I glanced down at my phone, noticing out of the corner of my eye, that a tall man in a knit shirt, dark jeans, and suede loafers had appeared at the top of the bleachers. Before I knew it, he was sitting down next to me. “What are you doing here, Colin?” I hissed, while scanning the room. Hopefully no one was watching.
“Rachel posted on her Instachat that preseason was starting.”
I made a mental note to have her block him. “I told you—”
He flashed a big smile at me and spoke a little more loudly than I would have liked. “I thought that talking in person might make a difference.” A few people glanced over.
“You had no right to show up here,” I whispered, noticing that Lee and Jess were now staring. “Your presence will only confuse Rachel. Please go.”
“Fine.” Colin stood up. “But I think you’re being precipitous.” I glared at his retreating back until the whistle blew.
The girls were now running up and down the court, in the action. Rachel was dribbling the ball, passing to the others. After the first quarter had gone by with her taking several tries to score, she caught a pass, set her body into position, and made a basket, scoring three points. “Go, Rachel!” I hooted and applauded, along with the coach. Rachel gave me a look, so I sealed my lips and watched the rest of the game without a peep.
Whenever Lexi, Collette, or Phoebe’s kid scored, Lee and company shouted and clapped, but only for their daughters and those in the chosen group. I wondered if Rachel was aware of this. There were other parents too, but I didn’t know them. A couple of women had taken seats a few rows behind the contingent, and also screamed only whenever certain kids made baskets.
A few parents were more diplomatic in their show of support, but only a handful. I decided that Jess, Audrey, and Phoebe, were like members of a college sorority, striving to fit into Lee’s group, no matter what cruelty ensued. The clique was their oxygen tank.
While we were driving home, Rachel played on her cell phone. “Any nice girls on your team?” I asked.
“It’s the same people from school,” she said without looking up. “Can we have pizza and watch a movie in bed?”
“Sure.”
It turned out to be fun; giggling at Will Ferrell’s portrayal of an elf come to earth, while eating our slices. It was nice to see my daughter smiling again. But given the situation with the moms and kids, I suspected that our good cheer wouldn’t last very long.
It did not. After waking up the following morning with my mind pinging like a pinball machine, from Rachel’s misery to Lee and the other mothers, and back, I couldn’t sit still. Getting out of the house would help.
“Come on, let’s go for a run,” I said, trying to rouse Rachel from her phone.
“Nice sweats, mom. Where’d you get them, the Knicks uniform archives?”
They’d looked kind of cute when I grabbed them from the sale rack. “They’re yours anytime you want to borrow them,” I said as Rachel slid into the back seat of the car.
I parked on a quiet street and admired the changing leaves as we headed to the track. She went around once, then played Candy Crush in the stands while I huffed and puffed my way through a few more laps. Man I hated jogging. My motto had always been, “Don't run unless someone's chasing you.”
I told Rachel we could grab a frozen yogurt after doing a few errands. We quickly did the grand tour: pharmacy, dry cleaner, and shoemaker. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting at the counter of the sweet shop. “Tell me about school, honey?” I asked as she swiveled on a tall stool.
“It’s fine.”
“What did you do in science this week?”
“Nothing much. We did a lab on butterflies. Right now the larva is at the stage that’s called a pupa.” She busied herself with the cell. “Look, I made it to the ninth level.”
“Bet I can beat you,” I said.
“No way. You can’t even get to Level 3.”
I had never tried this game. “We’ll see about that. Winner gets an extra scoop and sprinkles.”
I managed to coax a smile, but couldn’t help feeling sad. Once again Rachel had made no mention of anything social.
A few hours later, we were sitting on the sofa watching a sitcom about a family of witches and warlocks, when Rachel grinned and invited me to look at her phone. Since she rarely bestowed confidences these days, I was eager to see what she was sharing.
It was something the kids called a “Tribute,” a flattering post on her Instachat feed. Rachel had written: “Happy Birthday Mom. Thank you for everything you do. Love you!” Above the words was a photo of us hiking in one of the upstate parks we’d discovered last summer.
My heart fluttered. My daughter didn’t find me annoying—at least some of the time! Glancing around the old room at the faded grass cloth wallpaper, wishing real time had a pause button with which my happy moment could be preserved forever, I reached over and hugged Rachel. “This is beautiful. I love you too, sweetie. Why don’t I make a special breakfast for my birthday tomorrow?”
The next morning I made the pancakes, arranging strawberries in a half-circle smile with two fat blueberries for eyes, and a glob of whipped cream at the top. Julie called, and she, Hal, and Carly sang “Happy Birthday” into the phone, while Rachel giggled.
The mood changed quickly while we were eating. Rachel showed me her phone. Katie, Audrey’s kid, had posted a vomit emoji, while Lexi added a laughing face. Rachel deleted both comments.
Another day, another bully. The kids were just as bad as their moms, and it was getting to me.
A little bit later when Rachel suggested we get the first Harry Potter book and read it together, I felt a tiny surge of hope: we were a team and together we would conquer the girl problems. Then Alva came to drop Rachel off at school, and I headed for work, still feeling burdened, but making time to grab lunch at a salad bar close to the train station.
It was the type of place that had lots of sustainable products and smoothies made with kale. In the back, I saw my patient, Maureen, chatting with a woman. They were hunched together, whispering.
I’d have to be quick. Holding utensils and filling a plate with greens, chicken, and vegetables—apparently they mixed everything together at the counter—I’d passed by the drink line and ordered a tea to go. Grabbing a giant chocolate chip cookie in Saran Wrap and sticking it between my lips, I turned and promptly bumped into Maureen, who had gotten up to get a cup of coffee. We nodded and smiled. I broke into a sweat, resting my purchases on the counter, and handing the cashier my debit card.
When I was in the doorway putting on my coat, I heard the cashier ask her about the new yoga studio that was opening up in the next town, but raced out without stopping to hear the answer.
I finally made it to my office feeling like a goldfish, or maybe a canary, whatever the trapped and cornered creature was. Let your psychology practice distract you. It’s easy, I told myself, all you have to do is focus on work.
But wait—these people were my work.
Eight
Lunch Ladies
My phone lit up with an electronic reminder: another tour of cafeteria duty. My dread rose; though I wanted to help Rachel and check in on her, handing out pizza with Lee and her acolytes was the last thing I wanted to do.
As soon as I arrived, there they were, clustering by the kitchen area, pulling on rubber gloves, and stacking cheese pies and paper plates. I hovered in the doorway, wondering if she or any of the others felt awkward, but they didn’t seem at all concerned.
Jess raced across the room to kiss my cheek and pet my faux pony tote bag. “Love your purse,” she purred. Why she was acting like we were pals when she’d recently left Rachel out? I felt like slapping her manicured hand away, but managed a hello before moving toward the table where the pizzas were.
It was excruciating, being trapped in a room full of PTA phonies and forcing myself to be civil. I heard a clamor as the kids began to take seats. “You get that one.” Jess was point
ing, directing me to work the third grade table.
Once the littler ones had left, Rachel’s group marched in. I saw her sit at the end of her bench next to a brown-haired girl I didn’t know. She gave me a look that said, “Keep away.” After I’d served the other tables, the brown-haired girl waved me over. I stood behind her and Rachel, straining to hear because she was speaking so softly. “I was supposed to get two pieces,” she said, pushing her thick brown hair away from her eyes. “Sure, Maya,” I said, noticing the name on her water bottle.
As I was walking to get another slice, I noticed that the woman with the short bob, who’d wanted to volunteer that first day, was delivering her son’s lunch. I tried to catch her eye and say hello, but she put the lunch down and left. Her son went back to trading Pokémon cards with his friends. I wished his mom would stop nursing a grudge.
Before I knew what was happening, Lee and I were face to face. “Well, if it isn’t Victoria. What are you doing here, defending the rights of the downtrodden, ostracized, and misunderstood?”
“That’s it. You let me know if you need an advocate.” I nodded briefly and stepped away.
Scanning the tables, I recalled how the kids had made disturbing Instachat comments and shook my head, disgusted that this was even an issue, disheartened that volunteering had long ceased being enjoyable.
Just as the hour was ending, Sharon texted, asking me to meet her at the local teashop.
Once we were situated with our steaming drinks, she dove right in. “How’s it going? Neil usually tells me nothing, but he did say that some of the others have started giving Rachel a hard time.” My kid was the talk of the fifth grade? That made me cringe.
She put a hand on my arm and continued. “When I asked why, he said he didn’t know. But if he mentions anything, I’ll tell you.” She shifted in her seat.
“My exterminator sold me a pest control package to address my vermin problem. Too bad it extended only to the actual mice.”
Sharon giggled. “Oh no.”
“It’s worse than I thought, the way these women act. Sometimes I’m afraid Rachel will be scarred from all the exclusion and nastiness.”
“You’re referring to the girls’ moms? Lee and Jess, and the rest of them?”
I nodded as Sharon sipped from her steaming cup. “They’re the worst. They don’t do much except work out and stop on the way home to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner.”
The image was so specific it made me laugh. I almost choked on my tea.
“Rachel will be okay. After this year, they’ll mix up the classes. She’ll meet some different kids, even though we’re stuck with the same people through the end of twelfth grade.” Sharon shifted in her chair. “Any time you want to talk, I’m available,” she added, gathering her purse and jacket. “Sorry, but I have to go home to take a call, a new client. But, I did want to mention, there’s a school benefit coming up right after the break. It’s a karaoke night; we should go.”
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe you can introduce me to some of your friends who aren’t in the bitchy clique?”
“Of course,” Sharon laughed.
A week later I was in the Westchester office when Amy buzzed in and sat down. Pulling her wavy black hair into a loose bun, she described how a group of PTA moms repeatedly ignored her, while their girls told Lucy there was no room in the afterschool class. “How can that be possible? Everyone else who signed up got in! Then the girls laughed when she showed up at the meeting and tried to join. I heard about it after work.”
She balled her fists. “I hate them—especially the mothers. They’re like a bunch of junior high school girls, planning parties while someone who isn’t invited listens in. They’re just so small-minded. I went online last night and checked all of their social media accounts: Facebook, Instachat, Twitter, every last one. And I looked at the kids’ accounts too, the open ones. I didn’t post, just figured out who the key players were, parents and kids. Information is power, you know.”
I felt the hair on my arms rise. Reading a bunch of preteens’ social media posts, trawling the internet, and checking up on people? That was creepy. I couldn’t see myself doing that. But I understood her frustration.
The next morning after the last bell had rung and all the stragglers were racing past, we were parked in front of the school. Rachel was refusing to get out of the car.
“I can’t go today. Can I go back to bed?”
I turned off the ignition and got out to join her in the back seat. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“My stomach hurts.” She was crying now. “All the girls are going to be emojis together. Even Maya—who they say they don’t like. They got costumes online, and the DeVrys are making a big haunted house in their yard for Halloween in a couple of weeks. They were talking about it at lunch yesterday.”
Rachel turned to face me and took a deep breath. “Mom, I don’t know if I have any friends.” She buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed. The sadness filled my chest.
“Sweetheart,” I stroked her head. “Everybody feels like that sometimes.”
“Can I stay home alone?” she asked.
“I guess you can today, but you’ll have to go back tomorrow.”
“I’ll just go in,” Rachel’s tone was glum.
“We’ll try to figure this out when I get home from work, okay?” I was kicking myself again for moving to Mayfair. We were stuck—you didn’t just give up a mortgage-free house in a top school district—but since the same kids would be together in middle school and beyond, something had to be done.
Watching Rachel enter the building, head down, I no longer cared about rules concerning parents in the classroom and PTA hierarchies. I needed to act, but instead headed to work, where I spent the rest of the day making inroads on everyone’s problems, but my own.
Hours later, I’d just locked the door to my office when it hit me: Why not look at Guardian, an independent school with small classes? Perhaps sending Rachel there would solve our problems.
Guardian was the only private school in the area that offered a number of scholarships. And it was convenient, halfway between the city and our house. The website said the application deadline had passed a couple of days earlier, but I had an idea.
After composing an email to the headmaster, introducing myself and referencing a mutual friend, I asked if he could see me on an admissions matter, and hit “send.” When he replied, saying I was free to stop by, I headed out the door and into the car. The school was just south of Mayfair on the highway, a complex of stone and more modern buildings surrounded by meticulously maintained sports fields.
The office was in an old Tudor house close to the entrance of the campus. After passing through a huge wooden door, I found myself in the tasteful beige admissions office, standing next to a black rocker with the word “Veritas” on it.
“Hello,” I said to the receptionist, smiling to mask my anxiety. “Victoria Bryant. The headmaster is expecting me.” She spoke quietly into the phone, and before long, a lanky man in a tweed vest was striding across the carpet.
“Dr. Robert Lacanne. What can I do for you?”
Lacanne hadn’t even crossed the room, and he was already finished with the introductions. My best hope was to turn on the charisma. I stepped forward to shake, but tripped on a bump in the thick carpet. As the headmaster moved to steady me, I pumped inadvertently, shaking both hands at once, managing to turn a routine introduction into a full upper-body activity. There was only one thing for me to do: get a rocker that said “Klutz.”
When I regained my composure, I said, “Hi. My name is Dr. Victoria Bryant.”
He nodded. “You asked to see me?”
Ugh, this wasn’t going to be easy. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.
The headmaster just nodded. A Jehovah’s Witness would get a warmer welcome, but I barreled on.
“I’d like to discuss my daughter, Rachel Bryant. She’s a fifth grader at Barnum Elementary.
”
“What did you want to discuss?” He glanced at his watch.
“Uh, well, I’m considering enrolling her, and I came to pick up an application.”
“Our deadline was October 14th. At this point, there’s nothing I can do. Thank you for your interest.” He stepped towards the receptionist’s desk.
I kept talking to overcome my growing desperation. “She’s so excited about studying here. So is there any way you can give me an application?”
The Headmaster glowered. As my panic rose, another man came out of the back of the office. He was tall and athletic with a masculine jaw and strong forearms, and something about him was familiar. Now the new man was also staring at me; I was starting to feel like a zoo animal.
“We make clear on our website that deadlines are final. No exceptions.” The Headmaster looked at his watch again. “Our meeting is concluded,” he said motioning toward the door.
My anxiety level surged. This was not only just plan B, but also C, D, and E.
“Wait. Please.” My voice sounded high-pitched.
He turned to stare. “Sir, I’m a practicing psychologist with over fifteen years experience, and my credentials are impeccable. I could help out, provide services . . . . ”
A nerve pulsed in his cheek. “We have several clinicians on staff, Yale-trained.”
I’d googled, and was well aware of the staff’s pedigree. “Is there anything I can do to help my daughter’s chances?”
“Miss Bryant . . . .”
Had he intentionally demoted me?
“Guardian does not tolerate requests of this sort, which raise the specter of favoritism and sully the admissions process.” He walked toward me and took my arm. “And now I must advise you again that our meeting is concluded. Good Day,” he propelled me toward the door and disappeared into a back room.
Barbarians at the PTA Page 8