Everybody Rise (2 page)

She briefly made eye contact with herself. Precisely one time, when she was twelve, she was told by one of her father's law partners that she'd be a heartbreaker someday, but it had yet to come true. At twenty-six, she felt like she still hadn't grown into her features, and if she hadn't by now, she probably never would. Her hair was mousy brown and hung limply past her shoulders, her face was too long, her nose too sharp, her blue eyes too small. The only body part she thought was really spectacular was her pointer finger. She'd resisted her mother's suggestions—“suggestions” was putting it mildly—of highlights, lowlights, a makeup session at Nordstrom. “You're telling everyone around you that you don't care,” Barbara liked to say.

At least at Sheffield-Enfield this weekend, she and her mother had reached a tentative truce. Going to the school was one thing Evelyn had done right in her mother's eyes, even if, as Barbara said, Evelyn had failed to build on it. Evelyn had made a promising start when she became friends with Preston Hacking, a Winthrop on his mother's side (“Fine old Boston family,” Barbara said) and, obviously, a Hacking on his father's. She'd remained close with Preston, but she had failed to parlay that into anything useful, Barbara believed. Evelyn's other best friend from Sheffield was Charlotte Macmillan, who was the daughter of a Procter & Gamble executive and whom her mother still referred to as “that girl in the pigtails” after the hairdo Char had worn when she first met Barbara.

Evelyn rubbed at the other earring. Folding her upper body over the sink until she was an inch from the mirror, she rotated and polished the earring, then rotated and polished it again for good measure. Her mother couldn't get her on that front.

As she heard people approaching, she jumped back from the mirror and turned the faucet on, so when alumnae with maroon
S
's on their cheeks burst in, she had a plausible explanation of what she had been up to. “Good game,” she said brightly, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser.

With the mud trying to suck off her ballet flats, Evelyn resumed her post at the card table behind her mother's car and spread olive paste in careful curves on one of the offending pepper crackers.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't my cheerful little earful.”

Preston Hacking's voice was reedy and nasal and familiar, and, hearing it and seeing the edge of his worn-down Top-Siders behind her, Evelyn let the guarded smile that had been fixed on her face since she'd left the field house balloon to a full grin. She spun on her toes and threw her arms around Preston, who picked her up with a yelp, then set her back down, out of breath from the exertion.

Preston looked exactly the same as he had at Sheffield, tall and thin, with thick, loosely curled blond hair, red glasses, and lips that were always in a half smile, the fine features of someone who had never gotten into a fight and instead had politely submitted to the hazing imposed on the well-bred boys as preps. Evelyn remembered hearing he'd been duct-taped to the statue of the Sheffield founder for several hours and, upon release, had offered his tormentors a cigar that he had in his sport-coat pocket; it was a Cuban. An ancient, scratchy-looking Sheffield sweater was hooked over his elbow—his grandfather's, or his great-grandfather's, Evelyn couldn't remember.

“Pres! I thought you were leaving me with the geriatric society. What took you so long?”

“I had, and still have, a massive hangover, and felt I could not take the cheer and school spirit of people such as you. Good God, woman, what was in those martinis last night?”

“Maybe they roofied you.”

“If only. Perhaps it was the bathtub gin they seem to serve at these things. I knew I should have brought something up from the city. You can never trust the liquor service in rural New Hampshire. Would you get me a Bloody?”

Evelyn brought out one of the cut-crystal glasses her mother had brought up from Maryland and mixed a bit of vodka from a leather-covered flask with tomato juice. She wondered where her mother had obtained all these bartending accoutrements. They had shown up en masse when the family moved from their exurban ranch house to the grand and crumbling old house in Bibville when Evelyn was in elementary school. With that came aristocratic airs and fine glassware, she thought as she watched the vodka glug out from the flask. “I think my mom brought celery, but she's run off somewhere. And there was ice, but it's all melted. You might have to have warm tomato juice.”

“Horseradish. Poppycock,” Preston said. “More vodka. More. More. More. Good. If I don't get a drink in me soon, I might have to regurgitate all over this pretty picnic.” He gulped down a long slug.

“Now that your thirst is being quenched, why don't you make yourself useful? Babs and I have been trying to sort out how these chairs unfold, and we clearly have not been able to master it,” Evelyn said.

“Yes, we all remember your ill-fated forays into manual labor. Put me to work. I've always dreamt of being your handyman.” Preston balanced his glass on the car's bumper and was crouched, fiddling with a washer, when Barbara Beegan returned. He jumped up. “Mrs. Beegan, what a pleasure,” he said.

“Preston, what a delight. Evie said she saw you last night, during the young people's outing, but I'm glad I got to see you myself today.”

“Well, not so young anymore. Did she tell you we're now in the middle-aged alumni grouping? Once you're more than five years out, it's all over.”

Evelyn elbowed him in the ribs and tried to make it look like an accident in case her mother was watching, but it was too late.

“She's almost thirty. It's not surprising,” Barbara said.

“I'm twenty-six, Mom. I'm not almost thirty,” Evelyn muttered. When she'd walked by the current students, though, she'd realized that, to them, she was one of the sea of vaguely old alums who meandered through the dorms during Sheffield-Enfield and talked about what color the carpet was in their day.

“Almost twenty-seven,” Barbara said, turning to look at her daughter.

“Nearly twenty-five,” Evelyn said.

With a kick, Preston got one chair, then the other, into place. “Done and done. You both look like you've found the fountain of youth. Your daughter has me hard at work as usual. Is Mr. Beegan here as well?” he said.

Evelyn returned his drink to him. “For your labor,” she said. “No, Dad had to work this weekend.”

“Ah, well, I'm sure he's sad to miss it.” This drew no response, so Preston picked up a cracker. “I read about a case he was involved in, in the
Journal
. I think it was a lawsuit against a pharmaceutical company in—”

“Aren't they all,” Barbara interrupted with a bright tone. “It's been ages since I saw you last. You've been in London?”

“Just moved back to New York,” Preston said.

“That's wonderful. Isn't that wonderful, Evie? I always tell her she needs to keep better track of her old friends. How are your old friends? That darling Nick? And that handsome brother of yours? Are they single?”

Evelyn handed her mother a cracker with cream cheese on it. “All right, Mom, we don't need to review every single person Preston knows for marriage eligibility.”

“I'm just having a conversation, Evelyn. She can be so sensitive. Now. Tell me about you, Preston. You must be dating someone.”

“The course of true love never did run smooth, Mrs. Beegan,” Preston said.

“Of course, you have ages before you need to settle down,” Barbara said.

Evelyn rolled her eyes and stuffed a cracker in her mouth. To Barbara, Preston asserted that New York life was treating him well, and his work as an independent investor was going swimmingly (though Evelyn had never been able to pin down exactly what it was Preston did or invested in). He said that Evelyn was doing terrifically in the city, which Evelyn thought he lied about rather nicely, and Barbara raised her sunglasses to the top of her head, her albino-blue eyes brightening with the compliment, which Barbara accepted as though it were about her. Exchanges complete, they separated, stepping away from one another as smoothly as if they were finishing a minuet. Barbara completed the encounter by saying she would find them all seats in the stadium, and she walked off.

A bellow from three rows of cars away arose, with a “Ha—CKING” an octave apart. Then a “Beegs!”

“Oh, good Lord,” Preston said to Evelyn.

The caller, whom Evelyn finally diagnosed as Phil Giamatti, a kid from rural New Hampshire who'd overdosed on caffeine their lower year, trundled over. To the untrained eye, Phil appeared to be dressed even more snappily than Preston. His checked purple shirt, Evelyn guessed, was Thomas Pink. His pants were Nantucket Reds. He wore sockless Gucci loafers. Evelyn remembered when he'd arrived at school in his oversize chambray button-downs and jeans. He smacked of price tags these days, and he was drenched in cologne, some brand that no doubt came in a black-leather-encased bottle.

“How are you guys?” He grabbed Evelyn with meaty hands to lean in and smash his wet lips on her cheek. “Nice to be up here out of Manhattan, huh?”

“It's always nice to be at Sheffield,” Evelyn said flatly. She hadn't liked Phil in high school, where he was always trying to copy Charlotte's tests, and she liked him even less with money.

“I know, right? Good to leave work, too. Banking is crazy, man.”

“So I hear,” Evelyn said.

“It's like, when you're doing deals the way I am, it's just nonstop. It's like up at five
A.M
. and in the office till one
A.M
. But it's work hard, play hard, right? Models and bottles?”

“‘Models and bottles' is not exactly my scene,” Preston said haughtily.

“Models not your style, Hacking?”

Evelyn felt heat in her ears; she hoped Phil was not going where he seemed to be going. “Pres's style—” she began.

But Phil continued. “You need male models and bottles? That better?”

Evelyn didn't have to look at Preston to know that her friend would be scarlet. “Preston
is
a male model, Phil,” she said icily, which wasn't the greatest of retorts, but she couldn't think of anything else. “Good luck with your banking.”

“Hey, I was just joking,” Phil said as they walked away. “Hey, hey, Hacking? Hey, Beegs?”

Evelyn strode back to the card table, where she rearranged some of the cocktail knives to give Preston time to compose himself. Finally, he swallowed so hard she could hear it. “I don't know what he was talking about,” Preston said.

“Me, either,” Evelyn said evenly. She refilled his drink, armed with a topic change. “So, would you rather?”

“Ooh, what?” said Preston, seizing on their old game.

“Would you rather have to spend every dinner party for the rest of your life seated next to Phil Giamatti or have an aboveground pool in your front yard?”

“So elitist, Evelyn, my dear. What's the website you're working for now? Not Our Class, Dear?”

“Very funny. You know I'm going to sign you up.”

“Nay! I eschew technology.”

“You're going to have to embrace it. You have lineage and a respectable old name and, presumably, alcoholic uncles leaving you grand fortunes. You're exactly who they want. Don't worry. I'll help you make a charming profile.”

“The answer, by the way, is aboveground pool. Dinner parties are too precious to spend with the likes of Phil.”

“Agree,” Evelyn said.

“What are we talking about?” Charlotte had skipped up and thrown her thin arms around both of them.

“Phil Giamatti,” Evelyn said.

“You're not recruiting him for PLU, are you?” Charlotte said.

“Dahling.” Evelyn held her nose and looked down at Charlotte. “He is not PLU caliber.”

“Dahling, I wouldn't have ventured. Certainly not PLU,” Charlotte said in her British voice. “I think Ev gets bounty-hunting points the more ancient the family money she signs up.”

“Well, if People Like Us gets Evelyn back to Sheffield, I'll accept it,” Preston said. “It's good to all be here together.”

“I mean, of course we couldn't get our act together to hang out in New York,” Charlotte said. “Isn't that New York, though?”

Evelyn tightened the cap on the vodka flask. New York when you're young, everyone in her hometown of Bibville said with reverence when they heard where she lived, having never lived in New York when they were young. Evelyn tried to love it, and sometimes did, when she was wearing heels and perfume and hailing a cab on Park on a crisp fall night, or when the fountain at Lincoln Center danced in the night light, or when she watched Alfred Molina as Tevye sing “Sunrise, Sunset” from her seat in the second balcony and felt her brain go still. The city hummed in a way Bibville never had, and the taxis were hard to get because everyone had somewhere to go, and it was invigorating. And then it became grating: the taxis just became hard to get.

She'd learned how to live in New York. She knew now never to eat lunch from the hot bar at Korean delis, never to buy shoes from the brandless leather joints that popped up in glass storefronts in Midtown, that there was more space in the middle of subway cars than at the ends, and that the flowers sold at bodegas were usually sourced from funerals. Yet she wasn't living a New York life. Despite her grand plans, she'd spent most days plodding to work and home from work without moving her life ahead. It was crowded, and loud, and dirty, and too hot, then too cold. It required an enormous amount of energy and time just to do errands like getting groceries. She was always sweaty after she got groceries.

She had expected to feel more at ease now that Charlotte and Preston were both back in New York. She thought the three of them would hang out all the time, a merry band of Sondheim characters working at love and life from their tiny apartments, all getting together on Sundays to punch each other up and drink wine on the roofs of their buildings. Instead, Charlotte, after working as a Goldman Sachs analyst—a year in which Evelyn saw her friend maybe once every two weeks and all Char talked about was how much she was working—had gone back to Harvard for business school. Charlotte had been back in the city almost a year, working for the intense private-equity firm Graystone, which meant her nights and weekends were mostly spoken for. Preston, meanwhile, had submerged himself into his preppy set upon his return from London. Evelyn had kept up with the few friends from Davidson College that had moved to the city, but their lives were starting to take wildly divergent directions. One was an actress and had just moved to Bushwick, and it would take three subways and, probably, the purchase of a shiv for Evelyn to navigate there safely. A second had gotten engaged and was moving to Garden City, Long Island.