Play Dates

by Leslie Carroll

  “You never did like it when we did that, did you?” I ask her. “Color outside the lines, I mean. It made you very anxious, didn’t it?”

  Mrs. Hennepin steeples her fingers and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “What I am about to say to you does not leave this room. Do you understand?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t like you, Claire.”

  Considering I can recall in glorious Technicolor every graphic detail of my own miserable year of second grade, this news does not come as a revelation. Nevertheless, it stings like a slap on sunburned skin. “I don’t mind telling you the feeling is more than mutual,” I reply. It wasn’t a diplomatic thing to say, I know, and it probably sunk Zoë even lower into her predicament. Give me a demerit for a lapse in judgment. If circumstances were different and I wasn’t going to bat for my daughter, I would have savored the moment, having waited nearly two decades to tell this paragon (not!) of pedagogy what I think of her.

  Mrs. Hennepin removes her eyeglasses and blinks a few times. Then she leans back in her chair. “Well, I commend you on your candor, if nothing else.” She still sounds like she’s talking to a schoolchild, only using bigger words.

  “Tell you what,” I say, “I never made you the promise you requested a few minutes ago. But I’ll make sure the unprofessional behavior exhibited in your explicitly stated opinion of me does not leave this room if you can see your way toward accommodating Zoë’s heavy schedule on the twenty-third.” I wait for Mrs. Hennepin’s reply, unable to recall the last time I had competing social engagements on the same afternoon.

  She stands up and looks like she is about to extend her hand to me when she notices a blinking light on the conference-room phone. At Thackeray, parent-teacher confabs are considered consecrated time, so the phone doesn’t ring obtrusively. It sparkles tastefully. Mrs. Hennepin punches the lit button and picks up the receiver. She listens for a few moments, then covers the phone with a liver-spotted hand. “Claire, do you know a Frida Nomar?”

  The name rings a bell, so to speak, but I can’t quite place it. Yet, if someone knows enough to reach me here, it must be important. “What is this in reference to?” Mrs. Hennepin asks the caller. She listens for the response. “I think you’ll want to take this,” she says, handing me the phone, her face paler and more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. “It’s Xander Osborne’s nanny. Zoë’s been bitten by a dog.”

  Zoë is a brave little girl. And a resourceful one, too, since she figured out fast how to do things with her left hand until the wound on her right one healed. And at least Nina had purchased a puppy that had had all its shots. Zoë was hysterical when I rushed her to the pediatric emergency room. Xander wanted to come along and refused to take no for an answer, and the last place Nina wanted to visit was a hospital. She actually had a few choice words for my mothering skills because my daughter had tried to do what dog-loving little girls do, and pet a puppy. Of course the baby Rottweiler did what it does, too. They’d each obeyed their natural instincts, but Draco, like his boy-owner, wasn’t one of the more socialized creatures on the planet; and perhaps, like his Harry Potter namesake, was just hell-bent on malevolence.

  So Xander and Frida tagged along.

  The emergency-room doctor was a young, blonde woman who put both Zoë and me at ease. Until she took out the big needle. She said she had to give Zoë a Tetanus shot as a precautionary measure, and my poor little girl howled herself hoarse. It was breaking my heart. Even Xander, who at first thought the needle was “really cool,” freaked out when Dr. Greenzeig began to administer the injection. This, of course further traumatized Zoë, so Frida had to remove her charge from the room and bring him back home.

  It only took four stitches to close the wound, but Dr. Greenzeig bandaged Zoë’s entire hand so she couldn’t get at the sutures. The poor kid had to go through her last day of classes before Christmas vacation writing as a lefty. She was the only second-grader to hold her flashlight torch aloft with the opposite hand during their performance of “The Little Drummer Boy” in the holiday pageant—from which Mrs. Hennepin excused her, following the second-grade presentation. Maybe the teacher really was concerned that I’d rat out her indiscreet insult. Or maybe she just admired Zoë’s post-dog-bite attitude and decided to cut us a break. When it came to the recital and “The Waltz of the Flowers,” Zoë said something so clever that I can’t remember when I’ve been prouder of her pluck. Of course all the little girls wanted to know why her hand was covered with gauze, and she told them, with the most charming air of authority, “I’m a flower. And a bee tried to pollinate me. But he stung me by mistake.”

  Her indomitability made Zoë even more popular. She was a walking, talking show-and-tell. But she turned down two invitations to New Year’s Eve parties—yes, her set hosts kid-friendly extravaganzas, even though the ball drops in Times Square well past a second grader’s normal bedtime. My only “friends” these days are the mothers of Zoë’s friends, and I’m not very close with any of them. So, Zoë declined the invites because she wanted to usher in the New Year at home with her mommy (who had been feeling a little sorry for herself that Zoë had twice as many invitations as she did and that carefree Mia was heading off to Lucky Sixpence’s glitzy soirée). My daughter’s move wasn’t entirely altruistic: from our living-room window we have a fantastic view of the midnight fireworks over Central Park.

  We now have our silly hats and our noisemakers and, having ordered Chinese food from Zoë’s favorite restaurant, have finished our celebratory meal with homemade hot fudge sundaes (I know, I know). Zoë starts to get sleepy at around nine-thirty, even though she enjoyed an extra-long afternoon nap, but she soldiers on, insisting on staying awake long enough to see the fireworks. I’d splurged on a split of good champagne, and just before midnight, I pour Zoë a flute of ginger ale and pop the cork on my Piper-Heidsieck. We turn to face the TV set as if to toast it, while we count down with viewers everywhere, with millions of New Yorkers crushed against one another in the midtown streets, and with a man who was a legend in the music industry back when my parents were young. Dick Clark shouts into his microphone “ten…nine…eight…” and we yell right along with him. My right arm is around Zoë’s shoulder; her left grazes my waist. There are tears in my eyes. I become more sentimental than usual on New Year’s Eves.

  “Three…two…one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Elsewhere, lovers and strangers are kissing one another, corks are popping, streamers and balloons are cascading toward crowded dance floors.

  Zoë and I clink glasses and take our first sips, while outside we hear a boom, signaling the start of the annual Central Park footrace and the fireworks display. We rush to the window to enjoy the glorious free show. I look down at my daughter, the flower of my heart, fruit of my loins, and, occasionally, the bane of my existence. “You know, the very first person you kiss in the new year is supposed to bring good luck for both of you.” She outstretches her arms and I kneel so that we’re about the same height. Zoë kisses me softly on the mouth and throws her arms around my neck. I realize I am crying. I start to wipe away my tears with the back of my hand and Zoë runs off to get me a tissue.

  “Why are you crying, Mommy?” she asks, her little face a picture of confusion and concern. “Are you sad?”

  I am sad, actually. But it’s different from an ordinary sadness. It’s not the kind that’s easily pinpointed or explained to a seven-year-old. “I’m just thinking how lucky we are already,” I tell her. “You know what they say on New Year’s Day?” She shakes her head. “Out with the old and in with the new.” I grab my champagne glass and raise it in a toast.

  “Out with the old and in with the new!” Zoë echoes. “Happy New Year, Mommy,” she adds with shiny eyes.

  I give her a hug and our glasses meet behind her back. “Happy new year, kiddo.”

  Chapter 13

  JANUARY

  Dear Diary:

  I hate school. I hate gym most. Now that it’s wintertime, we don’t play outs
ide anymore for recess and gym. We play poison ball and kickball in the gym and we have tumbling and swimming. Tumbling is the only one I like. I’m not good at playing ball. Some of the kids are really fast and some of them play like it’s hockey like we played at Xander’s birthday party and they bump into you and knock you down. Xander and his friend Asha knocked into me when we were playing poison ball and I fell down and got a big bump on my leg. They didn’t even say they were sorry.

  It’s so noisy in the gym, too. Everyone is yelling and it makes an echo and it gives me a headache. The gym teacher, Mr. Sparks, said he didn’t believe me and he was going to call Mommy and ask her if I really get headaches from loud noises. He did call Mommy and Mommy told him that I got headaches so now I don’t have to play ball in the gym anymore.

  They put me in swimming instead. All the girls in my class made fun of me because of my bathing suit. It used to be my favorite bathing suit but not anymore. My friends have really grown-up bathing suits and I still have an Ariel bathing suit. This girl from the other second-grade class, Gelsey, said that nobody wears Disney bathing suits after first grade. I told Mommy what Gelsey said and Mommy said that my Ariel suit still fits me. She said that we only have swimming in school for a couple of months until springtime and she will buy me a new bathing suit in the summer. I was really angry and I was crying and I told Mommy she didn’t understand. Mommy said I didn’t understand and that if Gelsey thought I should have a different bathing suit, then Gelsey could buy me one. But Gelsey doesn’t have her own money.

  I don’t like swimming in school either. The pool smells yucky and we have to take a shower before and after swimming and the floor in the showers feels icky.

  Mommy got a new job. She is working at the big museum with the steps selling things in the gift shop. When she comes home she says her feet hurt a lot from having to stand up all day. She said she has to work really hard because people are bringing back presents they got for Christmas that they didn’t like. She even saw some of my friends’ moms. She saw Mei-Li’s mom and she saw April and May’s mom, June. June is the only mom who lets the other kids call her by her first name instead of Mrs. Miller. I wish Mommy didn’t have to work because then we would get to be together more. June told Mommy that she misses her when I go to their house to play with April and May, because a lot of times Mommy used to go with me and they would talk in the kitchen while we played. Moms don’t always go on play dates but Mommy and June are friends so it was like they had a play date, too. When I was little Mommy went with me all the time on play dates. After first grade started she didn’t go so much and since Daddy left she hardly ever goes at all.

  April bragged that she has a boyfriend that goes to another school. His name is Grayer. What kind of name is that? I think April made him up because no one has a name that silly. If I were going to make up a boyfriend he would have a real name like Michael.

  My feet are killing me. I’m walking in the door from a very long day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s gift shop, and now it’s time to get dinner on the table. For the past week and a half, since I started at the Met, post-job anything has been an effort. Like the sightseeing guide gig, I have to be “on” all day. At least I’m surrounded by pretty things, but fielding questions from uncomprehending, curious, and disgruntled customers is giving my nerves quite a workout.

  I’ve been so caught up with the new job that it’s all I can do to find some quality time to spend with Zoë, which, lately, has been manifesting itself solely in doing her homework with her before putting her to bed. In fact, I was the one who was up last week until two-thirty in the morning building an igloo out of Styrofoam. As much as it galls me, I think I’ve finally caved in and adopted the “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” philosophy when it comes to Thackeray’s view on parental “supervision” of their children’s homework.

  I feel like I’m walking through the world wearing blinders. I drop Zoë at school, head across town to the museum, spend eight hours behind one of the jewelry counters, then pick up Zoë from a friend’s house, where she spends her after-school and after-after-school program hours until I’m able to retrieve her. I haven’t even taken the time to look at a newspaper or catch up on housekeeping. For all I know, Armageddon may be imminent and all I’m aware of is an invasion of dust bunnies.

  I’m reheating some leftover beef barley soup for Zoë and me when the phone rings. “Have you spoken to your sister recently?” my mother wants to know. I admit that I haven’t and fill Tulia in on my crazy new schedule.

  “Mia’s been very upset lately. Did you know that?” I confess that I don’t. And I feel guilty about that, because I should know these things about my sister. We live only a few miles from each other and sometimes it seems like we’re several time zones apart. “She’s looking at turning thirty next month as an event worthy of a Willard Scott announcement.” My mother manages a laugh. “Of course, when you get to be nearly twice Mia’s age, you realize how insignificant the three-oh, and even the four-oh, are in the grand scheme of things. Besides, there’s a lot of truth to being as old as you feel.” Following that formula, I feel about a hundred and ten. Tulia, however, is in a state of perennial bloom. I think her whimsy keeps her outlook youthful. It’s a good object lesson. Tulia’s the kind of woman I wouldn’t mind turning into in my old age.

  Zoë wanders into the kitchen and wants to know who I’m talking with. I let her know it’s Granny Tulia, then tell my mother I’ll speak to her soon and hand the phone to Zoë to say hello to her grandmother.

  The clever little devil launches into her litany about how un-fashionable her Ariel bathing suit is (yet she dressed as a mermaid for her school Halloween party, and had a mermaid birthday cake), adding that she has to take more swimming classes this winter because she’s been excused from the activities that take place in the noisy gym. By the end of five minutes, she has extracted a promise for a new swimsuit, courtesy of Granny and Grandpa.

  Zoë hands back the phone. “Granny Tulia wants to talk to you.” She grabs a brownie—at least we took time this past weekend to do a little mommy-daughter baking—and skips out of the room, wearing a smug expression thinly disguised as a triumphant smile.

  “You shouldn’t do that. You’re spoiling her,” I tell my mother.

  “You know it’s our pleasure. And a grandparent’s prerogative.”

  “It undermines my authority. We’ve been through this before. I told her that she’ll have to wait until the summer to get a new suit. The Ariel one still fits her fine. It was too big for her last season, and actually, she’s finally grown into it.” And here I am telling an avant-garde clothing designer that I don’t want my seven-year-old turned into a fashion victim. Plus, I don’t like the precedent that when Mommy says no, she can run to Granny.

  “Being indulgent goes with the territory,” Tulia tells me, vaguely amused. “I can’t wait ’til you’re a grandmother.”

  Dear Claire, On a job. Meeting Hunks. Sand and surf and sex. Last fling of my roaring 20s. Wish you were here. Not! Say hi to Zoë. Love, Mia.

  I guess “very upset” is a relative term.

  “Oh, God, she’s a shopgirl.” Nina Osborne’s words sink into my gut, sending seismic waves of queasiness undulating through the rest of my body. Some people never outgrow the urge to be cruel. Playground bullies just get older, taller, fatter, balder; and their female counterparts…well, kittens become cats.

  It’s been a busy season at the Met. A couple of glitzy exhibits are packing the halls. From behind my jewelry counter in the main gift shop, I’ve learned to discern the true art lovers—those who have been waiting a lifetime to see a work of art in person—from the dilettantes who just want to be able to tell their friends that they saw the latest blockbuster because it’s so hard to get in.

  Nina Osborne, although Zoë tells me she has “real paintings” on her walls, appears to fit neatly into the latter category; those who collect exhibits. After I overhear the first offending rema
rk about my new job, she tells her companion, a moneyed matron of the same ilk, that she’ll meet her back at the gift shop in half an hour after they “do” the Monet/Manet show. Since I’m used to being asked questions about them, I’ve memorized a few facts about each of the current exhibits. The Monet/Manet displays 186 works of art across seven rooms. If my calculations are accurate, that leaves Nina approximately 9.6 seconds to view each object, not factoring in travel time from the gift shop on the first floor to the exhibit, which is tucked away in the south wing of the second floor. Actually, according to the statistics given by one of my art history professors, that’s better than the average viewing time of eight seconds per object.

  I guess my own little brand of snobbery is kicking in, as a form of private revenge for Nina’s rude comment. A shopgirl indeed!

  After Nina and her friend have “done” the Monet/Manet, they approach my counter. I’ve never been made to feel smaller in my life. Or poorer. They want to see the most expensive items in the case; and while it’s true that the stuff is costume jewelry, some of the reproductions cost several hundred dollars.

  Nina is torn between an eighteen-carat gold necklace and the vermeil version of it, which is only slightly cheaper, but it’s the color that makes the difference. She spends countless minutes examining the two pieces side by side, probably much longer than she took to enjoy any of the masterworks upstairs, some of which are so breathtaking they bring tears to my eyes. “Claire? Which would you choose if you could afford them?”

  I feel my blood begin to bubble and boil. I want to sink into the floor and evaporate. One of us is going to die. I briefly wonder if I were to reach across the counter and strangle Nina with one of the necklaces, whether I would get fired. Probably so. But it would be worth it. If I didn’t worry about having to take care of a small child, it might even be worth going to jail for. The only way I can survive this encounter is to fantasize, Walter Mitty-style, about revenge. I am a modern-day Medea (except for the infanticide thing), and the necklace is poison, but Nina doesn’t know it. She politely asks me for help with the difficult clasp. I cinch it closed and it sears her neck and throat. She becomes unable to speak, the circular burn mark reddening and deepening the more she struggles to say something nasty to me. She begs me to remove the choker, but, oops, I am powerless. Once the clasp has been fastened, the black magic is out of my hands.