Chapter 7
“She’s an Esme,” I said when I picked up his call.
“I know, right?”
“But…”
“Yeah? A ‘but?’ It’s okay, give it to me.”
I was back in his office, having gotten there early, wanting to get back to work. Had I ever wanted to get to work?
Plus, I needed to leave in time to take the bus to the mall before it closed.
Knowing I’d probably be too engrossed in Montrose’s notes to notice the time later, I had set the alarm on my phone to go off in time for me to leave.
I’d been there about four hours when Montrose called.
“She’s Salinger’s Esme,” I broke the news to him.
“Fuck.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, no. I’m glad you did. Are you sure? I mean there’s not much even written yet, no prose or anything, bits of dialogue and character notes.”
“Well, then, maybe…” But there was doubt in my voice and he knew it.
“Fuck,” he said again. “I believe you. And, shit, I think I knew it.”
“It’s just…it’s her. Practical. Unsentimental.
Wise beyond her years. Very matter-of-fact.
And yet you know she’s going to rip your heart out.
I’m sorry,” I said. It almost felt like consoling someone whose friend had just died.
“I think,” I started, wanting to throw him a bone, “it’s because of these notes about her as a kid. They just feel so…so…Esme, you know?”
“Yeah,” he said, dejection—almost resignation—in his voice.
“But maybe if you just left those out? I mean, some of them even say ‘do not use, just for character development,’ so maybe if they’re not actually in the book?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, his voice perking up a little bit.
“I mean, obviously I’m looking for it since you pointed it out, and I’m reading all these notes about her as a child, probably right around Salinger’s Esme’s age…”
“Yeah, that’s true.” More hope in his voice now.
“I don’t think you need to scrap her totally.”
“No?” he asked, like I was his editor or something, not just some college freshman who had no point of reference on what made a novel a masterpiece—other than having read many of them.
“But, you should probably go with Rachel, not Esme.”
A long, loud sigh on the other end. “Yeah, I guess.”
He asked me about the notes I’d gone through today and I answered him.
I’d taken a stack and brought them to his desk, not wanting to spend another day on the floor.
So I sat in his chair, going through his stuff and inputting it into some of the different spreadsheets and Word docs I’d already begun, while he spoke on the phone to me.
It was definitely surreal.
I was listening to him, but my eyes wandered to the framed photos on his desk. One of him and his parents taken at his graduation from Brown.
He looked like his mother—very Upper East Side, very Old Money. She was in a smart, cream linen suit. My guess was Chanel, but I’m not well versed on WASP-wear. Montrose had his arm around her, a near-identical smile on both their faces.
His father was on his other side and also wore what looked like a cream linen suit, though definitely not Chanel. Brooks Brothers maybe? His arm was not slung around his son or his wife’s shoulder, but there was a nice smile on his face and he seemed happy to be in the photo.
The other photo was of Montrose and a beautiful young woman, their arms entwined, both looking at the camera. They wore ski gear and I could see a ski resort, and mountain, behind them.
“Uh-huh,” I said to Montrose, not catching everything he said, but most of it.
I slid my laptop over and Googled “Billy Montrose girlfriend” and waited.
Several times the name Diandra Scott came up, but upon further investigation, it looked like they’d ended things a while ago.
And on Google images Diandra Scott was not the woman skiing with him.
A new girlfriend? He looked about his current age in the photo, like maybe it had been taken last winter.
“Um,” I said, when he paused, “I’m working at your desk today, and I was just noticing the photos on your desk.”
“I have photos on my desk? I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, I’m looking right at them.”
“Seriously? Like, framed photos of people?”
Man, absent-minded professor or what? “Yes. Two of them. And you’re in both photos.”
“I don’t think—Oh. Oh, right. My mom sent those to me when I first started at Bribury. She sent them right to the office. Probably figured—rightfully so—that I wouldn’t take the time to put up anything personal. I just sat them on the desk and didn’t think of them again.”
“But you must see them every day.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I was desperate to ask about his ski bunny when he said, “One with them at Brown, right? And one of me and my sister skiing?”
An easing in my heart at hearing the word “sister,” and then self-chastisement. Like it should even matter to me if he had a girlfriend or not.
But it did. It desperately did.
“Right, those are the two,” I said.
“Yeah, of course I remember. Like you said, I see them every day.”
I laughed as I ran my finger along the heavy, expensive silver frame. “Oh yeah? What is your mother wearing in this photo?”
“A Chanel suit.”
“Huh. I guess you do notice them.”
He didn’t say anything for too long. “Wait,” I said. “She always wears Chanel suits, doesn’t she?”
“Busted.”
We laughed together, and it felt so good, so right, to share something with him.
After talking about Esme/Rachel for another hour we said our goodbyes and hung up. I wanted to dive back into his notes, but the Google page with results on Montrose taunted me until I finally mentally packed my bags and spent the next two hours cyber stalking him.
There wasn’t much I didn’t already know, although I hadn’t been aware of his relationship with Diandra Scott—a woman he apparently met at Brown and dated quite seriously for several years.
If I did my math correctly, I estimated they’d broken up right about the time he felt he was heading for self-entitled prick.
So, he’d been a prick for about two years of their relationship.
Maybe Diandra dumping him is what made him take a hard look at his life?
Or maybe he’d dumped her because of said prick-ness?
At one time, I’d known everything there was to know about Billy Montrose.
In fact, I probably should have guessed that the woman in the second photo was his twin sister.
They had a very similar look, though the sister was blond to Montrose’s dark brown hair.
But the same eyes, the same perfect smile with blindingly-white teeth.
But I was kind of shocked that I’d never Googled for his girlfriend before.
Well, no, not totally shocked.
It would never have been in my realm of thought that I should. To me, he was the author of the book that changed my life. I hadn’t thought of him in terms of even having a personal life. I’d only wanted to read about him as it related to Gangster’s Folly.
Until now.
Until I’d sat in front of him three days a week and felt this deep connection that no doubt every other female in his classroom did.
Until I lay on the floor of his office and knew he liked that image, that it made him uncomfortable.
I hadn’t come to Bribury because Montrose was to be a guest instructor for a year.
I hadn’t even known that when I’d applied.
But by the time I got the offer of a scholarship to Bribury and a few other schools (one of them a legit Ivy League school, not just a wannabe), I’d found out that Montrose would be at Bribury.
I took it as a sign, and sent in my acceptance of their offer that same day.
My alarm went off, interrupting my Google frenzy and I was glad that I wasn’t being paid by the hour or I would have felt terribly guilty, or not counted the past two hours or something.
Funny, I never felt that guilt in my admin job. There, I was happy to have nothing to do and get some studying in on their time.
I packed up and, with reluctance, left his office.
Taking the bus to the Schoolport mall, I thought about where I would start back in tomorrow, even though I’d have to put in my eight-hour shift at the admin building first.
I went to the shoe department of Macy’s looking for the combat boots I’d travelled across town for, cursing the fact that I’d have to spend some of my precious discretionary funds on something I didn’t even particularly like.
I mean, I’d been to this mall too many times over the semester, spending too much of my precious money, making sure I had what would make me blend in with the other Bribury girls. It seemed like Lily had known exactly what to bring—I don’t think she had gone shopping even once since we’d arrived.
And Jane couldn’t be bothered with things like trends and fashions. I swear she got most of her clothes at thrift stores and Navy surplus places. She always looked cool and funky, but Jane was the type of personality that could carry that off. I wasn’t.
It was a struggle for me, never having been one that cared that much about clothes, mainly because we couldn’t afford latest trends when the boys’ feet were growing so fast.
But I didn’t want any of the girls at Bribury to know that, and so I came to school with what I thought was a good start, but every time a trend shifted—even slightly—I was back at the mall.
I had purchased a few pairs of Lulus in September, and had worn them with running shoes at first, then Uggs when it got colder, and depending on what I was wearing on top.
But just before break I saw three different girls wearing them with combat boots and knew I’d be spending the money I’d set aside for Christmas gifts for the boys on new boots for myself.
Which made me feel like shit, but wouldn’t keep me away from the mall.
But now, with Montrose’s money coming in, I could afford both.
I stood in front of the rack and two different styles—two different brand names—of the boots commanded my attention.
Oh, God. I hadn’t taken a close enough look at which type those girls were wearing. What if I got the wrong brand?
I’d just told a National Book Award winner that he had to change his protagonist’s name without batting an eye. But now, thinking I might get the wrong kind of boot? Absolutely terrified.
“Most of the Bribury girls we see in here are going for this kind,” a sales lady said to me, handing over the—naturally—more expensive brand.
“Are you sure?” I asked. It probably sounded to her like I was hoping it was the cheaper kind, and I was, but more importantly, I really just wanted to make sure I got the right kind.
I knew it was stupid, and I ultimately didn’t even like the Bribury Basic look, but I just…couldn’t stand out as the Queens white trash that I was.
That I had been. Because I’d vowed to leave that Sydney O’Brien back in Queens.
The sales lady murmured her confirmation and I bought the boots.
I went to Old Navy and got some cheap shirts and jeans for the boys.
I found some perfume on sale, which I purchased for my mother.
Picking up some wrapping paper, I figured I could run to the Post Office on my lunch hour tomorrow and get it all shipped to arrive by Christmas Eve on Wednesday.
Shipping would probably cost me as much as the gifts themselves at this last moment, but that’s what I got for putting it off.
On the bus ride home, I thought about the combat boots and battled with feelings of self-loathing for yet again caving to the feeling of wanting to fit in, and also a feeling of jubilation that, come January, I would fit in with those girls.
Lying in bed later that night, trying to sleep and wishing I could hear the sounds that Jane and Lily usually made in the other side of the suite, I wondered if Diandra Scott, or Billy Montrose’s sister, had ever felt such fear as I had standing in front of a rack of boots?
No, probably not.