Chapter 19
LUCY
Ifirst realized I was different in sixth grade.
Up to that point in my life, I’d been pretty happy-go-lucky. My primary concern as a twelve-year-old was how long I would have to wait until I could marry Lance Bass. Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time a man broke my heart.
I remember a particularly rancid young girl—Becky Barrington—and she’d always talk about how much money her parents made. I don’t use the word rancid lightly. Becky was a bully and made her fellow female classmates cry at least once a week. She was the Regina George of Brentwood School.
Becky was rich, even by Barrington standards, and that’s saying something. Her father had recently been appointed as the chief operating officer of Boeing, and I’m sure her father’s income had really taken off. Sorry, had to.
Now, my parents were well off, but they’d never flaunted it. They were the owners/proprietors of two really nice hotels in Los Angeles. And then we owned our house in LA and the house in Lake Tahoe.
Sure, we went to the Tahoe house once or twice a year, but it’s not like we spent our summers in the south of France or owned the top floor of some Manhattan skyscraper.
Despite their wealth, my parents remained as frugal as two rich people could be.
We lived in a nice three-bedroom home in the Pacific Palisades section of Los Angeles. I knew we weren’t slumming it, but we just didn’t talk about money that much.
Which leads us back to little Becky Barrington, who bragged about her parents’ money.
And how she was the prettiest. And how she’d met Orlando Bloom, who had recently made the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Lord of the Rings movies.
Most girls our age loved him. Why hadn’t I chosen him as my crush over Lance Bass? Ugh.
I specifically remember one day when Becky told everyone at lunch that her father’s salary was ten million dollars a year. And she said that with his stock options, he was probably making double that.
My twelve-year-old brain had no idea what stock options were, but I knew that twenty million dollars was a lot of money.
When I went home that night, I asked my parents what the average person in America makes per year.
They told me it was just a little less than fifty thousand, so I used that as my starting point.
I retreated to my room and divided twenty million by fifty thousand and saw that four hundred was the answer. Becky Barrington’s father made four hundred times as much as the average family in America. That boggled my young mind.
I went back out to my parents and asked them how much they made a year. They were great parents and very supportive of my always inquisitive mind, but they didn’t love this particular question.
“It doesn’t matter how much we make, honey,” my mother, Iris, said.
“Where is this coming from, Lucy?” my father, Bruce, asked.
“Becky Barrington said that her dad makes twenty million a year.”
“I thought you didn’t like hanging around with Becky.”
“I don’t, but all she ever talks about is money, money, money. I can’t avoid it.”
“Who cares what Becky’s father makes.”
“Are everyone’s parents at Barrington School rich?”
“The majority certainly are.”
“How much does it cost a year to send me there?”
My mother looked at my father. They wanted this conversation to end, but I could be a stubborn young girl, and I wasn’t going to just give up.
“Close to fifty grand,” my mother said.
“What? You just told me that’s what the average family in America makes.”
“Listen, honey. Your father works hard for his money. Very, very hard. When he bought the hotels, they were in terrible shape. He spent his time renovating them into places that started generating revenue. But he hasn’t spent extravagantly.
And if he wants to spend his money on giving you the best education you can get, I think it’s money well spent. ”
“Well, I don’t. I could go to a public school, and you guys could spend that money on something else.”
“What would you like us to spend it on, Lucy?”
“I don’t know. How about donating it to a hospital?”
They shot each other another look. This look was more appreciative of what I’d said. I think they were afraid I was going to ask them to spend the money on something extremely random—perhaps far-sighted abstract impressionists with the first name Ralph. A hospital seemed rational in comparison.
“That’s actually a nice thought, Lucy.”
“It’s not a thought, Mom. That’s what I want.”
“We don’t want to send you to a public school. I wasn’t kidding when I said your father wants you to get the best education possible.”
“Okay, then I have a solution.”
“I can’t wait to hear this one,” my father said. He’d been quiet for the most part.
“Every year, when you pay my tuition, you also donate the same amount to a local hospital.”
Neither one of them said anything for what amounted to only about five seconds, but it felt much longer in the moment.
“Okay, Lucy. I think we can do that,” my father said.
I’d never been prouder of myself.
A few minutes later, they headed toward their bedroom, and I remember hearing my mother say, “We’ve got an idealist on our hands.”
“She’ll grow out of it,” my father said.
“No, I won’t,” I yelled, and I heard my parents burst out in laughter.