“I knew you would,” she says, winking at me conspiratorially as she breezes out the door. Or maybe one of her eyelash extensions is caught.
Either way, this Amy Mitchell is totally screwed.
And I need to call Jan about these charges.
25
Amy
On the list of things I expected for today, none of the following would be included:
A Good Morning text from the hottest man I’ve ever kissed in my entire life, telling me that he can’t stop thinking about last night.
My cheating husband begging my forgiveness moments after that text arrives.
It’s almost normal that he’s sitting in his usual spot at the breakfast nook, slurping from a bowl of Lucky Charms—our weekend cereal, that I always knew he was sneaking during the week, that liar—and reading an Us Weekly like we were still a normal couple and he hadn’t been carrying on an Internet-based affair with a dairy farmer for the better part of a year. It’s almost normal, but it isn’t because in the weeks since he’s been gone, he hasn’t even bothered to be in touch with me. No calls. No texts.
“Mike, what the fuck are you doing here?” I’m not yelling, but I’m also not in the mood for whatever this is. How long has he been here? Did he see Jesse sneak out the front door at three AM? Can Mike tell I’d made out with someone else? Am I now excreting a pheromone that indicates I recently let another man grab my boobs?
“I thought you’d be at work,” Mike says between slurps of his cereal, “and I’m out of underwear.” Ah. Of course. In the time we’ve been apart, Mike still hasn’t figured out how to operate a washing machine. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I spent the night pawing at the hottest dad in school or if it’s just that dishonesty makes people uglier, but Mike looks rough. His tousled hair doesn’t look boyish; it looks messy and sad. Maybe because he doesn’t have me to schedule his haircuts for him. There’s more gray at his temples, which is actually kinda hot, but his bright eyes are weighted down by dark bags, probably because when he left for the hotel he took an Xbox with him. I would almost comment on the fact that he’s wearing sweatpants, but I’m wearing my basketball shorts from high school.
“Aim,” he says in his sweetest voice, spilling the milk from his cereal bowl as he tries to get up from the table, “I want to get back together. I never should have left you, that was a real dick move.”
I have some other ways to describe it, but “dick move” will have to do. I notice that he doesn’t even attempt to wipe up the milk he spilled. That is a dick move.
“Mike,” I say in the same voice I use when Dylan asks me for a bowl of ice cream after he said he wasn’t hungry for dinner, “you just told me that you have feelings for another woman that you’ve been seeing online for nearly a year.”
Mike sighs like a child who has been told he’s up past his bedtime.
“Yeah, but then I met her and she’s super weird! And she’s not even that hot. I think she just had those fancy lights that YouTubers use.”
“So. Because your other option isn’t as great as you thought it’d be . . . you’d like to come back.”
That seems to stump him, at least for a moment.
“Amy, haven’t you ever just needed a break?”
Time stands still. Did this man just ask me, the mother of his children, the maker of dinners and school projects, the manager of the social calendar, the woman who remembers his mother’s birthday and sends the perfect gift every year even though she still calls me “Michael’s wife,” ask me if I ever just needed a break?
“I’ve been talking with your mom, and she agrees you should give me another chance. She said that Mitch Feinstein got a hand job from a stripper and his wife still took him back.”
Of course he’s been talking to my mom. That explains all her text messages.
“I don’t give a shit what my mom or Mitch Feinstein’s wife thinks, Mike!” I need something to do with my hands so I don’t wrap them around Mike’s neck and squeeze until he loses consciousness, so I start to wipe down the counters. Every mom I know has ripped shoulders from years of wiping counters and butts.
“Babe,” he says in his fake-sorry voice, “I miss you. I miss the kids.”
The kids.
“Mostly Dylan—he hasn’t even been on Xbox—but Jane, too. And Roscoe. I miss my family. I’ll do anything to make things right again, Aim. Anything.”
“Like . . . therapy?”
Mike’s head snaps back like a Pez dispenser. “Therapy?! No! Therapy is so dumb. Come on, Aim. I was thinking, like, a weekend in Wisconsin Dells. You know, your mom said you’re totally overreacting.”
Of course she would say that. Once I broke my nose during a basketball game and she put a Snoopy Band-Aid on it and told me it was fine. I turn Mike toward the door by his shoulders. He needs more than new underwear, he needs to grow up.
“Thanks for stopping by, Mike. Since you like my mom so much, maybe you can date her!”
“No, no, no!” he whines, digging in his heels. “I’ll go! I’ll go to therapy!”
THE FIRST TIME MIKE AND I WENT TO THERAPY, HE READ A magazine the entire time and told the therapist that he was a visual learner.
“There’s a difference between going and participating, Mike.”
“Oh God! You just want me to cry, don’t you?”
“Would it be so hard? You just ruined your entire family! Doesn’t that kinda make you sad?”
“Sure, but I don’t cry about it! I haven’t cried since Jordan retired!”
“Which time?”
“Every time! He’s the greatest athlete of all time! Every time he retired was an emotional experience!”
I give up. On all of it. On this conversation, on him. But not on my counters. I go back to wiping crumbs that aren’t even there, but Mike just stands there.
“Okay, Mike. Goodbye.”
“Amy? I’ll go to therapy. I’ll cry and everything. I’ll cry the whole fucking time. Just please, please? Give me a chance.”
I SPEND THE DAY “WORKING FROM HOME,” WHICH I LEARNED from Dale and the other kids at work is code for “responding to the occasional email but otherwise just sitting around doing whatever you want.”
From my inbox, which is now too full to receive any new messages, I glean the following: that Dale is desperate to expand our direct-to-consumer business, that Tessa has pierced her right eyebrow, that the Ping-Pong Cup has been passed to a new champion, and that nobody has implemented the solution for the logistics issue that I proposed weeks ago. Seventy-four of the emails in my inbox are part of a chain about a one-legged foster dog looking for a home, and the merits of having an office pet that the entire staff could look after, like the rat we had in our fifth-grade classroom. That rat, by the way, grew a giant tumor and died a painful death over Spring Break 1992.
Thirty-nine of the emails are from Dale and seem to just be forwards from sales, logistics, and clients.
I resend my previous email about our logistics issue and delete the rest of my inbox.
Inbox Zero: achieved.
I TRY TO GET TO SOCCER PICKUP JUST A FEW MINUTES EARLY. Parents aren’t allowed to attend practices since the incident with Julia’s dad a few seasons ago, and even though he swears he only acted in self-defense when he clobbered the coach from behind with a full water jug after learning his daughter wouldn’t be starting in the home opener, the end result is that the closest any of us are allowed to get to the field is the sidewalk that divides the parking lot from what Gwendolyn had renamed the James Athletic Complex for Childhood Excellence in Sports.
There are fifteen minutes left of practice when I pull the van into the lot. Hopping out, I see the girls across the field, blending into a mass of burgundy practice jerseys and bouncy ponytails. Two years ago, these same practice jerseys looked like dresses on them, and Coach struggled to keep them on task for more than a few minutes at a time. Even hyper-focused Jane would spend a good portion of the practice lying on her bell
y in the grass, looking for four-leaf clovers. The girls look so big this year, all spindly legs and coat-hanger shoulders. I squint into the sun, trying to pick out which one is Jane.
She isn’t playing two on two.
She isn’t blasting practice penalty kicks at the goalie.
She isn’t running laps around the complex.
Where is she?
I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, which I assume is another parent who wants to talk to me about how I still haven’t sent in my twenty-five dollars for the coaches’ gifts.
It’s not a parent. It’s Jane. Blotchy-skinned and red-eyed, struggling to breathe through her sobs. Oh God, has Mike called her? Kids are geniuses now; did she hack into his phone and find out about his smarmy affair? Did Kyle Jensen find out she has a crush on him? I don’t know, but I pull my snotty, sweaty little girl into my arms, where she cries harder than she did when she found out that Justin Bieber married someone who isn’t her.
“It’s over,” she sobs, “it’s over.”
“Janey Bear,” I whisper into her hair, “what’s going on?”
Jane wipes her nose on the front of my shirt, and I watch her angst turn into anger. “I’m a loser, Mom. I’m on B squad.”
“Bee squad? Like, bumblebees?”
“Like, the kids who just practice. Who don’t actually play in the games. A benchwarmer, Mom.”
Look, I’m not a Sports Mom. I hardly know what the hell is going on during a soccer game, and I’m pretty sure that anyone who claims to actually know what offsides is has to be European or just a liar. But I know that Jane was named MVP of her traveling team this summer, and that her summer traveling coach said Jane had the fastest and most accurate first touch the league had seen in a kid her age. I know that she’s quick and aggressive and that since she put on a Mustangs jersey, she’s hardly even seen a bench, let alone warmed it.
A flash from the bake sale repeats in my head. I’d laughed when Gwendolyn tried to flex her McKinley muscles at me. What had she said, exactly? That nobody kicks a ball or plays an oboe without her say-so? That if I didn’t back down, she’d come for me and my kids?
“Go to the car, Janey Bear,” I whisper, and double-click my key fob to open the automatic door for her. “There’s a red Gatorade in the center console for you. It should be nice and cold.”
Jane shuffles toward the car, struggling to walk across the concrete in her cleats. “Mom,” she calls from her seat in the back, “are you coming?”
“One second, babe!” I call over my shoulder, clicking the button to shut the door. Across the field, Coach is wrapping up practice while the girls pull off their cleats and chug from the giant insulated jugs their moms had filled with ice and filtered water.
At my feet, a painted yellow line shouts “PARENT ZONE: DO NOT CROSS.” On the other side is a carpet of plush grass, a mixture that Gwendolyn bragged needed hardly any water and could be eaten or juiced by anyone in the community who needs additional antioxidants.
From the car, I hear Jane’s muffled shouts, but the time to hesitate has long passed. The consequence for breaking this rule, if I remember correctly, is a two-game ban for the offending parent. Fine, I thought, make it five. Let the whole Mom Squad come for me. This is not the first time a line has been crossed.
COACH MAKES A BREAK FOR HIS OFFICE WHEN HE SEES ME striding across the field. He’s trying to look casual, but he’s basically run-walking away from me as fast as you can run-walk while carrying a mesh bag full of soccer balls.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he calls over his shoulder as we near the doors of the Athletic Center, “you know I can’t discuss team business directly with parents. Any complaints need to be handled through the proper channels.”
I dash around him and open the door for him, following him into the dark basement where McKinley keeps athletic equipment and coaches’ offices and apparently doesn’t ventilate properly. I feel like I’m breathing in decades of body odor, which I probably am.
“What’s the proper channel, Coach? Is it . . . Gwendolyn?”
He turns around nervously. I’ve struck a nerve.
“I cannot comment on that matter at this time,” he says slowly. “I would like to have my lawyer present.”
I feel bad. I do! He isn’t even old enough to rent a car and whatever he gets paid is not going to cover the cost of the therapy needed to deal with parents like me, but this isn’t an interrogation. At least not formally.
“It was Gwendolyn, wasn’t it?” I challenge him, and he gives a nearly imperceptible nod. My fists instinctually tighten.
“Our rosters are set for the year, Mrs. Mitchell,” he says, reaching for the door of his tiny office. “I-I look forward to having Jane as a valued member of our team. Please address any further questions to Gwendolyn James and the rest of the Athletics Committee.”
“Thanks, Coach!” I slam the door harder than I mean to, but I’m satisfied by the sound the door handle makes rattling in place. “I’ll do that!” I shout toward the closed door. “I’ll follow up with Gwendolyn!”
26
Carla
I’ve seen a lot of crazy bitches in my life. I mean, I once saw a girl rip out another girl’s eyebrow ring in my high school cafeteria. There was so much blood that two guys from the football team threw up. The mid-nineties were insane, but so are angry moms nowadays.
I would give my right boob (it’s smaller, anyway) to have been there to see Amy go apeshit on Gwendolyn at the bake sale in front of her little posse of prim and proper moms. Amy claims she was “calm and respectful,” but I was waxing Glenda Whitaker’s hoo-ha today and she was on the phone the whole time talking about how Amy dropped the c-word, and how Amy threatened to stab Gwendolyn with a blunt scissor she grabbed from the kindergarten room. It’s an inspiring amount of exaggeration, and I’m proud of Amy even for the shit these moms made up.
I can’t blame Amy one bit. I always knew that Gwendolyn was a stone-cold bitch. You can tell everything about a person by how they tip, and Gwendolyn tips as if she’s one day away from foreclosure. She tips 5 percent on salon services for the love of God. And I mean, exactly 5 percent. She’s a human calculator, and she rounds down to the nearest penny, not up. Maybe that’s how rich people stay rich? By giving exactly 5 percent to the women who shave off their calluses and laser off the top layer of their faces and wax their incredibly bushy lady parts?
If Amy was “calm and respectful” at the bake sale, she’s currently “buzzed and angry,” pacing around her living room like a rabid dog. I’m probably not helping the situation, but sometimes when I see a fire, I just want to throw some lighter fluid on it and see what happens.
“Look,” I suggest, “why don’t we just go settle this the old-fashioned way and slash her tires?”
Amy shakes her head. “Not good enough.”
“We could burn her house down! It happens all the time and it’s hard to catch a first-time arsonist.” Kiki makes a good point, but Amy isn’t having it.
“No,” she barks, and I swear her eyes turn jet-black like the girl from The Ring. “She fucked with my kid. I’m going to get her where it hurts.”
“That’s a good idea, actually,” Kiki agrees. “Bernard kicked me in the vagina a few months ago and he actually broke my vagina bone. Did you know that’s possible? But you have to hit the right angle.”
“Kiki.” Amy grins like the Joker. “What does Gwendolyn love more than anything?”
“Coconut oil. You can use it as a makeup remover, a supplement, a cooking oil, a vaginal lubricant, a hair conditioner . . .”
Amy shakes her head.
“The Mom Squad.”
Kiki and I are silent. This is better than arson. Better than a good old-fashioned street fight. This is diabolical. It’s genius.
“So, you’re going to kick them in the vagina?” Kiki, apparently, is having a hard time connecting the dots. She’s had half a glass of boxed wine, which is almost enough to get her blackout drunk.
>
“She’s going to run for PTA president, you dumbass!”
Kiki gasps like she’s just been told Amy has six months to live.
“Amy!” she cries. “You can’t do that! Gwendolyn owns this school and every mom in it! She’ll kill you! Even worse . . . you’ll lose!”
DO LESS!
VOTE FOR AMY
Are you tired?
Are you sick of trying to be perfect?
Then cast your vote for
AMY MITCHELL FOR PTA PRESIDENT
Fewer meetings
Less BS
More free time
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I figure the best way to get the word out about Amy’s presidential bid is to print up some flyers. Well, I figured wrong. Because I spent a good thirty minutes this morning letting some old man named Craig stare at my boobs at Kinko’s and none of these bitches will even look at a flyer. I blame Kiki. Or, her twins, at least. I didn’t even know it was possible to fit two kids into those backpack thingies, but Kiki has her two mongrels strapped to her torso like a bomb vest. “Bote! Bote!” they parrot back and forth to each other, pawing at the flyers with their sticky little hands. Kiki has had at least one cup of coffee this morning, and it shows.
“A vote for Amy is a vote for FREEDOM!” she shouts to nobody in particular as we stand at the drop-off line, waiting for our moment.
“Vote for Amy Mitchell for PTA president! She’ll do a really good job!” she pleads to a group of moms who pretend not to hear her.
“Please just take this flyer! Just consider your options!” She’s losing it now.
If I’d known Kiki needed to bring her entire collector’s set of kids to do this, I would have just told her to stay home.
I wish I hadn’t printed so many of these. I also wish I hadn’t given Craig a nip slip. It was a total waste of paper and of sexual favors.
“Do you think this is what those poor Mormon kids feel like when they go door to door?” Kiki asks, looking like someone peed in her Cheerios.
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