Free Trying to Float by Nicolaia Rips Page A

school system for many years, Rebecca knewteachers and admissions officers at middle schools across the city and was therefore in a position, she assured the parents, to be very useful.
    There were two conditions: the parents whom Rebecca contacted were not allowed to tell anyone that Rebecca was helping them, and they were never to speak to Rebecca about this other than through e-mails.
    The parents, of course, agreed.
    With that, Rebecca began a lengthy e-mail exchange with these lucky parents in which she described the schools she felt were right for their kids and then set out a strategy for getting them in. Rebecca explained to them that there were a handful of middle schools, all outside the borough of Manhattan, which were little known to the public but full of exceptional teachers.
    More important, each of these middle schools boasted exceptional records of getting their students into the best high schools. At these places Rebecca knew someone who could make certain that the child was admitted.
    In exchange for Rebecca’s help, the parents became slaves to Rebecca: she would send them e-mails demanding that they make cupcakes and drop them off by the end of the day or leave their offices to return a library book that their kid had borrowed from the school.
    When I finally heard about this through the grapevine of elementary school gossips, I was very, very upset. My parents were not included in Rebecca’s little group, which meant that she didn’t care about me.
    I already knew that I was not an especially pretty girl (I related more to the “before” people in self-help ads than the “afters”) and that I wasn’t all that likable and that some of my interests (Groucho Marx and Oscar Wilde) were different from those of other students. But I knew that when I worked hard, I could usually do as well as the others in my class.
    But apparently not, for Rebecca—with whom I had come to identify and whom I considered a friend—had clearly ditched me. I’d been betrayed and didn’t know what to do about it.
    The sadness inside me was not budging, no matter how hard I pushed at it or how many times I cried.
    With Rebecca having abandoned me, the whole thing with Doris’s mom, and no one at the school ever wanting to be anywhere near me, I was friendless. I didn’t care about playdates or birthday parties or sleepovers—those were out of the question; I just wanted someone to talk to me—a “How are you?” “Pleasant day, isn’t it?” would have been nice. But it wasn’t going to happen.
    I needed a plan.
    Once or twice a year, Luca (our neighbor at the hotel) would throw a costume party. There were always thirty or forty people dressed as kings, queens, gangsters and starlets, long-dead painters, poets, and cartoon characters.
    Girls in my school liked to get dressed up, so why not plan a princess party? I asked my mom about it, and she thought it was a great idea.
    We came up with the idea of the Princess Banquet.
    Half a dozen girls received handwritten invitations to meet me at the Chelsea Hotel on a certain date and time.
    On the night of the party, I stood outside the hotel in my Belle costume, waiting for the princesses to arrive. The girls showed up on time, all in costume, and I escorted them through the lobby.
    I pointed out the sculpture of the obese pink woman swinging above our heads, her plump legs dangling.
    The princesses stared.
    Beneath the Pink Lady were the Crafties. They were, as usual, arguing. I called out to them.
    â€œThese are the princesses I was telling you about!”
    Mr. Crafty stood up.
    â€œI hope you princesses have a fucking good time.”
    It was one of the nicest things I’d ever heard him say.
    I led the girls to the elevator. As the door opened and a crowd rushed out, I explained to the princesses that Stanley, the manager, must be out for dinner. The girls shuffled inside.
    The elevator doors