“Mrs. Maxwell,” the secretary remarks in her typical brusque manner. “I will let Mr. Rice know you’ve arrived. Mrs. Donoghue is already here.” She picks up the interoffice phone next to her desk. “They’ve been waiting for you,” she adds in a venomous tone.
I resist the urge to snap, “Mrs. Donoghue doesn’t have a two year old to wrangle and also, obviously does not care if she is correctly parked or not.” But I bite my tongue as Mrs. Morris speaks to the principal on the other end of the phone.
“Mrs. Maxwell is finally here, Mr. Rice. Mmm hmm. Okay.” She covers the receiver with her hand and snarls at me, “He says to go right in.”
Ignoring her tone, I nod curtly in her direction as I deposit Evan on the floor so I can stretch my arm which has cramped up. He promptly dashes over to the secretary’s desk and grabs at the snow globe sitting on the edge.
“Can you please control that child!” Mrs. Morris yelps, one hand still clutching the phone as she attempts to contort her body and snatch the snow globe from Evan’s curious fingers.
Startled, he stares at her, his bottom lip beginning to tremble until he realizes that in her hand she holds the holy grail of all toys…a phone. His eyes grow as wide as saucers and he claps delightedly. He glances back at me before he starts babbling, “Phone, Mama! Me phone!” He makes a beeline for the other side of the desk and I quickly try to grab him, but I am too slow in my old age. He is behind the desk in an instant, climbing on top of the startled Mrs. Morris, still sitting in her chair, shock written all over her face. Evan climbs onto her desk after using her as a springing board. The secretary teeters on her swivel chair until she lands flat on the floor. Colton manages to stifle a giggle but Jimmy bursts out laughing. This all happens in the length of time that it takes me to blink twice.
I wince as I see my life flash before my eyes. Roger is going to kill me for allowing Evan to disrupt the office like this. Oh, God I can hear him now, ‘Amy, I’m a figurehead in this community. I can’t have you embarrassing me in public like that…and blah, blah, blah…’ Damn it Roger! I knew you should have gotten a vasectomy sooner! I told you that stocking up on the Sponge was a bad idea! They recalled the damn thing! I am way too old to be chasing after a two year old child!
I snatch up my youngest child as Mrs. Morris struggles to her feet, ignoring my hand outstretched to help her up. She tugs impatiently at the hem of her salmon colored sweater and tucks her graying hair back into the severe bun on top of her head. Looking at her, I realize that she reminds me of a cupcake. A cranky and sour cupcake. I have to control my own laughter as she shoots me a stern and reproachful glare.
Pursing my lips together, I march past her desk into the principal’s office. In the center of the room Mr. Rice sits at his desk. Two uncomfortable looking chairs sit on the opposite side of the desk. On one of those chairs the glamorous looking Mrs. Donoghue is perched, like a Siamese cat ready to pounce. She turns and shoots me a look (raising her botoxed eyebrows and pouting her collagen enhanced lips) to rival Mrs. Morris’s evil glare.
Mr. Rice simply looks exhausted and flustered. His collar is undone and flapping against his meaty size 20 neck. Droplets of sweat are beading at his receding hairline as he stammers, “Um, okay, have a seat Mrs. Maxwell.” Evan tugs impatiently at my earrings, dying to get down and wreak havoc in the small and cramped room.
I groan inwardly as I step toward the desk, pull out the chair next to Cammi Donoghue and demurely plop myself down. Crossing my arms over Evan's wriggling body, I have him overpowered...for the moment. Mrs. Bimbo, uh, Donoghue continues to glare at me with her permanent expression of distain. I guess she's never heard of controlling her children. After all, she has never seemed to control Jimmy, I think smugly.
Rolling her eyes (which can’t be easy; I am convinced her eyelashes are going to get stuck together with the ten pounds of mascara on them) she pokes an accusatory finger at my hoodie. "You have a chunk of...macaroni on your sweatshirt," she remarks with disgust. I try not to turn bright red.
I don't thank her. Instead, I wordlessly pluck the piece of Mac and Cheese off of my shirt and nearly pop into my mouth before I realize that would actually be pretty disgusting. I toss it in the nearby trash can instead.
"Um, Mrs. Maxwell. Mrs. Donoghue. I'm sorry to, um, interrupt your daily-" Mr. Rice begins to apologize before he is cut off by the deplorable Mrs. Donoghue.
"You shouldn't be apologizing, Mr. Rice." She leans forward and lays her hand of perfectly manicured blood red talons over Mr. Rice's beefy paw. Even from my angle I can see her cleavage is precariously dangling in his line of sight. Turning an even deeper shade of red than he already is, he attempts to avert his eyes.
Good Lord, does she know no bounds? Has she no shame? Flirting with the principal now? Seriously, that’s not fair! She is 90% plastic and I have a toddler with a possible dirty diaper threatening to escape on my lap. I don’t even have make up on and I am not sure when I last washed my hair. I am no match for her skill set.
She turns her head to glare at me. "Amy should be apologizing to both of us. For taking up your time and for me missing my hot yoga class. I never miss my hot yoga class," she purrs as she actually strokes Mr. Rice’s hand. You don't say? Anger is boiling in my blood, threatening to spill over.
I glower at her as Evan bounces up and down on my lap and hits me in the chin, causing me to bite my tongue. There is now blood dribbling from my mouth. But does the bitch stop? Oh no, she doesn't.
"After all, if her little barbarian didn't hit my innocent little Jimmy..." Cammi pauses to fake a sniffle and I leap to my feet, dumping Evan on the floor in the process.
"You're kidding, right? Colt is a barbarian now? I'll remember that the next time you dump your little snot nosed Jimmy at our house for eight hours so you can go get your twat waxed!" I spit out as I hold Cammi’s eye with my infuriated gaze. She gasps and covers her hand with her mouth as if she has never heard such a word before.
"Mrs. Maxwell!" Mr. Rice sputters, appearing incredibly pained. He actually looks as if he will keel over and die. "This is a school!"
Ok, so maybe I am a tad bit out of line and acted rather juvenile. But I am sick and tired of Cammi Donoghue thinking her precious baby boy is a complete angel. I would like to detail every evil thing that he has ever done while at our house; every nasty trick he has played on Colt (and the dog and the cat) that I held my tongue about over the years. But I take the high road as usual.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rice,” I say, hoping Cammi understood I was not apologizing to her. “But I think Mrs. Donoghue is failing to see that there are two boys involved here and we don’t know the whole story. She needs to not accuse Colt of anything until she knows the whole story.” I bend down and seize Evan from underneath the desk where he has managed to scoot in the fifteen seconds since I have released my grip on him.
“We do know the story, Amy,” Cammi tells me in a patronizing tone. She stares at me as if I am an escaped mental patient that she feels sorry for. “Colt told us he punched Jimmy.”
“Well no shit, Sherlock, Dick Tracey, where’d you park your squad car?” I retort with an insult from my childhood and instantly regret it. Cammi and Mr. Rice are both staring open mouthed at me.
Jesus Christ, Amy, get it together. You’re starting to look like a real imbecile here. I stand taller. “Of course he said he punched him. That’s obvious. Jimmy is the one with the fat lip, not Colt.” I feel strangely triumphant uttering that statement. Ha ha, my kid knocked out your kid, na na na na poo poo.
Cammi narrows her winged lined eyelids at me. She knows I am gloating. Good.
“What I’m saying is that this may have a whole backstory to it. In fact,” I punctuate the air with my pointer finger as I continue to clutch a wriggling Evan in my other arm. “Colt mentioned just this morning that Jimmy has been making fun of him for playing with his friend Sean.” I return Cammi’s narrow stare without the benefit of the eye make-up. “Sean is autistic. What kind
of six year old makes fun of another kid’s friends just because they’re different? That sounds like bullying to me!” Satisfied with my rant, I plop back down in the uncomfortable chair awaiting Cammi’s apology.
Instead, of acting contrite, she snorts. Turning to Mr. Rice, she arches her eyebrows. “And that’s another thing. What kind of parent lets her six year old play with a fourteen year old boy? A weird fourteen year old boy who pretends he’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex?”
“That is really unfair, Cammi,” I stammer. I can’t believe she was going to be mean to Sean. “The boy is-”
She cuts me off. “I don’t care what he has. He’s inappropriate and I am certainly not going to allow my child to play with him. My husband, who is a teacher at the high school, as you know, says that Sean has absolutely no social skills at all and may even be a danger to other children. A good parent wouldn’t let their child play with him.”
Now I am fuming as I pull myself to my full height. I grip Evan tightly with one arm as I lean over into Cammi’s face and poke my finger into her bony (tanned) shoulder blade. (I’m afraid to poke her chest as my finger may bounce off like a trampoline).
“How dare you tell me how to parent my children!” I am having trouble keeping my “inside” voice controlled. “You know, being a parent of four kids is a hell of a lot harder than being a parent of one spoiled brat and I’m pretty sure I’m still doing a better job than you are.”
I can tell that Cammi is insulted by the slight twitch of her wrinkle free face. But she doesn’t grant me the satisfaction of letting me know that I am right.
“Whatever. At least my kid isn’t the one suspended,” Cammi scoffs, glancing at Mr. Rice with a can you believe this chick expression on her face.
Meanwhile, Mr. Rice looks as if he is praying the school would somehow catch fire and he could escape the circus unfolding in front of him. He is probably expecting us to start tearing each other’s hair out next. I can see he is mentally evaluating his escape route to the door.
But I decide that despite my fury, I’m not going to waste another breath on Cammi Donoghue or her demon seed. “I will be bringing Colt back to school tomorrow,” I announce to Mr. Rice as I snatch my purse from the floor where it landed several minutes ago. A few pennies roll out and stop underneath Cammi’s chair but I don’t bother to retrieve them.
Mr. Rice opens his mouth to protest, but I ignore him and stomp out of the office. I grasp Colt’s hand as I pass him. “Let’s go,” I mumble, practically yanking him out of the chair and dragging him behind me as I briskly pass Mrs. Morris’s desk.
“Did you ask Jimmy’s mother if he could play with Sean?” Colt asks eagerly when we are once again out in the hallway.
Seriously? Is this kid really that dense? Doesn’t he realize that Jimmy is a shithead bully that is never going to want to hang out with Sean? And what’s more, Colt shouldn’t want to hang out with Jimmy? I stare at my tender hearted six year old and sigh. Poor kid.
“No, Colt. His mother doesn’t want him to play with Sean,” I tell him with a sad smile. I watch his face crumble.
“But why not?” he asks, lip quivering.
I resist the urge to tell him that Jimmy’s mother is a bullying bitchy bimbo and just shrug my shoulders at my son. “I don’t know, Colt.”
“So he’s going to make fun of me on the playground and not play with me anymore?” he asks, a lone tear streaming down his sweet, chubby cheek. It breaks my heart. It sucks that a first grader already needs to learn that there are mean people in the world and we can’t all just get along and color rainbows and eat paste. We battle mean people from the time we are born till the day we die. It’s a tough lesson to learn at age six.
I open my mouth to explain, but I don’t have a chance to respond because all of a sudden, I hear Lexie cry out, “Mommy!” and then I see her hurling at me full force. And by hurling, I mean puking. All over my shoes. And my jeans. And my purse.
I stare at my daughter in disbelief as she covers her mouth and goes dashing across the hall into the nurse’s office. I drop to the floor, put my head in my hands and just sob.
~ELEVEN~
A half an hour later we are finally all packed into the car. Colt is sniffling and wiping the snot from his face with his sleeve, Evan reeks of baby poop and Lexie is clutching a plastic bag in which she has been instructed to throw up in if the urge hits. And I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I now have exactly thirty three minutes to get home, unload the kids, change Evan, set Lexie up with a puke bucket and find something to occupy Colt so that I can finally read Allie’s messages before she gets home and makes a bee line right to her phone that she is probably having a major bout of withdrawal from. I lucked out today with her leaving the phone home. And then, I have been nothing but unlucky with every turn of events since. I am not letting this once in a lifetime opportunity go to waste.
As I pull into the driveway, I notice that Jason’s car is still parked where it was over an hour ago when I had departed for school. I check the time because that seems impossible.
Only an hour ago? Geez, it seems like a week has passed since then. Something niggles at the back of my mind. Maybe it is the fact I have never seen his car home during the week before. In fact, hardly ever see his car at all. It seems highly suspicious to me for some reason.
Knock it off, Amy! You are not Miss Marple, Nancy Drew or Hercule Poirot!
Realizing that I have no time to brood over Jason’s whereabouts, I screech to a halt before I hit the house, throw the car into park, and practically leap from the vehicle. Lexie clutches her bag closer to her face. “Mommy, I feel like I’m gonna puke,” she moans as she swings her legs out the car door. And she does. Four times. And gets half of it on herself and the other half into the bag.
When she is finished, I assist the shaking and quivering Lexie out of the car, handing her the already full bag. Sighing, I lift a sleeping Evan, who now smells worse than a toxic waste site, out of his seat. I awkwardly climb up the front steps, one arm around a sniveling Colt, the other propping the baby on my shoulder. Lexie trails behind, dry heaving into the plastic bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a school bus lumbering slowly towards our block.
“Damn it,” I curse, shoving the key in the door. I manage to get the door open in record time and launch my body through it along with three kids. Evan stirs as I plop his sleeping body on the couch. The diaper can wait. He probably already has diaper rash. What’s another five minutes?
“Mommmmmeeeeee….what do I do with this bag?” Lexie wails. I snatch it from her hands and march into the kitchen. “Go hang out in the bathroom for a few minutes. Take off the pukey clothes,” I order over my shoulder. Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to show a little sympathy and I normally would, but the clock is ticking.
As I toss the bag into the garbage, I retrieve Allie’s phone from my pocket. Quickly punching in the passcode, I now do not stumble as I am able to find Victoria’s messages easily.
“Mommmmeeeeee,” I can hear Lexie howling from the hallway upstairs. “Colt locked himself in the bathroom! And he’s crying! What if I need to puke?” Even sick she is going to manage give me a headache.
“Lex! Just use the downstairs bathroom!”
“Ewwwww! No! That’s gross!”
“Lexie! It’s either that or the backyard!” I am praying her screeching isn’t waking her brother as I sneak a peek into the living room. Is Evan stirring? I hold my breath. No. Just my imagination. Nope, wait. Yes, he is definitely stirring.
Crap. I hurry to scan the messages, keeping an eye out for key words like drugs, sex and…rock and roll? So far, all Victoria’s messages to Allie have been benign and all Allie’s to Victoria are equally lame. I’m starting to think she may delete any incriminating messages just to throw me off the scent in the event that I do stumble across her phone…like today. In fact, the idea that this is actually just a decoy crosses my mind. Damn kid! Is she a chip off the old block?
Disa
ppointed, I am about to call it quits and shut off her phone when a message from two weeks ago catches my eye. (I have translated from teenager to English).
I got the goods if you want me to bring it to your house (Victoria).
Yeah my mom should be out this afternoon after school (Allie).
I can get more if you like it (Victoria).
The next few messages launch a back and forth discussion which causes my eyes to widen and a sickening feeling to rise in my stomach. Oh, this is not good.
I sink into the kitchen chair, phone in hand just as the front door swings open and Allie storms in like a hurricane. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone in her wake; instead she just swirls up the stairs, obviously on a very important mission. At the same time, Evan toddles into the room. Naked. With crap stuck to the back of his leg.
“Oh shit,” I mutter. Literally.
I set the phone on the table, knowing Allie is most likely tearing her room apart looking for it. Sighing, I grab Evan, who of course, tries to escape. I hold him at arm’s length carrying him to the kitchen sink where the pot from last night’s mashed potatoes is soaking, of course. With one hand, I expertly dump the heavy, water filled pot, cast it aside and shove Evan into the sink.
He wails and protests as I spray his back side with tepid water. “Well, you shouldn’t have taken off your diaper,” I reason with him as he howls. “If you would have just waited a few minutes…”
“Uh, you know there’s baby shit and a diaper on the living room floor, right?” Allie informs me as she enters the kitchen, nose wrinkled up in disgust.
The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell Page 13