“Yeah?” Julia looked right at her, and Robin held her gaze with new confidence. “Have my notes been helpful?”
“Very helpful.” If Julia expected her to fall all over herself with gratitude, she’d be disappointed. After all, it wasn’t Robin’s fault that Julia’s poor choices had finally had consequences.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Annabelle interjected. She turned to face Julia, her long dark hair swirling around her shoulders.
Julia froze for just a second and then broke into a smile again. Robin could smell her usual perfume even over the richness of the coffee beans. It seemed old-fashioned to her, less fresh than the scents the other women at the table wore. “Don’t worry,” Julia said. “I’m not staying. I just wanted to say hello.” She paused. “You know, since I saw you.” No one responded, and Vivian crossed her arms. “It looks like everything is in order. The show, as they say, must go on!” Julia caught Robin’s eye again. “When you have a moment, Robin,” she said as she turned back toward the pickup counter, where her latte lay ready, “text me, would you?” She walked away.
A blender sparked to life behind the counter as Julia’s ponytail swung toward the door. “Well,” Robin said, looking around at the women, who seemed to anticipate her reaction, “she might be waiting for that text for a long time.” The group tittered, and Annabelle reached over and patted Robin’s arm. It was hard to imagine that Julia, with her brashness and impulsivity, had ever fit in with this group. “Back to the medals?” Robin asked. “What’s the cost per?”
“Looks like three dollars?” Vivian squinted at the iPad.
“That’s a little steep,” Sally said, “but maybe doable. Can we save on the T-shirts?”
And they were off again. Robin watched Julia push the door open and slide her sunglasses over the bridge of her nose. She didn’t look back.
TRACY ABBOTT
Tracy frowned as she turned the corner into Ms. Johnson’s classroom only to see a grandmotherly substitute licking her pointer finger and paging through a stack of paper. Tracy looked at the board before turning down the aisle toward her assigned seat. Mrs. Youngstead, the cursive read, the “t” perfectly crossed with a slanted edge. The leaves of the spider plants near the windows, she noticed, drooped in front of their pots.
“Sub,” Tracy whispered to the girl who sat across from her, frowning.
“Yeah,” said her classmate. “Bummer. I was hoping to ask Ms. Johnson for help finishing up the revisions on my research project. Is she sick, do you know?”
Tracy shrugged. “Maybe one of her kids?” The bell rang then, and the class fell reasonably quiet. Tracy thought Ms. Johnson would have been pleased with their behavior for the “guest teacher,” as she liked to call them.
Mrs. Youngstead’s gray cardigan swished over her dark blue skirt as she walked to the center of the room. “I’m Judith Youngstead,” she said. “I’ve subbed in many Liston Heights High School English classes since I retired in twenty fifteen.” She smiled at the students over the rims of her reading glasses. “I may have taught your older brothers or sisters, or even your parents!” Mrs. Youngstead laughed then even though she hadn’t been particularly funny. “In this case,” she continued, “it looks like I’ll be here for at least a week while Ms. Johnson focuses on some curriculum development.”
Tracy turned back toward her neighbor. What? she mouthed. Ms. Johnson hadn’t mentioned anything about being out for an extended period. What about their research projects?
The teacher turned to write Research in red marker on the whiteboard. “Lucky for all of you,” she said, “I’m very familiar with the process of writing papers.” She smiled tightly. “My notes say you should be working on revisions.” She pointed at the laptop cart against the front wall. “Why don’t you grab a computer if you need one and get to it? I’ll be around to offer some final suggestions.”
As Tracy opened Google Drive, she clicked her e-mail for a moment. After looking up to make sure Mrs. Youngstead was occupied with another first year—sure enough, she’d been waylaid by Jake Tremaine, who never understood what to do—she clicked COMPOSE. She typed her mother’s address in the TO section and quickly wrote, Mom. I’m in English, and there’s a sub here who says Ms. Johnson is out for at least a week working “on curriculum.” Don’t you think this has something to do with that post on the Inside Liston Facebook page?? I told you that group was evil! SEND. Tracy scanned the class then, looking for other kids who’d also be dismayed by Ms. Johnson’s absence. Jake wouldn’t, obviously, but she thought ten or twelve others would, especially if they knew parents—maybe their own mothers—were bad-mouthing the teacher online.
Before Mrs. Youngstead could catch her with the extra browser tab open, Tracy clicked on her research doc, ready to toggle over to it if the substitute ever finished with Jake. Back to her new tab, she signed out of her official e-mail and hastily created a new account on the Gmail home page. She decided impulsively on the handle [email protected], twenty-three for her graduation year, and smiled to herself after she entered the password, FreeIsobel2020.
Certainly, Ms. Johnson would recognize the allusion—a word Tracy had learned in her class—in the username. She’d told her teacher last month that she’d so loved “The Story of an Hour” that she’d borrowed Kate Chopin’s novella The Awakening from the school library.
“Intense, right?” her teacher had said, a proud smile spreading across her face. They’d walked halfway to Tracy’s math class together, debating Adèle’s influence on Edna.
Tracy popped her head up to verify the substitute’s whereabouts. Mrs. Youngstead had left Jake and now stood hunched next to Lauren Virgil, still a full row away. Slow progress. Tracy loaded Facebook and clicked SIGN UP. Kate Awakened needed a profile picture. For that, Tracy considered a sepia-toned Google image of the real Chopin, but rejected the idea for something that would blend in with all the other mothers’ thumbnails on Inside Liston. She searched “stock photo mom and teenager,” and screenshotted the second option, a woman with long brown hair and unusually white teeth, dipping her head toward a blond kid, their temples touching. Perfect.
Now “Kate” just needed an invite to the secret group. Tracy logged on to Facebook with her mother’s credentials, the same password they used for their family Netflix account. She navigated to the group and quickly typed her new e-mail address into the INVITE bar. As a member, Julia had access. Then Tracy hastily closed the Web browser and glanced up to track Mrs. Youngstead’s progress. She was behind her now, just three students away. A more astute supervisor—someone like Ms. Johnson—might have caught her on Facebook, but not this sub.
Still, Tracy felt shaky and took some deep breaths. She’d never so deliberately used class time for something other than an assigned task, and her heart pounded with the risk of it. She forced herself to read through her conclusion as Mrs. Youngstead approached.
Given all of the evidence of the motherhood penalty and its far-reaching consequences, women should think hard about leaving the workforce when their children are small, she’d written. Good, she thought. Even though they may plan to get back into the swing of things by the time their little ones are toddlers, they may never recover their earning potential. Of course, another option is to skip having children altogether. She’d have to change that last sentence, she knew, and highlighted it. Ms. Johnson had said no new ideas in the closing paragraphs.
HENRY ABBOTT
When Henry arrived home after his squash match that evening, he found his daughter uncharacteristically involved in an argument with his wife. “It has to be related,” Tracy was saying.
“It’s a coincidence.” Julia raised her voice. Andrew was nowhere to be seen.
Tracy walked from the kitchen to the family room couch and sat down hard. “Mom, it’s obviously not a coincidence.” She looked at Henry, aiming to recruit him to her side. He felt the now-familiar d
iscomfort of toggling his alliance between his wife and one of his children.
He dropped his racquet and his duffel and walked past Tracy into the kitchen. “What’s not a coincidence?” He waded into the conflict as he filled a glass from the tap.
“Use the filter,” Julia said automatically. Henry dumped the water and turned to the small spigot at the left of the faucet.
Tracy spoke toward the television in the family room, staring resolutely at the black screen. “Mom is a member of this gossip group on Facebook. Someone posted a handout from Ms. Johnson’s class, there were tons of mean comments, and now I have a sub in English who says Ms. Johnson won’t be back for a week or more.”
Henry’s head felt light, and he guzzled the water, not wanting to move from behind the counter in the kitchen. It was true he’d imagined scenes like this when Tracy turned thirteen. He’d had friends with teenage girls at home, guys who rolled their eyes on the squash courts and mentioned hormones. But Tracy had always been so levelheaded. And he hadn’t expected the prime instigator of girl drama to be Julia. “You’re a member of a Liston Heights gossip group?” he asked her, his voice low.
“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s a page for parents of kids at the high school.”
“It’s evil!” Tracy shouted. “The person who runs it has a fake account. She posted the video of mom and the cast list and, like, fifty people shared it.”
Julia sank into her usual stool at the breakfast bar and clicked something on her iPhone. Henry stared over her head and Tracy’s at the blank TV. The video had been shared on Facebook? It was one of the many times Henry felt grateful he didn’t have an account. “Did you delete the video?” he asked the room.
“I untagged her,” Tracy said, “which is how I saw the Inside Liston page and all the mean comments about Ms. Johnson. Don’t you even care about her?” Tracy whipped her head toward Julia.
Henry looked at his silent wife. He held out an open palm, signaling for her to speak. Certainly she could just apologize to Tracy, sign off of whatever Facebook page was causing the problem, and let things blow over. Daughters weren’t so opaque, were they?
“It wasn’t shared fifty times, and of course I care about Ms. Johnson,” said Julia, her voice sharp. “It’s just that I don’t believe that site has anything to do with her missing class today. There are a million reasons why she might have been absent.” Henry frowned at his wife. She hadn’t struck the conciliatory tone he’d been hoping for. He thought back to Martin Young’s remark about a muzzle and then felt immediately guilty. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Well, if she’s gone because of some discipline thing, you’d better believe I’ll be starting a protest. Dad, don’t you think I should, like, write a petition?” asked Tracy. Henry winced. For the second time in a week, he’d have to choose a side—his wife or his child.
“Wait a second,” he said suddenly. “Who saw the video on Facebook? Anyone in the family?”
Tracy gave her dad an imperious look. “Oh, it’s out there.” Her tone was so unlike her—so much like the Disney Channel teenagers they used to watch when Tracy was younger—that he almost laughed. “I saw that Gloria Olson shared it, for instance. Isn’t that Mom’s cousin?”
“Second cousin,” Julia said, still sulky. “On my mother’s side.” Certainly she could have been doing more to help herself in this situation.
“Okay, so what does untagging do?” Henry asked. “Does that delete the video?”
“No,” Tracy said. “Only Lisa Lions, whoever that is, can delete the video, because she’s the one who originally posted it.” She stood up from the couch and took a few steps toward her parents in the kitchen. “And that’s what you get,” she said to Julia, “for friending people you don’t know on Facebook. You’re the one who’s supposed to teach me that lesson. That’s irony,” she added. “Ms. Johnson taught me that.”
Henry knew Tracy had crossed a line. Julia’s face flushed, and she opened her mouth to speak. Henry could no longer hover between them. He’d have to side with his wife. “Why don’t you go upstairs for a while?” he said to his daughter. It was the closest he ever got to “grounding,” the punishment his own parents had so frequently relied on when he was a child.
“Fine.” Tracy stomped past them to the stairs, ski socks making soft thuds on the wood floor.
“Do you know what else that teacher taught Tracy this trimester?” Julia said when she was probably still within earshot. “She taught her that motherhood is a depressing dead end. Tracy told me that not only did she not want to be a stay-at-home mom, but that she didn’t even want to have children.”
Henry could see the pain beneath the anger in Julia’s face. Even with all of her missteps and unpredictability, he knew there was nothing she cared about more than being a good parent. Still, engaging in this particular hurt would only distract from the problem of the video on Facebook. “Tracy’s fourteen,” Henry said. “She has no idea what she wants.”
“Still,” Julia persisted, “do you think that’s an appropriate message? That motherhood is a penalty?”
“No,” Henry said honestly.
“And now both of the children are furious with me.”
Henry bent over Julia, putting his arms around her. She kept her hands in her lap. After a minute, Henry spoke again. “But can we get the video off of Facebook?”
She shook her head. “I can try messaging Lisa Lions again and asking her to remove it,” she said. “That’s the best we can do.”
JULIA ABBOTT
Julia jogged down the stairs the next morning in Lululemon pants and a long-sleeved performance top. She planned to pour coffee into a thermos and catch a six a.m. yoga class. She’d be back before the kids left for school. When she looked up, she saw her son seated at the kitchen counter.
“Oh,” Julia said, startled. Andrew stared at her, his face bland. Not hostile, she noted, hope fluttering somewhere around her wide waistband. She checked her inclination to rush to Andrew and throw her arms around his broad shoulders. “Good morning,” she said instead, half smiling.
“Hi.” This was the first time Andrew had voluntarily spoken to her in ten days. Julia drew a shaky breath. She passed him at the counter and reached out to touch his arm. He didn’t flinch, and she patted him lightly. She smiled to herself as she switched on the coffeemaker, set, as usual, to brew the dark roast she preferred.
“Why are you up so early?” Julia ventured. She faced him and leaned a hand on the cool granite.
Andrew shifted in his seat. His hair stuck up near his left temple, just as it had every morning when he was little. “I need to study some lines,” he said finally. He looked down at the glass of water he held between both hands.
“Okay.” Julia tried to sound encouraging.
“I don’t think I’m ready for rehearsal.” Andrew glanced up at her then, his eyelids heavy.
“I bet you’re more ready than you think.”
“I don’t know.” Andrew kicked his feet away from the stool, toes thudding against the cabinets beneath the counter. “It hasn’t been going well.”
“What do you mean?” The coffee’s aroma floated between them.
“I can tell I’m not doing what Dittmer wants. He seems— I don’t know. . . .” Julia willed herself to wait, not wanting to wreck the moment. “He seems irritated,” Andrew said finally. “He seems mad at me.”
Julia considered. What should she say? She didn’t want to disregard his feelings by insisting she was sure he was doing well, and she also didn’t want to confirm his fears by overvalidating. She looked at the philodendron behind him and finally asked, “What is Mr. Dittmer’s criticism?”
“Something about my blustery body language.” Andrew shrugged. “I worked on toning it down, but”—he sighed—“I don’t know. After that, it was something about the tonality of my voice.”
/> Julia watched the coffee collect in the carafe and kept her voice mild. “Want me to review lines for today’s scene?”
He looked dejected. She’d always hated seeing Andrew upset. When he was a little boy, she’d been able to scoop him into her lap and distract him, but once he’d turned eight or nine, she’d felt more and more helpless, just as the disappointments became more and more real.
“I think I’ll just read it over.” He hopped off the stool, unfurling to his full height—over six feet—and walked toward the stairs. “Thanks, though, Mom.” He glanced back at her, and she felt something spark in her chest.
TRACY ABBOTT
Tracy had just finished her geometry homework in afternoon study hall and was about to tweak the language of the petition she’d drafted to reinstate Ms. Johnson when a text popped up from Anika. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to have her phone, but like every other first year, she had gotten into the habit of hiding it on her lap during her free period. The study hall monitor always seemed too engrossed in his own paper grading to notice.
911, the text read. Tracy furrowed her brow.
Are you okay? she typed back.
Can you talk? Anika asked.
In study hall, Tracy typed. Aren’t you?
I got out to work in the set room. Ask to use the bathroom and call from there? Tracy felt nervous. Whatever it was had to be serious if Anika was asking her to break out of study hall. She slid her phone into her back pocket as she stood up from her desk. The teacher grunted affirmatively, not looking up from his work, when she asked to leave.
In the bathroom, Tracy checked for feet (none, thank goodness) and locked herself into a stall that stank of urine and Clorox. “What is it?” she asked as Anika picked up.
Her friend emitted a low moan.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 18