Rules for Saying Goodbye: A Novel

Rules for Saying Goodbye: A Novel

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by Katherine Taylor

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"Kath is curious," observes her younger brother, Ethan, not without anxiety. She is thirteen; already everyone can see she's got her eye on bigger things than provincial Fresno can offer. Years in the glamorous chill of an East Coast prep school will introduce her to a razor-sharp sense of social distinction, cocaine "so good it's pink," and an indispensable best

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"Kath is curious," observes her younger brother, Ethan, not without anxiety. She is thirteen; already everyone can see she's got her eye on bigger things than provincial Fresno can offer. Years in the glamorous chill of an East Coast prep school will introduce her to a razor-sharp sense of social distinction, cocaine "so good it's pink," and an indispensable best friend—all that she needs to prepare for life in Manhattan. There will be fourteen-dollar cocktails but no money for groceries; unsuitable men of enormous charm, and unsuitable jobs of no charm at all; and a wistful yearning for a transformation from someone of promise into someone of genius.

In this deliciously witty and affecting debut novel, fiction winks at real life: Katherine Taylor is its muddled heroine, and also its author. Written in the tradition of Curtis Sittenfeld and Melissa Bank, with the gorgeous hues of a pile of Gatsby's shirts, Rules for Saying Goodbye is a bittersweet yet comic coming-of-age tale that has an unerring feel for the delights and malaises of a generation.

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Editorial Reviews

Advance Praise
“Achieves a directness and intimacy few novels can match. A beautifully observed and poignant book.” —T.C. Boyle, author of Drop City

About This Guide
The questions and discussion topics that follow are designed to enhance your reading of Katherine Taylor’s Rules for Saying Goodbye. We hope they will enrich your experience of her wry and witty coming-of-age tale.

In this deliciously affecting debut novel, Katherine Taylor is both the muddled heroine and the author, allowing fiction to wink at real life in each alluring chapter. By turns bittersweet and comic, Rules for Saying Goodbye features a family rife with quirks; Kate’s mother, named Elizabeth Taylor, believes her daughter can find hope only in a life far removed from their Fresno, California, community. Spending her adolescence at an East Coast prep school, Kate is introduced to a scene where the cocaine is “so good it’s pink” and a friend’s Manhattan grandmother believes girls are never too young to experience cocktail hour. Propelled into quasi-adulthood in the 1990s, Kate copes with unsuitable men, exasperating jobs, and the constant, tantalizing yearning that plagues her generation. Blending the brio of Melissa Bank with the wickedly funny candor of Nick Hornby, Rules for Saying Goodbye brilliantly captures a seductive, endlessly entertaining world.

Questions for Discussion
1. How were you affected by the fact that the author’s name is the same as the narrator’s? Does the line between fact and fiction, memoir and novel, matter very much?

2. What is at the root of Elizabeth’s fear regarding Fresno and life in general? What unfulfilled dreams is she working through by sending Kate away? How does Kate’s concept of the future compare to her mother’s dreams for her? Did your parents try to foist any odd visions of fulfillment on you?

3. What distinctions separate a girl’s coming-of-age story from a boy’s? Who are Kate’s greatest role models in shaping her identity as a woman? In what ways do her parents treat sons and daughters differently?

4. As a prep school, what did Claver promise to prepare its graduates to do? For Kate, what were the best and worst aspects of life there? Was she prepared for the world after she completed high school?

5. Page and Clarissa were raised in very different households. How much influence did their families have over their lives? Did the girls make it safely to adulthood because of or despite the way they were raised? Who were the most memorable parents you encountered among your friends when you were growing up?

6. How would you characterize Kate’s Claver friendships? What did it take to gain and keep friends there? Was her circle similar to yours, in terms of loyalty, disobedience, or other factors?

7. Doris feels safe in hospitals, surrounded by caretakers who are the opposite of sadistic Aunt Lou. How was Kate affected by the presence of Doris and Lou in her family? What harm existed in both Kate’s and Doris’s households?

8. Discuss the cross-country road trip Kate and her mother took. What new perspectives did Kate gain about Elizabeth, now that Kate had reached adulthood? How would you and your mother have gotten along on a trip like this one?

9. Is having wealthy parents a boon or a curse in Kate’s life?

10. How does Kate’s existence with Ethan in New York compare to her days on the West Coast? How does her life in Europe compare to her time in the United States? Where does Kate feel the least homesick?

11. At the end of chapter eleven, Kate encounters an aging Mrs. Burns, who is gleefully watching Jonas and Ethan roller-skate. What liberating lessons had Mrs. Burns taught her more than a decade ago?

12. In what way was climbing Le Dom with Henry and Oliver similar to the other challenges Kate faced—in dating, coping with her mother, keeping a job?

13. Chapter fourteen gives the novel its title. How could Kate’s rules have improved some of your departures? Who has said goodbye to her at various points in her life, and vice versa?

14. What aspects of Kate are represented in the novel’s four parts? What is the effect of the way the author blends humorous and wrenching moments in her storytelling?

15. In the closing scenes of chapter nineteen, Delia leaves the city after “she had made us believe, for a little while, that we had been missing something.” How did Delia develop such a hold over her friends? Did you envy any aspects of her personality or her life?

16. At the summer house in Michigan, Clarissa is both recovering from a frightening illness and getting used to the prospect of motherhood. How did your impressions of her shift from the beginning of the novel to this point?

17. “I no longer needed to be reminded that a lot of girls would have stayed,” the author writes in the novel’s final line. Would you have stayed with Lucas?

Praise for Rules for Saying Goodbye:
“For a ?eeting and innocent period in a certain kind of girl’s life, cocktails and cigarettes are just an excuse to talk to each other. Rules for Saying Goodbye elegantly describes how this equation reverses—the talking becomes the excuse for the cocktails and cigarettes. In her smart and funny novel, Katherine Taylor renders with unusual precision both the wistfulness and the wit in female friendships.” —Dana Spiotta, author of Eat the Document

“Katherine Taylor’s debut novel is sensational. It’s wry, funny, heartfelt, and written with grace. I thought boys had the patent on cruelty, but wow, girls can be rough on each other! And yet it’s a testament to Taylor’s talent that this novel never loses sight of the complexity, the humanity, at the heart of these characters.” —Victor LaValle, author of The Ecstatic and Slapboxing with Jesus

“Reading Katherine Taylor is like meeting at a party full of strangers the person you instantly recognize will be a friend for life. Con?ding, gossipy, and heartfelt, Rules for Saying Goodbye charts the inexplicable failings and the surprising durabilities of love. It is a sparkling and witty debut.” —Elisabeth Robinson, author of The True and Amazing Adventures of the Hunt Sisters

“This story tumbles through decadent days and nights, through ranks of soulful and magnetic characters. Taylor can wink like Dorothy Parker and move through worlds like Christopher Isherwood. After you read the last page, your shirt-cuffs will be stained with wine and perfumed with cigarette smoke, and you will be giddy and exhausted from this bittersweet, intimate, lovely party.” —Jardine Libaire, author of Here Kitty Kitty

“Taylor is a superb satirist [and] manages to make worn New York yarns feel fresh again.” —Publishers Weekly

About the Author
Katherine Taylor won a Pushcart Prize and has published essays and short ?ction in Details, Shenandoah, Ploughshares, Confrontation, Prairie Schooner, and Southwest Review. She lives in Los Angeles, where she is at work on her second novel.

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Chapter One Preparing for Power I knew how to listen in on the telephone extension without anyone hearing a click. Until I left home, my mother never, ever had a private conversation. Eavesdropping was my hobby. I enjoyed it more than kicking a soccer ball against the side of the garage to see how much stucco I could knock off and more than stripping bark from the oaks in our front yard with the claw of a hammer. If I put just my thumb over the receiver, I could breathe as loud as I wanted, even during the winter with a sinus infection, and no one could hear. "That is not the point. You are not getting the point." "You should have never asked him. You should have just taken the car." "Last time I did that, I wrecked it. Do you remember?" "Did you?" "I dented the wheel well against the median." "It's your car, too." "Listen, I am coming to the point." "The point is you love him." "Yes," Mother said. "Yes, I adore him." Other people's conversations were more reassuring than unraveling hand-knitted sweaters and more interesting than the stack of old correspondence in my father's closet. Sitting in the dark of the phone closet off the entryway, with the receiver to my ear, when I was nine, ten, eleven, twelve, I learned the details of mutual funds and mortgage payments, how friendships disintegrate, and the common complaints of a marriage. I knew before anyone had mentioned the topic that my mother planned for me to go to boarding school. "She can't go to school here in Fresno," she told Auntie Petra. Auntie Petra was two hundred pounds overweight and taught second grade in Compton. The corners of her Venice Beach apartment were piled high with Reader's Digest and Life. She talked with food in her mouth. "What's wrong with school there?" "Don't get me started on what's wrong. You don't have enough time for what's wrong." "Give me one reason she can't go to school there." "Because," my mother whispered, as if I might be outside her door and not downstairs listening from the phone closet, "this horrible little town is full of horrible little people."  That summer I was eleven my mother had a terminal argument with her best friend from college. Afterwards, she loathed our little town more than ever, so she and I drove to San Francisco for a weekend to buy autumn overcoats and to eat lunch and dinner in the high-ceilinged hotel restaurants that made my mother happy. "Why did you argue with Alice?" I asked her. I had picked up that conversation in the middle, and I couldn't determine exactly what had caused the row. "I'll tell you when you're older," she said. "How much older?" "Fifteen." "Fifteen is too long to wait. I want to know now." "I'm not telling you now." "But I'll forget to ask when I'm fifteen." "You never forget anything," she said. We drove past the still windmills in the foothills before Berkeley. "Look at those," my mother said. "What a scam. Have we ever seen them moving?" Our first day in San Francisco, the rain started. Mother and I parked the car at the hotel and walked together through the wet summer afternoon, under the department store awnings around Union Square. She was very slender then, and men turned their heads to stare at her. I was tall for eleven, so when my mother and I walked together, I imagined people might think we were sisters or intimate friends, leaning into each other and speaking close. "Tell me about your argument," I whispered to her as we dodged animal rights activists outside Gump's. "Fifteen is not so long to wait," she said. "It will give us something to talk about later." "I hate later." When the rain turned to a downpour, we shrieked as we ran from awning to awning. My new ballet slippers, which I insisted upon wearing at all times, were ruined. The city became a vibrant gray. We shook the rain off the ends of our fingertips. Our summer-weight overcoats were soaked straight through. We stopped, eventually, in a department store café, wet and cold and thinking the whole thing was a lot of fun, and I drank my first cappuccino. "Listen," Mother said, taking off her coat, "what would you think about going away?" "Away where?" I knew exactly away where. "To school. In Massachusetts, if you'd like. Or Switzerland, if that's not too far away." "When?" "Whenever you like. Next year." When I was eleven, I had a very hard time telling dreams from reality. I didn't understand why other people couldn't remember conversations I knew we had had the day before, or why one day my backyard was a landing strip for warplanes and the next day was just fig trees. I once broke my wrist jumping off the fireplace mantel. Sometimes I could fly and sometimes I couldn't. I had long daydreams about what came after the farms and the boredom of central California, and more than once I had packed a suitcase to seek my fortune, like the three little pigs who left home in the children's book. "I want to very much," I said. "Really?" She seemed surprised and relieved. "I want to very much." "I want you to," she whispered in excitement. "I want you to go," she said. "You have more to offer than Fresno is prepared to accept." "I am almost twelve," I whispered right back at her. "Yes," she said. "I think you're ready. But your father won't like that at all." She smiled. We left the café. The rain stopped and we walked along. She held my hand in her pocket. Her dark hair was curly from the damp. Men turned to get a good look at her.  In the fall, I applied to only one boarding school. "If you don't get into the best one, you don't want to go, do you?" If I did not get into the best one, my mother did not want me to go. Nothing but the absolute top was satisfactory for Mother. At that time, The Claver School had one faculty member for every three and a quarter students. My mother had read various books on prep schools, books with titles like Preparing for Power and Casualties of Privilege, and had discerned that Claver was the best in the nation. The brochure for the school showed silky-haired girls in mahogany-paneled classrooms and relaxed young men in blue jackets coming out of the Gothic Revival chapel. There were photographs of students reading books beneath trees in the spring, and attractive, focused people on cross-country skis. There were exotic court sports to learn, like squash and fives. There was crew to row on the river through the forest and Oscar Wilde to be performed in the intimate auditorium of the school hall. The brochure included Claver's list of notable alumni, featuring two presidents and dozens of other important historical and political figures. "What if I want to be a rock star?" I asked my mother. "You can do anything you want to do," she assured me. "Just get out of this town first." Over the next few months, my father ignored the process of applying and test-taking and the rounds of local and on-site interviews. It never crossed his mind that I might, in fact, get in. We had letters written by the soccer coach and the art teacher and, when my standardized test scores turned out very low, by the psychiatrist in Berkeley who had administered my IQ test. My mother sent off a box of newspaper clippings proclaiming my achievements in sports and the civic light opera, paintings I had done of my brothers eating breakfast, copies of my plays the local children's theater had performed. I didn't think much about what might happen if I was accepted. After my bad test scores, I stopped imagining what boarding school might be like. There was no fraught period of waiting for a response, as there was really no point in waiting for anything. I spent afternoons silently listening in on telephone calls or throwing a tennis ball on the roof to see if I could displace any of the red Mexican tiles. My brothers sensed something was going on. Richard, who normally threw tantrums but tended not to be downright destructive, smashed all my dollhouse furniture the weekend that our mother took me to Boston for interviews. My cheerful six-year-old brother, Ethan, started crying incessantly, and the weekend I took my SSATs he drank an entire bottle of Dimetapp. "Why did you drink the Dimetapp?" my father asked gently, once Ethan had recovered from the stomach pump. From a very young age, my brothers and I knew all the brand names of every over-the-counter and prescription drug. "It's good for sleeping," he said. "Can't you sleep, Ethan?" "I'm worried." "Worried about what?" "Kath is curious." "You're right," my father said. "Kath is curious." "Kath is going away." In the spring, when I was accepted to Claver, everyone was surprised, and my father could not have been less pleased. "You're too young to go away," he said, and, "It's too far." Or, "The schools in California are equally as good." Or else, "You'll be homesick and miserable and you won't understand those people." His reasons varied each time he told me I couldn't go. "It's his money," my mother would say in a calm and furious tone. "But you're mean," she told him. "Can't you see we got our hopes up?" "No one had their hopes up," he said. "I had my hopes up," Mother said. "Then I'll send you to school in Boston," he told her. "Send yourself to school!" she shouted. "Look," I said, "if you don't want me to go because you don't think it's best for me, that I understand. But if you don't want me to go because you don't think it's best for you, that's not quite fair, is it." My father raised his eyebrows. "You know what?" he said. "You're skating on thin ice." My father loved to say You're skating on thin ice. He also loved to say There are two chances of that: slim and none.  In the autumn, when I was twelve, my mother took me back to Massachusetts for school. She told me repeatedly on the plane to remember to stand up straight. At the hotel in Boston there was a fire. When it became clear this was not just a drill but an actual fire, I crouched in the hallway with the rest of the guests, waiting for the signal to descend the stairs, certain we were all dead. I shouted fiercely at my mother, "I knew it! I knew I would never make it out of Fresno!" She cupped her hand over my mouth, deliberately and with force. I could not tell if she was embarrassed because I had been shouting at her in front of other guests, or because I had revealed where we were from. The fire was contained on the fourteenth floor and all the guests in their hotel robes and dress shoes made their way back to their rooms, weary but excited and chatty. I was a little ashamed of the way I had shouted in the hallway, but overall relieved that I might, in fact, make it out of Fresno. School was a shock to my mother but everything I had anticipated from Catcher in the Rye and A Separate Peace: the dorm stark and quite a lot like a hospital, with beds in identical cubicles all in a row. There was no room to hang all the MoMA posters my mother and I had bought in San Francisco. There was barely enough room in the plywood closet for the new clothes we had bought at South Coast Plaza and the many, many winter coats my mother was certain I would need back East. Claver was an old boys' school which had just in the past twenty years begun admitting girls. There was no official soccer field for the girls. We played on a makeshift pitch between the dining hall and the schoolhouse, while the boys played separately, on their own acreage, with their own scoreboard and gardener. There were Latin teachers who still believed girls were a scourge. Girls could get out of dissecting a pig, but boys were obliged: they had been doing it since 1886. The day she moved me in, my mother showed no signs of hesitation or regret. She behaved as if sending her small-town California daughter to a very old New England prep school was the expected thing to do, as if, like the other families in the dorm that day, four generations of us had done this before we had. Of course, it seemed very normal to me. I was still jumping off couches, expecting to fly. At the final school lunch, when the headmaster rose from his seat and said, "Parents, say goodbye to your children," my mother turned to me and said, "If you want to come home, just call me. Just come home." "I don't want to come home." The rest of the parents were leaving the dining hall. Every portrait of every headmaster for over a hundred years hung on the wall, admonishing the parents to go. Mommy hugged me goodbye for a long time. "I don't ever want you to feel trapped somewhere." "I won't feel trapped." She opened her purse and handed me an envelope filled with ten one-hundred-dollar bills. "That's for a taxi to Boston and a ticket home," she said. I liked the weight of the money in that envelope. I was twelve, after all. I had never felt so much money all at once. I wanted her to leave. She gave me a critical and tender look that told me I was probably slouching. "That money is just for an emergency," she said. She kissed me on the forehead. "Darling, don't forget to put your napkin on your lap." She turned and descended the dining hall staircase with the rest of the parents. Her red circle skirt billowed behind her. She did not look back to wave. Excerpted from Rules for Saying Goodbye by Katherine Taylor. Copyright © 2007 by Katherine Taylor. Published in May 2007 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.

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Meet the Author

Katherine Taylor has won a Pushcart Prize, and her work has appeared in such journals as Ploughshares. Much like her fictional alter ego, she has burned bridges in London, Rome, and Brussels, but now lives in Los Angeles.

KATHERINE TAYLOR has won a Pushcart Prize, and her work has appeared in such journals as Ploughshares. She now lives in Los Angeles.

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Rules for Saying Goodbye 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Another boring story about a rich kid who blames her dysfunctional family for shipping her off to boarding school and causing angst in relationships later in life. Don't waste your time!
mavsgirl More than 1 year ago
I had really high hopes for this book. Hopes that took me all the way through to the end, and I was let down. I really have nothing else to say, it wasn't even interesting enough to complain about.
Guest More than 1 year ago
To me, this book was a pleasant break from all the other beauty obsessed prodigy characters I¿m use to reading. It¿s a calm book, but still very intriguing. After reading it, it made me want to pack all my boxes and wait for the right moment to move to Rome!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Katherine Taylor, the protagonist of Katherine Taylor's novel, is a latterday Jake Barnes--with more than an ounce of Holden Caulfield and Camus' Meursault. Her bitchy odyseey--who ever heard of complaining about the mosquitoes in Rome?--has none of the existential depth of Camus, or macho angst of Hemingway's hero. But that's exactly KT's narcissistic point--she's laughing hilariously through the tears of a meaningless, superficial life that she wishes would grab her and shake her and make her want to love it. Yeah, it expresses the zeitgeist of a generation, and just as you decide you've grown to hate this hard-drinking, nasty-talking, window-shopping voyeur in the candy shop of life--the ending surprises you with a desperate sadness that cuts through the manic laughter to captivate your heart.