Alisa Kwitney

by Sex as a Second Language (lit)

  Lia nodded slowly. “All right, then,” she said. “It sounds like you have a plan.”

  Kat shook her head slowly in disbelief. “You make such a fuss about the small stuff that I always forget how great you are in a real crisis.”

  “That’s the way it’s always been with the women in our family. My mother was more upset with my bad grade in home ec than she was with my getting a divorce.”

  Kat kissed her mother on the cheek. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And for once, they managed to leave things on that note.

  chapter thirty-six

  a s expensive as it was to make lawyers repeat things, Kat decided it was worth it. “Say it again, Mr. Tatelbaum,” she said. “Say it slowly, so I can savor the moment.”

  Her lawyer laughed, the first time Kat had ever heard him do so. “As I stated previously, if your husband is in noncompliance with the separation agreement, there are legal steps we can take, such as getting a court order to prevent his leaving the country. Why didn’t you call me when you first discovered that he was in the city?”

  Kat sank into a chair, shaking her head. “I just didn’t think of it. My God, do you know what this means? We have leverage. We have a great, big, crowbar of leverage. The producers of Logan’s film are not going to like the idea of their star being stuck on the wrong side of the Atlantic.”

  “Yes, well, I’m happy to be the bearer of such good news.” Kat’s lawyer sounded like a man for whom “happy” was a relative term. Kat supposed that practicing divorce law would make anyone wary of too much emotion, whether it was good or not. “Now, I’d better get to work.”

  Kat said good-bye and checked the clock. Hard to believe it was only two o’clock. The day felt like it had already lasted for more than twenty-four hours.

  What should she do now? Kat knew she should probably start figuring out exactly how she was going to earn a living, but the question was just too overwhelming. Should she be practical and take a temping job, or get some kind of computer training? She’d been in her early twenties the last time she’d worked as a temp, back before computers and the Internet became part of everyone’s daily life.

  Oh, God, I am old. Kat splashed some water on her face, brushed her hair back into a neater ponytail and decided that she’d done enough for one day.

  Fresh air and exercise, she thought, that’s what I need. Maybe I’ll pick Dash up from school. Still a little full from her misery binge, Kat changed out of her jeans and into a comfortable red skirt with a dropped waist. She put on a pair of Frye cowboy boots, which gave her walk a little swagger, grabbed a denim jacket and imagined the expression on Dashiell’s face when he saw her.

  Kat signed in with the guard in the school’s lobby, then made her way to Mrs. Rizer’s fourth-grade classroom. The pervasive, slightly sour smell of cafeteria food and sweaty socks filled the corridors, reminding her of her own school days and giving her a strange feeling of nostalgia mingled with dread.

  She was half an hour early, but instead of dealing with the standard chaos of dismissal, Kat had decided to take Dashiell home immediately. She figured he could use a little treat—an ice cream, some Pokémon cards, maybe even a game of Super Mario Smash Brothers. There was nothing Dashiell liked better than instructing his video-game challenged mother in how to do battle.

  Kat peeked into the glass insert in the door to see what Dashiell’s class was doing, not wanting to interrupt in the middle of an activity. She spotted Dashiell immediately, as he was sitting in the front, as usual. Teachers learned quickly that if Dashiell wasn’t sitting in the front row, he was essentially sitting in his own universe, completely oblivious to what was going on in front of the blackboard. Usually, his friend Riley sat to his left, but today, for some reason, a gaggle of students was gathered around her son. Kat moved to one side, trying to get a better view.

  Now she could see that there was a rapidly growing pile of books, papers, wadded up tissues and other detritus around Dashiell’s desk. As Kat watched, Dashiell pulled out a pack of playing cards, a notebook, about ten wadded up tissues, and a rubber-band ball. Mrs. Rizer, a tall, thin woman of around fifty or so, said something that made the other students laugh. The scene was vaguely reminiscent of the circus act in which a preposterous number of clowns emerge from an absurdly small vehicle, except that in this case, the performer did not seem to be in on the joke.

  Dash looked up at his teacher, his face swollen with unshed tears. He asked her something, and Mrs. Rizer shook her head, pointing back to the desk. The other children laughed, and Kat opened the door with enough force to make the glass pane rattle.

  “Excuse me, but exactly what do you think you’re doing to my son?”

  Mrs. Rizer turned to Kat with a look of hauteur. With her dyed auburn Gibson girl pompadour and her reading glasses permanently perched on the tip of her nose, she did hauteur very well. “Excuse me, Mrs. Miner, I wasn’t aware that you were going to be picking Dashiell up from the classroom today. As you can see, we have been having a chronic problem with the untidiness of your son’s desk. His inability to find things in a timely fashion has been interfering with both his schoolwork and that of his classmates.”

  The class, glancing up at Kat uneasily, tittered at this. Dashiell’s expression was harder to read—resignation, suppressed anger, a faint hope of rescue. Kat turned back to his teacher. “Mrs. Rizer, do you honestly believe that humiliating my son in front of his classmates is the correct course of action? Do you think the principal would agree?” In some part of her mind, Kat was aware that challenging the teacher’s authority in front of her class was not the smartest thing to do, but another, more primitive part of her brain was in charge right now. Her young was being threatened, and Kat wanted to sink her teeth into this bitch.

  “If your son is humiliated by the state of his desk, then I would suggest that he organize it.” Mrs. Rizer’s face was mottled with angry color.

  “Did it occur to you that you might have to teach him how? Are you really trying to tell me that Dashiell is the first child you’ve ever taught who had some difficulty in this area?”

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Rizer, looking slightly defensive. “But you’re not doing him any favors by coddling him. Children need a firm hand, clear expectations, and to be held to the same standard as their peers.”

  Kat looked at her son and was reminded of something she’d long forgotten—how powerful teachers are in the lives of children. For a good six hours a day, five days a week, nine months of the year, this woman created the culture in which her son lived. For three quarters of a year, he was hers, ruled by her opinions, subject to her moods, profoundly influenced by her strengths and weaknesses, be they academic, psychological, and emotional. “Mrs. Rizer,” Kat said quietly, “whatever you think you’re doing here, you are actually encouraging the rest of the class to think that Dashiell is fair game for teasing. And I won’t permit it.”

  As she held the older woman’s gaze, Kat could see the moment that Mrs. Rizer realized that she might have overstepped her bounds. “Why don’t we talk some more about your son’s problem after school,” she offered, and then smiled down at Dash. “I think we can come up with some good solutions for keeping your things tidy, don’t you?”

  Dashiell nodded, clearly grateful.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kat, “but that’s just too little too late. I’m going to have to speak to the principal about this. Dash, grab your things and let’s leave.”

  Dashiell’s mouth dropped open. “But we haven’t been dismissed. It’s not time to go yet.”

  Kat looked directly at his teacher. “Oh, yes, it is, Dash. Any time you find yourself being mistreated, it is always time to go.”

  “I can’t believe I got out of school early to do this.”

  Kat tried not to look as queasy as she felt, watching her son clambering fifteen feet over her head on the rock climbing wall. But she’d given him his choice of treats, and
this was what he’d wanted. “After what happened to you today, you deserve it.” What he didn’t deserve, she thought, was the principal’s carefully crafted, ingeniously ambiguous reassurances that Mrs. Rizer was a wonderful teacher, although of course these were, indeed, valid concerns. The school firmly believed in treating students with dignity and compassion, and Mr. Rivera said he would certainly look into this matter.

  Kat’s request that her son be transferred into another section had been denied. “Mr. Rivera, I teach, and let me tell you, what Mrs. Rizer did was vent her own irritation and set a terrible precedent for the rest of the class. You can’t expect my son to walk into class tomorrow and act as though nothing happened. She abused her authority.”

  Mr. Rivera had made it clear that to him, the words “a teacher abusing authority” implied corporal punishment or racial epithets, and that publicly shaming a child, while unfortunate, was not expressly forbidden by the New York State Bureau of Education.

  “Mom, look, I’m at the top!” Kat tilted her head back as her son waved to her from the top of the wall, some twenty-five feet up. Instead of choosing one of the ascents inside the atrium, as she had done with Magnus, Dashiell had chosen one of the more difficult, outside walls. A nanny pushing a stroller along Broadway stopped to watch.

  She turned to the young climbing instructor who was belaying him. “I know it’s safe, but it’s hard to watch him.”

  “You should go next,” said the instructor, who had short, reddish brown hair and an outdoorswoman’s freckles on her face and arms. “Hey, kid,” she called up. “Ready to come down now?”

  “Sure.” Without needing to be told, Dash leaned back on the rope, pressing the soles of his sneakers against the wall. As the instructor let the rope out, Dashiell bounced lightly down, pushing the wall away with his feet.

  “That was excellent,” said the young woman, slapping his palm with her own. “Do you want to go again? We could try one of the harder indoor ascents.” They had bought a discount card worth five climbs, and Dash had already used up two of them.

  “No, I want my mom to go. You take a turn, Mom.”

  Kat shook her head. “Sorry, but I’m not quite dressed for it.” She indicated her skirt and cowboy boots.

  “You can borrow something! You guys have sweats she can use, right? And they have climbing shoes, too.” Dashiell’s eyes shone with excitement, and Kat thought, Even if he weren’t my son, even if I didn’t adore him, I would like him as a person. Which means that somewhere, there has got to be a place where he could fit in and make friends.

  She glanced over at the wall. “Is it really important to you?”

  Dash nodded. “You said you climbed here before. I want to watch you this time.”

  Hoo, boy. Was she really going to do this? “I think I’m too scared.”

  Dashiell put his small hand on her arm. “But Mom, it’s not a rational fear. You can’t get hurt. And once you go up, it’s really fun. I want you to see how cool it is.”

  “How do you know how to say things like ‘It’s not a rational fear,’ anyway?”

  Dashiell grinned as if he hadn’t just had a traumatic experience not half an hour earlier. “From you, silly.”

  Kat took a deep breath and looked at the instructor. “Okay. Do you have any sweats I can borrow?”

  The young woman hesitated, then said to Dash, “Well, it’s not our usual policy, but just this once, your mother can use a clean pair of mine.”

  Kat changed into the borrowed sweats in a tiny bathroom. Instead of using the school’s climbing shoes, which smelled of mildew, she opted to go barefoot. Why am I doing this, she thought as she stepped into the harness and got clipped to the instructor’s rope.

  “I want the easiest way up,” she said. The instructor led her to a wall in the middle of the atrium. Kat couldn’t remember if it was the same wall she’d gone up the last time or not. It seemed higher.

  “I’ll shine this red light to show you where to go next,” said the instructor.

  “Go on, Mom, you can do it!”

  Kat lifted her left foot onto a large, horizontal protrusion that resembled an amoeba. “Okay,” she said. “Here goes. Hope I don’t panic and wet your pants.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said the instructor. “Just take it one step at a time.”

  Kat found the first two moves surprisingly easy, and then she made the mistake of looking up. Up was a long way to go. “How far do I need to climb?”

  “Now, stop that. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just think about the next step. Don’t look up, don’t look down. Look straight ahead and concentrate on finding your next foothold. That’s it, that’s it, when you know where you’re standing, then you move your hands.”

  “You’re a good teacher,” said Kat, feeling the rush of affection she always felt when someone taught her something.

  “Thanks,” said the young woman, shining a thin red light on Kat’s next handhold.

  And that was the thing about teaching, Kat thought. Just like acting, or dance, or art, some people had an aptitude for it, and others did not. And if you had a talent for teaching, as this woman did, then training and experience could hone and focus your natural abilities, but training and experience alone could not instill the gift. Which was how you got people like Mrs. Rizer, who had probably been screwing kids up for the better part of thirty years.

  If that had been my class, his desk would never have gotten into that state in the first place.

  “You’re almost at the top, Mom!”

  Instinctively, Kat started to look down, and the sight of her son, on the ground so far below her, made her feel dizzy. “I think that’s far enough.”

  “Just two more steps and you’ll be at the top,” said the instructor.

  Kat felt really light-headed now. Shit. With all that she was going through, did she really need to be challenging herself to climb goddamn walls? “I really, really need to come down now.”

  “Just look at what’s in front of you,” said the woman calmly. “That’s all there is. Just the next foothold.”

  “Come on, Mom, you can do it!”

  Her hands shaking, Kat suddenly heard what the rock climbing instructor was saying, and thought, The reason I’m up here is because if I can make myself do this, I can do anything. All I have to do is take it one step at a time. Take Dash out of school if I have to. Teach him at home till I can find someplace better for him. Deal with the emotional fallout when he realizes that his father is choosing not to see him.

  Kat climbed another inch. “I can’t see where to go next.”

  A red dot appeared on the handhold above Katherine’s left arm. “That’s it,” said the instructor. Kat reached up, and there was nowhere else to go. She’d made it to the top. She could hear Dashiell cheering and shouting, but she didn’t turn around.

  “Okay,” Kat called out. “What now?”

  “Now you relax,” shouted the instructor. “This is the easy part.”

  I need an easy part, thought Kat. It wasn’t until she was down on the ground that she discovered she’d given herself a blister on her right hand. But she didn’t care. She knew what she wanted to do with her life, and that was worth a little pain.

  She hugged her son. “Do you have the energy for one more stop before we head home?”

  “Depends. Where do you want to go?”

  “I want to pick up some catalogs from Bank Street and Teacher’s College. I’m thinking about going back to school.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I know I’d like to teach, but I’m not sure exactly what.”

  “You mean, teach kids?”

  “I’m considering it. What do you think?”

  Dashiell’s face darkened. “I’m thinking I wish you could be my teacher.”

  Kat knelt down and took her son’s hands. “Well, you know, in the long run, I think you’ll be better off with someone else teaching you, because part of growing up is pushing your mo
ther away. But I’m thinking that we need to find a better school for you, and maybe while we’re looking, I can teach you for a while.”

  “Mom, you’ve just made this the best day of my life. Seriously. I don’t have to go back to that school? Really? Awesome. Hey, if I don’t have to go to school tomorrow, can I have dinner at Nana’s? She said she was going to make meatloaf and I’m dying for some red meat. Oh, and can I sleep over at her house, too? We sure are lucky, living right next door.”

  Kat kept her smile in place, reminded yet again that parenting was another occupation that required good acting skills.

  chapter thirty-seven

  a fter Dash was settled down in her mother’s house for the night, Kat uncorked a bottle of dry Sardinian wine. She didn’t normally drink alone, but there was nothing normal about this day. Kat had just poured herself a glass and was about to start reading the Teacher’s College course catalog when the phone started ringing. Kat closed her eyes and waited for the answering machine to respond.

  “Kat, if you’re there, please let me know if you’re okay. I’ve been trying to reach you all day and I’m starting to get worried.”

  Kat picked up the phone. “Sorry, Marcy. Yeah, I’m all right. I’m just having some wine and trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “I am so sorry about what happened. They had no right to fire you like that. I’d quit myself, in protest, but with Steve not working right now, we need the money.”

  Kat rubbed her right ankle, sore from rock climbing and cowboy boots. “Well, I appreciate the thought, but I would never want you to leave your job because of me. Besides, it’s partially my fault. I guess I should have listened when you told me not to take so much time off.”

  “But she just fired you! Without giving notice!”

  Kat glanced at the fat course catalog in front of her. She’d already discovered from the table of contents that there were all kinds of teaching specialties that she hadn’t known existed, some of them clearly in great demand. Knowing she had options made her feel a bit more philosophical about losing her old job. “You know how it is. When you’re a new queen, you tend to look for someone to execute. Plus, I’m sure the fact that I was breaking with company policy and going out on field trips probably didn’t help me any.”