Class

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  Whether on account of being a good friend or a voracious gossip, Allison wrote back immediately to say she was free and willing. The two made plans to meet up at a wine bar halfway between their two offices. Karen arrived first and, pretending to have a special fondness for pinot blanc, ordered a ten-dollar glass of it—only because it was the cheapest thing on the menu. Allison showed up ten minutes after that and ordered a fifteen-dollar glass of Sancerre. “You know I love an emergency,” she began. “Tell all.” She pulled up her chair.

  At least she’s honest, Karen thought. She closed her eyes and said, “I’ve made a complete mess out of my life.”

  “What kind of mess?” asked Allison.

  Karen began with Jayyden, then moved on to the stolen utility bill and Ruby’s school switch, followed by her daughter’s coincidental friendship with Charlotte Bordwell, whose mother now wanted her to help fund-raise. Along the way, she mentioned Matt’s undying fury at her. Only at the end did she take a deep breath and say, “Also, I cheated on my husband and can’t stop thinking about the other guy even though he’s a ridiculous kajillionaire, and I’m even more ridiculous for liking him. That’s basically the situation.”

  Allison’s eyes grew large, then larger. Finally, she spoke: “Holy Pan-Seared Mackerel in a Shallot Butter Sauce.”

  “So, what do I do?” asked Karen. “About the school stuff—first.”

  “Switch to private?” asked Allison.

  Was she being serious? Or was Allison getting back at Karen for having implied she was a hypocrite the last time they met up? “I can’t afford it on a single nonprofit salary,” Karen replied. “And besides, you know I’m a public-school Nazi.” She smiled so Allison would understand the joke was on her.

  Allison smiled back and said, “Okay, if I solve your school problem for you, will you tell me who you’re having an affair with so I can be scandalized and also live vicariously through you?”

  “Oh, please—you and David have a great marriage,” said Karen, without really knowing. In truth, Allison barely ever mentioned the guy. For women of Karen and Allison’s age, the husbands became conversation-worthy again only when one of them walked out or—God forbid—had a heart attack or got cancer.

  “We do?” said Allison.

  “Well, even if you don’t, I don’t recommend my life to anyone. But will you tell me what to do about the address thing?”

  “Is there any chance of this woman finding out that you stole her address?”

  “Not much.”

  “Then forget about it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “If possible, I’d avoid the whole topic of where you live. But if it ever comes up or the girl comes over, just say you recently moved.”

  “Okay, but the woman also asked me if I’d fund-raise for the school, the very thought of which makes me want to jump off a bridge. The school is already rolling in dough—I mean, at least by public-school standards. But I feel so guilty around her that I don’t know how to say no.”

  “So don’t. Consider it the price of admission. Besides, you can probably fund-raise with one eye closed. If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems like you have bigger problems. And on that note, please for the love of Christ stop torturing me and tell me who you slept with!”

  “I’m too ashamed,” said Karen, and it was true, but it was only half the truth. The other half was that she found herself savoring the unique experience of having information that others coveted. “But I will,” she added.

  “When?” asked Allison.

  “Later.”

  “Why don’t you just waterboard me.”

  “Oh, stop,” said Karen, but now she was laughing and, just maybe, enjoying herself. “Order me another drink and maybe I’ll tell all.”

  Allison ordered them another round. “It was the hedge-fund billionaire from college,” Karen suddenly blurted out.

  “The one who didn’t like your nose ring?”

  “Yes. And he has four kids and a wife. And a plane. Or at least a share in a plane. But I ended it. I think. I hope. Though I also don’t hope. Oh, and he also bought me jewelry. Like, real jewelry.”

  “Wow.”

  “I have to swear you to secrecy,” said Karen, knowing full well that Allison would tell everyone she knew.

  “I swear,” said Allison. “Now I need details.”

  “Well, he has these sparkly blue eyes. He’s a little on the short side…”

  The problem was that talking about Clay only made Karen more desperate to see him.

  The next evening, Karen received an e-mail from Susan Bordwell, reiterating what a pleasure it had been to have Ruby over to play. She also asked if, by chance, Karen could attend a PTA executive board the next morning so she could meet everyone and talk about fund-raising and what was next for the school. The meeting was to be held in the school library at seven thirty, so Karen couldn’t very well use the excuse of needing to be in the office. Resigned, she wrote back:

  Of course! Happy to attend. See you then. Best, Karen

  The next day, Karen had the thankless task of trying to get Ruby out of bed a half an hour earlier than usual. Predictably comatose, she lay spread-eagled and with her eyes still shut while Karen tried to fit leggings and a T-shirt onto her body. In exchange for the hardship, she promised to buy Ruby a chocolate croissant on the way to school. But there was a line at the fancy bakery with the fermented bread, so Karen didn’t arrive at Mather’s school library until seven forty. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Head bowed, she took a seat in the last free Windsor chair at a blond-wood table while Ruby plopped down in a beanbag chair and began to doze off.

  “Karen! Welcome!” said Susan, who sat at the head of the table. She was dressed that morning in a slightly more corporate version of the Indian-top-and-frayed-jeans uniform favored by so many of the mothers at Mather—the jeans stiff, the embellished tunic more Tory Burch than Ravi Shankar. Karen’s eyes traveled from Susan to the library itself. The walls were painted lime green. The shelves were well stocked and tidily arranged, with banker-style brass sconces illuminating the volumes below. There were also two rows of spanking-white Apple computers, while spanking-white women—and they were all women and all white except for one who was equally pale but who appeared to be of Asian descent—smiled back at her from across the table. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” Susan went on. She turned to the others. “Karen is a new parent at the school, and she’s a fund-raising professional. And I’ve already guilted her into helping us!” The other women laughed affably while Karen marveled at the irony; if only Susan knew how guilty she’d actually made Karen feel. “First, this is Denise, our vice president,” Susan continued with a nod at a petite woman wearing a mustard-and-brown chain-link-patterned dress of the type that sported a fair-trade label promising the garment had been hand-batiked in Ghana by women named Charity and Esther.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Karen, nodding.

  “And this is Amy, our volunteer coordinator,” Susan went on. “And Deirdre, our member-at-large; Liz, our secretary and interim treasurer; Leigh, our chair of the after-school enrichment program; Kim, our fifth-grade committee chair; Janine, our STEM chair; and Meredith, chair of our arts committee.”

  “Great to meet you all,” she said, nodding some more.

  “Let me give you a copy of today’s agenda, and here are the minutes from our last meeting.” Susan handed Karen a short stack of white paper. “But before we get to fund-raising”—she turned back to the others—“I want to say a few words about the Olive Oil Initiative, especially for those who missed last month’s general PTA meeting. By all accounts, it’s been a huge success so far. Thanks to PTA funds, the lunchroom now has on reserve two thousand bottles of cold-pressed, extra-virgin Trader Giotto. And our new Culinary Institute of America–trained cooking consultant, Olivier, is busy teaching the old lunchroom staff to cook without Crisco.”

  There were murmurs of approval.

  “Though let
me just say that, from what I understand, it’s been a fairly steep learning curve.” Susan smiled knowingly.

  Quiet laughter followed.

  “Now, moving on to other topics—I want to propose that we dedicate some emergency funds for lice prevention. This has been a very bad spring for it. I would go so far as to call it a full-scale crisis. And I’d really like to bring in a lice expert to do a presentation about prevention and removal. I’d also like to earmark some PTA money for purchasing some of those large, heavy-duty, self-sealing plastic bags for all of our classrooms so students can place their personal effects inside them before storing in their cubbies or the coat closet. Is this something the rest of you can get behind?”

  “Sounds like a great idea to me,” said Leigh, the after-school chair. “The situation is really out of control in Harper’s class.”

  “Same deal in Hudson’s,” said Janine, who headed up STEM.

  “Well, I’m sorry to rain on everyone’s parade,” began Denise, the vice president, with a pained expression on her face. “But I just have to say—I feel really uncomfortable directing PTA money to the plastics industry. I mean, do we as a school really want to support them? And do we even have proof that plastic bags prevent lice contagion?”

  “Denise, as much as I sympathize with what you’re saying,” said Susan, “the lice specialist I spoke with said they were essential for preventing student-to-student transmission. And I think that’s enough to go on. But if others share Denise’s concern, please speak up.”

  No one spoke. But Denise wasn’t ready to let it go. “Well, I just think it’s a little hypocritical of us to be launching our fourth-grade green-and-healthy newsletter—never mind our school-lunch recycling campaign and our new food-justice committee—at the same moment we’re sending money to the Ziploc people.”

  “Okay, but Denise”—Karen could tell Susan was getting the tiniest bit impatient—“we’re literally talking about seven hundred bags. It’s not like we’re going to affect their business one way or the other or make a dent in our own budget.”

  “Fine.” Denise pressed her lips together and grimaced. Then she opened them again. “It’s just—I try really hard to raise my kids in a natural environment. And I just feel like this sends the exact wrong message. I mean, human beings have been getting lice since ancient times. I just don’t see why we can’t try an ancient cure before we resort to zip-lock bags.”

  “You mean like leeches?” cut in Liz, the secretary and interim treasurer.

  There were snickers. Even Karen found herself suppressing a smile. But Denise remained unamused, shooting Liz a look of wounded fury.

  “Ladies, please,” said Susan, clearly the conciliator of the group. “If Denise feels that strongly, why don’t we put the topic of plastic bags away till our next meeting. In the meantime, does everyone approve of bringing in the lice expert for a parent workshop on lice prevention and elimination? All who do, please raise their hands.” Reluctantly, and just as the crown of her head began to itch—paranoia or contagion?—Karen lifted her right hand, as did the rest of the group. Even Denise could be seen halfheartedly raising her arm and opening her palm. “Okay, it’s unanimous,” said Susan. “Now, if anyone else would like to propose some additional spending priorities, please speak. I should add that, legally, and as weird as this might sound, we’re actually required to spend eighty-six thousand before the end of the school year.”

  “Well, since we’re on the topic of workshops, I’d love to see the school bring someone in to teach meditation,” began Kim, the fifth-grade committee chair. “The upper-school kids are so stressed out about the upcoming state tests. I think it would really benefit them.”

  “Interesting idea,” said Susan. “But forgive me for asking—aren’t most of our fourth- and fifth-graders opting out of the state tests this year?”

  “Well, yeah—some of them are,” said Kim, sounding the tiniest bit defensive. “But even the ones who are opting out are freaking out about middle-school admissions.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Meredith, chair of the arts committee. “I went on the Middle School for Innovative Inquiries tour last week, and there were literally nine hundred families there for, like, seventy-five spots. It’s harder to get into these places than it is to get into Harvard!”

  “Ladies, can we get back to business?” asked Susan, turning to the wider group. “Anyone else like to comment?” She scanned the room.

  “Well, just to play devil’s advocate, I just kind of wonder if we’re not overcoached,” said Leigh. “I mean, we’re already paying for a math coach, a recess coach, a debating coach, and a chess coach. And I guess I’m also wondering if there’s even room for a meditation coach to do his or her thing. I mean, I’m assuming he or she would have to find a quiet space to do it in, and I don’t have to tell you guys that there is literally not one empty broom closet left in the school building. My daughter just told me that kids are now getting occupational therapy in one of the old maintenance-supply rooms.”

  “I know—it’s ridiculous,” cut in Amy, the volunteer coordinator. “But if someone actually went door-to-door and outed all the people who were lying about where they lived, we’d have, like, a normal-size school again. Seriously, have you noticed how many kids head to the train station straight from pickup? It’s so infuriating.” Amy grimaced while Karen swallowed hard.

  “People, can we stay on topic?” asked Susan. The room fell quiet. “Anyone else like to comment on Kim’s proposal?” But no one did. “Well, a meditation coach is definitely something to consider,” she went on. “But since we’re talking about a staff hire that possibly requires board of education approval, I suspect it would have to be something we looked into for next year, not this. And we really need to spend the money this spring. Any other proposals for immediate spending?”

  Another hand shot up—this one belonging to Deirdre, the member-at-large, who, Karen now noticed, was quite large herself. “Well, I don’t know how many people realize this, but the fifth grade has at least one trans student in it. It’s actually my friend Kristen’s son, Liam, who used to be her daughter Lia. Anyway, Liam has really not had an easy time of it this year. And honestly, some of the problems have been on the teacher side. Liam’s teachers have been refusing to call him by the name he wants to be called and also continue to refer to him as a she. On that note, I really think the school could benefit from some guidance on the issue. I actually know someone from the Glockenberg Institute for Child and Adolescent Studies who specializes in this stuff. In addition to sponsoring a trans-sensitivity-training workshop for the teachers, I thought we could do an evening discussion for parents and maybe an assembly for all the upper-school kids.”

  “Hm,” said Susan. “Do you know how much it would cost?”

  “I’m guessing ten to fifteen grand for all of it?”

  “I like the idea. I just wonder if it’s the kind of thing that would make more sense on the middle- or high-school level. I’m not up on the current science, but to my mind, ten and even eleven years old seems a little young for kids to be identifying themselves that way. Though I’m sure it does happen.”

  “Well, there might be only one kid in the school right now who’s come out as a trans person, but I’m sure there are others dealing with the same feelings. And even if there aren’t, it’s an issue that affects the whole school. Apparently, there was an incident last week in which some fourth-graders objected to Liam using the boys’ bathroom, and the teacher—I’m not going to name names—basically sided with the objectors, which I thought was totally outrageous. But whatever.”

  “Okay, but doesn’t Lia-I-mean-Liam still have a vagina?” cut in Leigh. “I mean—sorry if this isn’t PC—but my son was one of the kids who didn’t feel comfortable, and honestly, I can’t really blame him.”

  There was mumbling and grumbling.

  “Ladies, why don’t we wait to see a proposal before we make any decisions,” said Susan. “Deirdre, ca
n you get us something to look at by the end of the week?”

  “I’ll do my best,” she answered.

  “Any other proposals?” asked Susan.

  “More technology in the classroom?” asked Meredith.

  “Well, we already have iMacs, iPads, patch panels, and ceiling-mounted video projectors in every classroom,” said Janine, the STEM chair. “And the library—as you can see looking around you—is pretty teched up too.”

  Once again, Denise’s hand popped up. Karen could have sworn she saw certain members of the Embellished Tunic Brigade roll their eyes in anticipation. “I have a proposal,” began the vice president. “I’d really love to see the school commit to using recycled toilet paper.” The interim treasurer made a face expressing revulsion, prompting a new round of half-stifled giggles. It was becoming increasingly clear to Karen that Denise was the April Fishbach of Mather—that is, the mother whom all the other ones loved to complain about—and Liz was her chief antagonist. “I’m sorry,” Denise went on, “but it literally breaks my heart thinking about forests getting destroyed so our kids can wipe.”

  “So you want the kids to use secondhand toilet paper?” asked Liz, sounding mock incredulous.

  “It’s not secondhand toilet paper,” scoffed Denise. “It’s recycled paper that’s turned into toilet paper.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  There were still more giggles. Denise grimaced again. “Anyway, it seems to me that if this school is committed to preserving the environment, we should begin using sustainable paper products. If that makes me an ogre or a laughingstock, so be it.”