Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  God, if she couldn’t confess how she was feeling to her friends, who could she talk to?

  Darth Daisy: Well . . .

  It all spilled out of her. The Halloween parade. Grandpa Bob’s basement. Missing Los Angeles at Halloween—especially at Halloween, she loved the way LA did Halloween! Crazy decorations, kids packed on the streets, costume stores every fifty feet. And basically just feeling like the world’s least impressive mom, behind the ball in everything, especially at Little Wonders.

  By the time she got to the fact that Little Wonders had a Slack, Sarah Prime’s entire message block was just filled with emojis that were either laugh-crying or fuming with anger.

  Darth Daisy: I swear to god I’ve never seen people this uptight and crazy in my life. Needleton moms are no joke.

  Sarah Prime: And you used to work in Hollywood! Seriously—there’s no way they are more uptight than Vanessa.

  Daisy and Sarah Prime’s good friend Allie was personal assistant to one Vanessa Faire, star of Fargone, which had been Daisy’s favorite sci-fi show until Allie started telling her all about Vanessa’s diva-ish behavior. A few seasons ago, Vanessa had notoriously lost her cool while filming the season finale, while press was visiting the set. Ever since then, Vanessa had gotten more uptight, and in Daisy’s opinion, the show had really gone downhill.

  But Allie always had the most hysterical and exasperating stories about her boss. Hence, the barometer of crazy in their friend group was set by “Is this something Vanessa would do?”

  Darth Daisy: Oh, I’ve witnessed things that can rival even Vanessa’s craziness.

  Sarah Prime: No way. Pics or it didn’t happen.

  Daisy snorted out a laugh. Sarah wanted pics? She had better than pics. She had video.

  She went into the cloud and plucked the Halloween parade video out of her files. Then, she trimmed the edges—no one needed to see her bad camera work as she tried to capture the kids parading and the camera kept accidentally rack-focusing to Shanna or other parents. She set the start point at when Shanna said a juicy “Oh. My.” and the camera swung and found Quinn Barrett losing it on that poor misbegotten cardboard spaceship.

  It was twenty seconds long, but that was all anyone needed to see.

  Darth Daisy: Meet the head of the Parent Association at school.

  Exactly thirty-seven seconds after she posted it, Sarah Prime responded.

  Sarah Prime: OHMYGOD.

  Then . . .

  LOL!!!!! OMG that’s hysterical

  Darth Daisy: Seriously! That poor kid. And that mom . . . she’s gotta live with the memory of doing that forever.

  Sarah Prime: Are you kidding? Someone like that is just gonna take a Xanny with her cabernet and deny it ever happened. Hey, can I show this to Allie and Juliana? They will die.

  There were no secrets in their tight little group, so Daisy didn’t even think twice.

  Darth Daisy: Of course.

  Sarah Prime: Oh my god, did Allie tell you all about V’s latest meltdown? Apparently, that asshole she’s dating, Sebastian, well, he’s got his kid for the weekend, and Vanessa loses it when the kid drops something on the rug—

  As Sarah Prime began to download her on the latest secondhand madness of one particular rich and somewhat famous person, Daisy began to finally feel a little bit more like herself. As if they were sitting in Sarah Prime’s squashy living room in Santa Monica, two bottles of wine in on that rare girls’ night, unwinding with her friends. But then, Sarah Prime had a Halloween party to get ready for (though she said she’d wanted to talk to Daisy more than she wanted to party, which made her feel so warm and fuzzy and guilty) and quickly Daisy found herself alone again, in her husband’s grandfather’s basement, as everyone else in the house snored away. Content. Happy. Comfortable.

  Everyone, except Daisy.

  But now at least, she was bone tired enough to lie down next to Rob, let him throw a sleepy arm around her, warming her into sleep.

  Little Wonders Preschool November Newsletter

  Hello, WONDER-ful parents!

  Halloween is behind us and Thanksgiving is ahead, so we are all getting cozy for the holidays!

  Thank effing God that’s over. But seriously, you thought you were getting a break? You thought wrong, bitches.

  The Thanksgiving play will be performed on Tuesday, November 24th—all the classrooms are working hard to make it a special day and parent volunteers are needed to help make decorations and costumes! Sign up online or in the school’s lobby and get your glue guns ready! We let the Target costumes go for Halloween, but we expect some artisan shit for Thanksgiving.

  Please note, rehearsals will take the place of classroom yoga for November, as Ms. Jubilee will be on maternity leave.

  While our hallways are going to be decked out with peaceful Pilgrims and harmonious Native Americans for the next few weeks, don’t worry your kids will get the real history in a decade or so, let them enjoy their childhoods for now, we at the Parent Association are looking ahead to the big month of December. Our next meeting is this coming Wednesday, November 4th which I bolded so you dimwits can’t pretend you didn’t see it and we will be organizing, organizing, organizing! Here, have another committee. You know you want it.

  And of course, I know everyone wants to make sure the holiday season is one filled with laughter and learning. So we are going to be introducing an intensive holiday season primer for all classroom levels, showcasing different cultures, different traditions. December isn’t all about Santa, people. Every parent should be prepared to contribute to the festivities, be it volunteering, or through you own special skills. We’d love to see how your family celebrates! I mean sure, but really, we want money.

  Also, our big event, the Winter Breakfast Party, is going to be lit! I heard my niece say that and I assume it’s cool. We are striving to outdo last year’s successes and look forward to hearing your ideas, to make it the most culturally diverse and fun party we can throw for the kids!

  But yeah, Santa is totally going to visit the school, and this year, we’d like to spring for one with a real beard, so get ready to pony up.

  We look forward to seeing everyone at the next Parent Association meeting! Show up. Show up or you’re ruining your kids’ lives.

  Together in Parenting!

  Suzy Breakman-Kang

  Parent Association Secretary

  Addendum: this notice was composed previous to the startling realization that our Little Wonders had been brought to national attention, in a less than stellar light. This occurrence, as well as our usual holiday planning, will be under discussion at the November 4th Parent Association meeting. Holy shit did you guys see that video?

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning arrived as normally as possible.

  Ham had slept in his Halloween costume for the second night in a row. He was happy to be a spaceman (sans spaceship, which had been unceremoniously trash-compacted as soon as they got home) once he figured out people would give him candy if he was wearing it. And bonus, while he was wearing the costume, he was super conscious of not wanting to get it messy, so he was incredibly aware of when he had to pee. They’d had a blissful weekend without a single potty accident.

  And considering her mother had been visiting, and they’d survived that—without Alba!—Halloween weekend was nothing but a resounding success in the Barrett household.

  Sure there was the inevitable, breezy evaluation by her mother—the arrangement of the décor, her giddy explanation of her latest hobby (she was opening an Etsy store), the lamenting of Quinn’s bob-length haircut (again—it had been a year, for heaven’s sake), and the puzzlement over why Ham wasn’t wearing the “fun car thing you posted on Facebook,” but that was all bearable with a rictus grin and the knowledge that once Ham went to bed there was a bottle of chardonnay with her name on it.

  Thank God her mother got on a plane—back to Orlando and her Etsy store—Sunday afternoon.

  But yes, all in all, a suc
cessful Halloween weekend.

  But then came Monday morning.

  “I WANT TO WEAR MY SPACE SUIT!”

  “I’m sorry, Hammy, Halloween’s over, we can’t wear it to school.”

  “I don’t want to go to school!!!”

  Yup, just your average Monday morning.

  Ham had been happy while getting dressed. Happy eating his organic eggs (thank god for food delivery services, since they were sans Alba) and happy while they piled in the car. But somewhere between pulling out of the driveway and the stop sign at the end of the street, he had realized he was no longer garbed in his shiny and somewhat smelly space suit.

  But as Hamilton was strapped in his five-point harness car seat, there was little he could do about it besides cry. And as Quinn was running a half Parcel ahead of schedule, she had time for their Monday morning ritual.

  “Hammy, it’s Monday! What are we going to be today?”

  “. . . Spaceman . . .”

  Quinn turned down the radio, which was going on about some new viral video or some such nonsense and caught her son’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  “Hammy, what are we going to be today?”

  Ham sighed and recited their Mommy/Ham mantra.

  “We’re going to be good.”

  “That’s right, bud. And what happens when we’re good?”

  “We get better.”

  “Exactly. And when we get better?”

  “We get perfect.”

  “That’s right! And there’s nothing better than perfect.”

  “There’s nothing better than perfect,” he repeated.

  It was a mantra she had come up with in college, but she had been working on it her entire life.

  Growing up in the middle of nowhere Ohio, there wasn’t a lot to do. But her mother, somehow, found every hobby under the sun, from ceramic arts to fabric dying to book binding to tango dancing. Each of these passions would last about six months, until she got bored and moved on. The same way she had with boyfriends.

  Meanwhile, Quinn was left craving consistency.

  It wasn’t until she had escaped to college in Boston that she realized her mother hadn’t gotten bored—she had gotten scared, reaching juuuust the point that it became challenging. So she gave up.

  Quinn had been determined to NOT be like her mother in any regard, especially this. So, her mantra came into being.

  First, I will be good.

  Then, I will be better.

  Then, I will be perfect.

  And when she had met Stuart, a born and bred Bostonian med student, practicing his intubations and blood draws, he’d found her mantra almost as sexy as he’d found Quinn.

  “Mommy’s gonna try to be good today,” she said to Ham as they drove. “So she gets better, and then gets perfect. I’m going to listen to my friends and the people at the office. What are you going to do, Hammy?”

  “I’m going to listen to Ms. Rosie and my friends at school,” Ham said, and this time he did it with a smile on his face. His missing space suit was forgotten, and once they pulled up to Little Wonders, he hopped out of the car and merrily trotted forward, eager to start the day.

  Quinn smiled at everyone she passed and tried not to smile smugly at their shocked looks. That’s right—she had a three-year-old who was happy to go to school on Monday, while everyone else was dealing with clingers and criers. But when she walked into the Tadpole classroom, she herself was a little perturbed by Ms. Rosie.

  “Oh! Mrs. Barrett!” Ms. Rosie said, staring at her like an owl. “You’re . . . here!”

  “Of course I’m here, it’s Monday,” Quinn said, bemused. Ms. Rosie looked so caught off guard, and then Quinn saw it—the phone in Ms. Rosie’s pocket. Teachers were not supposed to be on their phones except on breaks.

  Normally, Quinn would have frowned on that behavior. But class had barely begun, and she was still a couple minutes ahead in her Parcel, so she was feeling benevolent. But also a little cheeky.

  “Catching up on the news after a busy weekend?” she said, letting her eyes fall to the pocketed phone. Ms. Rosie turned ghost white. “Don’t worry,” Quinn said, conspiratorially. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Quinn bent down and gave Ham a big hug and a kiss (her heart only broke the usual amount at his “Bye, Mommy! Have a good day at the office!”) and had turned to go when Ms. Rosie reached out and took her arm.

  “Mrs. Barrett,” she said, earnest. “We’ve all had those days.”

  Quinn nodded, a little nonplussed. Goodness, one would think she was the Gestapo, about to turn in her son’s favorite teacher for something as small as an email check. She wasn’t that hard-nosed, after all.

  “You’re right, we have. It’s not a problem, but you probably should avoid your phone during work hours. Sound good?”

  Ms. Rosie blinked twice, frowned, and then nodded slowly.

  “Have a great day!” she called back, as she walked out the door, her peripheral vision catching a glimpse of her son playing with blocks with Elia, who was attempting to hug him, as per usual.

  Really, someone needed to teach that girl about consent and personal space. Maybe she should introduce an “Understanding Your Body” initiative for the kids at the next Parent Association meeting.

  She mused on that idea, dictating her thoughts into her phone’s voice memos, while she drove into the office, finding that miracle pocket of no traffic to travel in and arriving at her desk in record time.

  Heck, she thought, as she strolled through the main floor of Crabbe and Co. Interior Design services, her Monday morning had gone from “pretty normal” to “surprisingly good” in record time.

  It wasn’t hyperbole to say that Quinn adored her job. She’d landed at Crabbe and Co. directly after college, where her English degree was useful only in that she knew how to type.

  But Jeremy Crabbe, the owner and son of the original founder, had seen her outfit, and decided she was chic enough to work in the front office. Quinn had absorbed everything she could, worked her ass off, got some attention from Jeremy.

  Interestingly, her mother’s slight interest in everything had given Quinn a solid foundation for design work—she knew just enough about sewing, just enough about color theory, just enough about carpentry to impress Jeremy.

  He’d let her work on sites. Doing installs, adding touches to the design. Then she got her first client of her own to do a small job, and she’d been a designer there ever since.

  Crabbe and Co. was as much her home as Hamilton and Stuart were.

  Every morning, when she walked into the office, she felt that little punch of pride that came from being good at her job. And she knew too that she was envied.

  “Good morning, Sutton,” she said, passing her young coworker’s desk.

  Sutton, who was staring at her computer with her hands on the back of her head, holding back her long hair in the hungover posture of someone who looked like she might puke at any second, did a double take when she saw Quinn.

  “Looks like someone didn’t make it to spin class this morning,” Quinn said, with just enough bemused admonishment for a mentor to deliver. She had taken Sutton under her wing when she’d first interviewed her for an assistant gig nearly two years ago. Everything that Jeremy Crabbe had done for her, she tried to do for Sutton. And it had paid off, as Sutton had just been promoted to working on Quinn’s design team instead of for it.

  It felt good to be beneficent with the youth, Quinn surmised. Noblesse oblige. Even when said youth had no doubt rolled into work hungover from a raucous weekend of Halloween parties.

  “Oh! Oh god, Quinn!” Sutton said, jumping to her feet and smoothing her hair out of her face. She was alarmingly alert and flush—okay, so not hungover. “What happened?”

  Quinn for a second was completely lost. “What happened . . . ?”

  “Friday!” Sutton said in a harsh whisper. “There was the parade at Hamilton’s school, right? You called out because of it?”

&n
bsp; Quinn’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t been at work on Friday. “Oh god—did something happen? With the Beacon Hill house?” Sutton had been calling her with updates all day, yes, but after the parade she turned off her phone for the weekend.

  The Beacon Hill house was going to be the pinnacle of her career. Her calling card for the future. She was lead designer on the renovation of one of the most distinguished still privately owned residences in Boston.

  It was what was going to turn Crabbe and Co. into Crabbe, Barrett, and Co. They were only a few weeks out from handing over the keys, and when all of her professional dreams would come true.

  “No! The house is fine!” Sutton said in a rush. Then, “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Know what?” Quinn said, masking her impatience. Really, whatever amounted to drama in a twenty-six-year-old’s life did not require this amount of anxiety. The poor girl was going to give herself wrinkles.

  “You haven’t checked your email yet!” Sutton was saying, practically smacking her forehead. “Because you don’t do electronic devices on weekends?”

  “Of course I haven’t.” Was that a good idea when she was working on such an important project? Maybe not, but Sutton had strict orders to call her landline if anything went wrong. Besides . . . it was for Hamilton’s benefit that she maintain total presence in the moment. Even if her mind was on faucets and fixtures.

  “Right—me neither. Because of your suggestion, I’ve been doing social media and nonwork emails detox on weekends, and I just saw it.”

  “Saw what?” What could have come through Sutton’s email that had anything to do with Quinn?

  OH. Oh NO. Quinn grabbed Sutton’s arm back. “It’s not the Martha Stewart article, is it?”

  “No! I mean, the interviewer’s questions arrived this morning for you to answer, but—”

  “Oh! Oh, thank god,” Quinn said, breathing a deep sigh of relief. If the Beacon Hill house was her greatest professional achievement, the Martha Stewart Living magazine article that was going to accompany it was more of a personal triumph.