Page 13 of Pick-Up
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. The morning sun is shining, the leaves are changing to a yellow and coral ombré that makes me feel all is right in the world. On the way to school, I nod cheerfully to Redhead Mom like,We got this.
After I kiss the kids goodbye, I spot Jamie, Celeste’s husband, dropping Henry off. I wave and cross to him, as he waves back at me. It feels good to see a friendly face.
“Did your wife tell you about my freakout yesterday?”
“She may have mentioned a minor meltdown.”
“As long as she called it ‘minor.’ ”
“Sure. Let’s say she did.”
“No, but really.” I laugh. “She saved me.”
“Yeah,” he says, running a hand over his bearded face. “She has a way of doing that.”
It’s then that I notice bags under his eyes, an existential malaise in his expression that I’m used to peeping in my own mirror but not in Jamie’s inexhaustible face.
“You okay?”
He shrugs. “Just tired.”
“Minor meltdown?”
“Minor meltdown.”
“Life!” I say.
“Life,” he agrees.
We part ways.
The truth is Celeste really had helped me the day before—and not just with decompressing from my run-in with Demon Dad (my new nickname for that Ethan person). She also talked me down from the drama over after-school drama, reminding me gently that no lives hung in the balance.
“After-school theater is kind of terrible anyway,” she said. “I know. I sat through Henry’s Pokémon adaptation last spring.” She turned to face me. “I’ll never get those minutes back.”
“I know.” I nod, rubbing my eyes and smiling despite myself. “But poor Nettie. She really wanted to take theater.” I wonder if this was some abstract way of connecting with her director dad.
“Well, I’ve been hearing awesome things about Brooklyn Theater Center on Eighth Avenue. And they do pick-up!”
I don’t know how Celeste knows about these things despite rarely making an appearance at the actual school. But she always does. As soon as I got home, I threw my keys on the sideboard by the door (where I would inevitably forget I left them), kicked off my high-tops, raised the shades to let light in and then padded across the muted mauve Moroccan rug to the open-floor-plan kitchen. What the apartment lacks in size, it does make up for in nice appointments—almost. I confronted and cleaned up the Pompei of my kids’ lunch assembly—half avocado, bag of baby carrots, cream cheese container with the top flung aside. Finally, I wiped down the granite counter, then sat in front of my laptop at my kitchen table, a beautiful wooden farm relic, and googled that theater program.
Celeste was right, as always. Not only did they offer after-school drama for third and fourth graders right near our house, but the theme for the coming session was Enola Holmes. Score. Only downside? It was pricey. Now, I just needed to figure out if I had the budget.
As if all-powerful Celeste had magically manifested it, I scrolled and discovered an unexpected email waiting: a potential freelance gig that might enable me to pay for the class without having to harvest an organ or interact with Cliff! Equally painful experiences—not because I harbor regret or hurt feelings anymore, but because my ex-husband is insufferable. Cliff, who is busy being aserious directoron his movie set in Canada or New Mexico or somewhere else with “great tax credits” and likes to let me know it. Cliff, who, when we met in film school, had once had a sense of humor. Or had I imagined that?
Hi Sasha,
Nice to meet you! I hope you don’t mind my reaching out cold. I’ve heard wonderful things about you and have seen a bit of your work for myself (a.k.a. went down a rabbit hole on your website and social). Very cool!
We have an upcoming project for which I think you’d be a great fit, which involves producing video content to accompany a sprawling feature we have planned for the cover story of our March issue. The only caveat is the deadline is quite tight!
If you’re interested and available, I’d love to have you come meet the team this Thursday afternoon. Would 4:00 p.m. EST work?
Please revert at your earliest convenience.
Best,
Derek Perez
