Class

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  As she continued down the block, her eye caught the familiar periwinkle-colored font of the local gas company, then the word NONE printed in large caps. Probably a utility bill tossed out by a resident who owed nothing, Karen figured. It seemed like the perfect metaphor for the people who lived there. She kept walking. She walked all the way to the corner. Then she paused, an idea unspooling in her head: Why couldn’t that utility bill be hers and, by extension, why couldn’t she pretend to be a resident of Pendleton Street, in which case she’d be legally entitled to send her daughter to Mather?

  In truth, it wasn’t the first time Karen had contemplated lying about her address to secure a better school. Once or twice, it had even crossed her mind to ask Allison if she could borrow hers. Allison probably wouldn’t have minded. But the loss of pride to Karen had seemed potentially detrimental to their friendship. Despite their intimacy, she relished the ability to quietly dangle her woman-of-the-people credentials in Allison’s face. What’s more, Karen had never stolen anything in her life other than a towel from the Yucatán resort where she and Matt had spent their honeymoon. And even that breach, the pettiest of crimes, had caused her heart to palpitate. She could still recall how, while checking out, she’d been half convinced that the man behind the front desk could see into her luggage. She’d also half expected the police suddenly to appear.

  And yet, rationally speaking, just as in the case of the filched towel, Karen didn’t see how anyone stood to suffer from her walking away with a stranger’s already-paid gas bill. Besides, she wasn’t committing to any actions, only giving herself options. Pivoting right, then left, she surveyed the now-empty streetscape. The private banker/art consultant and his bulldog had vanished, and no one had taken their place. Or at least no one Karen could see. In the time since she’d left her house, the sky had turned a rich shade of Prussian blue. In the far distance came the muted ululating of an emergency vehicle.

  Walking at a brisk pace, Karen reapproached the trash bag. After coming to a stop two feet away, she stood eyeing the bill through the plastic, coveting it like she occasionally craved brownies and cupcakes. But what good had abstention ever done? Karen found that if she said no to a late-afternoon pastry, she would end up eating bread and butter at dinner and feeling equally gluttonous.

  The word NONE seemed to be staring back at her, offering itself up as both warning and invitation, but more the latter.

  Karen suddenly untwisted the twisty tie that was holding the bag together, thrust her hand into the pile, grabbed hold of the bill, and stuck it in her purse. Her heart was beating madly as she skedaddled back down the block—not so fast as to seem suspicious if anyone should appear, but rapidly enough to discourage questions.

  Five minutes after that, she was standing in line at the Korean grocer on her corner, waiting to pay for an exorbitantly priced half gallon of organic 2 percent milk. The carton featured a pastoral scene that seemed to have been lifted out of a nineteenth-century children’s book, with brown-and-white-dappled cows grazing on a rolling green hill next to a red barn. Matt was convinced that the entire organic movement was a scam and that all you were really paying for was the pretty picture on the side of the carton and, by extension, nostalgia for the fantasy of a simpler era. But Karen wasn’t so sure. A few years earlier, she’d read an article in the Huffington Post linking the hormones in nonorganic milk to early puberty. Now she lived in fear of Ruby getting her period while still in elementary school and regularly snuck surreptitious glances at both her daughter’s pubis in search of darkening follicles and her chest in search of buds. It seemed so unfair for a child to be burdened that way at such an early age. But it was also that early menses seemed to portend other undesirable early firsts—for example, teenage pregnancy. Then again, most of the ugly, plastic picture-less milk cartons promised no hormones as well, and Karen couldn’t bring herself to buy them. So maybe she really was a fool.

  A fool and also now a thief.

  “Where have you been?” Matt asked as Karen closed the door behind her. But to her relief, his voice was more inquisitive than angry.

  “Sorry, I ran into a friend on the street,” she said, amazed at how easily the lie spilled from her lips.

  “I thought you’d gotten mugged,” he went on. “I was actually worried about you. I called your cell and you didn’t answer.”

  “Oh, sorry—I must not have heard it ring,” said Karen. She went into the kitchen to put away the milk they didn’t need.

  “Anyway, I’m going to hit the sack early,” said Matt. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Karen was surprised and relieved by this small stroke of fortune. When did Matt ever go to bed early? It also felt like fate—that she should be left to her own devices that night. “Okay, good night,” she told him.

  “Nighty-night,” he replied.

  Karen couldn’t tell whether or not he was still mad at her for mentioning who had made the down payment on their apartment. But in truth, a good portion of her marriage in the past year or two had been conducted in a gray space between fine and annoyed, with the two of them operating at a temperature that fell between temperate and chilly. After Matt disappeared into the bedroom, she sat down at her desk and pulled the stolen bill out of her bag. Under the lamp, it revealed new attributes. A greasy brown-black smear on the top left corner suggested recent contact with a banana peel. Or at least, Karen hoped it was a banana. The sight sent a brief spasm of disgust shooting up her spine.

  Recovering, Karen noted for the first time that the bill was addressed to Nathaniel Bordwell at 321 Pendleton Street, no apartment number, suggesting that Bordwell and his family lived on all four floors of their extra-wide town house. Lucky them, she thought. Feeling marginally less guilty, she smoothed the creases, wiped the stain off as best she could with a tissue, and placed the paper beneath a well-thumbed hardback of Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed. At one time, it had been her favorite book. But that evening, its greatest value to her was as a paperweight.

  Next, Karen opened her laptop, located a realty website that offered a free lease template, and downloaded it onto her desktop. Then she drew up a lease for herself and her family for an apartment she designated as 321 Pendleton Street, no. 2. She identified Nathaniel Bordwell as her landlord and set the rental price at a multiple of a thousand that wasn’t quite market rate but was by no means cheap, suggesting a long-term arrangement. When she’d finished, she printed out two copies that she signed and dated with two distinct signatures using two different pens, a blue one for her, a black one for her imaginary landlord, whom she somehow envisioned as having tiny, precise handwriting. Then she paused to admire her work. To Karen’s eye, it was an impressive piece of forgery. Whether she dared to share it with the outside world was another matter. Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide just then. She slid the document into a manila envelope along with the stolen bill and a copy of Ruby’s birth certificate, then placed the envelope in her handbag.

  It was now well past midnight. Karen knew she ought to go to bed. But she was too stimulated by visions of the future that her deception had rendered feasible. She pictured Maeve and Ruby jumping rope together in the schoolyard of Mather, their pigtails flying, then in a sunny classroom filled with well-behaved, majority-white children from similar backgrounds, all of them sitting crisscross-applesauce-style as they read classics of children’s literature like Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little, and none of them twerking, punching, or calling out. But the movie kept getting interrupted. Karen’s conscience wasn’t the only obstacle. There were logistical issues as well; how would Karen explain to the school administrators why her utility bill was not in her name? And what if they demanded secondary proof of residence?

  Also, what if Karen and Nathaniel Bordwell turned out to be connected in ways that she didn’t yet realize? Karen opened Facebook and typed his name into the search box. To her surprise, nothing came up. But a subsequent Google search revealed a person with his name parti
cipating in a half marathon to raise money for paraplegia and motor-neuron disease research. Assuming it was the same Nathaniel Bordwell, it had the effect of rendering him a real person and, what’s more, a person who, like Karen, was trying to do good in the world, a person whom she could potentially relate to. It also made her want to know more—if he was young or old (probably not that old if he’d recently run a half marathon) and whether he preferred lakes or oceans, blondes or brunettes, sweet or savory breakfasts. And were his cholesterol numbers low or high? His parents still alive?

  More urgently, how would Karen account for Ruby’s midyear school switch when she ran into the Betts mothers at the supermarket? She could pretend that her family had moved. But what if they should find out she’d done no such thing? For that matter, how would she explain Ruby’s sudden appearance at Mather to Evan and Laura? Would it sound farfetched to say that Ruby had gotten a safety transfer there too? Karen also worried about what kind of message she’d be sending her daughter by lying about where they lived—unless, of course, she lied to Ruby too. But she couldn’t lie to Matt. And Karen knew without having to ask him that he’d disapprove. But then, wasn’t it a mother’s job to do the very best she could by her children? Wasn’t that her primary mission on this earth? And Edward G. Mather Elementary was widely regarded as a great school.

  At two in the morning, Karen climbed into bed, threw an arm around Matt’s middle, and pressed her breasts against his back. Her frustration with him of a few hours earlier had morphed into fear of his contempt. But it seemed to Karen that her husband could be ethical to a fault: What good was probity when everyone else was lying through their teeth? Karen recalled the Israeli mother down the street who had conveniently split up with her husband just in time for him to secure a lease in the Mather school district—and for their daughter to begin kindergarten there. Yet a few months later, when Karen had run into her in a nearby toy shop, Irit had been visibly pregnant. “Wow! Congratulations!” Karen had said, confused.

  “Thank you,” Irit had answered in her staccato English. “We decided to have a second after all.” She smiled.

  “Oh, right,” said Karen, doubting that Irit’s husband had ever moved out in the first place. At the time, Karen had been just short of scandalized.

  It turned out she was no better.

  That night, Karen dreamed she was attempting to enroll Ruby at Mather, except she’d left the necessary documents at home and then, when she’d retraced her steps and retrieved them, she couldn’t find a pencil, then couldn’t find the door to the administrative office—kept opening the wrong one, walking in circles…She woke up, consulted the clock, found it was still the middle of the night, and fell asleep again, only to have another version of the same dream twenty minutes later. It must have happened six times. When Karen’s alarm finally went off in the morning, she felt leaden with exhaustion. Armed with the rationale that Ruby would likely be changing schools in a matter of days anyway, she allowed herself to press the Off button and went back to sleep.

  It was Ruby who woke her the next time. “Mommy! Get up!” she cried. “It’s the realistic-fiction celebration. And it’s five after eight.” Ruby was already dressed, putting Karen to shame. Matt was still asleep, just like he always was.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” mumbled Karen, lurching toward the kitchen. “Mommy didn’t sleep very well last night.” She dressed as quickly as she could.

  When she and Ruby finally opened the door to the classroom, the celebration appeared to be well under way, if not almost over. Lou looked over with a raised eyebrow and a half smile, which Karen responded to with a sheepish grin. She could have sworn that Miss Tammy, noting her and Ruby’s late arrival, shot her a dirty look, but maybe Karen was projecting. In any case, Miss Tammy appeared to be deep in conversation with Michelle on the other side of the room.

  The children’s stories were laid out on the tables where they regularly sat, which were really just bunches of metal desks pushed together. Next to the stories were Comments sheets and No. 2 pencils. Parents were supposed to walk around the classroom, read the children’s stories, and write encouraging words about them. “Come see mine first,” said Ruby. To Karen’s relief, Ruby led her to a table at the opposite end of the room from where Michelle and Tammy were standing. Karen put on her glasses and began to read.

  Ruby’s story was about a girl who goes to a sleepover party and can’t sleep because the mom is snoring in the next room. The girl gets so tired of the sound of the mom snoring that she puts a pillow over the mom’s face, accidentally killing her. Karen found it vaguely disturbing. Did Ruby entertain violent thoughts of smothering her friends’ parents? Her own parents? Or was it just a story? Maybe Karen was reading too much into it, just like she seemed to read too much into everything. “Did you like it?” Ruby asked in an excited tone.

  “You’ll have to read my comment,” said Karen. Then she wrote, Nice job, but are you trying to send me a message?! Love, Mommy on the accompanying sheet. Concerned that Ruby would be offended, Karen was busy drawing a smiley face next to her comment when she realized that Jayyden was standing diagonally behind her. “Oh, hey, Jayyden,” she said, flinching ever so slightly as she whipped around to greet him.

  “Hey, Ruby’s mom,” he mumbled.

  He was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. His cheeks looked fuller than she remembered. And the race-car design that had been shaved into his hair had already started to grow out; now it just looked patchy. Was Karen really taking Ruby out of Betts on account of this…child?

  As usual, it was clear that no one in Jayyden’s family had shown up for the celebration. With a swirling brew of sympathy, trepidation, and—if it was possible—preemptive nostalgia, Karen asked, “Which one is your story?”

  “That one,” he said, pointing to a sheet of lined paper next to Ruby’s.

  “Oh, cool,” said Karen, lifting it up.

  The story was only one page long and featured poor grammar and spelling. But in its own way, it was well paced and kept the reader wanting to know more. Or maybe it was just that Karen could never hear enough about how the other half lived. Jayyden’s story was about a boy who gets into a fistfight on the playground with another boy because of a misunderstanding; one gives the other a black eye, but they eventually become friends. By the end of the story, the two are close enough to call each other the n-word, have their own special handshake, and share a pizza together at the park. In the narrative, Karen found both confirmation of Jayyden’s disposition toward violence and a challenge to her assumption that he was beyond redemption. There was one comment on the Comments sheet—Good job, signed Jasleen’s mom. Seeking to inspire the author, not patronize him—or, God forbid, antagonize him—Karen wrote: Very well-told story! I felt like I was there. I’m glad Aquille and DeShawn make up in the end. I wish I could hear more about what happens to them. You’re a talented writer. Ruby’s mom. Then she set her pencil back down on the table and glanced over at the author. Jayyden looked at her inquisitively. Or was it suspiciously? Or maybe he wasn’t seeing her at all. “Cool story!” Karen told him.

  “Thanks,” he said. But he didn’t immediately pick up the Comments sheet to see what she’d written.

  Karen moved on to the next story at the table, which was by April Fishbach’s son, Ezra. It was called “The Story of Cheese,” and it was about a boy who gets mad at his mom at the food co-op they belong to because she won’t buy him his favorite kind of “fedda”; his mom explains that armies from the country where the cheese is made are occupying another country and killing innocent people, so they have to buy cheese from somewhere else. Very realistic, Karen wrote. She was tempted to add, I could see your mom denying you nutrition for geopolitical reasons, but refrained. April herself was standing only a few feet away, dinning in Mumia’s dad’s ear about a sit-down to protest police brutality that she was apparently organizing. Ralph was smiling but appeared skeptical.

  Karen would have liked to read Chahrazad�
�s story, but the girl’s writing was tiny, and Karen needed stronger glasses. All she could make out was the title: “The Girl Who Didn’t Want to Go Back to Yemen.” So she skipped ahead to the last one at the table, which had been written by Empriss. At first glance, the story appeared to be quite long. But after opening it, Karen discovered that Empriss had written only one sentence per page and that the book was mostly composed of illustrations done with a purple marker. It was called “The Present.” On the cover Empriss had drawn a picture of a girl holding hands with a stick figure wearing sunglasses. The story was about a girl named E. who hadn’t seen her dad since she was four years old. She asks her mom why her dad went away. But her mother won’t say why. Then he shows up, and he has a present for her—a locket in the shape of a heart—and he tells her he loves her and he’s sorry he had to go, but now he’s back. On the last page of the story there was a disclaimer. Empriss had written: If this sounds realistic, that’s because, if I saw my dad, I’d be so happy too. I’d throw my arms around him and tell him I loved him. Because I only saw him once since I was four.

  Wow—powerful story, wrote Karen as an achy feeling enveloped her chest, and her eyes grew shiny with tears. Though whether or not her upset was due to Empriss’s storytelling skills was hard to say.

  “You okay?” said Lou, suddenly appearing at Karen’s side.

  “Oh, thanks. Just having a hard day,” said Karen, dabbing her eyes with her knuckles.

  “Hey, I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thank you—really,” said Karen, spontaneously reaching over and hugging Lou even as she saw before her the limits of their friendship. Karen feared that, if Lou knew where she was headed later that morning, she’d judge Karen in the same way that Karen had once judged Laura Collier. Karen also doubted that Lou would still be hugging her. “I’m just losing it for no apparent reason,” she went on. “Though I did have a horrible fight with my husband last night.”