Barbarians at the PTA

by Stephanie Newman

  I didn’t want to be too smug. All mothers stepped into their children’s shoes, and I always felt Rachel’s pain. But some of us were also able to maintain some distance and step out again. And while blurred boundaries were an occupational hazard for all moms, the ones whose primary identity centered on parenting were the most vulnerable. Moms like Lee, Jess, and their friends struggled; they were lost in a pattern of relentless, over-involved mothering.

  I glanced down to the front of the room. Lee’s head was tilted slightly, her jaw set and arms crossed in a defiant manner. She didn’t seem cognizant of the trouble she was in.

  The chief of police and detective from the cyber crimes unit were nodding and walking down the aisles, converging on the stage. The chief asked Lee if she wanted to call an attorney.

  She raised her chin, giving him an angry and defiant look. Lee was so arrogant she was almost delusional. I guessed her PTA and social power had gone to her head.

  Rachel was sitting with her hands knitted together in her lap. Her brow was wrinkled. “Did I do something bad? Will Collette’s mom go to prison?”

  “Don’t worry, honey. It’s not your fault. These detectives told me they’ve been looking into this. Instachat can trace the people who make accounts.”

  That was all true. I couldn’t believe she had been so careless, messaging kids from her computer and making accounts to target others. I put an arm around Rachel. “I don’t think she will go to jail for posting on your Insta or for receiving your message just now. You didn’t do anything—promise. Actually, you’re kind of a hero!” Rachel smiled and sat back to watch the rest of the drama unfold.

  The room quieted as people sat forward in their chairs and listened. The detective was speaking. “You know you have the right to counsel, Mrs. DeVry. I can’t advise you about that, but we are going to take you in for questioning.” After reading Lee her rights, he added: “commenting online on the posts of minors, threatening them, is a crime, Mrs. DeVry. If tried and convicted, you could face jail time.” There was a collective exhale of shock and disbelief.

  The detective glanced at the principal, who looked slightly green, as though he might pass out. The principal stepped into action as the officers led Lee down the aisle and out the door. He went up on stage and over to the podium and spoke into the mic. “Uh, we are going to end for the evening. Please drive safely. Thank you and good night.”

  Jim texted that he’d meet us by the double doors. Rachel went off to compare notes on BucketBeast with Maya. After the crowd had filed out, I made a beeline for Jim.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I love you,” I said, burying myself in the strong arms he’s just finished wrapping around me.

  Twenty-Five

  Front Row Action

  After exiting the building, I saw Lee out front, flanked by two burly officers, walking toward a waiting police car. She didn’t meet my eye and I no longer cared. She put on a pair of dark glasses, and lowered her head. Someone called her name, and Lee pulled her glasses down the bridge of her nose and glanced over. Our eyes locked, and on impulse, I lifted my fingertips to my lips and blew her a kiss.

  She was not amused.

  I knew there would be reverberations from today’s events. For starters, there was Amy. I’d have to deal with her when we next met. She was bound to have an intense reaction to what happened at the workshop, as was Maureen. In each case, I’d discuss my patient’s feelings about the presentations, before I referred her to another therapist. As for Peter getting away with cheating on his wife? My going public would only hurt their kids. I knew how it felt to be on the end of a cheating scandal, and I’d think about whether to tell Jess, or instead, confront Peter and insist he tell the truth to his wife.

  A couple of Saturdays later, I’d glanced down at Jim. He’d stayed over and was lying next to me on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket watching TV. We’d been talking about moving in together and hinting about an engagement. I asked what would it be like, going from a bachelor pad to rooming with two females. Maybe he’d feel suffocated having our clutter and schedules imposed on him. I was sure he’d miss having time alone.

  “I’ve had forty years of that,” he said, pulling me close. “I want to be with you and Rachel.”

  I hugged him tightly, thinking how thrilled I was to have him here, but also wanting to be sensitive to Rachel’s feelings. I’d spoken to her before he came over. I’d put a toe in, hinting that Jim and I really cared about one another and he’d probably be staying over sometimes. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, lifted a hand, and uttered only one syllable: “Ew!”

  I was figuring out how to prepare her that he’d be sleeping in my room when she said, Stop!” and covered her ears, groaning, “TMI.”

  Now Jim was nudging me: “I think it’s time you got out of your comfort zone, Vic.”

  I um-hmm’d. A show about undercover bosses was on, and I was riveted.

  Jim rolled his eyes. “This program is unwatchable. Hey, Rach, come in.”

  Rachel was nowhere to be found.

  We looked around, calling out until we found her, in the kitchen, FaceTiming Maya. They were playing chess in a group chat with a couple of kids from the next town. Rachel had played in a tournament and started texting and chatting with kids in that club. I could hear her counseling a curly haired girl who was complaining about how she’d been left out of a big party. Rachel advised, “‘Quality is better than quantity. Who cares what the popular kids do, as long as you have real friends who like you for you?’”

  Jim glanced in my direction. My advice had sunk in. My daughter was making new friends, and sounding much happier. Just yesterday she had announced her intention to quit soccer and go back to her old mainstay, softball.

  Rachel’s growth filled me with pride. She was finding herself, just as I knew she would. I inhaled deeply, and she looked over at Jim and me.

  “Later. Bye,” she clicked off her phone. On the floor next to her, there was a large box. “This is for you, Mom.” She handed the package to me. I could see that she’d wrapped it herself.

  “What’s this, honey?”

  “Open it. You’ll see.” I pulled off the shiny paper and stared, unsure of what to make of the item in front of me. It was domed and hard, a thick black strap hung from the side.

  “It’s for zip-lining, Mom! I’ve got one too. Jim drove me to the store yesterday. He wants to take us this weekend.”

  Jim took one look at my face, and started to laugh. He turned to Rachel. “Remember, I said this is provisional. Obviously, we need to ask your mom’s permission.”

  “Come on, please? It’ll be fun!”

  I nodded, clearly outvoted. Though I knew it would probably be fine. The closest facility had safeguards in place, and a lot of people had children’s parties there. I preferred terra firma, but Rachel and Jim looked so excited that I realized I had to let go, on many different levels.

  Two hours later, we were at the climbing area adjacent to the old apple orchard at the outskirts of town. The technician, a guy in cargo pants and Ray-Bans, wearing a name plate that said “Dave B.,” spelled it all out to me: “Hold on clearly and firmly. Tighten the buckle, and keep your helmet on at all times. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  Dave B. released his hold on the rope, and I flew forward. I could hear Jim and Rachel cheering as I slid across the line, over the old barn. Gliding as never before, I held onto the ropes as my feet swayed and my lungs filled with fresh air. I was making up for lost time, my spirit soaring.

  Acknowledgments

  I am very grateful to the people at Skyhorse Publishing: Tony Lyons, thank you for letting me tell this story; Rebecca Shoenthal, my talented editor, advocate, and cheerleader: working with you has been a dream come true; Kathleen Schmidt, I am in awe of your knowledge of the book business and your always entertaining Twitter feed; Daniel Brount, your cover design captured perfectly the essence of this story; and Kirsten Dalley, you don’t miss a thing;
and to Candace Nicholson, Jill Schoenhaut, and the rest of the team. Thank you all.

  To my agent, Karen Gantz, who worked tirelessly to bring this book into the world: you have my undying appreciation. I heart you!

  I especially want to acknowledge Leslie Wells, gifted and generous editor from whose vision and assistance this story benefited immensely, and Jane Rosenman who provided thoughtful input and support.

  I would also like to thank Will Weisser for his invaluable guidance on all aspects of the publishing process, and Eric Rayman for his wise counsel, and give special thanks to my writing buddies, Aimee Trissel and Sam Panzier, as well as our fearless instructor, Arlaina Tibensky.

  To Jimin Han and Pat Dunn, my teachers at The Writers Institute of Sarah Lawrence College, as well as Julia Sonenshein and Susan Weissbach, thank you for weighing in; to Daisy Florin, Gloria Hatrick, and Nancy Adams Taylor, thank you for reading an early draft of the story.

  I am also grateful to my colleagues, Rebecca Mannis, PhD, Nancy Stuzin, and Rita Clark, MD, for sharing their expertise.

  I would like to express my deepest appreciation to the many friends who have helped this book find its way to the finish line: Dana Greissman, I appreciate your eagle eye and uncanny ability to spot factual inconsistencies. Carrie Rabuse, Jared Thaler, and Amy Westerby, your help with the visuals was truly meaningful. To Mardee Handler, Joy Thaler, Sharon Ho, Wendi Strier, Valerie Golden, Erika Lederman, Anita Bae, and Duane Desiderio, I know you guys are rooting for me, and it means more than I can say. Likewise, Brenda and Joe Berger, thank you for encouraging me to see this through.

  And finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to my family: including, Michael, for his tireless support, sage advice, and willingness to brainstorm and share his spectacular vocabulary (while suffering through five o’clock in the morning coffee and banana deliveries); Arianne, my English and Latin scholar, grammarian, and constant source of pride and inspiration; Peyton, my IT department and go-to source for all matters social media: you are always a bright spot in my day.

  I am enormously grateful to my parents for their continued encouragement. Take a victory lap, Mom. This never would have happened without you!

  Book Club Questions

  1. Social aggression, cliques, and exclusion among adolescents and adults is nothing new, but this story deals with a crossover between these two age groups: moms bullying adolescents. Did this take on the age-old phenomenon of bullying surprise you? Why or why not?

  2. Do you know anyone who actively campaigns to ensure that certain kids and parents are marginalized, excluded, or left out? Why do you think they behave this way?

  3. Psychologists maintain that parental overinvolvement harms adolescents by interfering with their ability to develop the capacity to make choices and decisions about their own lives. Do you agree or disagree?

  4. Should children and teens be allowed to exclude, even if it means some are left out of social events? In these situations, should parents step in to help prevent exclusion or should adolescents be allowed to fail? What are the potential upsides and downsides of “fixing everything” versus letting teens or pre-teens navigate for themselves?

  5. Parents of teenagers and beyond: now that you are on the other side of school yard bullying and social engineering, comment on what you have noticed about the effects of social aggression in the phases that followed early adolescence. For example, do children of overly involved parents face more difficulties when they go away to college or start their first jobs? Or does the level of parental involvement during adolescent development not have a significant impact on the psychological and social functioning of young adults?