“You know, Maxie, I’m really looking forward to seeing you again. You sure you don’t mind picking me up from the train station?”
I assure Ben that I don’t and a scene from a movie suddenly plays in my head; I’m standing at the bottom of the escalator as Ben descends from the train platform. I gaze up at him as he gazes down at me. Music swells and as he steps off, we fall into each other’s arms, kissing passionately. That scene played over and over again during the few days between our conversation and our date. I talked to him on Friday, and all weekend the vision of greeting him at the train station carried me through. As the paparazzi followed me to Sam’s soccer game and to the mall, I just kept dreaming about the first moment I’d see Ben.
On Monday, I’m daydreaming about my date with Ben again, trying to figure out what I should wear and if I have time to get a manicure and pedicure. I’m contemplating whether or not I should buy new lingerie when I arrive at preschool pick-up for Sam. And I’m so distracted wondering if there’s a chance Ben will even see me in it that at first, I don’t notice all of the other moms are staring at me and whispering to each other. But after a few moments, it’s a rude intrusion on my Ben fantasies. It’s not surprising, but generally they specialize in barely disguised digs delivered right to your face. So, it is a bit new. I nod at them and stand by myself off to the side, tapping my foot impatiently, waiting for the door to open and Sam to come bounding out and into my arms. That isn’t what happens, though. Sam is escorted out before the other kids and he won’t look at me.
I kneel down as the teacher brings him over to me and I notice that his eyes are all red and puffy, like he’s been crying for quite some time. I hold my arms out and he falls against me sobbing. “Whoa, what’s the matter, Honey Bun?” I ask softly.
“The kids said that their mommies called you crazy and sad. I told them that you’re the best mommy and then they all called me weird.” Sam buries his head in my shoulder and my heart breaks for him.
I look up at his teacher questioningly and she just shrugs. “When did this happen?” I ask, since she doesn’t seem to be forthcoming with details on her own.
“Right after they arrived, I think,” she answers, not seeming to really care.
“Why didn’t someone call me if he was so upset? He’s been crying for three hours then?”
“Well, just on and off. We prefer to let the children work things out for themselves, rather than calling the parents in to rescue them,” she replies haughtily.
“Okay, that’s all right if it’s a fight over blocks, but this—this sounds like bullying. He’s four years old; do you really think he can resolve this on his own?” I’m barely containing my anger. “You know, this isn’t the first time he’s been called weird. Lindsay’s called him weird before. Enough is enough.”
“Mrs. Giordano, we foster independence here at Happy Time. We don’t call in parents to yank their children out of our learning environment, just because they’re sad.”
“You know what,” I spit. “I’m yanking him out of here right now. He’s done. I’ve had it with your stick up the,” I pause to think of a more appropriate word to use around children than ass. “With your stick up the tushy policies.” This makes Sam laugh and the sound is wonderful—something that I realize I never hear when I pick him up from school. Yes, the children are learning, but they’re not laughing, and the teachers don’t care if the other children call my son weird. I couldn’t care less if they call me “crazy and sad,” but call my baby “weird,” not once, but twice—and who knows how many other times that Sam didn’t tell me? I don’t think so.
I stride into the room, past the teachers’ protests of, “Mrs. Giordano, please don’t go in there during dismissal. You know the rules; parents aren’t allowed in.”
I grab Sam’s extra clothes out of his cubby and scan the room for any artwork. This is the last straw. I haven’t been happy with this school for a while. Actually, I don’t know if I was ever happy with their snooty-ass policies, but I put up with it, because Sam loved it. At least I thought he loved it, but I just can’t let him stay here now. It’s the principle, as much as anything. His teacher comes up next to me. “You know if you leave, you’ll lose the rest of this month’s tuition. We don’t give refunds for any reason.”
“I’ll eat the cost; never mind that it’s probably equal to a month’s tuition at Harvard.”
She just clucks her tongue and walks away. Everyone thinks I’m crazy anyway, may as well give them more grist for the gossip mill. At this point I’m so over what people think of me. “Come on, Sam, we’re going to meet Logan at the park now,” I say and Sam starts jumping up and down.
“Yea!” he shouts. “Logan never calls me weird. I wanna go to his school now. I don’t like my school anymore.”
“I don’t blame you, Honey Bun. I don’t blame you at all,” I say as I scoop up two of his art projects and steer him out the door.
Thankfully, Andi is able to meet me. When we settle on a bench at the park, I ask her if she thinks there’s room at Loving Arms, her earthy crunchy preschool.
“Are you finally thinking of switching? The bitches have gotten to you?”
“They’ve gotten to me and to Sam. He wants to switch too. The other kids called him weird today. It breaks my heart. It’s not the first time either. That little brat Lindsay called him that before. But this time it was more of them. Worst of all, I feel like it’s my fault. I know it’s all because of that stupid video. Some of the other kids said they heard their mommies call me crazy and sad. They called him weird when he said I was the best mommy. I’ve ruined even Sam.”
I look up and see a camera lens trained on me. I didn’t even notice them following me. This is getting ridiculous. I thought there was a move away from photographing kids, but I guess according to the paparazzo, the park is a public place and anyone there is game. If I see the lens even move toward Sam, though, I’m going to go and grab the camera and smash it on the ground. Or, at least I’ll try to smash it, considering the “ground” at this park is actually rubber.
“Do you see the camera over there?” I ask Andi. “It’s as if to prove my point—I said that I ruined Sam and there’s a pap invading our life.”
“You haven’t ruined him,” Andi assures me. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll rebound, especially if he switches to Loving Arms.” She turns and waves to the camera, then turns back to me. “You may as well look like you’re having fun and maybe they’ll wonder who the mysterious brunette is with you. I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind a bit of notoriety to shake up my life.”
“You can have it,” I say. Then I think that perhaps she’s onto something. Maybe I’ll just be open and friendly, instead of trying to hide and I won’t come across as crazy and sad. The photographer turns around to leave and I decide that happy doesn’t sell as well as sad. From now on, I’ll act happy, even if I’m anything but. “Every time I think about what those little brats said, I get so angry. He’s definitely switching. He had been crying the whole time at school today and no one even called me.”
“Well, my school may be granola, but they’d never let a kid cry all morning without calling a parent. Since it’s a co-op, I’m sure they’re afraid that the parent who’s there will tell the parent of the kid who’s crying. And, they’re really into EQ—emotional quotient, rather than IQ. They teach ‘emotional intelligence.’ It’s so different from Happy Time. I really think Sam’ll be happy there. And I’m pretty sure that there’s room, as long as you’ll volunteer in the classroom.”
“I’d love to. You really think there’ll be room for him?”
“I’ll call the director right now. She’s really great.”
When Andi hangs up she has a big smile on her face. “You’re in! You just have to fill out an application and bring in medical forms and he can start tomorrow.”
“So, they don’t have to interview him or anything?” I ask, a bit incredulous.
“Nope. When I switched over
, Logan started the very next day. Honestly, it’s preschool—why do they even need interviews? Next Happy Time will probably have three-year-olds dictating essays to their parents, since they’re too young to write. It’s not college; it’s preschool.”
“Do the moms talk behind your back?”
“Never,” Andi answers quickly. “And the kids aren’t spoiled and mean either.”
“Okay, he’ll go!” I exclaim and Andi reaches over and hugs me.
“I’m so happy that they’ll be together again,” she says. “Plus, I can pick up Sam when you need me to.”
“Thanks, Andi. You’re the best. I can pick Logan up too,” I offer, but Andi looks at me skeptically.
“You have so much on your plate right now, don’t you think? Now, tell me about your date with Ben!”
“I’m picking him up at the train station,” I say and tell her about my fantasy of him coming down the escalator and swooping me up in his arms.
“So romantic,” she sighs. “So, what are you going to wear? Definitely something sexy!”
“I have no idea. I don’t even have sexy clothes. Maybe that’s why my husband had an affair.”
“Go shopping then. Leave Sam with me. I’ll take him back to my house.”
“Are you sure?” It seems too good to be true.
“Of course, go!” She practically pushes me off of the bench. “You should get a Brazilian too—you never know,” Andi whispers with a sly smile. “I have a great girl. She’s European.”
She looks the number up on her phone and scrawls it on the back of a gum wrapper. I shove it in my pocket and the thought of even needing to get waxed for Ben nearly makes me faint. I hug Andi and practically skip back to my car.
***
I’m done shopping at Target in about twenty minutes—a record for me. My haul included a shimmery silver tank that’s cut just low enough and drapes in all the right places and dark indigo skinny jeans, almost black, but not quite.. I even bought a “smoky eyes” eye shadow quad and a mascara—very black, super lengthening. I have to say, I’m feeling pretty good about myself and my purchases. Unfortunately, as soon as I leave the store, I get a call from Nick.
“What?” I answer.
“Is that any way to greet me? You know, I’m still your husband—we’re not officially divorced yet.”
“Okay, then if you’re still my husband, why are you shacking up with Sloane?”
Silence on the other end. “That’s what I thought,” I say simply. “Now, what is it? You know, Sam had a terrible day at preschool—thanks to you and your girlfriend. It was so bad that I pulled him out of Happy Time and put him in Loving Arms,” I say as I climb into the car. “Of course the whole thing made me have a terrible day.” I may have been in a better mood, but hearing Nick’s voice on the phone just darkened it again.
“You pulled him out of Happy Time without telling me? You should have asked me. Sam is my son too, you know. You had no right,” Nick is suddenly belligerent. “Plus, we’ll lose the tuition for this whole month. It’s only the beginning of October. Don’t ask me for the extra money. You’ll have to cut back on other stuff if you’re paying for two preschools.”
“How dare you say I should’ve asked you? It’s your fault that I needed to pull him out in the first place. Because of that stupid video, the other kids were calling me crazy and sad. They heard their mothers say it first, I’m sure.”
“You made the video with me. It was mutual, you know,” Nick snaps.
“It wasn’t mutual to post it. I never, ever gave my consent for that. I’m sure what Sloane did was completely illegal and I’ll make her pay one day.”
“That sounds like a threat, Max.”
“Not a threat, just a fact. Now, why did you call?”
“Well, I just got a call from the principal at the middle school. I don’t know why they called me instead of you.” His voice is just drenched in annoyance at his busy day being interrupted.
“I don’t know why they called you, either. I always put my cell number before yours as the emergency contact, so I don’t know why you’re blaming me,” I snipe back, and then I realize that I vaguely remember hearing my phone ring when I was trying on clothes at Target. It was in my bag and I meant to check it as soon as I was done, but in my daydreaming about Ben, I completely forgot. I panic that Trevor got terribly hurt and he’s in the hospital—forget the nurse’s office. If he was just at the nurse’s office, she would have called. It must be really bad if the principal called and he’s all alone, because I was too wrapped up in my own world to check my phone. “What did the principal want?” I ask fearfully.
“Trevor got into a fight with another boy. They need one of us to go pick him up right away. He’s suspended for the rest of the day and has to spend his lunch in detention for two weeks.”
My head falls to the steering wheel. That was not the answer I expected. Better than the hospital, of course, but still not good. “Are you kidding me?” I ask, knowing full well that even Nick isn’t a big enough asshole to joke about Trevor getting into a fight and getting suspended. It’s more of a rhetorical question—maybe a question of the powers that be.
“No, I’m not kidding. And I would have told you sooner, if you hadn’t attacked me as soon as you got on the phone.”
“I didn’t attack you,” I protest.
“Look, do you want to know what happened or not?” Nick asks impatiently. “He punched some kid in the face and may have broken his nose. I’m sure we’ll be getting sued. I don’t think there’s a person in this town who wouldn’t sue over a kids’ fight. I cracked plenty of noses when I was a kid and my parents never got sued. They never even got a call from the principal’s office. That was the way boys settled things.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?” I ask incredulously. “Getting sued? What about our son getting angry and being violent enough to actually break someone’s nose or even almost break someone’s nose? That doesn’t worry you? Or because you ‘cracked plenty of noses’ when you were a kid that makes it okay? And I have to tell you, that’s pretty disturbing. How come I never knew that you were a bully as a kid?”
“I wasn’t a bully. If I hit someone, they deserved it,” Nick insists, but I don’t even acknowledge him. I had no idea that Nick beat up other kids as a child and I hope it’s not a trait that Trevor has inherited. I think there’s more at play here, though—I think Trevor has bottled up his emotions so much with everything going on, that they had to come out somewhere.
“Have you even thought about the role that you and Sloane have played in this?” I ask Nick calmly, though I feel like screaming.
“This isn’t my fault.”
“It is your fault, because you cheated on me. You broke up our family. Because, again, your psycho girlfriend posted a naked video of us online that’s made me a pariah not only in the community, but to my own daughter. You wrecked our lives and now you broke Trevor.” With this last statement I start to cry. There’s silence on the other end. “Good-bye. I have to get to the school.”
I wish eyes came with windshield wipers, so I could see through the tears as I drive to Trevor’s school. Luckily it’s not too far of a drive. I pull down the rearview mirror and glance at myself. My eyes are red-rimmed. My nose is rosy and not in a cute way. I rummage through my purse for my sunglasses and slip them on, even though it’s overcast. I swipe some pink lip gloss on my lips in a weak attempt to distract from my nose.
After signing in, I walk slowly down to the office. I’m afraid of what I’m about to face. Trevor is slumped in a chair, head down. He refuses to even look at me when I say, “Hi, Trevor. What’s going on?” The principal, Mrs. Wilson, strides out of her office and looks me up and down. No doubt she knows everything that’s been going on and likely is not surprised that the child of such a harlot would get into a fight.
“Would you like to step into my office?” she asks, all business in her sensible pantsuit and scowl.
Tre
vor and I follow her in, both of our heads hung down. As soon as we sit, she begins. “We have a zero tolerance policy for bullying and fighting. Since Trevor engaged in both, he’ll be suspended for the rest of the day and will spend every lunch at detention for the next two weeks.” Her lips are pursed into a skinny line. I wonder if she ever smiles. She wouldn’t be an unattractive woman if she did. But the way she is now—ugly as hell.
“Isn’t that a bit harsh?” I ask.
“Harsh? Not at all. Another incident and there’ll be a three-day suspension and in line with our, ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy, one more and he’ll be expelled. Any questions?” she asks in a voice that really says, I couldn’t care less if you have a question.
“I have a question,” I say, to which I’m met by a heavy sigh. “Has anyone asked Trevor what happened? I know that every parent says this, but it’s true—he’s not the type of kid to get into a fight. He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Never gotten in trouble before. I’ve never gotten a call from a principal—not in elementary school, not from you in middle. So, can we please ask Trevor what happened?”
Mrs. Wilson nods her head, a smug look on her face. I turn to Trevor. “Trevor, anything you want to tell us? What happened with this boy before you got into a fight with him? Did he say something? Did he push you? Of course, fighting’s never right.” I turn to Mrs. Wilson. “I teach my kids to always use their words and to just tell an adult if someone does something wrong to them and they’ve always listened.”
Trevor has a terrified look on his face. “I can’t tell you,” he says quietly. “It’s just too… No, I can’t say it.”
“Trevor, you have to tell us—especially if the other boy did something wrong.”
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