345 PM Sasha
Claire Matthews peeled a waxed wrapper away from the base of a cupcake, using the tips of two of her fingernails and working with surgical precision.
She was dressed as Dorothy. A wicker basket hung from her shoulder, and inside it was a stuffed black dog with two marble eyes.
Her lips were red; her hair was split into two neat pigtails; her dress was blue gingham.
Rotating the cupcake one hundred eighty degrees, she took a single small bite, covering her mouth with three of her fingers as she chewed and swallowed.
Her eyes narrowed; Sasha heard a noise that sounded like huh.
Theo’s band began playing again, and Claire glanced to both sides of her.
She tucked the cupcake and the wrapper into a paper napkin, then discreetly placed it on a patio table to her left.
“I know I’ve asked you a million times,” she said, “but did you say you signed Ethan up for basketball?”
Sasha nodded. “I did.”
The cupcake sat tucked inside the napkin on the patio table.
The sight of it made her self-conscious.
It was clear that Claire had no intention of eating any more of it, and Sasha’s mind ticked through a series of possible explanations of what she’d done wrong.
Had Claire accidentally gotten one of the gluten-free ones?
If so, Sasha couldn’t really blame her: she’d tried one herself this morning, and even she thought it was gross.
The cake itself was somehow both sticky and dry, and formed a paste on the roof of her mouth.
So, yeah, maybe that was it. Or maybe she’d fucked up the frosting, or hadn’t baked them for long enough, or Claire had read something about buttercream being carcinogenic and tomorrow she was going to tell everyone at the Montclair Golf Club that Sasha had poisoned forty children under the age of ten.
She tried to stop caring so much. She told herself that the only reason she wanted to impress Claire Matthews was because she was used to being Claire Matthews herself.
The red jumpsuit was hot and itchy, made from a synthetic material that felt like it was taking tiny bites out of her skin.
She scratched at a spot on her wrist, then ran her hand down the length of her ponytail. The cupcakes had been a mistake.
“Did you go with Park Youth or Young Ballers?”
A woman named Cassie Lopez said this. Sasha didn’t know much about her—only that she was wearing a nurse’s costume and that, according to Anoushka, she had refused to vaccinate her children against Covid.
The nurse’s costume was short, and Cassie had tied her husband’s gray sweatshirt around her waist.
“Park Youth,” Sasha said.
“That’s the right one,” Claire said. “I mean, you can say good-bye to your Saturday mornings—”
“And afternoons,” Cassie added.
“—but that’s the right one.”
Cassie adjusted her sweatshirt to cover the fronts of her thighs.
“I don’t think I can do another spring,” she said. “I swear to God, last year I spent a cumulative month in the car, shuttling Henry and Teddy between basketball games, club soccer games, and swim practice.”
“Well, thankfully they’re doing the construction on the pool this spring.” Claire smiled. “No swim practice.”
“No, no.” Cassie drank from her wine. “They’re finishing it by April. We’ll be back by May.”
“You’re kidding me. And what about the renovations to the dining room?”
“Not done until next October.”
“Remind me why we pay all this fucking money again?”
Cassie finished her wine. She said, “That’s a very good question.”
Mia folded her arms across her chest. “How much are dues to a country club?” she asked.
Claire raised her hand. “Please,” she said. “We’re all trying to enjoy ourselves.”
Everyone laughed, including Mia, and Sasha felt herself relax.
She had been worried to tell her that she wouldn’t be able to go on their trip to Miami, though seeing the pleasant expression on Mia’s face now put her mind a little more at ease.
Cassie said, “I’ll be honest—I miss the club’s fries,” and Sasha heard a child’s scream.
She turned toward the other end of the backyard, where Lauren Jacobson’s son was throwing a fit next to a jack-o’-lantern, his Toad hat crumpled on the ground.
She waved, then brushed a leaf from her shoulders.
To be clear, she had wanted to go to Miami—she would have killed someone for a few childless days, drinking margaritas beside a pool.
But then three nights ago Emily had texted her to ask if she would like to come down to DC that same weekend.
Marco was taking the kids camping, she said, and miraculously she had three days off from the hospital.
When the text came through, Sasha was standing in front of the stove, scrambling egg whites for Ethan, and she read it over and over.
Emily and Marco were having problems. She had two young children, a hellish job at Sibley Memorial, and very little time for herself.
Giving the egg whites a stir, Sasha tapped the fingers of her free hand against her hip.
She had felt like this was a no-brainer. She called Anoushka to make sure.
“Oh yeah,” Anoushka said. “You have to go to DC.”
“I feel like it’s the right thing to do.”
“Um, that’s correct.”
“Like, obviously I’d love to hang out by the pool, but Emily was really there for me when Ethan had appendicitis, you know?”
“Babe, for sure.”
“And, whatever, Mia and I can reschedule. It’s not like Miami’s going anywhere.”
“Right.” Sasha heard a car door close. There was a faint beeping and the sound of an engine turning on. “Exactly.”
The egg whites were done. Sasha transferred them to a plate and set them aside to cool before giving them to Ethan. “What do you think I should tell Mia?”
“I would just explain the situation. Say that Emily really needs support right now, and you and Mia can reschedule.”
The egg whites steamed. “Yeah, no, I think that’s right.”
“I mean, you’ve known each other forever, right?”
“Forever.”
“And we’re all adults here.”
“Totally.”
Sasha’s intention had been to follow Anoushka’s advice.
But once Mia was actually sitting in front of her, telling the truth seemed impossible—she was too worried how Mia would react if she mentioned she was going to spend time with Emily.
Lately she had seemed so needy, so desperate for Sasha’s attention.
Multiple times a day she sent Sasha texts and DMs about subjects that Sasha couldn’t have cared less about.
How she’d seen Maggie Gyllenhaal eating a croissant in Cobble Hill.
How she couldn’t decide whether it would be funny or sad if she joined TikTok.
How she’d gone on a date with a lawyer who asked if he could suck her toes.
It was becoming a little repulsive—Sasha was busy at the gallery, and going to parent-teacher meetings at Ethan’s school, and baking gluten-free cupcakes, and Mia was sending her videos about a raccoon that was best friends with a golden retriever puppy.
The truth was that their lives looked very different these days.
With someone like Anoushka, or Emily, for that matter, Sasha could get together and talk about what interested her without wondering if she was being boring.
She could complain about Ethan’s temper tantrums, and what it was like to parent with a hangover, and they would know exactly what she was talking about.
These conversations nourished her. When Sasha had them, she often felt like she was looking at a mirror image of her own life, which in turn made her feel less scared and alone.
She could tell Anoushka that she’d threatened a Petco employee with violence and not worry that she sounded totally insane.
She could say, “Sometimes I’ll drop Ethan off at school and then not think about him for the rest of the day,” and then a few seconds later ask, “Does that make me a terrible mother?”
In the backyard they talked for the next few minutes about their favorite Peloton instructors, and then what they all thought would go into the vacant storefront next to the Panera in Glenmont Square.
Sasha glanced at Mia, and saw a slight smirk on her face as she cracked the knuckles of her left hand, pressing her thumb against each of her fingers.
Then with an eerily graceful movement she simultaneously finished what remained in her wineglass and reached for a bottle of pinot grigio that was sitting on the patio table with her spare hand.
Cassie Lopez said, “Have either of you been to that new French place on Bloomfield?”
“Le Flaneur?” Claire shook her head. “No. We keep meaning to go.”
“You have to go.” Now Cassie turned to Mia. “The next time you’re out here, get Sasha to take you to Le Flaneur, on Bloomfield Avenue. I literally licked my plate at the end of dinner.”
Mia laughed. “That’s okay,” she said.
“Not a fan of French food?”
“Ha, no. It’s not that. I just live somewhere where there are real restaurants.”
She smiled; Cassie laughed once, and began probing her cheek with her tongue.
For a long time no one spoke, and the sun dipped below the tops of the trees.
Mia turned up the collar of her coat so it was flush against her neck.
Then she turned to face Sasha, her smile fading.
Sasha’s own mouth tightened. She pressed her teeth together until she could feel a sharp pain radiating throughout her jaw.
Mia didn’t seem unsettled in the slightest. She drank more of her wine and ran a hand over her head, removing the mouse ears that she had been wearing and discarding them on the patio table.
It struck Sasha that Mia looked very pretty, even with the whiskers drawn onto her cheeks.
She was thin, and her skin had a healthy glow to it, and her eyes were free of any dark circles.
Her affect was effortless and light, as if humiliating Sasha in front of her new friends was the thing that she had come to do all along, and now that she had accomplished it she could finally start enjoying herself.
She was reminded of Mia’s ability to do this—of how there had always been a part of her that was barbed and willing to break things—and that made Sasha jealous in a way that she also detested.
Finally Cassie asked, “Been to any good ones recently? Real restaurants, I mean.”
“Actually, yeah.” Mia smoothed down her hair. “Last week I went to Yoshino. It’s impossible to get into, but my friend Richie knows this guy who—”
“You’re talking about Yoshino on the Bowery?” The wicker basket slid an inch down Claire’s arm and the stuffed dog lolled to the right. She reached over to adjust it.
Mia’s face brightened. “Yeah, on the Bowery. It’s been written up everywhere.”
“That’s nice to hear. I did all the publicity.”
Cassie touched Mia’s wrist. She said, “Claire owns her own agency. She does all the big restaurants.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. She looked at the ends of each of her pigtails.
“I’m worried about Yoshino, to be honest. Everyone thinks these omakase places are so cool, but the fact is this industry’s so fucking precarious, even more so after the pandemic, and I don’t know if a place with, like, eight stools and two seatings a night can do enough volume to survive.
” She let go of her pigtails. “Sasha said you’ve got a book coming out with Knopf, is that right? ”
Feedback screeched from one of Theo’s amplifiers, and the party’s guests cringed collectively. Sasha coughed—her throat had begun to itch.
Quietly Mia said, “That’s right.”
“Have you gotten a chance to meet Suzie Chen yet? She heads up publicity.”
“No.” Mia rubbed one of her ears. “I haven’t.”
“Well, if you want them to pay any attention to your book, you need to get it on Suzie’s radar.” Claire smiled, showing all her teeth. “You can use my name, if you like.”
The band’s lead singer adjusted the amplifiers, then stepped up to the microphone.
He said, “I wonder if Bruce has technical difficulties too,” and Sasha heard a few people laugh.
Mia looked at her, and then down at her wineglass.
Her voice taut, she said, “Thanks, that’s a great tip,” then excused herself to get something to eat.
Sasha watched as she walked across the grass. She didn’t follow her.