Robin was “the masses”? After fielding all those texts about casting and costuming and a barrage in the fall about Tracy’s course placement? It hadn’t escaped Robin that her own daughter, Anika, had earned a spot in Honors Geometry from the start. There was no need for Robin to threaten the registrar, even if she’d been so inclined. Plus, there’d been the myriad backhanders Julia had let slip about technical theater even when Andrew himself had been on the props crew.
“I hate to ask this, Robin,” Wayne had said on the phone, “but Annabelle Young mentioned that Julia has made disparaging comments about Melissa before. Have you heard her talk about Melissa’s skills or—I know this is unusual—her foot size?” Robin smiled, imagining Wayne, hulking frame hunched over the phone, forcing himself to ask her about theater mom gossip.
“It happened at the Percys’ holiday party,” Robin offered. “Julia said that Melissa’s talent is overrated and that she has an untrained alto. Also, and I can’t remember her exact words, but something about how she imagines it is difficult for Melissa to dance when she has size eleven feet.” Wayne coughed. “Unfortunately,” Robin continued, surprised and feeling rather liberated by her candor, “I wasn’t the only one to overhear.”
It irked Robin that Julia acted like she was the sole woman in Liston Heights who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity. She’d so carefully stalked Vivian Song’s Instagram feed to discern which hot yoga studio she frequented and “coincidentally” ran into her there enough times to score a board invitation. Well, this call from Wayne was Robin’s chance.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Wayne said, “but I’ll need your answer immediately if possible.”
“Wayne,” Robin said, “it is a lot to ask, but I’ll do it. I’ll do it because the kids’ experience is the most important thing—more important than a lapse in judgment by one overzealous parent.”
“Thank you,” Wayne had said before hanging up.
Now Robin looked at the time. Eight o’clock. Certainly Julia and Henry were finished with their meeting, and her friend had heard the news of her banishment. Robin held her phone in her hand, waiting for the inevitable text.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Isobel was standing between her minivan and an Infiniti four-door when she overheard a couple in the Liston Heights High parking lot.
“Good news?” a woman half shouted. “It’s good news that I’ve been kicked off the board? I mean, besides the whole meeting being a preposterous overreaction to a silly misunderstanding . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Honey,” said the man firmly—and condescendingly, Isobel thought—“we’re lucky the Youngs aren’t pressing charges.” With that, Isobel realized who it was. She stepped into the lane and, as the Abbotts approached, tilted her chin down, surprised to see that they were still several cars in front of her. She hoped she wouldn’t have to talk to Julia Abbott, especially after the voice mail. Even if Julia hadn’t been the caller, Isobel knew she shared the sentiment.
“That’s insane,” Julia spit then, swinging her bag violently over her shoulder. “Don’t you even care what really happened?” Her husband didn’t respond. He walked briskly ahead, leading Julia now by several steps. Isobel grimaced, embarrassed for her. “To think that the board would be better served by the mother of a stage manager!” Julia hissed. “The mother of someone who doesn’t even have the talent to appear in front of the audience!” Her husband kept moving, and Julia had to take a hop-step to stay within a body’s length of him. They were just ten feet in front of Isobel now, oblivious to her presence. She moved left, hugging the bumpers of the parked cars and hoping to slip past them.
But just then, the heel of Julia’s navy pump caught a plane of ice on the asphalt. She pitched forward. Her arms shot out from her body. Her right hand grazed the salty ground, her handbag thumping behind it. She breathed hard as she hurried to right herself and stood too suddenly. She had to take two quick steps backward to avoid falling over the other way. Her husband marched toward their car and didn’t notice her stumble.
Just as Julia had finally steadied herself, cursed under her breath, and looked up, Isobel was right in front of her, mouth gaping. She wouldn’t be slipping by. Despite her desire to avoid this woman, she fought an urge to laugh at the slapstick choreography of her stumble. “Goodness,” she said after a second when she was sure she wasn’t smiling. She reached a hand out to Julia’s elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” Julia said without making eye contact. “Thank you.” She smoothed her coat. The teacher withdrew her hand, and then Julia looked at her. “Oh,” she said, “Ms. Johnson.”
“Mrs. Abbott,” Isobel said, tentative. She considered the timbre of Julia’s voice, trying to match it to the one on her machine. The two were quiet for a beat, and then Isobel continued. “Congratulations to Andrew. I heard he got a significant role in the musical.” And, she thought, unable to stop the creep of schadenfreude, bummer about your altercation in the hallway. She smiled, pleased that she’d taken the second to apply new lipstick in the car.
“Thank you. He’s worked very hard.” Isobel followed Julia’s gaze. Behind them, Mr. Abbott stood at the bumper of a BMW, eyebrows raised.
“Julia?” he called, too loudly. Isobel looked back at her. She held up an index finger, her expression sour.
“Andrew is certainly diligent,” Isobel said, letting her eyes fall to her own feet, sensibly safe in her L.L.Bean boots. Julia looked down at them, too, no doubt comparing them to her own fashionable—and obviously impractical—heels. Isobel would change into her wedges at her desk. They weren’t stilettos, but they weren’t her old Dansko clogs, either.
“Well,” Julia said crisply, “have a nice day.” Her handbag slapped Isobel’s biceps as she walked toward her husband.
“Bye.” Isobel peeked once more at the two of them. Mr. Abbott, exasperated, was scowling at his wife, and Isobel felt slightly sorry for her amid the satisfaction that she seemed to be getting what she deserved.
JULIA ABBOTT
Henry and Julia barely spoke on the five-minute drive back to their house. As he pulled into the driveway, she felt his eyes on her as she stared at the garage. The car smelled like coffee grounds, heat hitting Henry’s crusty mug in the front console. “It’s going to be okay,” he said to her. She pulled her bracelet off and put it back on again, running her fingers over the engraved surface. “Next, you’ll call the Youngs and apologize, and this can all fade into the background, where it belongs.”
Julia felt anger rising again. “It’s just so ridiculous.” She squeezed the handle of her quilted tote. “I obviously didn’t mean to elbow Melissa.”
“There’s video, babe,” Henry said. “We’re accepting Wayne’s compromise.”
“But Robin taking the board position?” Julia sucked in a breath. “She didn’t even have the decency to tell me in advance.” Henry didn’t answer. Julia continued. “Anika isn’t an actor, is all I’m saying.” She unbuckled her seat belt.
“Listen,” Henry said firmly. “Don’t tell people about this. Don’t text Robin. Just let it be. Take a break from the Liston Heights drama.” He smiled to himself before adding, “So to speak.”
Julia’s indignation boiled over again. She couldn’t bear his condescension. He acted as if the theater stuff, the school stuff—all of the kids’ stuff—were easy and inconsequential. He didn’t realize it wasn’t just about the winter musical, but rather about opportunities for the rest of Andrew’s life, beginning with college. “I’m not an idiot, Henry,” Julia said.
“Obviously not,” said Henry. “But . . .” He trailed off.
“But what?” Julia sputtered.
“But, in this case, hon, you pretty much acted like one.”
Julia grabbed her purse and opened the door. “I’ll see you later,” she said roughly, barely producing the words through her anger.
&nbs
p; “Don’t text Robin!” Henry shouted, his voice ringing out just before the slam of the door cut it off.
Julia stamped inside and kicked off her shoes in the entryway. Her handbag landed on the couch, and she padded barefoot into the kitchen and then automatically opened the refrigerator and extracted a Diet Mountain Dew. She popped the top and sat at the counter, flattening her hand against the cool granite, the veins of brown in its gradient snaking around her fingers.
The room smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, the reeds of a new diffuser peeking from behind the philodendron on the cookbook shelf. Julia gulped the soda and considered her day. Without the Theater Booster Board business—the e-mail list, the welcoming of new families, the treat rotation, the 5K, which actually was quite a lot of work—her schedule was suddenly clear.
Of course she’d still participate in the 5K, right? That was open to the public. No one could stop her. She walked back to the couch and extracted her iPhone from her tote. No messages. She opened the text app and composed a new message to her personal trainer. Let’s shift focus, she wrote. I want to run my fastest 5K ever in three weeks. Possible? She collapsed into the micro-suede cushions and scrolled to her last exchange with Robin. Cast list rehash? she’d asked. The response had been a rosy-cheeked smiley and Sure!
And now? And now Robin was installed on the Booster Board, and Julia was banished for a whole year. Henry’s voice echoed in her head: “Don’t text Robin!”
“Screw that,” Julia whispered to herself. She typed, Congratulations on your new post! Who knew backstabbing came so naturally to you! SEND. And then a second text: I hope it was worth it. She turned her phone facedown beside her, not waiting to see if Robin would reply.
HENRY ABBOTT
Henry checked the clock on the car console. Eight thirty-five. He should be just in time for his rescheduled meeting with Brenda. How much would he have to tell his business partner about the “unfortunate incident,” as he and Julia had been referring to it? Henry squeezed the steering wheel, its heated leather soft beneath his palms. He’d probably have to share enough to explain why Martin Young was calling him at the office before Henry had even floated the Tuolomee Square plan.
Damn it, Julia, he thought. The remnants of her perfume—Shalimar, he knew because he bought her a replacement bottle each Christmas—stuck to the passenger seat beside him. These things—the “unfortunate incidents,” the results of her “overinvestment”—had dogged them over the years. There had been the rec soccer T-shirt debacle, for one. Julia insisted that Tracy’s team have orange shirts, their daughter’s favorite color at the time. Several players cried when Julia’s rush custom order arrived, and she’d tried to take the kids’ original green jerseys away.
Five years after that, when Andrew had decided to try out for the seventh-grade play, Julia had immediately become the volunteer head of the running crew and disappeared for two straight weeks into tech rehearsals.
And so, over time, Henry had excused himself from the kids’ activities—Julia had it covered. He dutifully showed up when she put games and performances on his calendar. He asked the kids lighthearted questions at family dinners.
And he’d been called in to smooth things over. (“I’m calling you, Mr. Abbott,” the nervous math teacher had said, “because Mrs. Abbott seems especially invested in Tracy’s understanding of quadrilaterals.”) In the case of Melissa Young, Henry’s role had expanded to keeping lawyers at bay with magnanimous apologies.
Of course, it was no surprise that Julia took charge. Her bluster, in fact, was what attracted Henry. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been eviscerating a TA in English 101 at the University of Minnesota, the lecture hall packed with two hundred students.
Julia’s arm had seemed hyperextended from her shoulder as she waited to be acknowledged. Her slim body leaned over her desk; her nose rose in a point. She sat in the row in front of him, dead center. From his place on the right, Henry couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. It was as if a spotlight illuminated her alone in the brown and musty classroom. The TA, though, had avoided making eye contact with her as long as he could.
“I have a question,” she said to the nervous grad student, voice firm. She didn’t wait for a reply. “What specific passages in Emerson’s ‘Over-Soul’ led you to the conclusion that the dissolution of the human ego is inevitable? Because I feel that sentiment is more thoroughly asserted in ‘Self-Reliance.’”
Henry’s mouth had fallen open.
“Uh,” said the TA.
“I read in the Norton Anthology,” the girl continued, “and in the Journal of Literary Theory that the transcendentalists were essentially concerned with the relationship of the self to the environment. And how can we divorce ego from that?”
After class, Henry double-timed it across the quad to keep up with her. She was alone and clipping along, perhaps toward the student union. Could he luck into a lunch date?
“Hi,” he’d called when he’d managed to catch up. She looked at him, her nostrils flaring. She didn’t say anything and, after a brief pause, kept walking. “Uh, hi?” he tried again, hurrying along beside her. “I’m Henry Abbott. I’m in your English class.”
She gave him a barely perceptible nod.
“It seems like maybe you should be teaching the class,” Henry blazed on. “You certainly did your homework on Emerson.”
Henry thought he noticed a tiny smile then. “I just think that if you’re going to teach a course at a university, even if you’re just a grad student, you ought to be prepared,” she said.
“Obviously,” said Henry. “You seemed to know quite a lot more than that guy.” She smiled for real. He saw teeth, straight and gleaming. “Are you going to lunch?” he offered.
“No,” she said. “I’m checking my mail, and then I have to study for my Calc quiz. Are you good at math?”
“Not particularly,” said Henry honestly.
“Hmm,” she said.
“Well,” he continued, sensing the end of their conversation, “maybe I’ll see you in class on Thursday?”
Julia smiled again. “I like to sit in the middle,” she said.
Was that an invitation?
She tugged her backpack straps and kept talking. “What did you say your name was? Henry?”
He nodded at her. “Yes,” he said, sticking out his right hand. “What’s yours?”
She put her cool palm against his and shook firmly. “I’m Julia,” she said. “I go by Julia. Not Jules or Julie or anything else.”
“Okay,” he said, turning toward the union. “I’ll see you in class on Thursday, Julia. In the middle.”
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Isobel’s handouts were halfway printed when Mary Delgado, the English department chair, sidled up to her at the copy machine in the teacher workroom. “Another apostrophe-appreciation day?” Mary said.
Isobel smiled. “Not this time. We’re working on introductory adverbial clauses.” Mary nodded, but Isobel sensed hesitation. “What’s up?” she prompted. She grabbed the copies from the output tray and tapped them on the top of the machine to align the edges.
“Can I walk with you?” Mary’s smile faltered a bit.
“Of course,” said Isobel.
“So, I’ve fielded a couple of phone calls about your American Lit curriculum.” The two headed for the stairs.
“Really?” Isobel’s eyes focused on the ground in front of her. Her black wedges flashed beneath her wide-leg trousers.
“You’re sticking to the assigned texts, aren’t you?” Mary asked.
“What do you mean?” Isobel asked quizzically. “Of course I’m sticking to the assigned texts. We’re in the middle of Gatsby.”
Mary tugged at her floral scarf. “Have the discussions gone okay?” They stopped in front of Isobel’s classroom. Isobel hoped their conversation would end quickly, but Mary followed her inside
and sat at a student desk.
“Mary,” said Isobel, taking an adjacent one, “what’s this about?”
Mary sighed. “You know how this community can be.”
The department chair looked defeated, Isobel thought, her dark eyes tired, a smudge of mascara above her right cheekbone. “What are they saying this time?” She thought back to last year’s debacle: a hullaballoo over a sex scene in a book she’d assigned for summer reading. Lyle had strongly objected to the choice, but Isobel forced it and, for once, Eleanor agreed. When the complaints rolled in, Lyle forwarded them to Isobel without comment.
Mary continued. “They’re saying that you’re making kids feel bad about where they’re from.”
“What?” Isobel squinted. How in the world had she managed that?
“Did you compare Liston Heights to East Egg? Did you tell the juniors that their lives are”—Mary looked down at her notepad and flipped back a page—“frivolous?” Isobel frowned and shook her head. “Did you compare the Sadie Hawkins dance to Gatsby’s lawn party?”
Isobel sat for a moment, gazing at the “Read Every Day” poster above her whiteboard. She blinked. Shit, she thought. It had been last week during fifth period. She had been suddenly struck by the indulgences she’d witnessed at the dance—the rented shuttle buses with chauffeurs, the brand-new and never-to-be-worn-again costumes and accessories, the over-the-top dinners at Liston Heights’ fanciest restaurants beforehand. When she’d read aloud the passage from chapter three about the heap of decimated lemons and oranges in Gatsby’s weekly garbage, she couldn’t help drawing the comparison. The waste of it all—couldn’t the kids see it? Didn’t they want a little more authenticity in their lives and less of the veneer that would crumble at its first test? Isobel knew the danger of false appearances too well. She wanted her students to slough theirs before they moved beyond her classroom.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 8