you saying that after Emily skewers you and sends you home in tears. At least I tried! Rainbows and kittens.”

  “You don’t have a lot of faith in me,” Caroline said.

  “I have plenty of faith in you. But I have plenty of faith in Emily Kaplan, too. If she’s anything like she was in high school, you’ll have your hands full.”

  eleven

  “How’s your king-sized bed?” Polly asked across the darkened room. “Better than a stupid cot?”

  Caroline could hear the smile in her daughter’s voice.

  “It’s not bad,” Caroline said. “A little lumpy, but it’ll do for one night.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You did a good job,” Caroline said. “Better than I could’ve done.”

  “Better than you did,” Polly said.

  “Where did you learn how to do that anyway?” she asked.

  “Geez, Mom. Watch a movie sometime. Read a blog. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.”

  “I’m not talking about what you did.” (Though that had impressed her more than she was willing to admit.) “I meant how you did it. You certainly didn’t get nerve like that from me. Or your father for that matter.”

  Silence filled the darkened room. Caroline decided not to press further. She closed her eyes.

  “I sometimes wonder if I’m the person I’m supposed to be,” Polly said. He voice was quiet. Almost distant. “Or if I’m just filling the only role left over.”

  Whoa.

  Polly had just shared something from the inside, a place where Caroline had been shut out for years. She’d have to choose her next words carefully, afraid to say the wrong thing. After a second of debate, she opted for a nonthreatening “Huh?”

  “Dad always says that I was a late bloomer. Maybe that explains it a little. I feel like by the time I was ready to be the person I was supposed to be, all the good jobs were taken.”

  Caroline waited for Polly to continue, hoping that silence would serve as a sufficient prompt. When it didn’t, she said, “Jobs?” trying to achieve the perfect blend of casual interest and disinterest—just enough to let her daughter know she wasn’t being interrogated.

  “Not jobs exactly,” Polly said. “Roles. Like parts in a play. All the good parts were taken. The pretty girl parts. The jocks. Even the genius kids who’ll go to Harvard or Yale someday. Those parts were filled, too. I got left filling in the little parts. The ones no one else wanted.”

  “Like what?” Caroline asked, fearing that the wrong question would shut her daughter down completely.

  “The smart-ass,” Polly said. “The hard-ass.” After a moment, she added, “The pain in the ass.”

  The smile was gone from Polly’s voice.

  “It’s not that I don’t like my part,” she said. “I like it a lot. The articles in the school newspaper. My newsletter. The protests. The debate team. I believe in those things. I like who I am. But I would’ve liked the chance to be one of the pretty girls, too. I mean, isn’t there a place in the pretty girl clique for a short brunette? I don’t mean to sound superficial, but sometimes I just want to be pretty.”

  It was as if Polly were speaking to both Caroline and herself at the same time.

  “And I know I could’ve been one of the smart girls. The ones who sit in the front of the class and nod whenever the teacher is talking. I’m smart
enough, but there’s more to it than that, and it doesn’t really come naturally to me. Like last week when Emma Cobb asked Mr. Drake if she could do extra credit right after Zachary asked for an extension on his midterm—the one that’s due in a couple of days. Emma knows that the best time to shine is right after someone acts like an idiot, so her extra-credit question was worth two or three times more than it would have been. Because she knew when to ask. I’m not socially awkward or anything, but I feel like it takes me a little longer to figure those kinds of things out.”

  “That’s really how you feel?” Caroline said, astonished.

  “Yeah, I do. Dad always says I’m just finding my own way. You think I’m crazy. Grandma says I’m an agitator. Mr. Cronin once called me an anarchist, and even though I know he was kidding, I think he was only half kidding.”

  Caroline laughed. It was true. She did think that Polly was crazy. At least a little.

  “The problem is there’s only room for one anarchist per school. So kids respect me, but they don’t think of me as friendship material.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Caroline was trying hard to conceal the devastation she felt.

  Polly plowed forward. “All of it leaves me wondering: Am I a lonely anarchist because I was supposed to be a lonely anarchist, or was that just the crack I managed to squeeze into when parts were being chosen? Was that all there was left for me? And what if I’d found a seat at Misty Dean’s table at lunch during that first week of school? Would I be a popular girl instead? Or if I hadn’t forgotten about field hockey tryouts when I was a freshman, would I be a sporty girl now? Maybe I didn’t need to be the person who worries about equal funding for the girls’ soccer team. I don’t even like soccer.”

  Caroline opened her mouth to speak but Polly seemed to anticipate this.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. It was a rhetorical question. I’m not looking for you to tackle any major philosophical questions tonight.”