Chapter Twelve
How to describe Nancy Fletcher…
It’s not that she’s a bully. She is just so deeply enamored with herself that everything and everyone else are simply inconsequential.
When Marina and I were tasked to work with Nancy on a group project in our ninth-grade geography class, Nancy’s one contribution was spending forty-five minutes picking a font that would make her name look the prettiest on the title slide.
You don’t understand , she said when we tried to pull her focus to the actual assignment.
Your last names don’t start with F. Your names look boring no matter what.
Her tone was bizarrely matter-of-fact, like we couldn’t possibly understand the burden—the responsibility —of a surname as regal as hers.
Then, once she did settle on a font—Edwardian Script, like her name was going on a monogrammed towel and not a PowerPoint presentation about plate tectonics—she announced that she needed a Frappuccino and abruptly left.
Nancy always believed—and told us, repeatedly—that she was destined for better things. Her big break came when she was cast on a reality dating show right out of college. Nancy got highlights, flew out to LA, and showed up on set ready to be the star.
I never watched the show, but I remember looking up articles about it from my apartment in DC, eager for hometown gossip.
She was eliminated toward the end of the season, so she made it pretty far, all in all.
But little else resulted from her time in LA.
All I know is that she eventually moved back to Greenstead and leveraged her brief flash of fame for a job hosting a morning show on Greenstead’s local news channel.
I’ll never forget coming home to visit my dad for Christmas one year, turning on the TV, and seeing Nancy’s smiling face like a jump scare.
It turns out my dad and Wendy love tuning in to Nancy’s show every morning.
They say she’s funny, and not even unintentionally, which I refuse to believe.
In the town hall parking lot, Marina and I sit in her car and look up Nancy on our phones. Her website is a sea of headshots, stills from her morning show, and even grainy stills from her reality show appearance.
I fill out the contact form and write a polite message asking to get in touch with her about a schedule conflict. Then I scroll up and down the page, searching for the submit button.
“I think it’s her face,” Marina says, pointing to an icon-sized photo of Nancy beneath the form. I press it and, sure enough, the form is submitted.
“People in this town really need to take a web design class,” I say, and Marina lets out a wry laugh.
Nancy gets back to me within the hour, informing me that she can squeeze us in for lunch this weekend. Her email sign-off is Ta-ta, Nancy Fletcher , all written in Edwardian Script, of course. Below her name is a picture of her face. I don’t know why I’d expect anything else.
Two days later, Marina and I make the drive to Falls Point together to meet Nancy.
I have to circle the area in search of street parking, and I finally find a spot by an ice cream shop with a line of people waiting outside.
Marina politely doesn’t comment when I realize I’d pulled into the spot from the wrong angle and have to pull out to redo my parallel parking job.
“Why is she making us come out here?” Marina grumbles as I move two inches back, one inch forward for the tenth time. “We’re all in Greenstead. We could have just met there.”
I look around at Falls Point’s idyllic downtown. The towering trees, the shops with no sign of disrepair, the bustling activity of pedestrians walking along the sidewalk. I refrain from pointing out that Greenstead doesn’t have a downtown as lovely as this. Not anymore, anyway.
We meet Nancy at a modern-looking café. She’s sitting outside at a small round table, a large pair of sunglasses perched on her dainty nose.
Her light brown, shoulder-length hair is shiny and sleek, streaked with blond highlights throughout, and her patterned blue dress is perfectly pressed.
The fabric looks heavy enough to be stifling on a 90-degree day like today, but there isn’t a drop of sweat to be found.
Meanwhile, even in my sleeveless linen top, I’m sporting a ring of sweat where my belly button meets the fabric.
“Hello,” Nancy says, standing when she sees us. When she approaches, I think she’s going in for a hug, and I start to open my arms, but instead she does the European cheek kiss thing that I’ve never understood.
“O-oh, hi,” I stammer as she presses one cheek against mine, then the other. “Am I supposed to…?” But then she’s moving on to Marina, who looks about as flustered as I feel.
“So good to see you,” Nancy coos. “Sit, sit!”
Marina civilly asks Nancy how she’s doing, which leads Nancy to chatter for ten minutes about her new obsession with celery juice, her kayaking plans for next weekend, and her Scottish terrier, who, I have to admit when she shows us a string of photos, is adorable.
Nancy finally stops to take a breath when our food arrives.
Our server delivers Marina’s quinoa salad and my caprese sandwich first and tells Nancy her chicken pesto wrap will be right out.
Nancy thanks her, but her expression is tight.
I know she wants to complain about the injustice of being served last, but she holds her tongue and turns to us instead.
“How have you been? Are you still working at that tragic school?”
Marina’s pleasant smile stiffens. “Longview Elementary is not tragic.”
“I heard there was asbestos in the gymnasium,” Nancy comments, checking her Apple Watch.
“That was a rumor you started!” Marina huffs out a breath.
“If you see white powder at a science fair, a reasonable person assumes it’s baking soda for a volcano.
You don’t turn what was supposed to be a nice segment on kids in science into an exposé about the hidden dangers of public school.
A parent pulled their kid out of class because of you. ”
Nancy nods patiently. “The realities of journalism can be hard for some people to understand. I just report the truth.”
“No, you don’t!” Marina barks back. “You report on whatever gets you the most attention.”
I fake a cough. Marina turns to me, and I raise my eyebrows to remind her that maybe attacking the person we’re asking a favor from isn’t the way to go.
“You haven’t been in the Longview Elementary gymnasium recently, have you?” Nancy asks, eyeing me like I’m a leper.
“I was just clearing my throat,” I say brightly, but Nancy doesn’t seem convinced.
A silence settles over us. Our server returns to place Nancy’s order in front of her.
Nancy asks if the arugula salad on the side is organic, because it doesn’t look organic.
After the server assures Nancy of the integrity of their arugula—and Marina rolls her eyes at Nancy’s doubtful hum—I decide to ask for our favor now, before Nancy and Marina get into another spat.
“So,” I say, “Marina and I are trying to bring back the Greenstead Apple Festival to raise funds for the community center, but you have Juniper Park booked for the day we need it.”
A petite wrinkle forms in Nancy’s brow. “Do I?” She sips demurely on her Bloody Mary.
“On October 11,” Marina prods.
“Ah. Yes, that’s for my Nancy convention.”
Marina and I share a look.
“Your what?” I say.
“It’s for the fans,” Nancy says. “They love getting to meet with me in person, take photos, have me sign autographs. It really means a lot to them.”
“The fans,” I repeat.
“Of course. From watching me on Love Quest or Wake Up with Nancy . My Nancies.”
“Your…” I share another glance with Marina. “Your fans are called Nancies?”
“And that’s not confusing?” Marina asks.
“No,” Nancy says breezily.
Marina’s fighting a smile. I have to take a long drink from my ice water to keep from laughing.
Marina clears her throat and takes a bite of her quinoa salad. “And it has to be at Juniper Park?” she asks.
“I like open spaces,” Nancy says. “I’m very outdoorsy.”
At this point, Marina and I have to avoid eye contact, because it’s the only way to make sure we don’t laugh. There’s no way this woman needs a sixty-acre park to meet with her alleged fans.
“And it has to be October 11?” Marina asks. “You can’t do another day?”
“Eleven is my favorite number,” Nancy says, frowning at us.
“Isn’t there another open space you could do it in?” I ask. “Like Mill Park?”
“In West Greenstead?” Nancy asks, her voice lowering like she couldn’t be caught dead even uttering the name.
I sneak a glance at Marina, whose lip is curling in annoyance.
“I need somewhere pretty for the pictures,” Nancy says. “Only the best for my Nancies!”
I take a bite of my caprese sandwich and try to think of a new angle. “How many…Nancies…are coming?” I ask. “Does it really need to be at the biggest park in Greenstead?”
Nancy falters. She plays with the straw in her drink. “Twelve so far,” she admits. She lifts her chin. “But I’m expecting more RSVPs. They’re…still getting organized.”
“We’re expecting at least three hundred people at our festival,” I say. “Juniper Park is the only place where we can do it, and October 11 is the only weekend that works. Would you be willing to move yours? I could help you find another location or work out a different date.”
Nancy glances from me to Marina, considering.
She takes another sip of her Bloody Mary, then checks her Apple Watch.
While she swipes and taps at the screen with a concerning level of concentration, I wonder if she’s sending out some sort of signal to sic her Nancies on us, if five minutes from now an army of white women with Karen haircuts will come stampeding down the sidewalk ready to attack.