Second through fourth grade, I went to school with a girl named Winnie. Both of Winnie’s parents were doctors. One year, they had gone on vacation to Austria or Switzerland or some other European destination, and they’d brought Winnie back a pair of blonde yak hair boots. That winter, you could tell where Winnie had walked each day by following the trail of pale yak hairs down the school’s carpeted hallway.
I was invited to sleep over at her house once. Her mom had told my mom to pack a dress for dinner and a swimsuit. Dressing up to eat dinner was a foreign concept to me. I’d packed a bright pink floral sundress with ruffles, which seemed naïve and garish next to Winnie’s closetful of velvet and satin gowns.
The night of the sleepover, Winnie had a loose tooth. We were taken to a crowded restaurant with crisp white tablecloths and candles on each table. Winnie ordered French onion soup. Since the soup comes with a layer of melted cheese over the top, her first spoonful was pure cheese. She bit into it, and her tooth fell out. I guess she lost her appetite, ‘cause she didn’t try to eat any of her dinner after that. It seemed like such a waste- the special outfit, the expensive meal, all for nothing because of a tooth.
Winnie didn’t place the tooth under her pillow. She owned a small, decorative pillow with a tiny pocket sewn on the front expressly for this purpose. I bitterly guessed that, in the morning, her tooth would be replaced by bills, not coins. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember what she found in the pocket.
One room of their house was devoted to a hot tub, with curved glass walls, a glass ceiling, tile floors, a round sunken tub, and underwater lights. We played in the hot tub with plastic toys like My Little Pony until bedtime.
In the morning, breakfast was a selection of junk food cereals. I couldn’t believe, with both of her parents being doctors, that they allowed her to eat cereal loaded with sugar and every food coloring approved by the FDA. My parents didn’t even buy that kind of cereal.
Before we left the house, Winnie got called into the bathroom, where she seemed resigned to stand in front of the mirror while her mom brushed and styled Winnie’s hair with a curling iron and hairspray. At the time, I wondered if she realized how extravagant it was, having someone else do your hair for you. I even fantasized that when Winnie’s turn was over, her mom would ask me if I wanted my hair curled, too. (That didn’t happen.) It didn’t occur to me until years later that Winnie might resent being primped and dressed to the nines before stepping out in public, whether she felt like it or not.
I felt kind of sorry for her. It didn’t seem like she got to invite friends over very often, on account of her parents’ work schedules.
Thinking about the situation now, I’m sorry for my own attitude. There I was, observing this family like aliens and judging them because of their income level. What did they ever do to me, besides take me out to dinner, let me lounge in their hot tub, feed me breakfast, and give me a ride home?