Play Dates

by Leslie Carroll

  I loved sliding down the pole. It was even more fun than the slide at the playground. And Fireman Dennis let us climb up on the hook-and-ladder truck and on the pumper truck and I got to ring the silver bell, too. Ashley said I was being a hog because I got to do lots of things at the firehouse, but I don’t think I was being a hog and some of the times it was because Fireman Dennis picked me.

  Then Fireman Dennis showed us the big kitchen and told us what kinds of things firemen like to eat for dinner. He said they like chili a lot and he was the winner of a lot of contests between firehouses to see which one had the best homemade chili. I had chili once when Mommy made it. It was too spicy. Some of the boys in my class thought it was a sissy thing to do, to cook. Fireman Dennis doesn’t look like a sissy. He looks very brave and a little bit like Prince Eric in The Little Mermaid. His mouth looks nice when he smiles.

  We learned all about what happens inside the firehouse after someone pulls a fire alarm somewhere and how the firemen know what house to go to and how fast they can get ready. And Fireman Dennis told us how bad it was for somebody to call a false alarm. Because it’s really dangerous because if there’s a real fire when the firemen are off answering a false alarm, then they can’t get to the real fire fast enough sometimes, and it means that people could die. When I was little I used to be scared of fire truck sirens because I thought the fire was in my house or maybe next door. And I was especially scared when the sirens waked woke me up in the middle of the night because I thought maybe our house was burning down.

  And I learned that being a fireman is a very dangerous job because fires are so hot and because of what is burning, sometimes things explode during the fire or ceilings fall down on top of firemen while they’re trying to put out the fire. Or floors fall in, and the firemen fall down all the way to the next floor.

  Fireman Dennis said that all firefighters are like brothers of each other even if they aren’t really relatives. He showed us the pictures on the wall of the firemen from his fire house who died fighting fires. He said it’s called the Wall of Heroes. And there is a purple-and-black swish of fabric on the wall above the pictures that is what firemen are supposed to put up when a fireman dies. There were I think nine pictures on the wall of firemen who died, all of them from Fireman Dennis’s firehouse. I asked if seeing the pictures every day was scary. Fireman Dennis said that it was a little bit scary because it was a reminder of the danger of being a fireman. And then I asked him if seeing the pictures every day made him sad, and he said that looking at the pictures did make him sad—he even sounded sad when he was saying it to our class—because they were all his good friends and almost like his real-life brothers. But then he said that he loved being a fireman and his best friends died doing what they loved to do best, which was helping people and it wasn’t going to change his mind about being a fireman and that it was the best job in the whole world.

  Chapter 14

  FEBRUARY

  I’m not a joiner—that’s not my thing—but like the right-handed diamond, the singleton’s statement that she doesn’t need to get a guy to get a rock, everybody’s doing it. Turning thirty and letting the world know about it. The New York Times now has a word for us. Trigenerians. The celebration’s like a wedding for singles, a sweet sixteen for grown-ups. Trends. This is everything Claire is trying to get away from. The big bash. Keeping up with the Joneses. Or the Silver-Katzes. Pay to play. But I had a breakthrough after I got back from Catalina. Okay, so I’m hitting the three-oh; I have no choice about it, obviously. But I chose to stop moping about it, and underline it in big pink neon streaks instead.

  I can’t decide where to have it or what to do, but I think I’ll ask everyone I know to join me. I’m torn between all-out black-tie elegance somewhere or tequila shots and PB & J sandwiches at my favorite East Village bar. It’ll be way past Zoë’s bedtime, but I want her there.

  There’s more to this, too. Mia Marsh is saying bye-bye to an old life. I’m fed up with relationships that aren’t much more than multi-night stands. I looked at that Excel chart I made. One bottom line was that none of the guys were in it for the long haul. I’m sick of that. Over it. And I noticed that a lot of the guys didn’t have real jobs. Or steady ones. And I never gave a shit about that because I had a job. A great one. And made good bucks and didn’t care what they did, as long as they seemed to be happy doing it.

  But I think the commitment thing has to factor into every part of your life in order for it to work. You make the choice to commit to a job you love, as much as to a guy or girl you love. Do what you want, but do it a hundred percent. Hal, for instance, was a slacker. Luca went with the flow. He was mostly into the idea of Beauty in all its forms. Cowboy was…well, Cowboy was a disaster. Mia’s Big Mistake. And Robert Osborne was more committed to himself than anyone else. I can’t believe I just had a split second of pity for Nina. And then there’s Chris, the Navy SEAL I just spent a weekend with, who’s not much for maintaining even a post-coital correspondence.

  Valentine’s Day looms large and lacy and pink and red on the calendar’s horizon. And I don’t expect so much as a card from any of the guys who’ve been in my life for the past several months. This sucks. What happened to true love?

  When Claire and I were young, Thackeray had no rules about giving out Valentines. In other words, if you had a crush on one kid, you could act on it—if you were brave enough—and not have to bother about bringing a Valentine for each guy in the class. Not anymore, evidently. Nowadays, you bring one, you’d better bring ten. It kind of dilutes the purpose if you tell everyone you love them. Makes you sound either promiscuous or like you’re proselytizing for Jesus.

  So, I’m looking at being loveless on Valentine’s Day and dateless on my birthday. I called Claire to commiserate and she didn’t want to hear it. No one’s beating down her door, either. But Zoë’s gotten Valentines mailed to the house and Claire says the kid has a secret admirer. Seems like the Finding Nemo generation is having a much better time than the finding me generation.

  Dear Diary:

  Valentine’s Day is going to be so fun! Mommy is class parent this week and so she gets to be at the Valentine’s class party and we get to go to school together. Mrs. Heinie-face is not very nice to Mommy the way she is to the other class parents when it’s their turn. Mommy says she feels like she’s back in second grade for real again.

  We made Valentine heart cookies when I got home from school today. We used a cookie cutter that’s shaped like a heart and we have more than one and they are different sizes so we can cut out one heart and put it on top of the other one. Mommy even let me help roll the dough. Before we put them in the oven, we sprinkled them with red sugar and then the sugar melted on purpose because the oven is so hot. Some of the cookies we didn’t put sugar on. We left them naked. And when they came out of the oven and they cooled off, we put icing on them. Mommy made pink icing but I don’t want to give the boys in school pink because it’s a girl color. I put the bestest best cookies in a little box and I’m going to give it to Xander when no one else is looking. He likes cookies a lot.

  Mommy told me that when she and MiMi were little they used to give valentines at school and Mommy got a lot of valentines always but sometimes MiMi didn’t get any. And then Mommy said one Valentine’s Day MiMi didn’t want to go to school because she thought everyone was going to get lots of valentines and she wasn’t going to get any ones and it would mean that nobody loved her. So she pretended to be sick so she would have to stay home and miss school.

  Mr. Kiplinger made a rule that for tomorrow because it’s Valentine’s Day we don’t have to wear our uniforms. So I have a new dress that I am going to wear to school tomorrow. It’s bright pink and Granny Tulia made it just for me. It has long sleeves and a red heart on one of the sleeves. And it has a big pocket that’s shaped like a heart and I can put my valentines inside the pocket. And it has a special purse that matches it and it’s a big red heart, too. I have hair barrettes that look l
ike hearts. Mommy said I could wear my Dorothy ruby slippers to school.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow. I was supposed to go to sleep at 7:30 because it’s a school night but I wasn’t tired after my bath. I’m still not tired. I thought writing in my diary would make me tired. My HAND is tired, but I’M not.

  “It’s not the function of the class parent to offer an opinion,” Mrs. Hennepin tells me. “You’re here to help maintain and ensure their daily routine. And, of course, to experience, firsthand, how your child is being educated.”

  I figure if Thackeray expects me to participate, even if only for a week, in the quotidian conducting of lessons, I should do more than bear witness to them. I should become involved. So, as an example, for the past two days I’ve encouraged—or let’s just say I haven’t discouraged—some of Zoë’s classmates from coloring their homemade valentines in any hue they wish, not just in the traditional spectrum of red to pink. One kid made his heart a lurid shade of purple. Mrs. Hennepin confronted him and asked him to redo it. The brave child defended his creation and told the old bat that “there are, too, purple hearts,” because his grandfather got one in Vietnam.

  I’ve done a lot more than come home coated with flour after accompanying the kids to a cooking class (blueberry muffins) run by the Industrial Arts teacher. A lot more than helping them safely handle scissors and palette knives in art class; more than ending up with clay caked under my nails and dried paint in my hair. More than troubleshooting during math, English, and social studies and being startled out of my skin when I suddenly found myself holding Iggy, the school’s iguana, so the science teacher, Mrs. Peabo, could demonstrate something that I’m still too freaked out to remember.

  This is the third consecutive day that I’ve borne witness to Mrs. Hennepin’s attempts to squelch their creativity and young imaginations. I can feel my blood seething in my veins. Zoë writes “I love you” in script and the old witch glares at her. Privately I wonder about the identity of the future recipient of my daughter’s valentine card. Me? Her father? MiMi? Xander? I have a guess about the identity of her “secret admirer.” I’ve caught Bram Siborsky looking at her, spaniel-eyed, on more than one occasion.

  “What kind of message are you sending these children?” I demand of Mrs. Hennepin. “Love comes in all colors, not just pink and red.”

  She sighs, exasperated with me, clearly counting the minutes until Monday, when a new class parent, preferably someone far less difficult, fulfills the obligation.

  It’s stifling in here; and not just because the classroom is overheated. I find that I can’t wait for recess. The air is cold and crisp today, with the promise of spring around the corner. The groundhog didn’t see his shadow this year, but I can’t remember what that means. Either way, according to the calendar, there’s six more weeks of winter after February 2. Four weeks and change still to go.

  In the winter when the weather is clear, the kids are allowed to have recess on the roof, an uninspiring, black-topped, fenced-in affair overlooking Central Park. There’s room enough up there for games of tag or an organized sport like kickball or basketball, or to play hide-and-go-seek—or make out if you’re a hormonal adolescent—in the science shed, which houses off-season or additional equipment like microscopes and gardening tools.

  So here we all are on the roof (I am refereeing a game of poison ball) when Zoë runs up to me sobbing and blubbering all down the front of her parka. She hurls herself into my arms, spreading snot and tears along the lapels of my camel-hair coat. “What happened, sweetheart? Did you get hurt?”

  It takes a few moments before she can regain her composure enough to tell me her tale of woe. “I gave…I gave…I gave…” I hand her a crumpled but clean Kleenex from my coat pocket. She accepts it and does a lousy job of wiping her nose. “I gave the cookies to Xander, and…and…and…” More hysterical tears.

  I stroke her hair and hold her, trying to calm her down. “What’s the matter? Didn’t he like them?”

  “He crumbled them up and he gave them to the pigeons!” she bawls. “And then he threw some of them through the fence to see if he could hit people on the street.”

  “My poor baby,” I whisper. Men. Maybe we females were raised all wrong. The way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach at all. I’m no radical feminist, but an ice pick would be a far more effective method in some cases. How dare that brat break my little girl’s heart! And someone ought to tell him it’s not nice to pelt pedestrians with baked goods. Do I bring this to Mrs. Hennepin’s attention? Or to Mr. Mendel and Mr. Kiplinger? Should I go straight to his mother; or dare I take disciplinary matters into my own hands?

  “Did he eat any of them?” I ask Zoë.

  “Uh-huh,” she admits, still snuffling. “He had one and he said it was good, but then he said he had more fun giving them to the birds. Or seeing how far he could throw them. And we worked so hard,” she sobs. I stop myself from saying that Xander Osborne may, alas, be the first in a long line of inattentive, undeserving guys for whom Zoë will extend herself, only to find her tender feelings smashed, her little heart crushed. Maybe, I tell myself, with crossed fingers, her destiny will be different. Happy Valentine’s Day? Bah, humbug.

  The forty-five-minute recess period ends and the kids are shuttled back downstairs to the classroom, where it’s time for social studies. They’re covering a unit on “Our City and How It Works,” which I find amusing, wondering if the students will get to navigate a murky, labyrinthine section on municipal bureaucracy, including: Getting Off Jury Duty, Beating a Parking Ticket, and What to Do If Your Noisy Neighbors Still Won’t Keep It Down after 3 A.M.

  I’m sitting in the back of the room, listening to Mrs. Hennepin recap last week’s lesson on the fire department, which encompassed the recent class trip to the local firehouse. I’m hoping the section on sanitation won’t entail an off-campus excursion to a landfill.

  Perhaps it’s just the power of suggestion, but I smell smoke. Couldn’t be. Could it? I’d insisted on opening the windows this morning because it was too stuffy in the classroom and the kids were getting logy. Now I watch an acrid curlicue the color of burlap spiral past a windowpane. I may be paranoid but I’m not nuts.

  I leave my class parent post on the uncomfortable gunmetal-colored folding chair and stroll to the front of the room where Mrs. Hennepin is talking about why recycling is important. I hope Zoë remembers this, because I can never recall, with the frequently shifting rules being handed down by our mayor, what we recycle and when. I hate to seem cynical about it, but yesterday’s news ends up as roofing material in China.

  In the calmest voice I can manage, I whisper into the teacher’s ear that I think the school is on fire. She gives me a startled look, bug-eyed with alarm, then inhales deeply and sniffs the air. She is inclined, however much she may personally dislike me, to agree.

  Mrs. Hennepin claps her hands and commands the children to grab their coats and line up along the wall by the door. “We’re all going to go downstairs to the sidewalk and across the street,” she announces.

  A chorus of whys is answered by the increasingly powerful smell of smoke. No doubt about it, now, something, somewhere close, is burning. I step outside the classroom into the hallway, crack the glass on the little red box affixed to the wall and pull the alarm, which alerts the other classes as well as the fire department.

  There is a shuffling of feet, a scuffling of students to make it to the stairwells in an orderly fashion. Fourteen grades—pre-K through twelfth—must be safely evacuated. We get to the street and I help Mrs. Hennepin do a head count of our charges.

  Shit. One missing.

  She knows the roll backwards and forwards, not I, but I do know enough of Zoë’s classmates by name and appearance to do my own mental tally. Smoke is now billowing off the roof, fueled by the winter breeze and whatever combustibles are burning.

  Xander Osborne is not here. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he never returned to the classroom after r
ecess, and somehow, his absence eluded our notice.

  The fire department has arrived and the men start to enter the building with their hoses. A cherry picker is being unfolded toward the rooftop in a zigzag of metal framework.

  I remove my heavy coat and thrust it into the surprised hands of Mrs. Hennepin. Then I make a mad dash across the street, which has just been closed off to vehicular traffic, and into the building.

  “Mommy!” Zoë screams. “Where are you going?” A chorus of adult voices echoes the same.

  But I know where Xander is; I couldn’t be more sure of it. And because I know I know this and the firefighters don’t, I believe, in this very instant, that I can get to him before they can. I’m not lugging heavy equipment and, for once, there’s a payoff for my misspent youth. The only thing that would burn in such a concentrated location on the Thackeray Academy’s roof is the only structure on it: the science shed.

  What I haven’t taken into account is that the roiling smoke, now beginning to fill the central stairwell, has rendered it difficult to breathe without proper ventilation equipment; and, in these conditions, I have a hard time seeing where I’m going.

  I’ve made it to the second floor landing—I think.

  As sure as the sun sets in the west, I am certain that Xander Osborne, seven-year-old arsonist—I’m sure of this, now, too—is somewhere near the science shed, if not inside it—in which case, it could be too late.

  Third floor. I’m still ahead of the firefighters.

  I’m counting the landings in my head, trying to keep track of them. I yank my sweater over my head and bring it to my mouth, using the wool as a filter.

  I’m on the fourth landing. I need to get down the corridor and locate the door that leads up the stairs to the roof. It feels like I’ve swallowed a sharp object that’s pushing against the walls of my throat. Behind me I hear the heavy footsteps of the firefighters and the rattle and thud of lifesaving equipment. They are shouting to one another but the sound is no more than a series of guttural grunts to my ears. I have a single focus: to find that door and make it one more flight to the roof.