The Mermaid of Brooklyn by Amy Shearn

Author:Amy Shearn [Shearn, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Until word of my dress magic spread, I never realized how much of a nonentity I’d considered myself. I slunk through the rarified world of Brooklyn yuppie parenting like a mousy high school girl, neither popular nor unpopular, following just enough of the rules to stay unseen. As in high school, there was an unspoken undercurrent of competition that I secretly wanted to be a part of and couldn’t hack. There were too many exceptional people here. Laura thought this was why we liked it, and she was probably right, but it was also why Brooklyn made me crazy at times. Every day I met some mom who was beautiful and stylish, patient and kind with her well-behaved and well-dressed kids, and was also a successful conceptual artist/Internet entrepreneur/Emmy Award–winning television writer/locavore caterer/homeopathic dog masseuse/something amazing, and usually the owner of some mystifyingly great bit of real estate besides. It always struck me as funny when I read some article or another about how Park Slope moms were slobs, but it all depended on whether you were coming from Manhattan or Minnesota. Whenever I was back home, I felt a bit stunned by the widespread politeness, lack of worldly ambition, and acceptance of sweatpants.

A few days after Evelyn wore her dress to the party, things started changing for me. First Julie ran up to me at the playground and reported that she’d seen Evelyn’s dress and it was too beautiful for words and I should go into business or at least post on Park Slope Parents. “I had no idea you were so talented!” she gushed. I know it was meant as a compliment, but I couldn’t help responding with a bitter laugh. Like it comes as such an earth-shattering shock that I of all people have some talent! Like she knows me so well and was so sure I was just this total schlub!

Relax. This can only be good for business.

What business?

Just wait.

Then it was Mary, a mom I had befriended strictly because her apartment was actually worse than mine. Hey, sometimes you needed a playdate in a dim, tenementy one-bedroom stuffed with particleboard furniture for a bit of perspective. Mary cornered me at the riotous Barnes & Noble kids’ section where we’d decamped to soak in the air-conditioning on a particularly unforgiving day. I nodded, trying to keep track of Betty as she pillaged the Elmo books. “Everyone’s talking about the gorgeous dress you made!” she cooed, as if I’d discovered the cure for cancer or the secret to finding affordable co-ops. She was one of those ladies who was so sickeningly nice that it made me nervous. I half suspected that she was at all times an instant away from wiping the smile off her face and telling me what was really on her mind. Mary. She never whined about not having money or about sharing a bedroom with a two-year-old; she seemed to be genuinely and completely in love with her husband and kid. In other words, she was sort of hard to like.

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