Smile Back At Them

Chapter One

Cricket put on an imaginary coat of armor as she pushed through the door at The Union Club. She removed her coat, tucked her scarf in the sleeve, and checked it with the attendant, who greeted her by name. Her always-perfect mother was seated at the corner table in the dining room. It was one minute before noon, but either way, not being the first to arrive in her family meant she was late. Cricket sensed her mother’s critical eyes and tugged on her sweater sleeves, wishing she’d worn an outfit that felt and looked special. But what she wanted more than anything, money couldn’t buy. It was plain and simple: to be seen as a human being with feelings rather than a socialite, the daughter of a supermodel, granddaughter of the world-renowned Arthur Alexander homestyle brand, or the sister of a TikTok influencer.

“Sorry, I’m a little late,” she said, resisting the urge to kiss her mother’s cheek because that would be too touchy-feely. One of the first lessons Cricket learned as a child was never to touch a woman’s hair until after the party. “We don’t usually have lunch during the week. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Victoria smoothed the napkin on her lap. “I shouldn’t need a reason to see my daughter, but I’d like to discuss your cousin’s wedding.”

“Wedding of the year.” She hoped that didn’t sound as cynical as she felt about the upcoming event. For most of her life, Cricket assumed she was adopted. She looked nothing like her mother or sister and more like the love child of Simon and Garfunkel. When her father showed her a copy of her birth certificate, she concluded that she was a misfit in a family of perfectly wrapped presents.

“I have a few ideas of who you could bring and wanted to run them by you.” Victoria pulled a red leather notebook from her bag.

Cricket glanced at the scribbled list of names, which she thought could be turned into cool dress fabric. She’d once seen curtains made from a screen print of colorful concert tickets hanging in a thrift shop window. “Please, Mom. I’m capable of finding myself a date. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting this.”

“The wedding is approaching, and you still don’t have an escort. They’re going to need a name for the seating chart. I’m giving you exactly one month to find a date.” Victoria took a dainty sip of her dry martini. A stack of diamond-encrusted Cartier Love bracelets slid down her skinny arm. “As you know, this will be a highly publicized event, and we must properly represent the family.”

“I already have someone in mind,” she lied.

“I worry about you,” Victoria said. “You tend to be naïve when it comes to men. There are a lot of bad apples out there, and Lance was one of them.”

It didn’t seem like a big deal when the guy Cricket had dated in college asked to borrow money. Overall, he’d been a decent boyfriend, except when he got drunk and peed in her bed or locked her out of her dorm room altogether. When her parents visited for homecoming, she casually mentioned the money-lending situation. The comment landed like a brick dropping in their Fisher’s Island pool, and there was no putting that Genie back in the bottle.

“I wish your father were still alive,” Victoria said. “He understood you better than I do, but I’m doing my best.”

“You meant doing your best with an imperfect subject.” Her cheeks prickled with heat. “I’m sorry I’m not sporting a model’s body, fine with wearing sweatpants in public, and don’t have a carefully curated social media presence like Ivy.” She hated fighting with her mom, especially now that her dad was gone. He magically diffused their spats and made everything better. She never understood how he put up with the demands that her mom put on him, but he did until the day he died. Cricket’s only allies growing up were her father and her nanny, Nelvi. Without them, she was sure she wouldn’t have survived.

Cricket felt like Princess Leia in the giant garbage compactor—her world was caving around her. Under the table, she clenched her hands into fists. She wanted to run, scream, and cause a scene. The worst part was she hadn’t seen it coming.

“I wish you would spend some time smoothing your rough edges,” Victoria said.

Cricket cocked her head to the side. “My edges are smooth. You’re saying that I’m not pretty, thin, smart, or interesting enough for a man to want me for me. You think someone would only date me because I come from an old American family and have a trust fund.”

“You’re too sensitive. I’m telling you to be pickier. Stop going for the low-hanging fruit.” Victoria discreetly pulled out her phone, knowing it was against club rules, which she took the liberty of breaking on occasion, and no one ever called her out on it. “I wish you’d care more about how you present yourself in public. Honestly, Cricky, put in a little more effort before leaving your apartment.” Her mother turned the phone screen to face Cricket while still keeping it below the table. “Why are you wearing those colors together? That beanie does nothing for you. You look like some hipster. Let me hire a stylist to clean your closet and update your wardrobe. You’re not in college anymore. How are you going to attract a man looking like that?”

“People are obsessed with shaming my every move on social media. And for the record, no one says hipster anymore.” Her frustration levels rose with the volume of her voice. “I can’t worry about what everyone thinks all the time. Besides, I love that beanie. It’s from a thrift store in Soho.”

Cricket loved thrifting, which was another thing her mom hated about her. Recycling clothes was good for the planet, and scoring something great was thrilling.

“Here’s one of you eating in your Lululemon’s,” her mother said. Cricket glanced at the photo—her mouth opened wide, a hot dog wedged inside, double chin on full display. Victoria dropped the phone back into her Birkin bag. “Did you even exercise that day? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

The no-fat-shaming conversation had happened dozens of times. Cricket had endured more teasing about her weight at home than at school. Ivy picked on her the most, but Nelvi would tell Cricket that she was beautiful and perfect just the way she was.

Fatso.

Lard ass.

Blubber belly.

Porky, pig.

“I already apologized about that photo,” Cricket said. “Are you still mad?”

“I’m disappointed; there’s a difference. I’ve told you repeatedly to be careful with what you do in public, choose your outfits wisely, and act in a manner representing our family.”

“Social media trolls pick on me because I’m not perfect like Ivy. It’s no secret that we don’t even look like we’re related.” Ivy had a million followers on Instagram and TikTok compared to Cricket’s few hundred. She often removed the Instagram app from her phone because she felt depressed by all the perfect photos her friends posted. When Ivy would complain that Cricket hadn’t liked her latest post, she’d add it back and joke about “putting the power of her social media behind the like.”

Her mother’s side of the family had made their wealth off the Comstock Lode. It was the first significant discovery of silver ore in the United States. Her great-grandfather was also a genius for stock manipulation. He was one of the famed Bonanza Kings and left a fortune so enormous that no generation after that would ever have to work again.

After graduating from Trinity, the family portfolio manager told Cricket that working a real job would only cost her more in taxes. She never understood the math but took the job at Ogilvy anyway. Besides, there was no point in asking her mother any questions about money because WASPS never discussed that subject. Cricket knew she had a trust fund, which she only touched once to pay for college.

How her parents ended up together baffled Cricket. They had known each other from summering on Fisher’s Island, where both families owned compounds. Fisher’s Island, a mecca for uber-wealthy bluebloods, lacked tourists because there were no hotels. Her father, Henry, was far more easygoing than her mother. When Cricket left for Trinity, he bequeathed her his old college mini-fridge, which was covered with Grateful Dead stickers from various shows he’d been to. It was a telltale sign that he’d smoked pot and dabbled in psychedelics during his younger days.

Her grandfather, Arthur Alexander, on her father’s side, created a lifestyle brand in the early eighties, which began with a line of scented candles. What started as a fun project exploded into one of the most recognizable brands for those with impeccable taste. When her mother was a young socialite and model, she became the face of the Arthur Alexander brand. With her stunning all-American looks, she was a perfect fit. Henry visited a photo shoot one summer in the Hamptons. From that moment on, her parents were inseparable. He was an accomplished polo player with a bad boy image and, according to Town & Country magazine, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. They had the kind of love Cricket dreamed of but believed would be out of her reach. She thought this regardless of what she knew about her father, a secret she had never told a soul.

“You and Ivy are both beautiful,” her mother said with the same expression someone would make after sucking on a lemon.

Halfway through the salad that her mother made her order, and after three people interrupted their conversation to say hello, Cricket mustered up the strength to face her mom head-on. “I just wish we could hang out without it being bummer fest 2024.”

Her mother laughed out loud. The most beautiful sound Cricket could imagine. “You’re a funny one, Cricky. I keep notes on my phone of the things you say.”

“You do?”

“Yes, you’re hilarious.”

Her mother had dropped a crumb, leaving Cricket hungry for more. She craved this connection but never knew how to break through the walls Victoria had carefully built. She connected with her father through art. They loved to sketch and paint and took lots of art classes together. The bright moment with her mother was fleeting, but Cricket let it warm her insides like a cup of tea on a cold day. All her life, she had lived in the shadow of constant disapproval. An emotional price tag was attached to her family name and the money that came with it. Cricket dreamed of living on her terms but wasn’t sure what that looked like and hoped she’d figure it out now that she was out of college.

The family driver waited for Victoria in front of the Colony Club. Cricket helped her mother inside and watched the car pull away. The gesture had gone unnoticed by Victoria, who had her face buried in her phone. As she waited at a crosswalk, Cricket thought about their conversation and the way she lived through the lens of how others viewed her. What troubled her most was Victoria's unfathomable deadline over a stupid wedding date.

However, the recent social media posts were hard to ignore. The latest was a photo of her parents looking chic and glamorous, and below them was a photo of chubby, pre-pubescent Cricket. The caption read, “How does this come from that?” which was painful, but the comments were even worse.

No matter what life throws at us, at least we don’t have ugly children.

The hospital must have switched their baby.

As she walked toward the elevator, the lunch stress eased from her shoulders. Her job at Ogilvy was a lifeboat she could hold onto.

*

Cricket sat in one of the two mid-century modern chairs adjacent to the creative director’s desk, and Eric, her copywriter, was seated in the other. Cricket was sure the office had been professionally decorated and had an appealing vibe. Before arriving in Chase’s office, they agreed that Eric would take the lead since he was a more seasoned ad person. The office windows provided a panoramic view of midtown, the East River, and beyond, which she admired for a moment.

“I wish I had better news,” Chase began. “Luminous is threatening to take their business elsewhere. I don’t need to remind you that this is one of our biggest accounts.”

“They keep changing their minds,” Eric said. “We had to start over on Friday, so these are rough.”

“It’s your job to make the client happy.”

Cricket crossed her legs and wrapped a foot around her ankle. Sweat moved from her armpits to her bra, and she pressed her arms to her body like a toy soldier, trying to remember if she’d put on deodorant. A stack of model headshots rested on her lap. She glanced down, telling herself she wouldn’t be that thin if she ate a toothpick with a glass of water for a month. Mid-plunge into self-loathing, she caught herself since she vowed to stop comparing herself to others. Still, it was hard for her to find self-love when random people posted photos of her double chin and backside all over social media. She knew there was no point in complaining. When you come from privilege, people assume you have no problems, and they don’t want to hear about it if you do.

“This isn’t kindergarten, and I don’t have time for hand-holding,” Chase added.

Eric passed the headshots to the boss. “We’re thinking Bella or Kendall—fresh-faced, current, and relatable.”

“We don’t have the budget for a supermodel,” Chase said. “Let’s try not to give them sticker shock.”

“Well,” Cricket said. “I haven’t run this by Eric, but I think an average model would appeal to a wider audience.” She held up a headshot she had pulled from the casting file. “We could create different versions of the same campaign using a variety of ethnicities and body types, maybe even a transgender person. The brand could benefit from being more inclusive.”

“Have the account manager talk to the client about their openness to go in a direction they haven’t gone before, but I like it,” Chase said. “What’s the tagline?”

Eric turned the comp to face Chase and cleared his throat. “This good skin has the good sense to wash with Luminous.”

“Does the client want their product to be considered good?”

“The account manager suggested using that word,” Eric said.

“When the client wants good, create something great. We aren’t building rockets, people; we’re creating ads. Don’t overthink this.” Chase stared at the boards with both hands braced on either side of his desk. “Pop the product more, and I’ve told you this before Cricket: use the same Pantone in the ad as the packaging.”

“Okay.” Her shoulders shrugged up to her ears.

“What else do you have?”

“Get serious about good skin.” Eric held up the second board.

“Another ad with the word good?” Chase asked. “When a client threatens to move their business, it means imminent layoffs, and whoever worked on the campaign will be the first to go.”

“We followed their instructions,” Cricket said.

“Tell me something,” Chase said. “Why do I need you two if the client creates the ads?”

Someone knocked, and she turned, relieved by the distraction. In the doorway stood a guy who looked like he walked straight out of a shampoo commercial with a box in his hands. He had thick, dark, shiny hair with a slight lift at the top. She thought it looked styled but not too styled. The hair framed his square jawline and complemented his sculptural nose. He had kind eyes that were warm and inviting. When he glanced at Cricket, her cheeks turned hot, which always happened when she was nervous or embarrassed. But she wasn’t sure why she blushed over the guy with the box other than he was exceptionally handsome.