Barbarians at the PTA

by Stephanie Newman

  I shifted in my chair. “All of that must have been really difficult to hear, but you have to consider the source. Adolescent girls are known to be mean—they’re famous for it. Their sniping says more about them than about Lucy, or you.”

  My patient sobbed wordlessly. When she finally spoke her voice went flat, and her eyes looked dead. “It was the moms.”

  Now it was my turn to be speechless. Maybe I had misheard. No, she’d definitely said “moms.”

  A picture formed: a bunch of gossips, ripping apart the entrails of their neighbors’ children, scheming to advance the interests of their own kids, blind to the collateral damage they caused.

  Dread sank into my gut. What would women like these do to Rachel now that she was at Barnum?

  When I arrived later that afternoon, hundreds of people mobbed the front steps of the school, though thankfully no patients. Normally I’d let Rachel’s sitter, Alva, pick her up, but I’d worked a shortened day to get to the classroom by three o’clock in the afternoon.

  I’d hoped to spend some more time with my daughter in the coming year and planned to transition away from full-time in Manhattan. I’d started working Tuesday and Friday mornings in Westchester, and was excited for Rachel’s final year of grammar school—my last chance to spend time in the classroom and be one of those moms who volunteered and served on committees.

  When the school doors opened, a woman in secretary glasses and overalls announced: “Caregivers and parents, you may now proceed to the classrooms and wait outside in the hall for your children.”

  There was an immediate charge; I felt like I was at the Running of the Bulls.

  I stepped quickly down the fifth grade hallway with the others, eager to get a glimpse of the classroom. They were weaning parents off hovering in preparation for the transition to junior high. By late fall, no one would be allowed in.

  I peeked into the room. A group of kids was at the board with the teacher, solving a math problem. The rest were sitting at their desks, working independently. Rachel was biting her pencil and staring at a textbook. She whispered something to the girl next to her, and they giggled quietly. Maybe moving hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. Other parents arrived and began to chat as they waited in the hallway for the school day to end.

  I was about to introduce myself to a woman who’d just arrived at the classroom when the bell rang. The teacher waved the parents in and smiled, as we filed past, moving around the room to collect our children. “Victoria Bryant,” I said. “Rachel’s mom.”

  A small sinewy woman zigzagged across the room and came to stand next to me. I found myself staring at her slender form, bright-blue eyes, and perfectly highlighted hair. “Are you Rachel’s mother?” she said.

  My work clothes were rumpled and there were bags under my eyes. I glanced at her outfit: snug jeans and red knit top with billowing sleeves. She’d paired the ensemble with dark boots and a matching leather satchel. I wondered how this mom was so pulled together on a weekday afternoon, when some of us looked like we had just come from cleaning out a garage. “Yes, I am. Hi,” I said.

  “I’m Jess. My daughter is Lexi. She and Rachel had lunch together today—I got a text about it. Rachel is adorable, by the way.”

  Her eyes were friendly. “Thanks, Jess.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I thought I recognized the tiny blond girl who’d been in the hallway earlier that day. She stood with one hand on her hip, directing classroom traffic. “We’re taking that. Use this one,” she said, pointing at a bin of plastic calculators. The other kids obeyed without a peep.

  “Hi.” A wiry woman with shoulder-length dark hair and fringed bangs had come over to stand with Jess and me.

  “You’re new, right? Welcome.” She was blushing, almost shy. I liked her on the spot. Her openness reminded me of my friends from the city.

  I was happy she’d introduced herself. “Nice to meet you. I’m Victoria.”

  “Sharon. Nice to—”

  Jess interrupted. “Sharon’s son is in this class. Neil’s right over there.”

  I turned to look at a tall boy who was using his math textbook as a football and pretending to land the game-winning catch while his friends cheered him on. After a couple of seconds, he raised both arms and laughed, revealing a pair of well-placed dimples.

  “He’s so cute—” I began.

  Jess continued speaking: “You live in the old Walker house, right?” She was ignoring Sharon, speaking only to me. “We saw it listed years ago on the Tour of Homes. I’ve never been inside, but what curb appeal! It’s a gorgeous place. And huge! We used to pass by with the kids and make up stories about the family who originally lived there. Did you know there’s a book about the Walkers in the village library?”

  I hadn’t known. Jess barreled on. “My daughter, Lexi, has been dying to meet the girl who moved into that house. It was all she could talk about on the way to school this morning. By the way, what do you do? Psychologist, right? I googled you. I’m glad Rachel is in this class. There are a lot of nice girls. Oh, and I wanted to mention that a bunch of us are getting together in a couple of weeks. Maybe you can come along. We periodically plan a night to blow off some steam, otherwise we’d all go crazy.”

  “That sounds fun.” I glanced at Sharon, whose mouth was set in a hard line, and shivered involuntarily, remembering how Jess had looked through her moments earlier. “Nice meeting you, Victoria,” Sharon said, before walking off to find her son.

  Just then Rachel motioned from the other side of the classroom where she’d been standing with several other girls.

  “Can Lexi and I have a playdate today?” she called to me.

  “Sure.”

  I turned to look as Jess walked across the room and stood in the same area as Rachel, behind a slightly built blond girl with perfect braids. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. I was starting to figure out who went with whom, and decided that those two were right out of central casting: a gorgeous duo who smiled all the time and lacked any apparent obstacles in life.

  As Rachel and Lexi debated whose house was better, the girl who’d just been giving orders about the calculators came over. Like Lexi, she was small and blond, with deep-blue eyes. I didn’t get to see much more, though, because the glint of her enamel bangles picked up the fluorescent light of the classroom, distracting me. I recognized the bracelets instantly; a patient had mentioned coveting a similar set, but her husband had said, no way—too pricey.

  She strapped on the black knapsack—this was definitely the kid I’d seen earlier—and spoke. “My house, guys.”

  Lexi nodded. “Mom, Rachel and I are going to Collette’s.”

  Jess laughed at the trio before circling back to where I stood. “Like I was saying, a bunch of us are going out for a Ladies’ Night. Hopefully you can join us.”

  “That’s so kind. I’d love to.” It was nice to be included, but I felt uneasy, remembering how quickly Sharon had taken off.

  Jess was onto the next thing. “Hey, what about volunteering?” she asked. “Lee—that’s Collette’s mom; you’ll love her—assigned all the jobs over the summer, but we’ll squeeze you in if you’d like to come to the lunchroom and hand out pizza.”

  “Sure. I’d definitely enjoy doing something like that on my day off,” I replied.

  “What’s good?” she asked.

  “I can do some Fridays.”

  Jess nodded. “Perfect. I’ll put you on the schedule and email you the details.” She went to join the teacher, who had waved her over to a wall of student paintings. I smiled at Rachel, who was still chatting with the two girls. Jess came back toward me and paused to answer a text, giving me the “one minute” sign.

  In my peripheral vision, I noticed a couple of moms looking over in our direction. One woman wore her hair in a short brown bob. I turned full circle and made eye contact, but she looked away. The woman adjacent to her had sporty transitional glasses that changed color for sunlight. I couldn’t se
e her eyes because the lenses were adjusting to indoors, but thought she’d whispered something. It was hard to know in the chaos of kids’ conversations, parent sign-ups, and teacher greetings.

  The two of them motioned for their kids to wait, then approached Jess and me.

  “Hi, I’d love to be a cafeteria volunteer,” the one with glasses said.

  Jess finally looked up. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just gave the last spot to Victoria. She’s new. Have you met?”

  “Hi.” She nodded at me for a split second before addressing Jess. “I emailed you. Several times.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t get anything from you—better check my spam. Like I said, we’re good on lunchroom volunteers. But next time, for sure.” Jess went back to her phone messages.

  The women glanced at one another and walked back toward their children. “I’ve got the girls,” Jess said, quickly stepping to catch up with them as they sped down the hallway. “Text you my address later. Want to pick up Rachel at five thirty?”

  “Is that okay, Rach?” I called.

  “Yes,” she answered, turning around to smile at me. “Bye!” she called out before running to catch up to the others.

  Rachel seemed to be making friends. Phew.

  Turning to leave the classroom, I passed the whispering moms.

  “Hi.” I tried to be friendly. “Nice to meet you. My daughter just started here.” I scanned their faces. The one in glasses nodded slightly; the bobbed-haired woman barely looked up. And what was with the whispering? I’d made sure there were no clinical conflicts when I registered Rachel; the principal had been helpful and let me look at the class lists when I explained the situation, no names, of course. And though I had two patients, Maureen and Amy, who had kids in a different classroom, I wasn’t treating either of the women standing in front of me. No issue there.

  Even though some of the people seemed clique-y, I wasn’t going to dwell on the classroom situation. I’d understand the landscape better when I got to know all the players.

  Sharon came over on her way out. “Let’s have lunch one day.”

  “That would be great. May I take your number?” I asked, entering it into my phone as she dictated.

  I was grateful for the offer. It would be nice to have a friend who could fill me in about Barnum.

  Walking out of the school building, I paused to make a note—my upcoming stint at the cafeteria was a few weeks out—then, looked up into the sun and breathed in. The move seemed to be going well, while the parent personalities and classroom dilemmas were what I called “problems of the worried well.”

  Three

  This Old House

  I was lying on my side, half-awake. Rachel had crawled into my bed at 2 o’clock in the morning, burrowing in beside me, cocoon-like.

  Life’s road bumps had taught me to be grateful for the smallest blessings, like the warm skin and gentle breathing of my lively ten-and-a-half-year-old. In my years of practice, I had seen countless families struggle as their children suffered with school problems, mood disorders, and serious eating concerns. Recently, a physician colleague and I had to hospitalize a teenager who ate nothing but sugar packets. Her parents huddled in my office, the mother weeping as her husband stared mutely into the ether. Sometimes raising a child was like trying to manage your own private tsunami.

  I floated in and out of sleep until Rachel shook me.

  “Mom, wake up.” Rachel’s tone was serious. I opened my eyes immediately. She sat surrounded by pillows, her gray eyes wide and earnest beneath yesterday’s messy braids, her hand resting on my arm.

  “I have to ask you something.”

  I managed to locate my glasses. There were still thirty minutes before I had to get up for work.

  “Are you listening? Mom?”

  I braced myself for the worst. She’d been at Barnum for a little over a week. Was something wrong?

  She shook my arm. “Can I get an Instachat? Everyone at school has one. And pierced ears.”

  Earrings I could handle; it was all the other things, like social sites, that were harder for me. They meant Rachel was growing up, but I wasn’t nearly ready, despite knowing all along this day would come. Separation was inevitable. I’d read that in a textbook, or maybe it was written on a message inside of a fortune cookie. Either way, I’d have to let go. At least she wasn’t asking for a tattoo, not yet.

  “I’ll need to approve it,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Snaps” were supposed to disappear. But recipients found ways around their transience, and teens were routinely caught in compromising situations. “You know you can’t message strangers or send anyone photos of yourself.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “In a few minutes we have to start getting ready. We’ll talk more about Instachat and earrings later.” I was torn about breaking up our slumber party. Oops, there I was again, cataloging my feelings.

  Good or bad, compulsive or not, feelings had always been my focus. That was why I became a clinical psychologist, to understand them. I learned to handle life’s challenges without becoming overwhelmed by emotion. Losing both parents at once at the age of twelve, my grief was so bad it felt like I was going crazy. I’d see others laughing at school and feel cut off, alien. The days blurred, and everything was muddled and bleak. I finally figured out how to compartmentalize and get through the long hours, the loneliness. Doctor, heal thyself. Except for barely dodging that bullet at the altar, I’d mostly done okay.

  Rachel fell back to sleep and I tried to snuggle a little more. But my mind had started going and I could no longer relax.

  Shoving the sides of my pillow inward in the manner of a crazed accordion grinder, I sat up and rolled back down, vertebrae by vertebrae. But nothing I did seemed to have any impact. At least my abdominal muscles were getting a workout.

  My left eye insisted on peeking at the clock again: 5:48 a.m. I gave in; why rest when you can fret until dawn?

  I made my way downstairs, thinking at least I was enjoying the house. I loved the polished oak floors, wide curving stairway from entranceway to second floor, and gracious landing that gave way to a large parlor. Outside, there was even a sprawling veranda. Veranda. That was a fun word to say.

  But the good times ended there. The porch was elegant, but dilapidated, just like the rest of the place. The roof leaked, and the plumbing was shot. We couldn’t afford to do any major renovations. Rachel and I had figured it out, though. We would be okay as long as we didn’t run the shower and wash our clothing at the same time.

  Coffee beckoned. I made my way through the darkness, down the old staircase, noticing the feel of worn brocade under my toes. There was a rustling in the wall next to me, and my heart screeched to a halt. Hopefully there were no mice or other vermin here—that was all I needed. I inched forward into the kitchen, picturing Stuart Little on the counter, balancing on hind legs, waving a welcome sign. As my hand brushed the worn piece of lace covering the windowpane above the sink, I told myself that worrying about mice was ridiculous, and flipped on the light switch.

  A small spotlight shone beneath one cabinet, casting a single beam from countertop to floor, yet still leaving most of the room dark. Perfect. I could see enough to press the button, but still awaken gradually while the coffee brewed. Early morning was my time to think. I listened as each inky drop hit the glass carafe, and kept returning to the same thoughts: I was alone in the world with my wide-eyed pre-adolescent who was dependent upon me for survival. We had moved to the same village as two of my patients who had kids in the school that Rachel now attended, and which, according to one of them, was a place where a band of moms ran around committing all sorts of social atrocities.

  I wondered why I was so bothered by Amy’s last session and her Hunger Games view of life in town. Everyone I’d been meeting seemed nice; maybe she was exaggerating—or there was more to the story. Still, my patient wasn’t the only one who’d warned me about Mayfair. My daughter and I would eventual
ly learn the truth.

  It would be fine. Rachel was lively and resilient; my helicoptering was the last thing she needed. I pictured her the weekend we’d moved in, friends visiting from the city. As I unpacked in the bedroom, she called upstairs: “Bye, mom. We’re riding bikes.”

  There was a cacophony of sounds: a thumping, sneakers on wood mixed with peels of laughter. “Don’t forget your key—and you still have to do some unpacking!” I’d yelled over the din, but a resounding thud from the front door silenced my pleas. Peering out a window I watched as Rachel and her friends rode off over spotty crabgrass and patches of brown that had appeared where lawn was supposed to be, their Yankees T-shirts and baggy shorts fading into tiny blue dots before disappearing altogether.

  There were now percolating sounds emanating from across the room. The scent of hazelnut began to engulf me, slowly, sensuously; the potent beans causing my nostrils to vibrate and desire to grow until that first sip was all I could think about. It was a welcome respite from patient conflicts and worry about my child.

  The coffee pot beeped. Finally. Time to hit pause on the self-analysis and fight the shrink within.

  I crossed the floor, tiled in an ornate pattern of white and black. The rest of the room was limited to painted white wood cabinets and light tiles above the counters. My aunt’s improvements were surface-level, but elegant. I sipped and smiled as I heard the sound of bare feet above me.

  After drop off, I drove into the city, parked, and walked to my building. Ten minutes later, when my first appointment was scheduled, I opened my office door, noting the waiting room was free of occupants, human or otherwise. I got busy, filing paperwork and sorting through the mail.

  More than halfway into the hour, my patient, Maureen, sailed in, having commuted from Mayfair. I wondered if she knew that we were now neighbors whose kids attended the same school. She strode across the room, flipping her straight dark hair out of her eyes and smiling in my direction.

  Lowering herself into the patient chair, she began to speak. “I signed up to volunteer at a soup kitchen. Everyone around me is so focused on shallow and material things, like improving their tennis serve or lowering their golf handicap. I can’t wait to see my speech therapy friends after this. They’re doing good work, and I miss being part of that. Oh, and sorry I was late.” Maureen had quit her job as a pediatric speech pathologist when she’d moved out of the city.