This was the year my body started to change. Almost overnight, I went from being flat-chested to having small breasts. I had to beg my mother to buy me a training bra. That summer, I borrowed a bikini from Jill to go down to the beach because the white two-piece my mother had purchased for me earlier in the year was already too revealing. After I got paid for my babysitting work, I remember going to a boutique in East Hampton and buying myself a new bikini in pink, navy, and purple.
The weeks went by in a haze of working, enjoying myself with Jill, and spending time at the beach, until I had been away from my mother for almost a month. On my last day in Amagansett, I remember, we went to the beach for the entire day. The next day, I arrived back at my parents’ house with a bright pink sunburn across my shoulders and back. My mother was furious with Jill for not taking better care of me, but for the first time, I felt defiant. When my mother insisted I stay on the couch covered in Solarcaine, I refused. I didn’t want her to fuss over me anymore. The sunburn would fade, and I would be fine—and besides, it was worth it to stay at the beach all day with Jill.
* * *
THAT SEPTEMBER, I started junior high in a new school. I can still remember the outfit I wore for my first day: a white piqué halter top and white cutoff jean shorts, with a tan suede belt with a gold lion buckle given to me by Jill. For the first time, I was actually excited about starting a new school year. I had missed every single day of sixth grade, but seventh grade was going to be different. Students at this junior high came from all over the district, which meant that most of them wouldn’t know me. They had no idea I was the “baby” who had stayed home for most of elementary school because I was sick.
At junior high, I could start again.
While most of the kids on their first day at a new school were looking for familiar faces, I was looking for anyone who didn’t know me or my history. I remember looking across the room and noticing a girl at the center of a group of other students. Like me, she was tall and slim and had very long, wavy brown hair. We ended up sitting next to each other. Her name was Diana, and we clicked right away. I started spending as much time as possible with my new friend, often going back to her home after school.
Diana’s family was so different from mine. Her father was the superintendent at the Cold Spring Harbor High School, and unlike my father, he actually came home each night for dinner. Diana’s mother would bake cookies for us; she was the PTA president and was very involved at school. The family went to church on Sundays, and I went with them more than once, envying the feeling of belonging and acceptance that the services seemed to offer. Even little things at Diana’s house felt new to me. I remember the smell of Herbal Essence shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom. How could a shampoo smell so good? I spent as much time at Diana’s house as I could.
* * *
THAT FALL, my mother was still distracted. Robin was in trouble again. My sister had received a call to say that she was under investigation by the welfare department. Robin had been claiming emergency welfare payments since earlier in the year, when she fell sick and had been unable to work and pay her rent. Unfortunately, she had lost her wallet on a visit back to Long Island, and a newspaper reporter had found it. The reporter, seeing that Robin had food stamps and her welfare card alongside her landing card from the trip to France, decided to look into her case. He had called the welfare office asking questions, which triggered an inquiry.
The reporter returned the wallet to my sister, interviewing her and my mother about what had happened. He told my sister that he was writing a report on how tough it is to live on welfare, but when the article came out that October, it was a very different story. SHE LIVES IN A $100,000 HOME—AND ON WELFARE, the headline read. The article stated that Robin had claimed welfare checks even though she came from a “wealthy” family living in an expensive home and that she had used her welfare money to help fund our trip to France. In the coming days, there were more articles in the paper describing Robin as a “poor little rich girl.” One reporter referred to her as “one of a growing number of young people from middle-class backgrounds who have left the security of their homes to be part of a less certain culture.”
“I’m being crucified because I’m some politician’s idea of a welfare rip-off,” Robin told a reporter from The Philadelphia Inquirer. At the time she was interviewed, she had just been told that she had to move out of her apartment because her landlord had found out about the scandal and evicted her. The reporter described Robin as “fighting back tears, her long brown hair disheveled.”
Robin had become a kind of poster child for the dropout generation. Hate mail began arriving at our home. “When I think that any part of the burden of my taxes
