Such a Fun Age(10)
Most importantly, Emira Tucker had never heard of LetHer Speak.
“So it would be Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” This was the sixth time Alix had explained the schedule to a potential sitter. “From noon to seven. Sometimes I’d take Catherine with me—she’s a super-easy baby—and sometimes I would just be writing at a coffee shop nearby.”
“Okay.” Emira sat at the kitchen table with Briar and handed her a piece of Play-Doh. “Is it work writing or is it fun writing?”
“I have my own . . .” Alix leaned on the counter separating them. “I’m actually writing a book right now.”
Emira said, “Oh wow.”
Alix felt hollow and impatient as she waited for Emira to ask what her book was about, or who her publisher was, or when the book would officially be out. “It’s more of a compilation of old letters . . .” she said in the silence.
“Oh, okay.” Emira nodded. “Is it like a history book?”
Alix fingered her necklace. “Yes, exactly.” She bent her elbows onto the counter and said, “Emira, when can you start?”
Three times a week, Alix got to sit in the sun for hours—Catherine often slept next to her in the shade—as she read all the things she would have never been caught with in Manhattan. Us Weekly and People magazines. A tell-all from a recent Bachelorette who was known for sleeping with four of her male suitors. On one special Friday, Alix laid out her laptop, her writing schedule, and pages of her book proposal, only to watch three episodes of House Hunters International in the corner of a rooftop restaurant patio. Catherine only fussed when she was hungry, and Alix lifted her to say, “Hi, lovey,” before she slipped her underneath a complimentary nursing shawl. The fantasies of using Emira’s quick typing became quickly laughable, because Alix would have to have things to write down in order for them to materialize. In bed one evening, Peter said, “You just look so much happier here.”
Alix couldn’t tell if she was happier or if she just cared less. She had definitely gained weight on top of the baby weight. She wrote much less than she had in New York and she slept much more than when Briar was born. But at 10:45 p.m. on a Saturday night in September, eggshells smashed against the front window of her home and brought her out of a deep sleep. The sound didn’t register right away, but when Alix heard, “Racist piece of shit!” it was like she came online. She reached out and touched her husband. Alix and Peter rushed to the top of the stairs and watched egg yolks break and splatter against their front window. Just as Peter said, “I told you,” two large eggs broke the barrier. Splintered glass, eggshells, and a long string of yolk and mucus flew into the Chamberlain house. The sound and surprise made Alix’s chest seize. She breathed again when she heard boyish laughter, sneakers running away, and someone saying, “Oh shit! Go, go!”
Catherine cried out and Briar said, “Mama?”
Peter said, “I’m calling the police,” and then, “Fuck. I told you this would happen.”
That morning, Peter’s co-anchor Laney Thacker had introduced a segment on the creative ways students were asking their dates to a dance: a sweet homecoming tradition at Beacon Smith High School. Peter echoed her enthusiasm with, “Misty is on campus for the romance right now.” Clips of students were shown with Misty’s voice narrating. Teachers were interviewed, students were filmed next to huge balloon displays, and the volume at a pep rally turned to screams as a freckled girl was led to the half-court line. A football-jerseyed junior appeared with a box of pizza. He opened it to reveal words inscribed on the box’s lid: I know this is cheesy, but homecoming? Pepperonis were positioned as a giant question mark below.
The segment ended with a five-foot-tall student with a flattop of thick hair above a white mask marching toward a group of girls. He set down a boom box and pressed Play. His masked friends helped clear the space for a dance to begin, and the girl in question covered her mouth as her friends took out their phones. After spinning on their heads and doing intricate shapes and patterns with their fingers, the group ended by revealing a white flag with Homecoming? written in Sharpie. The black teen in front removed his mask and held out a rose.
Over the cheers of the girl’s acceptance, Misty turned the camera back to Peter in the studio.
“Whoa!” Peter said.
“That was very impressive,” Laney agreed. “I was definitely never asked to a dance like that.”
“Well.” Peter shook his head. His teeth showed as he winced at the camera and said, “Let’s hope that last one asked her father first. Thanks for joining us on WNFT and we’ll see you tomorrow morning on Philadelphia Action News.”
The backlash was immediate.
In the comment section underneath the video—which was now available online—criticisms and questions popped up in between praise.
Ummm, why would the black guy need to ask her dad, but the white guys don’t?
That’s a bit sexist. Is this the 18th century?
WTF? Why would he even say that?
Alix was working at a coffee shop, which had turned into a smoothie, mimosa, and participating in the group text with her girlfriends in Manhattan. She told Peter that it was one high school, that it wasn’t that terrible, and that no one would even remember it. (In a weak champagne buzz, Alix caught herself thinking, If it didn’t happen in New York, honestly who cares?) But Peter was mortified. “It just came out,” he said. “I don’t even know why I . . . it just came out.” Alix assured him that it really wasn’t that bad.