was exhausting having friends who weren’t friends themselves.
“Hey,” Murph said breathlessly, flopping into the seat in front of me. “Did you have to find seats all the way in back?”
“The cool kids sit in the back of the bus,” I told him.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stowed his tennis racquet under the seat and then settled himself comfortably against the window, one tanned arm resting along the back of the seat in front of me. He glanced over at Tyler and nodded.
Tyler nodded back without a word.
“So,” I said, a little too loudly. “I see you’re signed up for tennis today, Murph?”
“Definitely. Hunter and I put in for some doubles. Who knows who we’ll get paired up with, though. Hopefully no losers.”
“Hopefully not,” said Tyler mildly.
Now I gave him a look. Try harder.
Tyler rolled his eyes and turned away.
Murph looked at me and mouthed, What’s with him?
I decided to change the subject. “Why doubles?”
Murph shrugged. “Easier to get court time. Ever since Trask took over.”
The Management Committee had discreetly asked Ann Trask, the firm’s director of special events, to take over the assigning of teams for golf and tennis. In recent years, the most jocklike male partners had excluded the less athletic lawyers from their golf carts, a practice the firm had deemed unsporting.
For the rest of the ride, Murph and I placed bets on which partners would get the most shit-faced while Tyler pretended to nap.
An hour later, the coach turned onto Country Club Drive. We rolled past tall green hedges and a set of massive stone gates at the entrance, bearing a sign that read:
OAK HOLLOW COUNTRY CLUB
E ST . 1883
M EMBER AND G UEST E NTRANCE O NLY
The coach pulled up to the clubhouse, a once gracious manor that was now home to corporate events and political fund-raisers. Everybody stood up at once, gathering their stuff and crowding into the aisle. A boisterous clique of summer associates huddled at the front of the bus, joking and talking. “Let me at those pancakes,” said one, rubbing his hands together. “Forget the pancakes—let me at that open bar!” said another. “Not til noon, Steinberg,” said a third. “Remember, we’ve got to pace ourselves.”
“Oh my God, you guys aren’t going to start drinking before noon, are you?” shrieked one of the young women, zipping up a Louis Vuitton squash bag.
The other girls in the group laughed and tossed their long, straight hair as we filed off the bus and into the clubhouse.
Once inside, we walked down a long hallway, our footsteps echoing on the impeccably polished floors, passing a library and a large empty sitting room, until we reached a set of French doors that led out onto the vast stone terrace. Along one edge of the terrace stood a white-tablecloth buffet breakfast, complete with an outdoor grilling station staffed by men in white chef’s hats, flipping made-to-order omelets. The air smelled of sizzling bacon and freshly mown grass.
We stood for a moment and surveyed the Parsons Valentine crowd: men decked out in tennis whites or golf shirts and khakis; women wearing crisp sleeveless shirts and tailored shorts, or light-colored tennis skirts. And you’ve never seen so many people wearing visors.
“Let’s go sit over there,” suggested Murph, tilting his head toward a table where Marty Adler and Harold Rubinstein sat chatting with a group of summer associates.
“Sure,” I said. Tyler just shrugged. We threaded our way through the crowd, only to find Justin Keating sitting at the table, looking bored and complacent. I felt a flash of annoyance. No other paralegals had been invited to the outing. Then again, no other paralegals had Justin’s connections.
Adler looked up and half-stood, holding on to the napkin in his lap. “Well, well! The party can begin. Make yourselves at home.”
Murph, Tyler, and I pulled out chairs and sat down.
Adler introduced us to the summer associates at the table. Then he
“Hey,” Murph said breathlessly, flopping into the seat in front of me. “Did you have to find seats all the way in back?”
“The cool kids sit in the back of the bus,” I told him.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stowed his tennis racquet under the seat and then settled himself comfortably against the window, one tanned arm resting along the back of the seat in front of me. He glanced over at Tyler and nodded.
Tyler nodded back without a word.
“So,” I said, a little too loudly. “I see you’re signed up for tennis today, Murph?”
“Definitely. Hunter and I put in for some doubles. Who knows who we’ll get paired up with, though. Hopefully no losers.”
“Hopefully not,” said Tyler mildly.
Now I gave him a look. Try harder.
Tyler rolled his eyes and turned away.
Murph looked at me and mouthed, What’s with him?
I decided to change the subject. “Why doubles?”
Murph shrugged. “Easier to get court time. Ever since Trask took over.”
The Management Committee had discreetly asked Ann Trask, the firm’s director of special events, to take over the assigning of teams for golf and tennis. In recent years, the most jocklike male partners had excluded the less athletic lawyers from their golf carts, a practice the firm had deemed unsporting.
For the rest of the ride, Murph and I placed bets on which partners would get the most shit-faced while Tyler pretended to nap.
An hour later, the coach turned onto Country Club Drive. We rolled past tall green hedges and a set of massive stone gates at the entrance, bearing a sign that read:
OAK HOLLOW COUNTRY CLUB
E ST . 1883
M EMBER AND G UEST E NTRANCE O NLY
The coach pulled up to the clubhouse, a once gracious manor that was now home to corporate events and political fund-raisers. Everybody stood up at once, gathering their stuff and crowding into the aisle. A boisterous clique of summer associates huddled at the front of the bus, joking and talking. “Let me at those pancakes,” said one, rubbing his hands together. “Forget the pancakes—let me at that open bar!” said another. “Not til noon, Steinberg,” said a third. “Remember, we’ve got to pace ourselves.”
“Oh my God, you guys aren’t going to start drinking before noon, are you?” shrieked one of the young women, zipping up a Louis Vuitton squash bag.
The other girls in the group laughed and tossed their long, straight hair as we filed off the bus and into the clubhouse.
Once inside, we walked down a long hallway, our footsteps echoing on the impeccably polished floors, passing a library and a large empty sitting room, until we reached a set of French doors that led out onto the vast stone terrace. Along one edge of the terrace stood a white-tablecloth buffet breakfast, complete with an outdoor grilling station staffed by men in white chef’s hats, flipping made-to-order omelets. The air smelled of sizzling bacon and freshly mown grass.
We stood for a moment and surveyed the Parsons Valentine crowd: men decked out in tennis whites or golf shirts and khakis; women wearing crisp sleeveless shirts and tailored shorts, or light-colored tennis skirts. And you’ve never seen so many people wearing visors.
“Let’s go sit over there,” suggested Murph, tilting his head toward a table where Marty Adler and Harold Rubinstein sat chatting with a group of summer associates.
“Sure,” I said. Tyler just shrugged. We threaded our way through the crowd, only to find Justin Keating sitting at the table, looking bored and complacent. I felt a flash of annoyance. No other paralegals had been invited to the outing. Then again, no other paralegals had Justin’s connections.
Adler looked up and half-stood, holding on to the napkin in his lap. “Well, well! The party can begin. Make yourselves at home.”
Murph, Tyler, and I pulled out chairs and sat down.
Adler introduced us to the summer associates at the table. Then he
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