Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Read online

  Despite many years attending coffees, cocktail parties, and board meetings, Elle was still anxious, worried about looking the part of Mrs. Winston Ford Martin III. Regardless of the occasion, the women in her peer group always looked just right. They seemed to possess an innate sense of what was appropriate, inherited at birth and reinforced by years of observing their mothers. Elle didn’t have this luxury. Her own mom, Bobbie, had been a bartender who favored low-cut tops which highlighted her massive watermelon-shaped boobs. (All the easier for drunken men, their hands dirty and calloused from work, to gleefully stuff dollars into.)

  Even as a child, Elle had understood that her mom’s sartorial choices were often inappropriate, and she learned to take style cues from her classmates and people she saw in magazines and on TV. Determined to fit in, but with limited resources, Elle learned to be creative. When the Izod brand had been all the rage, she had scoured garage sales for affordable items—socks or a hat—with the trademark crocodile on them. She would buy them and then carefully remove the coveted crocodile off and sew it on to one of her secondhand polo shirts. Never mind most of these shirts were stained with another person’s sweat. No one needed to know that. Elle was wearing Izod. She belonged. She was One of Them.

  At this point, Elle could afford any brand she wanted, but her lack of confidence in how she appeared remained. Likewise, she could easily hire a stylist or personal shopper but refused to do so. It seemed unnecessarily indulgent and would mean she couldn’t do it herself. Instead, Elle studied the women around her and tried to quiet the insecure voice in her head telling her that she would trip up. That she would be exposed.

  If only she didn’t have the stupid coffee first thing that morning. And at Jane’s house, of all people. Jane was adept at the art of competitive hostessing. An event at her home would not soon be forgotten. Freshly squeezed juices, homemade scones, muffins, and jam would be served on impeccably decorated tables adorned with flowers from her garden in the crystal vases she “just fell in love with” on her last trip to Milan. As a reminder of her perfect party, Jane would send everyone home with honey from the beehive in her backyard.

  It mattered what Elle wore, and she knew it. At the last coffee, a new mom had dared to show up with her hair in a scrunchie, and it had become the topic of snarky conversation for several days. “A scrunchie—can you imagine?” The mean-spirited gossip ceased only when it was replaced with the more scandalous news that the SEC was investigating a former Country Day parent.

  Mindful of the time, Elle settled on a fitted navy blazer with the Country Day crest on it, over a crisply starched white tuxedo blouse. After debating whether it was too early in spring to wear white pants, she opted to be safe and selected a pair of dark denim skinny jeans. They were a little tight, which was a good thing—she wouldn’t be as tempted to overeat in something snug-fitting.

  Although Elle normally wore shoes with a heel to add height to her petite five-foot-one frame, she decided on a pair of nude Tory Burch ballerina flats instead. It was going to be a long enough day already. Why add sore feet into the mix? It would probably help to add a unique accessory—a scarf, a whimsical brooch, or a pair of fabulous statement earrings—but Elle couldn’t be bothered. If this wasn’t appropriate, she didn’t care.

  Elle gave herself a once-over in the mirror. For the millionth time, she wished she was from a WASPy gene pool, the kind with naturally thin frames and long patrician legs—oh, to be able to pull off a shift dress without looking pregnant! But no, though she longed to come from an elegant and refined family of aristocrats—Boston Brahmins or Philadelphia Main Liners with names like Topper, Sloan and Pierce—Elle’s family tree was decidedly less impressive. That is, of course, unless one considered a bunch of carny-type fat-asses named Jimbo and Bobbie to be the pinnacle of sophistication. Oh well. At least she been spared her mom’s gigantic rack—one small victory in an otherwise losing battle.

  Unable to shake the feeling she was in for a miserable day, as Elle made her way downstairs to see her children off to school, she had to fight an overwhelming urge to crawl back into bed.

  Chapter Two

  Stevie Wonder: “Superstition”

  May 18, 2017

  7:18 a.m.

  Elle loved her kitchen. With its adjacent hearth room, it was the space that felt the coziest and most inviting in her eight-thousand-square-foot home. It had east-facing floor-to-ceiling windows, so the room was always bright and warm with the morning sun. Elle’s one regret was that she had caved to the interior designer’s recommendation for a stark black-and-white design. Her own instinct had been to paint the walls yellow to match the bright light of the sun, but this suggestion had been met with thinly veiled disdain, so she had given in. (Really, what did she know about interior design?) Still, Elle loved this room, and the sun shining brightly through the large windows temporarily lifted her mood.

  There was a bowl of freshly cut fruit on the rectangular farmhouse-style kitchen table, alongside a carafe of orange juice and a tray full of bagels. Angela stood behind the Wolf cooktop, so short her breasts were practically even with the skillet she was making an omelet in.

  Seeing her housekeeper, Elle panicked. Crap! She had left the dirty bed linens on the floor of the guest bedroom. She would need to take care of them before Angela started her cleaning. What to do with the incriminating sheets? Since Angela did all their washing, Elle couldn’t exactly leave them in the laundry room. Hmmm . . . She would shove them into the guest linen closet. Yes, that was perfect. Angela would have no reason to look in there.

  As Elle settled on her plan, Angela looked up from the skillet. “Good morning, Señora Martin. You want some egg? I come in early to make for Four, for his big game.”

  “Not for me, thanks. But that was very thoughtful of you. Four will be thrilled.” Elle felt a momentary pang of guilt for doubting Angela’s integrity. Her housekeeper clearly cared about Four’s well-being. Still, she was right to be careful. One could never be sure.

  Elle directed her attention toward her teenage daughter, Brynnie, who was casually leaning over the kitchen island, engrossed with something on her iPad. Despite Elle’s many attempts to sell her daughter on the flattering skirts and feminine shirts allowed in Country Day’s strict dress code, Brynnie wore a pair of ill-fitting chino pants and a baggy men’s polo shirt. Much to Elle’s chagrin, she had recently cut her striking auburn hair short, and—from the back—one could almost mistake Brynnie for a boy.

  Perhaps that was the point. Brynnie eschewed convention. She always had. She was the girl who wanted to take drum—not piano—lessons, preferred karate to the swim team, and insisted on wearing a pantsuit to Cotillion. During her junior year, Brynnie had stopped shaving her legs and armpits and announced that she was a vegan. Her most recent act of rebellion had been turning down her acceptance to Brown in favor of Reed, a college where she would “have a more genuine experience.”

  Maybe the haircut was yet another challenge: “What are you going to say about me now?” Elle suspected there was already chatter regarding Brynnie and her sexuality, and the short tomboyish haircut would only fuel further speculation. Unfortunately, unlike the sheets in the guest bedroom, this was something Elle could not control.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Elle hugged Brynnie and ran her fingers affectionately through her short hair. She stopped herself from complaining about the haircut—what good would it do?—and asked, “Are you ready for your AP Spanish test?”

  “Si. Si. Angela has been helping me.”

  “How wonderful.” Elle was again ashamed of questioning her housekeeper’s trustworthiness. What were the odds someone who resembled a Weeble toy—“Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down!”—would conspire to ruin her reputation? Not high, but Elle would remain vigilant. Being sentimental was a trap, an invitation to falter.

  Brynnie held out a glassful of thick green liquid toward Elle. “Do you want some kombucha?”

  “No, thanks, I'l
l stick to my coffee.”

  “I’m not judging you, Mom, but this would be much better for you than drinking a cup of carcinogens. Right, Angela?”

  “I no know, Miss Brynnie.” Angela shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, smiling.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Elle said, pouring a large cup of coffee. She hoped it would fill her up. The bagels were tempting, but mindful of the extra three pounds on the scale, she was determined not to eat.

  “Whatever. Go ahead and enjoy your cup of slave labor. Who cares about the impact on the lives of poor workers in Colombia?”

  “That’s not true! It’s the one you told me to get. It’s made in a co-op or something. Look.” Elle handed the package of coffee over to Brynnie, hurt that her daughter would question her.

  Overcompensating for her own childhood of Swanson Salisbury steak frozen TV dinners microwaved and eaten alone, Elle went out of her way to follow Brynnie’s strict regulations on exactly what kind of food was acceptable. She drove forty-five minutes out of her way to get locally grown organic fruits and vegetables at a farmers’ market. To accommodate Brynnie’s vegan diet, Elle stocked the refrigerator with every type of meat substitute available. Why didn’t her daughter appreciate all this?

  As Brynnie verified that the coffee would not exploit any underprivileged workers, Four walked in, tossing a ball into a brightly strung lacrosse stick. He was slightly bowlegged and had a bouncy gait, like there were springs under his toes propelling him upward. It was a walk of optimism, the walk of someone who couldn’t wait for what he was heading toward.

  It was Brynnie who had given Four his unique nickname. His given name was Winston Ford Martin IV, in honor of Win’s dad and grandfather. Thinking the name Winston a tad old-fashioned for someone born in the new millennial, they had planned to call him Ford; but Brynnie, who had been a late talker—and taking $75-an-hour speech therapy three times a week—could only manage to call her new baby brother “Four,” and the name stuck.

  At the time, it seemed cute. He was, after all, the fourth Winston Ford Martin and the fourth member of their family. Over the past few years, however, Elle had become uncomfortable with the name, finding it a bit pretentious. Unfortunately, by the time of this revelation, it was too late to reverse course; everyone already called her son “Four,” and he had grown into the name.

  Four looked every bit the part of the affluent, privileged, private-school-educated child he was. As it was a game day, he wore the required tie (a red Vineyard Vines one with lacrosse sticks on it) with a red-and-white striped button-down oxford shirt, khaki pants, and Sperry Top-Siders. As was the style with most of his teammates, Four’s dirty-blond hair was long, resting just above the collar of his shirt, the acceptable limit for hair length at Country Day. His bangs covered his eyes, and he made a habit of pushing them to the side as he spoke.

  Four greeted Elle with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. She was glad he appeared to be in a good mood; he had been angry with her the previous evening. Most of the other Country Day parents were allowing their sons to sleep-in and go to school late to ensure that they were well-rested ahead of the big game, but she had refused to grant him this same leniency— physics being more important than lacrosse—and he had been furious.

  Fortunately, this all seemed forgotten now. Seeing the omelet Angela had put on a plate for him, Four grabbed the housekeeper around the waist and playfully spun her around. “Angela, you’re the best. Thank you!”

  Observing her son’s clear fondness for Angela, it was hard for Elle to resist additional guilt, but she refused to feel bad. Weeble wobble or not, protecting her family was Elle’s main priority and trumped all else.

  Four put his arm around Brynnie’s shoulders. “I see you’re having some mold again for breakfast, sis.”

  Brynnie jokingly stuck her tongue out at her brother. Although her children couldn’t be more different and frequently argued in the way siblings do, even Brynnie was not immune to Four’s charm. “Are you excited for the game?” she asked.

  “Well, not so much now that Thatcher is out.”

  Hearing the name Thatcher, Elle was immediately concerned. There were persistent rumors amongst the Country Day moms that he drank, did drugs, and sold his Adderall to classmates ahead of finals. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  “It’s so stupid. He got suspended from the team last night.”

  “Suspended? Why?” Elle set down her coffee cup, thankful that at least Thatcher wasn’t hurt—drunk driving had crossed her mind. Still, Country Day didn’t routinely suspend its students. Especially one whose parents contributed generously to the endowment fund.

  “I don’t know. He sent a text to the team late last night.” Four took his cell phone out of his back pocket and read, “Coach says I’m a no-go tomorrow. Can’t even dress. Not supposed to talk about the deets. I got screwed. Chicks suck. Go get ’em, boys.”

  “Chicks suck? Really? What a misogynist.” Brynnie shook her head in disgust. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from a guy who thinks it’s original and funny to call public-school kids by a name associated with pubic hair. I mean, ‘pubies’?—c’mon, that’s just wrong.”

  “Okay, Brynnie, that’s enough.” Elle turned to Four, sympathetic. She agreed with her daughter’s assessment of Thatcher—humility was not his strong point—but he was the team’s starting goalie; playing in the lacrosse game would be important to him. “That’s such a shame. What do you think happened?”

  “Tate said he Snapchatted something ‘inappropriate’ to Jacinda. He and his parents are going to meet with Headmaster Mason and Ms. Smith today.”

  Ms. Smith was The Country Day’s Director of Inclusivity. (Those in the know emphasized “The” when referring to the school, lest it be confused with some other less important institution named Country Day. One that was free and open to the public, like say, a library.) The school had come under fire for being comprised of mainly white, wealthy children and had responded to the criticism by hiring an African-American woman to support Country Day’s commitment to equity and diversity.

  Brynnie was visibly upset. Jacinda was a friend of hers; they were in the Social Justice Club together. “If the school suspended him, it must have been something really bad. I hope Jacinda is okay.”

  Four shook his head. “Typical overreaction by Country Day, if you ask me.”

  Brynnie was incredulous. “What’s wrong with you? He was suspended. I’m going text Jacinda to make sure she’s okay.”

  Elle worried about Jacinda. She was a sweet young woman, quiet and unassuming, not the type to cause drama. For the school to react so severely, the Snapchat must have been especially offensive. Elle then considered Thatcher’s parents. His dad, Arthur, was a prominent attorney. Thatcher was his Golden Child. He would be apoplectic about this. His mom, Kimberly, was on her tennis team. Would she still play in their match?

  “I’m telling you, I don’t think it was anything major. You know Thatcher, he can be stupid sometimes.” Four finished his omelet. “Remember, this is the same kid who thought it was a genius idea to go through the Wendy’s drive-through naked.”

  Brynnie stopped texting and looked up at Four. “Are you kidding me right now? I can’t believe you’re defending him. What if he had done this to Tabby?”

  At the mention of his girlfriend’s name, Four shrugged, unconcerned. “She would have just laughed. Tabby has a sense of humor.”

  “Obviously—she’s dating you.”

  “Hah, hah. You’re hilarious. You know how the school is. They make a big deal out of everything. Thatcher’s totally a scapegoat for one of their ‘teachable moments.’ It’s ridiculous.”

  Brynnie stared at Four in disbelief. “Haven’t you ever heard of white privilege?”

  “Why so salty, sis? Are you on your period or something?”

  Brynnie scowled and held up her middle finger to Four, who dramatically pretended he had been punched in the gut. “Wait a minute, wha
t was that? Did I just feel the Bern?”

  “Four!” Elle stepped in, but not soon enough. Brynnie had already shot her a look of utter disappointment.

  Elle had seen this look many times recently, and it was over more than just the coffee she bought. She seemed to let her daughter down in every way imaginable. Elle searched for the best way to both correct Four and appease Brynnie, when Win appeared in the kitchen. Seeing him, Elle was relieved. Always calm and centered, her husband could diffuse even the most difficult of situations. He would take control; his children would listen to him.

  Win dutifully acknowledged Angela. He kissed Brynnie on the top of her head, asking if she was ready for her test, and then gave Elle a kiss on the cheek. Elle appreciated the gesture. Separate bedrooms or not, she was lucky to have him as a husband.

  Win Martin was quite a catch. With his full head of chestnut brown hair—news anchorman kind of hair—he looked like someone you would see on a baseball card or gracing the cover of an outdoor living magazine. He was tall—he had been a standout basketball player at the Naval Academy—and maintained his athletic build. Elle could detect the ripples of his muscular frame beneath his French blue dress shirt.

  Although from a solidly working-class family, one that clipped coupons and ate out solely on special occasions, Win’s manner projected a lifetime of privilege. Perhaps it was simply the confidence of a man who had been highly successful in his career. Regardless, as his nickname “Win” suggested, Elle’s husband was someone you would associate with a derivation of the word “winner.”

  Everyone loved Win. Yet Elle involuntarily tensed up whenever he touched her. What was wrong with her?