Rise and Shine Read Free

dressing room chest, to be coordinated to her clothes by trained professionals, adept in the art of deciding which neckline cries out for hoops, which for pearl buttons or gold studs.
    “Voilà,” I said. “Like this.” I popped on a lid, lifted a corner, and let out a
pfft
of air, then closed it all the way. Lift,
pfft
, lift,
pfft
. “How did you ever avoid learning to burp Tupperware?” I asked. “Aunt Maureen had as many pieces of Tupperware as she had photo albums. I think she taught me to burp Tupperware when I was a toddler.”
    “We still lived at home when you were a toddler.” By
home
Meghan means the big gray house with the white shutters, the house where we lived until our parents died. We moved to the smaller Cape with Aunt Maureen and Uncle Jack when we were six and ten. Meghan lifted the lid off a large bowl, then put it back and let the air out. “It would have looked like I was a moron if I’d messed this up,” she said, but she practiced three or four times more. The last time she burped the Tupperware and looked straight ahead, her head tilted slightly to one side. My sister is the host of
Rise and Shine,
America’s number one morning show. She is the most famous woman on television, which means that she is probably the most famous woman in America. The camera doesn’t want to see the top of Meghan’s head, although the colorist makes sure her roots are never darker than the rest. It wants to see her face.
    She thumped the top of the Tupperware and tried to lob it back up into the cabinet. I took it from her and put it on the shelf. It’s funny that I’m so much taller than Meghan, that she wears a size 6 shoe on her stubby-toed feet while I have vast gunboat 10s that look designed to bestride entire continents. Meghan is far larger in all the ways that matter. That’s why from now on I will bring wine to parties instead of flowers.
    “Red,” she’d said flatly. “For some reason white is totally over.” And like the rest of the country, when she talked, I listened.
    “Don’t wear black tonight,” she said as I left her apartment. “It really washes you out.”
    “Thanks for doing this, by the way,” I said. “It’s really important. They’ll raise a lot of money. Some of which they’ve promised will actually get to us. We’re figuring on a new furnace because of you, and maybe another aide for the kids.”
    “It’s just strange that it’s a Saturday night. No one gives a charity dinner on a Saturday night.”
    I shook my head. “Do you know why it’s on a Saturday night? Because they were told that because of your schedule you could only do it on a Saturday night.”
    “Hmm. I probably should have known that, shouldn’t I?”
    “I’m wearing black,” I said as the elevator doors closed.

         
     
     
    E VERYONE WAS WEARING black, except for a few adventurous souls who had decided to hell with convention and were wearing black and white, and the older women, who still dwelled in the land of lavender and teal. The reception area outside the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf was choked with guests for the annual dinner of a group called Manhattan Mothers Guild. Manhattan Mothers is made up of socialites who raise money for poor women and children by hosting lunches, dinners, even breakfasts. The event programs are rather unvarying. There is a video that is usually long on shots of cute black kids with enormous dark eyes. There is a testimonial, from either a former foster kid who has gone on to Harvard Law School or a woman who was beaten bloody by her boyfriend and now counsels others in the same spot. And there is an honoree, chosen because of fame, fortune, and the ability to fill a couple of $100,000 tables. There is fierce competition for honorees; the CEOs of various corporations every week turn down three or four invitations to be cited for their commitment to a better life for all New Yorkers (or for all New York children, or schools, or landmarks,