“Uh, of course!”
“Then is there any reason you did not get trained to use an EpiPen?” There were about a million responses to that question, all beginning with “What the fuck is an EpiPen?” but I chose to nod dumbly. He had mentioned something about training to use the thing, but it had completely slipped my mind. Of course Randi had one handy. She probably had a freaking hospital ward underneath her desk.
“I will take Benjamin to my office and call his mother.” Dr. Blumenfeld gave me one last appraising look, put her arm around Benjamin (who looked healthier post trauma than he had all last week), and marched out of my classroom. Randi gave me a raised eyebrow as she followed the headmistress out, and I was left with fifteen hostile children.
“Benjamin’s had that issue since kindergarten,” Jessica said meanly.
“Yeah, he could have died,” Madeline spat out maliciously.
“If the board finds out you could get fired,” Blair declared.
How quickly they turned when one of their own was hurt! I looked around the room and searched desperately for a way to win them back.
“I like your hair,” Charlotte finally perked up, and the kids looked at me as if they had never seen me before.
“Ohmigod I’ve never seen your hair up in a ponytail before!” Jessica squealed. And like Jack’s mask in Lord of the Flies, my hair became a thing of its own behind which I hid. I might have been scared and incompetent, but apparently I looked good in a ponytail, so all was forgiven. With no lesson in mind, I found myself relenting when Blair asked helpfully, “Maybe we can watch Mean Girls in class today? I mean, just to calm everyone down and all? I don’t think we’re in the right mind-set to be learning much this morning.” Blair produced the DVD from her Chanel tote, the little Upper East Side Aladdin. And with that, the spell of peace that only Mean Girls can achieve on a group of thirteen-year-olds was cast.
I allowed all my classes to watch Mean Girls that day. My mind was numb and I just couldn’t concentrate. But I vowed that I would get back on track that night, and I couldn’t have been happier than when I finally made it up my five flights of stairs that evening after what I considered to be an utterly wasted day of teaching.
Until I saw them. Eighteen voice messages. Something very, very bad must have happened. Mom! Dad! Had someone died? Hysterical, I pressed PLAY. Oh, God, please forgive me. I will be a better person. I will be a better teacher. You are punishing me. I am taking for granted the job of my dreams.
“Ms. Taggert? Hi, this is Lucille Windham, I’m Sam’s mother? I just—”
I pressed the FORWARD button. I’d get back to her. Oh God Oh God Oh God. I had never prayed so fervently.
“Hello, Ms. Taggert, this is Maxine Landau, Jessica’s mother. We would—”
I pressed the FORWARD button again. What the hell?
“Ms. Taggert, this is Lara Kensington. Oh dear, I really am stalking you now, but—”
I pressed the FORWARD button. Again. And again. And again. Eighteen messages from eighteen Langdon mothers. I was horrified. All these women needed to be called back, and I had no idea what they wanted. Even if I spent no more than ten minutes per parent, just returning these calls would take me around three hours. Luckily I had very little new grading to do because we had spent the day watching Mean Girls, but I did need to come up with some sort of a lesson plan for tomorrow and still had the summary paragraphs to grade. After all, I couldn’t just keep showing videos. Or could I? My thoughts were cut off with the phone ringing. With a slight dread, I picked up.
“Anna speaking.”
“Ms. Taggert, I’m so glad I caught you! This is Lynn Briggman, Max’s mother?” I remembered Gerard Zimmerman’s voice as he read the Briggman file: stalker mother. Great. I had to pick up for the worst one.
“Wonderful to hear from you!” I lied brightly, settling into the couch (still covered with plastic).
“Ms. Taggert, I won’t keep you long. I was just calling because Max told me that you have spent today watching a popular movie in your English class?” I sat up quickly. Oh, shit!
“I have to say that while Max just simply adores your class, my husband and I cannot understand the pedagogy behind showing the kids Mean Girls? I mean, for an English class in which you are supposedly reading Shakespeare?” Lynn Briggman was pissed and I couldn’t blame her. If I was paying $30,000 a year for my child’s tuition I would expect the teacher to do nothing short of resurrecting Jesus. But I had to save my ass.
“Mrs. Briggman, I so appreciate your calling me, and let me say that I happen to adore Max as well,” I said as sincerely as I possibly could considering I was lying through my teeth. So far, Max’s most meaningful contribution to class had been a massive and crude fart after I had assigned the first homework assignment.
“The pedagogy behind showing the students this film”—Think fast! Think fast! Think fast!—“was, er, was to provide students with a progressive lens from which they could better understand how rivalries are formed, which of course connects with the Montagues and Capulets in Romeo and Juliet. And that topic,” I finished proudly, “is to be the focus of our next few lessons and paper.” I was spewing total crap. I was a fountain of bullshit. Thank you, Harold Warner.
“Paper?” Lynn Briggman appeared to have heard only one word. And her voice had lost its icy confidence. This was interesting. I sat up, aware that the ball had suddenly shifted into my court.
“Yes. We will have a paper coming up,” I said, warming up. Anything that seemed to frighten Ms. Briggman was a very, very good thing.
“Oh, well, Ms. Taggert, we should talk about when that will be due. As I’m sure Max has already told you, he has a bar mitzvah coming up and anything you can do to help him plan his time will be most appreciated. But you’re so organized and helpful I’m sure you’ll give him all the help he needs!” She was positively obsequious now. Aha! Intimidating me might have been a sport for this woman, but the thought of making sure her son wrote an English paper while doubling up on his Hebrew lessons hit a sore spot.
“Of course he told me,” I replied smoothly, now lying like a champ. “In fact, since I have already told the students about this paper, I thought I would give them a break in class to watch a film so that they could use their homework-free evenings to get started on the paper. Max must be working on it right now.” I had a crazy image of Lynn Briggman and me in an old Western flick. We were having a standoff in front of a dusty old saloon. I had just fired. She went straight down.
“That is incredibly thoughtful of you, Ms. Taggert. Most teachers are so insensitive to this special time in a Jewish home. And Max is hard at work on his homework right now!”
“I try to stay on top of things,” I assured generously. “And please…call me Anna.”
One down, seventeen to go.
11
My desk was covered with envelopes. Gilded envelopes. Colorplay envelopes. Lettra envelopes. Kate Spade envelopes. Crane envelopes. Mrs. John Strong envelopes. Envelopes in wasabi green, steel blue, ecru, lobster, and three different shades of celadon.
I picked up the largest envelope. It was an elegant cream, and very heavy. The postage had cost over six dollars! I looked at the script. My name flew across the envelope as if written by doves. Ms. Anna Taggert. Never in my life had I seen anything so elegant. I tore open the envelope and pulled out…a sheet of Lucite? What on earth? The Lucite was approximately five inches square, painstakingly etched with the details of Sue Wong’s…bat mitzvah. Interesting. I didn’t know Sue was Jewish. I was holding the invitation in my hand, but I still didn’t believe it. It looked more like a paperweight…or a coaster. What on earth did one do upon receiving such an invitation? Well, RSVP of course. But after that? Did I throw it out? Frame it? Sell it on eBay? Those other envelopes…they were likely bar mitzvah invitations, too. No wonder Blair had been able to assess the quality of Mrs. Worthington’s card stock from across the room. Likely these kids had spent as much time in Kate’s Paper
ie as they had in Gymboree. Now I’d seen everything.
“Ms. Taggert.” My reverie was interrupted by a little voice.
“Yes, Sue?”
“Did you open mine?”
“Well, yes, I just did! Are…er…are you having a bat mitzvah?” I was new to all this, but it did seem strange to me that Sue Wong, daughter of Korean immigrants, would be having a Jewish coming-of-age celebration.
“No, Ms. Taggert,” she said, suddenly impatient. “I’m having a faux mitzvah.”
“I’m sorry, did you say a faux mitzvah?”
Little Sue Wong looked at me with annoyance. I shrugged my shoulders By now I was used to visual learners and peanut allergies, but I have to confess, this caught me off guard.
“Like, my therapist says I have a complex? About not having a bat mitzvah and all? My parents want me to have a healthy sense of adjustment and a high self-esteem?”
Apparently Sue only spoke in questions. I decided to switch to answers.
“So this is a fake party. A pretend bat mitzvah.”
“Didn’t I, like, say faux? It’s a faux mitzvah. Like there’s no synagogue service? But we have the whole party and everything?”
“And you want me to come to the party and…everything,” I trailed cautiously.
“Do you, like, want to? Because, like, you should only come if you want to? And if you, like, think you’ll have fun?” Sue shrugged her tiny shoulders as if she didn’t care either way, then left the room with Blair and Jessica. Michael Worthington looked at me with wide eyes.
“You should totally go.”
“Excuse me?”
“To Sue Wong’s faux mitzvah.”
“Do other teachers really attend these events?” The last thing I wanted to do was to upset any of the faculty.
“Yeah, lots of ’em do. But Ms. Taggert, Kanye West is coming!”
Kanye West…hmmmm. Wait. A. Minute. THE RAPPER??!!
“Michael, how do you know?” I pressed, forgetting I was a teacher and completely ready to indulge in gossip with a twelve-year-old boy.
“Sue Wong’s parents are like mad rich and all and her dad’s in the entertainment industry so, like, you have to go. Plus you’re, like, young so you’ll like it,” Michael responded excitedly.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was going to have to call in reinforcements. This was more Bridgette’s territory than mine so, somewhat reluctantly, I called her. She picked up on the first ring.
“Anna, do you hate me?” Shit.
“No, I don’t hate you, Bridge,” I said slowly. I think I did hate her a little, though. Things had definitely changed between us.
“What happened that night at the restaurant? You haven’t returned any of my calls. What did I do? Are you mad that Belinda came? I thought you two could have talked about Langdon Hall together! I thought—”
“Bridge, honestly, please let’s not talk about it, okay? Can you do that for me? I just started feeling really sick and I didn’t want to make any awkward excuses,” I pleaded, and something in my voice must have gotten through because Bridgette was immediately silenced. After an awkward pause, she spoke.
“I love you, Annie. Friends?”
“Friends,” I returned, a bit relieved that the conversation I had been dreading for weeks was over. “Listen, Bridge, I have to go to this thing…” I won’t lie, I did enjoy telling Bridgette that I had a thing.
“What thing?” Bridgette asked curiously.
“This fake bat mitzvah thing for a little girl I teach.”
“Family name?”
“Wong.”
“WHO?”
“The Wong family,” I repeated again, although I could hear Bridgette hyperventilating on the other line.
“YOU’RE GOING TO THE WONG FAUX MITZVAH???”
“Bridgette, OW! Don’t shout!” My ears were ringing. And when did faux mitzvah enter everyone’s vocabulary accept mine?
“Annie, Stanley Wong is the new head of Mo Jam Records! This event was mentioned in Entertainment Weekly!!!”
“Guess what?” I couldn’t resist, now getting really excited. “KANYE WEST IS PERFORMING LIVE!” I was screaming. And then we were screaming together.
“I’m coming. I’m totally crashing,” Bridgette declared.
Yeah, right.
“I’m so sorry, Bridgette. It’s a very strict door policy. I actually just wanted your advice on what I should wear,” I explained, enjoying the silence on the other line. This was my thing. Cipriani on my terms. An evil little part of me relished the idea that Bridgette was not coming, and that she would probably tell Belinda and “the guys” that I was going to the coolest event in town.
“Definitely a dress,” Bridgette answered finally, and refused to provide me with any more details when pressed. She suddenly said something about work and tried to get off the phone, but I had known her long enough to have known for a fact that she was jealous.
“Bridge, you’re not mad at me because I can’t get you in, are you?” I asked sweetly.
“No, I’m not,” Bridgette responded in a cool voice, then added quickly “Gotta go, call me and tell me how it was.”
I didn’t get the advice I had wanted, still—and I hated to admit it—it was the most satisfying conversation I had had with anyone in months.
WELCOME TO WILLY WONG’S CHOCOLATE FACTORY!!!
I hadn’t even entered the ballroom and already I found myself mesmerized by the huge banner. The words were covered with a shimmering brown glitter and I had a feeling that it was only the beginning of my chocolate-infused evening.
“Chocolate martini?”
There was nobody in front of me.
“Chocolate martini?”
The voice came from below. Standing in front of me were two beaming midgets dressed as…Oompa Loompas? They had the same elaborate wig, bushy eyebrows, and white overalls as in the movie. Their middle-aged faces blinking back at me were as terrifying to me now as they had been when I was little. Apparently the Wongs were sparing no expense.
I accepted my chocolate martini and allowed one of the midgets to escort me into the factory. WILLY WONKA’S ACTUAL CHOCOLATE FACTORY!
Gigantic fountains in all four corners of the room spurted rivers of chocolate.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Madeline and Charlotte were squealing near one of the fountains as Chase tilted his head and guzzled the liquid fudge like a frat boy at a keg party.
The dance floor was lined with huge lollipops and candy flowers. Strobe lights flashed and all over kids were dancing. On the side of this exclusive mosh pit lay a mound of stilettos, Mary Janes, and strappy sandals. Hard to believe, but there they lay—Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahniks, Giuseppe Zanottis, and Christian Louboutins—the abandoned shoes of twelve-year-old girls.
“There’s sushi for adults,” one of the Oompa Loompas offered, shaking his head in disgust. “If you don’t want to drink germ-infested chocolate.”
“In the Nobu stall next to Build-a-Bear,” the other Oompa Loompa explained. I gulped down my martini and allowed them to lead me to the row of stalls. Jacob was at the first one getting a wax replica of his forearm.
“What is he going to do with that?” I wondered out loud.
“Have another martini,” the Oompa Loompa offered. “It’ll make more sense.” I took another glass and continued down the row. Make your own sterling silver ID bracelets. Create a perfume. Have your picture taken with Ashlee Simpson…and there she was! Michael Kors was at the Build-a-Bear stall with Fergie, the Duchess of York. They were arguing over a pink tutu.
“Bollocks, Michael! I want my bear to be the ballerina!”
“You English are so bossy,” he huffed, making no signs of releasing the tutu in question. Everywhere I turned I saw another celebrity or model, and none of my students seemed impressed.
Dateless and more than a little overwhelmed, I noticed a woman about my age standing by the bar. She was dressed in a black strapl
ess gown, and her hair was blown out in loose curls and held together with a diamond clip. A glittering Fendi evening bag dangled delicately from her wrists (I couldn’t miss those interlocking F buckles), and red satin heels peeped from below her dress. I was mesmerized by her style, sophistication, and—
“Hey, Ms. Abrahams!”
The stunning woman turned around confidently and lightly kissed the cheek of my seventh-grader, Benjamin, who was now eye level with her breasts and showed no signs of departure.
Randi. Fucking. Abrahams.
Kids rushed from the dance floor to surround Randi as if she were her very own entertainment stall. I watched Randi throw back her head and laugh, exposing two four-carat diamond studs. She let Jessica Landau and two other little girls dressed in sparkling cocktail dresses lead her onto the dance floor, where she began to shake her hips and dance. All my supposedly successful lesson plans were long forgotten in this world. My students made it very clear that at this party they only had eyes for their history teacher. Little Amy Greenberg had given me a guilty wave from the dance floor, but otherwise I might as well not have been there. I felt the room swim…and spin. I was jealous…and maybe a little tipsy. Full-blown envy raced through my veins.
A minute later, seven adults dressed in sexy black tops and tight pants scattered themselves throughout the dance floor and started teaching my students some seriously X-rated moves.
“Oh, wow…I just love those motivational dancers…they were at the Schuler bar mitzvah,” a woman next to me gushed as one of my seventh-grade boys allowed himself to be sandwiched between two of these professional dancers, sticking his tongue out and gyrating his hips against each woman. Gross. The more he wiggled, the more the parents, students, and other dancers cheered. Nobody seemed to find anything wrong with the fact that a twelve-year-old was grinding with two adult women.
“I’m sorry,” I asked the woman next to me, unable to help myself. “Motivational dancers?”
“Hired dancers? To get people dancing?”
Schooled Page 9