"A. Scott," Boo said from the back seat, "since we can't go to the south of France this summer, can we at least get cable?"
"No."
"Can we have a cell phone? We can get a family plan."
"No."
"Can we have a Facebook account?"
"No."
"Can we get our ears pierced?"
"No-and why would you want holes in your ears anyway?"
"I don't, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae said.
"A. Scott, we're the only kids we know without cable, iPhones, pierced ears, a Facebook, or who haven't seen Juno."
"Because it's rated PG-thirteen and you're not thirteen."
"It's PG-thirteen for mature thematic material and sexual content and language, but they only say the F-word once. We hear it more than that at recess."
"Kids say the F-word?"
"Hel- lo. Come on, A. Scott, we're practically teenagers."
"Two years, Boo. It'll come soon enough. Enjoy being eleven. When you're older, you'll miss it."
"Do you miss being eleven?"
"I miss being nine."
"Why nine?"
"I lost my dad when I was ten."
"We lost our mothers when we were nine."
So they had. The girls were quiet for a few blocks then Boo said, "So can we at least have cable? Just for the summer. Please. "
"Boo-"
"A. Scott, it's hard on us-at school, living in Highland Park…"
"Because you don't have cable?"
"Because we don't fit in."
"Why not?"
Pajamae joined the fray. "Because I'm the only black kid in town."
"And we're the only kids without a mother. We're different, A. Scott. Walking around the Village, everyone looks funny at us."
"And cable will make life easier for you?"
"Yes."
Scott had steadfastly refused their pleas for cable. But he now felt his resolve weakening: he couldn't give them a mother; he could at least give them the Discovery Channel. He was just on the verge of saying yes when he caught the girls grinning mischievously in the rearview. They were gaming him. Again.
"No."
"But we can't watch Sex and the City reruns like the other kids."
"Fifth-graders watch Sex and the City? "
"Oops. Forget Sex and the City. Think Discovery Channel."
"I was… and no."
She frowned as if pouting, but Boo Fenney wasn't the pouting type.
"She was wrong," she said.
"Who?"
"That lady on TV, she said girls should view conflict situations in personal relationships as opportunities to get what we want."
"Really?"
"Unh-huh. But she was wrong-it didn't work."
"Not with me."
"I didn't think it would, but I thought I'd give it a shot." Boo sighed. "Fudge."
"Boo, don't say fudge. Everyone knows what you're really saying."
"I like fudge," Pajamae said. "With pecans."
They arrived at the elementary school. Scott felt like the class loser at a high school reunion when he steered the little Jetta into the drop-off lane behind a long line of late-model Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Lexuses, Range Rovers, and just in front, a Ferrari… a shiny red Ferrari… a 360 Modena just like the one he used to drive… he looked closely at the car… that was the one he used to drive. He caught the driver's face in the side mirror.
Sid Greenberg.
When he was a partner at Ford Stevens, Scott had hired Sid out of Harvard Law School and taught him everything he knew about practicing law, but Sid now sat in Scott's sixty-second-floor corner office, represented Scott's rich real-estate client, and drove Scott's $200,000 Italian sports car. The ungrateful bastard. Scott could still smell the Connolly leather interior and feel the four-hundred-horsepower engine rumbling behind him. The Ferrari's passenger door swung open, and Sid's young son got out- Hey, that's cheating, letting your kid out before the official drop-off point! — so Sid could avoid waiting in line like everyone else. Scott shook his head. Typical lawyer. But when Sid turned his head to check for oncoming cars before pulling out, he had a big grin on his face, as if laughing at Scott driving a Jetta.
You laugh, Sid, but I'm saving a lot of money on gas.
Sid Greenberg had made the same choice Scott had made at his age. Two years ago, Sid had decided to check his conscience at the door each day and now he was driving a Ferrari. Two years ago, Scott had rediscovered his conscience and now he was driving a Jetta. Funny how that worked for lawyers.
"A. Scott, you need sex."
He eyed Boo in the rearview. " What? "
"You look stressed. Just then, you were frowning. Sex relieves stress."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"From Meredith."
"Who's Meredith?"
"On the Today Show, this morning."
"You girls need to watch PBS in the morning."
" Sesame Street? I don't think so. Anyway, Meredith said stress is a leading cause of heart attacks in men. So if you have sex you won't have stress and thus you won't have a heart attack… like Sarah's dad."
Bill Barnes, a lawyer Scott knew, had died of a sudden heart attack earlier in the school year. Little Sarah Barnes would grow up without a father. The girls had always fretted over their only parent's health-every blemish on Scott's face could be skin cancer, every headache a stroke, every memory lapse a sign of early onset Alzheimer's-their worries exacerbated by the relentless barrage of drug commercials on network television. Each new commercial brought a new medical worry for the girls. But since Sarah's dad, a heart attack had been their constant worry. They had recommended he take Lipitor to lower his bad cholesterol, Trilipix to raise his good cholesterol, Plavix to prevent his platelets from forming blood clots, and Crestor to prevent plaque from building up in his arteries. Sex, though, marked a new and more agreeable course of therapy. Unfortunately, it required more than a doctor's prescription.
"Don't worry, Boo, I'm not going to have a heart attack. I run every day, I still weigh one-eighty-five, my cholesterol's low-"
"Besides, it's embarrassing."
"What is?"
"You're tall, blond, handsome, you don't have tattoos-you're the hunk of Highland Park and you don't have a girlfriend. The other kids think we have a loser for a father."
"I don't think it's because I don't have a girlfriend."
"Suzie's stepmom, she looks like a supermodel, and her dad's not exactly the cutest puppy in the pet store. He's bald."
"He's a billionaire."
"Oh. Well, that explains it."
"Mr. Fenney, you need a woman."
"Like Ms. Dawson," Boo said.
Up ahead, Ms. Dawson, the fourth-grade teacher, was working carpool. Her jet black hair glistened in the morning sun. She couldn't be older than twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. Scott had thought of asking her out, but it hadn't even been two full years since Rebecca had left him. Still, Ms. Dawson was very attractive in her form-fitting blouse that accentuated her narrow waist and her snug slacks that-
"Ms. Dawson would probably have sex with you."
"You really think so?" He caught himself. "I mean, Boo. "
The girls giggled. They knew all about sex now. Fifth-grade health class. Which was a blessing; Scott didn't have to have the talk with them, just as his father had never had the talk with him. His mother had said to his father at dinner one night, "Butch, it's time you had a father-son talk with Scotty. You know, about sex." Butch Fenney had turned to his son and said, "Don't have sex. Pass the potatoes." But sex was more complicated these days and more dangerous. Sex can kill and eleven-year-old girls were having babies, so kids had to know the truth. Explaining the facts of life to girls was a mother's job; but they had no mother so the job had fallen to their father. Just when Scott had bucked himself up to do it-he had even bought a book-the girls had come home armed with all the facts. Thank God. A major single-father hurdle had been cleared.