The Party

by Robyn Harding

  Her client, Neil, entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, taking a seat across the utilitarian table from her. Neil also seemed incongruous with Apex Outerwear’s brand. He was an incredibly stylish, rather effeminate man who seemed infinitely more suited to sipping fine wine and watching opera than snowshoeing through the wilderness to pitch a waterproof tent.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Neil said. He seemed to have forgotten that Kim had actually requested the meeting. She had put it off as long as possible, but it was time to discuss finding a new designer. Obviously, she and Tony could no longer work together. They had delivered the last flyer on time and on budget; though Kim had submitted her copy to Tony a couple of days late. With all the crap going on in her life, she deserved a little leeway. And in a passive-aggressive way, she had wanted Tony to stress and panic. In the end, they’d pulled it together. But Tony had to be replaced.

  She had considered contacting him as a professional courtesy; she’d gone so far as to compose an e-mail before deciding it was redundant and deleting it. Tony was a jerk, but he wasn’t stupid. He had to know Kim would be finding someone new. And he had plenty of other projects to keep him busy.

  “Good of you to see me,” Kim said. “I know how busy you are.”

  “It’s insane,” Neil said. “So I hope you don’t mind if I get straight to the point.”

  The point?

  “We’re going to take the monthly flyer in another direction. We want to focus more on social media and our online presence.”

  “I can adapt to that,” Kim said confidently. At best, Kim had a cursory knowledge of social media platforms. She’d created a Facebook profile and an Instagram account—neither of which she looked at—to keep her kids on their toes, but she wasn’t exactly a Luddite. And she was an intelligent woman. She could learn Internet marketing; it wasn’t neurosurgery.

  “We think this is a logical time for us to find another writer … someone more tuned in to the eighteen-to-thirty-four market.”

  “I’m tuned in to that market,” Kim lied, her voice shrill and tinged with desperation. “I’ve got a lot of millennials in my life.” But she didn’t. Her nephew in Oregon qualified, though their relationship had dwindled to an annual Christmas card with twenty bucks inside—twenty bucks because she had no idea what to buy someone that age. Damn.

  Neil sighed and looked down at the table. “I’m sorry, Kim. But we’re not going to renew your contract. We’ll give you a month’s notice and write you a good reference, but …”

  There was something loaded in that but. This wasn’t about tapping into millennial buying patterns; there was something deeper at play here. She felt anger well up inside her. “What’s really going on here, Neil?”

  “As I said, it’s time we updated our approach. It’s not personal… .”

  “Have you talked to Tony Hoyle?”

  Guilt flitted across Neil’s almost feline features. “We’ve always loved Tony’s design work. He came to us with a proposal. We liked what he had to say.”

  “He was my subcontractor. The relationship started with me.”

  “You were on a month-to-month contract, Kim. Tony brought us an exciting young writer who had innovative ideas on platform management. It’s time to step up our game.”

  Kim leaned back in her chair. “This is ageism.”

  “It’s not.” Neil leaned back, too, mirroring Kim’s body language. “Tony said you’re having some legal troubles. He said you were having trouble getting your copy in on time.”

  “Once. And I was only two days late.”

  Neil pursed his lips for a moment before addressing her in a purposefully gentle voice. “It sounds like, perhaps, you should focus on your family and your lawsuit for now. I’m sure you’ll be able to pick up more work when your personal life settles down.”

  He knew. He knew everything: Ronni’s eye, the lawsuit, Jeff’s drug use, Kim and Tony’s brush with adultery… . Tony had shared every sordid detail with their client in order to steal the account. The evidence was in Neil’s eyes, full of pity, disgust, judgment… .

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she stood. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, voice quivering. “I’ve always been a consummate professional.”

  Neil stood, too. “And my reference letter will reflect that.”

  Kim moved toward the boardroom door, her body vibrating with rage and shame. Neil didn’t follow, didn’t offer to walk her out, but his relief at getting rid of her was palpable. He couldn’t wait for the dismissal to be over so he could forge ahead with his new, hipster flyer team. Well, it was not going to be quite that neat and tidy.

  She paused in the doorway and turned toward him. “I didn’t want to say anything but … Tony’s being investigated for child pornography.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” She walked out.

  IT SHOULDN’T HAVE upset her so much. She didn’t need the job—Jeff had made that abundantly clear since the day she’d signed the contract—but she wanted the job. That flyer was the only thing Kim had that was hers alone. It was her foot in the door, her semi-creative outlet. It was the only fucking thing that kept her from becoming the cliché of the overbearing stay-at-home mom with no life outside her children. “I work part-time,” she would say, and watch the impressed expressions on people’s faces, see them marvel at her ability to juggle a job and hands-on parenting. As she drove toward Hillcrest, her chest felt heavy with the weight of longing and regret.

  She had to pull herself together. It was her children’s art show this afternoon and she could hardly show up tearful and pitiful. Kim now knew that she was gossip fodder; she knew there would be eyes on her, judging her and watching for some slipup. There was no way she would give those jerks the satisfaction of seeing her sniveling over the loss of her blurb-writing job. And while part of her wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and cry for two hours straight, Kim would not let her kids down. Aidan was displaying an etching he’d made in eighth-grade metal work (a promising handful had been selected for inclusion in the upper-school art show), and Hannah was showing some photographs. Kim was still a devoted, if unemployed, mother.

  The school-wide art show was set up in the main entryway and flowed down several offshoot hallways. With nearly a thousand art students displaying their masterpieces, the building had transformed into a rather manic, makeshift art gallery. Kim strolled past long tables hosting collages and sculptures, past easels bearing self-portraits and animal sketches, stopping to admire the more talented and smiling appreciatively at the attempts of the less. Most of the parents wandering the displays were strangers to her. Despite sitting on the PTA, organizing the annual holiday cookie bash, and contributing to the teacher appreciation lunch, Kim knew only a handful of attendees. Most parents regarded high school as a time to back off after the endless demands of an elementary education. After seven years of driving on field trips, aiding in craft days, baking for fund-raisers, it was tempting… . But Kim knew better. Teenagers needed engaged parents more than ever.

  Still, Kim noted a few sideways glances at her, a modicum of whispering. At any moment she could stumble upon Debs and her overtly hostile crew. Kim texted both her children:

  Where are you?

  She knew they were there, somewhere, probably giggling with friends, devouring the “edible art” that the foods class set up every year. They weren’t worried about their mother feeling vulnerable, judged about what happened in her home. They faced it every day. Kim moved through the works of art, searching for the metal etchings and photographs.

  Turning down a hallway, she found herself immersed in the abstract oil paintings. Despite the simplistic brushwork, the obvious lack of skill or care in most cases, the bright colors drew her in. Kim had always had a thing for painting. She could picture her future self, hair gone gracefully gray, painting in the backyard studio she would build for herself. She’d wear Jeff’s old work shirts and drink mugs of tea, dabbing pain
t with precise abandon. She wouldn’t sell her canvasses but give them as meaningful, heartfelt gifts. They’d become heirlooms, of a sort, passed down from her kids to theirs and on and on… . When she had time, she would take a class. When she had time … Damn you, Tony.

  She was standing, staring at an interesting piece—a dark background gradually becoming bright, almost luminous in the center—when she heard it.

  “Want to buy it?”

  The voice was instantly recognizable; the intonation more than the resonance. It wasn’t tinged with judgment, like Debs’s or Karen’s, it was full of blatant loathing: Lisa.

  Kim hadn’t prepared herself for this encounter. She’d steeled herself for sidelong glances and critical whispers, but not for a full-blown confrontation with her nemesis. Hannah said Ronni barely went to school anymore. And even in the best of times, Lisa wasn’t one to attend school functions. Why was she here? Kim looked at the painting again. In the bottom right corner, scrawled in blue paint, an R.

  She turned toward Lisa and saw the hatred she’d heard. “That’s what she sees now,” Lisa said, with a twisted smile. “Out of her blind eye. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Lisa, I—”

  “The painting’s yours if you want it, Kim. We’re asking three million. Oh, wait … you don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Right. You might have to go without a spa treatment. Or sell one of your luxury cars.” She gasped. “You might even have to get a job.”

  Kim felt anger well up inside of her. She wanted to fire back, You’re one to talk, you aspiring Reiki healer! But she held her tongue. She couldn’t attack Lisa, couldn’t even defend herself. Kim knew no one would take her side in this battle. “We want to help Ronni,” she said calmly, though her voice wavered. “We want her to have everything she needs.”

  “She needs her eye,” Lisa spat. “Can you get that back for her?”

  “I w-wish I could… .” A crowd was forming, a few ninth graders elbowing one another and snickering, a handful of concerned parents looking on. “But I can’t.”

  “And you had the nerve to send Hannah over to our apartment. Was it a reconnaissance mission?”

  “I didn’t send her!” Kim said. “If she went, she went as a true friend.”

  “Yeah right!” A mirthless laugh. “Ronni’s been through hell since Hannah’s party,” Lisa said, her voice getting louder. “She’s been bullied. She’s been dumped by her supposed friends. She’s fallen way behind in school. In a way, her eye is the least of her problems.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kim said softly, her gaze flitting over the bystanders. There was the woman from the soccer game, the friend of Debs’s and Karen’s. What was her name? Jane. Jane looked almost amused, evidently enjoying the show. There was Caitlin … And Maddie, from Hannah’s basketball team. They were whispering furiously, one eye on the confrontation, one eye scanning the halls for someone: Hannah? Ronni? The other faces were strangers, some shocked, some bemused, some uncomfortable.

  But Lisa didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. “It’s all about your fancy house and your fancy cars and your fancy lifestyle. You don’t give a shit about my daughter’s well-being.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true! Or you would have checked on them, Kim! You would have searched their bags for alcohol and drugs. You pretend you’re such a diligent parent—”

  “I am diligent,” Kim said, her heart hammering in her chest, in her throat, in her ears… . She gulped some air before continuing. “I laid out the rules. The kids broke them.”

  “Because they’re fucking kids!” The f-bomb elicited a few giggles and whispers from the peanut gallery. “That’s what kids do. Maybe if you weren’t on pills and wine, you’d have thought about what a bunch of unsupervised, sixteen-year-old girls could get up to at a sweet sixteen party.”

  Kim heard the snickering, heard someone say: “Maybe we should get Principal Edwards?” They’d become a sideshow. A laughingstock. Two naughty children who needed separating by an authority figure. The weight on Kim’s chest was heavier now, the pressure making it hard to breathe. Lisa’s angry face was obscured by shimmering spots of light.

  “I have to go.”

  Kim took a step to leave, but she was light-headed. Her feet felt numb, her hands, too. She was afraid she might fall; she needed something to hold on to. Still, Lisa’s voice followed her.

  “That’s right. Run back to your mansion, Kim!”

  It’s hardly a mansion, Kim wanted to say. It was a fairly modest home that they had made impressive with a challenging and time-consuming renovation. But Lisa wouldn’t listen, no one would.

  “Go back and tell your banker how you can’t afford to buy Ronni’s painting! How you can’t afford to pay for ruining Ronni’s life!”

  “Mom, stop… .” The voice was soft and flat, but firm. It had to be Ronni. She was the real victim in this whole mess, but here she was, stepping in, taking control, rescuing Kim from her mother’s ire… . Kim turned back to thank the girl, to give her a grateful smile at least, but Ronni was obscured by Lisa’s toned form. Kim was having trouble focusing, but she smiled in the girl’s direction.

  “What are you smiling at?” Lisa hissed. “Is this all a fucking joke to you?”

  “Mom, Jesus!”

  Ronni stepped into view then, and for the first time, Kim saw the damage. The girl’s hair attempted to camouflage the wounded eye, but it was not up to the task. The whiteness of the eyeball glared through the veil of her bangs, giving her a grotesque, horror-movie aspect. In this day and age, was that really the best the plastic surgeons could do for her? Kim and Jeff would pay for another surgery. A better surgeon! They would make Ronni look better, look normal again. She’d been such a pretty girl… .

  And then, everything was going dark. Kim’s hands and feet were tingling and the weight on her chest was restricting her breathing. She heard a voice say, “Are you okay?” Not Lisa’s voice this time, but someone concerned and caring. But she wasn’t okay. She was having a heart attack. She was dying, right here, at the school art show, in front of students and parents and teachers. The kids would never forgive her for this. Kim felt an acute sense of embarrassment as she crumpled to the floor.

  hannah

  SIXTY-FIVE DAYS AFTER

  Like school didn’t suck enough, now Hannah’s mom had gone and had some kind of conniption in front of half her classmates… . Of course, Hannah felt sorry for her mom; Hannah knew firsthand how menacing and scary Lisa Monroe could be. But when Lisa had come at Hannah, she hadn’t collapsed on the floor, a quivering, apoplectic mess. “Marcus saw the whole thing,” her brother had said in a rare moment of sibling commiseration. “He actually thought Mom was dying.” It was so fucking humiliating.

  Someone, a concerned parent or a teacher, had called 9-1-1. Two paramedics had rushed into the school to attend to Hannah’s prostrate mother. As a crowd of Hannah’s peers looked on, the paramedics checked Kim’s blood pressure, her heart rate, asked her to lift both arms, had shone a little flashlight in her eyes… . After their thorough assessment, it was determined that Kim had had a panic attack. A fucking panic attack! If it was epilepsy or some kind of stroke, people would at least feel sorry for them.

  Hannah desperately wanted to transfer schools, but changing this far into the term would have been “academically disastrous,” as Mrs. Pittwell put it. “You could end up having to repeat tenth grade.” The last thing Hannah wanted was to make this hellish experience even longer. But she knew that, at the right school, tenth grade could be salvaged. She’d heard of kids who were failing school—there was a girl with an eating disorder who’d missed three months, a boy with a daily pot habit who skipped the majority of his classes—who ended up passing with the right educational support. Their parents had shelled out for an elite private school to provide a delicate balance of structure and coddling that got them back on track and through the grad
e. It seemed you got what you paid for when it came to education. Hillcrest was fine if you were smart, had a traditional learning style, and no drama going on in your life … but as soon as the shit hit the fan, it was sink or swim.

  Hannah had considered asking her parents about switching to a different school, but the timing was all wrong. With Lisa’s lawsuit, they were worried about money. She knew they weren’t going to flush the Hillcrest tuition down the toilet and shell out for another school, just to please their disobedient daughter. And there was already so much tension in the house; Hannah was afraid her request might cause another meltdown. She’d overheard her parents talking (yelling) in the kitchen.

  “Lisa’s bullying us,” her mom had cried. “She’s so angry that she’s not rational.”

  “I could say the same about you,” her father shot back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re willing to go to trial to hurt Lisa, even though you know what it would do to us all! I’d be dragged through the mud! The kids would be humiliated!”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you gave liquor to children! Before you asked them to cover for you!”

  “And they did cover for me!” her dad yelled. “We could pay Lisa off and this would all go away, but you’re so fucking vindictive!”

  The admission stirred something uncomfortable in the pit of Hannah’s stomach. Why were her friends willing to lie, to perjure themselves, to cover for her dad? She thought of Lauren threatening Marta and Caitlin to keep quiet about the events of that night. Hannah had thought Lauren was protecting herself, protecting Noah and Adam, but was she covering for Hannah’s dad, too? If she was, why? She couldn’t ponder it—wouldn’t ponder it.