“Folks!” I shout, getting my tour group’s attention. Well, half of them. The other half just landed on Roosevelt Island and are supposed to return with the next Manhattan-bound bucket. “Look, I’m really sorry about this, but I have a bit of bad news. I’m going to have to play the Goodbye Girl myself.” I make a plea for sympathy to the mothers in my audience, and, surprisingly, I get it. The Willahatchee chaperones are soccer moms and they show solidarity.
“You go get your daughter, sweetie.”
“We’ll be all right. It’s not your fault.”
“We’ll tell the others for you, so don’t you worry.”
“It’s the curse of the working mother,” they commiserate.
I’m so grateful, especially after the orgasm grannies’ outright hostility, that I burst into tears. I thank them profusely and assure them that I’ll be watching from my window on Thanksgiving morning, cheering like crazy for the band as they march loudly and proudly down Central Park West with the rest of the Macy’s parade participants.
I arrive at Chelsea Piers to find Zoë hunched over on a bench outside the skating rink, looking like Charlie Brown after a particularly resounding defeat. Behind her, Nina, a man I assume is Robert—neither of them speaking to the other, but exchanging glares of death—and a homely young woman who I guess is the new au pair, are packing up Xander’s gifts. They are loading up an industrial dolly. I’ve attended weddings that have brought in less of a haul. And this kid got all this loot just for turning seven. His own wedding, should any young lady be masochistic enough to marry him, can’t help but be anti-climactic. The chill in the air isn’t just coming off the rink. I absorb Nina’s icy stare and it’s immediately evident why Mia didn’t want to set foot in the place.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, kicking Zoë’s bench. Behind me, the Osbornes are trying to figure out what to do with the leftover cake, a confectionery replica of Madison Square Garden.
“Hey.” She’s almost inaudible. “I thought MiMi was coming to get me.”
“MiMi couldn’t make it sweetie. Something came up.”
“Well, you’re late. The party ended at four o’clock.”
I kneel beside the bench so we’re at eye level. “I had to work. You know that. I got here as fast as I could. So, did you have fun?” She nods. “Did you decide to play hockey after all?” Another nod. A glum face.
“You missed it,” she says, a perfect tear rolling down the side of her nose. “All the moms and dads were here and they were cheering and first they taught us how to play and then we even played a real hockey game and I scored a goal. You missed it.”
Every day, no matter how much I do, I feel in some way like I’m failing this child. The only reason she’d wanted to go to the party was because she has a crush on Xander; she was terrified of the ice hockey theme, but she suited up with the other kids, faced her fears, got on the ice, learned the game, and even scored a goal. And her mommy wasn’t there to see her do it. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” I tell her, kissing away the tear that by now has reached her chin. “I’m very, very sorry that I didn’t see you play hockey and score that goal.”
“And Xander was the goalie, too!” she says, breaking into a smile. “I got him good! Oh.” She holds up a slightly smushed paper bag.
“Whatcha got there, Z?”
“A goody bag.” She thrusts it into my hands. I open the sack to discover what the Osbornes consider “goodies” for second graders. In addition to a Knicks key chain and a Toblerone bar, there’s a Yankees cap (just for the record, we Marshes are Mets fans), a parent/child guest pass good for one month’s activities at Chelsea Piers, and a pair of Rangers tickets. Rinkside, or whatever they call them. The only thing missing is a coupon for a year’s tuition at Thackeray. Total value of the goody bag: a few hundred dollars. And the Osbornes did this for over three dozen kids. Plus the cost of the two-hour bash. Welcome to the world of birthday parties given by wealthy, competitive parents for their overachieving offspring.
I slip the goody bag into my purse and extend my hand to Zoë. “Ready to go?”
She hops off the bench. “I think I like hockey,” she says as we walk toward the bus stop. “You get to beat people up and don’t get in trouble for it.”
Two days later, at 3 P.M., Zoë comes barreling down the stone steps of the Thackeray Academy, carrying her dented Veterans Memorial. Her eyes are puffy and red. Without greeting me first, she grabs my hand and drags me to the nearest trash basket, where she unceremoniously dumps her project. Then she literally kicks the can.
“Zoë, what happened? We worked so hard on that and you did such a good job all by yourself!”
“I got a U,” she replies, all her tears evidently spent.
“Wait a sec. You did the assignment. You handed it in on time. Why did Mrs. Hennepin say it was Unsatisfactory?”
Her face looks stricken. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go.” I retrieve Zoë’s project from the garbage can and march her back into the school and straight down the hall to the headmaster’s office.
As I’m about to enter Mr. Kiplinger’s sanctum sanctorum, his secretary, Mrs. Tejada, tells me I can’t get in without an appointment. “Yes, he’s a very busy man, I know,” I say sarcastically.
Mr. Kiplinger is on the phone when Zoë and I step inside his office. He waves us away but I ignore his waggling hand. His cuffs are monogrammed with thread the color of burnt umber. When he sees that my daughter and I aren’t going anywhere, he motions for us to sit. I wait for him to conclude his call, then skip the pleasantries. I place the memorial on the desk in front of him.
“Please tell me why Zoë’s special project was given a U,” I calmly demand.
“You know perfectly well that the issue of grades is not my purview, Ms. Marsh. You should be addressing this with her teacher.”
“Fine. Then we’ll get Mrs. Hennepin down here.”
It’s clear that Zoë and I are going to wait until this situation is resolved, so Mr. Kiplinger buzzes Mrs. Tejada and asks her to summon both Mrs. Hennepin and Mr. Mendel. As we wait, I whisper to Zoë that it’s not nice to kick Mr. Kiplinger’s desk, although I’d like to kick Mr. Kiplinger.
“Well…Ms. Marsh. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon.” Mr. Mendel gives me an insipid handshake. “Hello, Zoë.”
“Hello,” she parrots sullenly.
“We don’t seem too cheery this afternoon.”
“You wouldn’t be if you worked your tail off on your homework, delivered it in a timely fashion, and then got a ‘U’ on it. Mrs. Hennepin, would you kindly tell me why you judged Zoë’s Veterans Day memorial ‘Unsatisfactory’?”
She fixes me with steely eyes beneath the white elastic hair-band. “Ms. Marsh, did you supervise Zoë on this project?”
“Of course I did.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised,” she says.
“And why is that?”
“Well…it’s not up to Thackeray standards. It looks like a child did it.”
“A child did do it. And she’s in second grade. She’s not a design major at Pratt.”
“There’s no need to become sarcastic. It’s unhelpful,” Mr. Mendel volunteers helpfully.
“Zoë doesn’t need to be an art college student to deliver a satisfactory project. Lily Pei turned in a plaza with a fully functioning waterfall,” argues Mrs. Hennepin.
“Lily Pei. Pei. As in I. M. Pei, perhaps? Don’t tell me there’s a professional architect somewhere in her family who more than supervised her homework?”
“The parents are demanding much higher standards nowadays,” Mr. Kiplinger says. “We’ve had to change with the times since you were a student, Ms. Marsh; and we expect our parents to help their children with their homework in a hands-on way.”
“Hands-on, huh?” I can imagine Lily Pei’s entry in the Regina Hennepin Veterans Memorial Sweepstakes. It’s probably on foam core board with 3-D buildings and little passersby, all done to perfect
scale.
“Mentoring, especially for children Zoë’s age, is of vital importance to their development.”
“Mr. Mendel, if my parents helped me as much as Lily Pei’s great-grandfather has, to use your own example, it wouldn’t be considered ‘mentoring.’ It would be called ‘cheating,’ and we’d all be sitting in this office just the same, to discuss the dangers of that. I think your judging my daughter’s own handiwork and creativity as ‘Unsatisfactory’ is what’s damaging here. It’s not the grade itself that concerns me—that a U on her second-grade transcript will irrevocably screw up her chances of getting into the Ivy league. What troubles me is, how can a six-year-old little girl possibly live up to the standards you’re now imposing on her?”
“I think you’re mischaracterizing things, Ms. Marsh.”
“I’m inclined to agree with the school psychologist,” Mr. Kiplinger says, deliberately invoking Mr. Mendel’s credentials.
“Thackeray always prided itself on playing to a child’s strengths, on encouraging their individualism and creativity, as long as they learned the concepts of responsibility, diligence, and attention to detail. What kind of harm does it do to a child’s self-worth to make it quite clear—by giving her a failing grade—that homework fashioned by her own hands is inadequate? How are children expected to learn about anything other than cheating and laziness, when their parents are the ones who are doing the homework?”
“You’re very angry, Ms. Marsh. That’s hardly a positive environment in which to raise—”
I slide my chair away from the desk and address Mr. Mendel. “You let me finish! Mrs. Hennepin, I told Zoë when we worked on her veterans memorial that I’ve already been in second grade. I have an art background. Of course I can put together a project that can be compared with Lily Pei’s. But how are Zoë and Lily supposed to learn how to do it themselves? Even though the result might be imperfect in your eyes?”
I feel like a crusader of sorts. Joan of Arc or Susan B. Anthony. “How can these children grow as students and as human beings when the school’s policy stomps on their vast imaginations and fragile self-esteem?”
“And what kind of example are you setting for Zoë?” Mrs. Hennepin demands. “You’re very headstrong. You Marsh girls have always tried to buck the rules and mock authority. If you want Zoë to have a positive and fulfilling experience at Thackeray—”
“You know something? We’re going in circles again, here. That’s all I ever seem to get from you folks. The runaround. You’re making me dizzy. I fully understand that parents and teachers are expected to be partners in their children’s educations. But I won’t have Zoë raised by committee.”
I offer Zoë my hand. She’s been silent and extremely well behaved during the entirety of this impromptu meeting. After she stopped kicking Kiplinger’s desk, she took her social studies reader out of her knapsack and immersed herself in its pages.
She hops off her chair and stuffs the book back into her bag. Then she turns to Mrs. Hennepin with narrowed eyes.
“Buck you!” she says to her teacher, before bolting from the room.
I leave before they can schedule another conference.
Dear Diary:
Because I had to wake up so early today, Mommy wanted me to take a nap before we go to Sag Harbor to have dinner with Granny Tulia and Grandpa Brendan. But I had to write in my diary because I don’t want to forget and I want to tell all about the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the Powerpuff Girls and MiMi and me.
MiMi was right. We really did have to get up when it was still dark out. It was cold but it wasn’t raining. Mommy made me put on two pairs of tights. I put on a long underwear shirt too, because I just wanted to wear my special outfit and not have to put on a coat. I wore one of my white school blouses and I have a light blue jumper and Mommy put my hair in two ponytails so I looked like Bubbles. MiMi told Mommy that each of the little girls on the float had to dress like one of the Powerpuff Girls. So the girls with red hair had to dress like Blossom and the girls with brown hair had to dress like Buttercup. We didn’t have to buy anything new, but in case some people did, Macy’s has a Powerpuff Girls section in the kids department.
MiMi came to get me. Mommy was still wearing her bathrobe and she said goodbye to us and she wished she was allowed to come on the float with us. I felt very grown up doing something special with MiMi. She’s my favorite person because we always do something really fun that none of my friends get to do.
When we got to where the parade was going to start it was still dark out and all the balloons were lying on their sides on the street with big nets over them. When my Daddy lived with us we used to go watch them blowing up the balloons on the night before Thanksgiving. Then we would have hot chocolate at E.J.’s which is a restaurant that Daddy says looks like a restaurant Grandpa Brendan might have gone to when he was a teenager and it gives very big portions.
This year Daddy didn’t take me to the balloons or for hot chocolate. I wished he would have, but he told Mommy and me that he was busy at Serena’s restaurant.
The TV star on the Powerpuff Girls float was really pretty and MiMi made her look even prettier with her makeup. Her name was Janyce. She had beautiful long black hair and a white fur coat and she looked really warm. She was young like Mommy and MiMi and when one of the other little girls asked her if she was rich because she had a fur coat she laughed. She told all the little girls that we were supposed to smile and wave at everybody and to go from one side of the float to the other so that we didn’t play favorites with people on only one side of the street.
But something made me disappointed. The real Powerpuff Girls weren’t there. I know they are just cartoons on TV but for the parade they had ladies dressed up like Buttercup and Blossom and Bubbles with big heads on them like big puppet heads, like the seven dwarves wear in Disney World, and I thought they looked silly, because the heads were so heavy that they wouldn’t be able to fly. I asked MiMi how we were supposed to jump up and down and cheer for the Powerpuff Girls when it was just regular people inside costumes like Halloween. MiMi said we should use our imaginations and pretend they have super powers.
That was okay. By the time the parade started I was having so much fun that it didn’t matter that they weren’t the real Powerpuff girls on the float. It was so special being in the parade and being right near the bands and the balloons and the other floats and the clowns. The clowns didn’t scare me this time. MiMi said they were just people who work at Macy’s and being a clown in the parade was a big treat. MiMi even helped some of them with their makeup. I got to see the Jimmy Neutron balloon close up and the Captain Nemo balloon, too. The people holding the strings were all dressed in costumes. The people with the Big Bird balloon were all dressed like Big Bird with yellow tops and yellow pants and yellow hats that looked like rooster hats. It was very exciting and like being at a great big party. I didn’t even think about being cold.
I was waving at all the people and we passed my house and I waved up at our window and I think I saw Mommy up there waving back. We stopped a few times along the way for Janyce to sing her song. She didn’t really sing, though. Someone pressed a button and it was her singing on a CD, but she opened her mouth and was pretending to be singing the song. There was a lot of pretending today. I asked her why she wasn’t singing for real and she said that even with a microphone, not a lot of people would hear her and it was so early in the morning and it was cold and those things were not good for singers. And the float went fast enough that people couldn’t tell if she was singing for real or on tape. It was still her voice, she said, so she wasn’t really cheating. At the end of the parade she gave each of the little girls a copy of her CD with her autograph on it. She was wearing a beautiful blue sparkly gown on it and she looked like a Barbie but with dark hair.
MiMi rode on the float, even though she was too big to be a Buttercup, but she dressed up, too. She took pictures of me with the ladies dressed as the Powerpuff Girls with the big
heads and with the beautiful singer Janyce and I’m going to bring them to school for show and tell next week. It was the best morning. I hope I get to do it again next year. I love my Aunt MiMi soooooo much.
If the Pilgrims had been forced to brave the rigors of the Long Island Expressway, they would never have left England. I thought about taking Zoë to my parents on the train, but that’s a three-hour trip and the closest stop to Sag Harbor is Bridge-hampton, which means a cab ride to my parents that costs half the price of the train fare, or else disturbing their dinner preparations by asking them to come fetch us. So I rent a car, which costs a fortune in New York City, but MiMi and I, plus her date, are splitting the expense and it probably isn’t much more than the sum total of four round-trip fares on the Long Island Railroad. And at least this way, our time is our own and we’re not dependent on the train schedule.
Second Avenue is a parking lot until we get south of 59th Street and the bridge, then it becomes a snarl again as we approach the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Zoë must be really exhausted from the parade this morning, because she and Baa are zonked out in the booster seat. I pull up to Mia’s building in the East Village and honk the horn. Our special Marsh signal. She comes down the stoop in an oversized trench coat, wet hair tucked into a bun, followed by Happy Chef (I guess Robert Osborne is history; I’ll ask her about it tomorrow), gingerly negotiating the steps while balancing a decorated sheet cake. I scoot over to open the front door.
“Happy early birthday, sweet thing,” Happy Chef says, leaning in down to give me a peck on the cheek. “I’m singing for my supper tonight,” he adds, indicating the cake. “Maybe I should sit up front with it.”
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