ROBIN BERGSTROM
Robin had cleared her calendar of work deadlines to accommodate the final rush before the 5K. This is more demanding than my day job, she realized. An event for more than five hundred people on a frigid February morning? The appeal of the Booster Board faded as she got more and more bogged down in these details.
So many last-minute tasks cluttered her headspace: check with Annabelle to be sure the route would be closed; confirm the table rental for T-shirts, registration, and hot cocoa; verify that Vivian would procure the custom finishers’ medals—the list went on. And she couldn’t dislodge a persistent worry that Julia would show up and somehow complicate—or ruin—things.
Robin hadn’t meant to provoke her by mentioning Andrew’s role. She thought Julia would have known about the change. But, on learning that she hadn’t, she supposed she wasn’t surprised. Wouldn’t it be hard for a child to confide in a mother like Julia, someone who had such a rigid idea of success? Robin looked at the potted succulent on the corner of her bookshelf. It had been a part of a birthday gift from Julia last year, along with a bottle of jasmine perfume, the package wrapped flawlessly.
Her cell phone rang as Robin held it, the calendar app giving way to the caller ID screen indicating that Annabelle Young was on the line.
“Hey, Annabelle,” Robin said. “I was just thinking of you. I’m working on the five-K, just double-checking things. Has Martin cleared the final route with the Liston Heights police?”
“We’re all good there,” Annabelle said. “Cross that one off your worry list.” Robin felt immediately lighter. These women—with the exception of Sally Hollister, whose responsibilities seemed murky—redefined efficiency.
“I’ll skip ahead to double-checking the tables,” Robin said.
“But also . . .” Annabelle’s tone held a new gravity.
Both women hesitated.
“What?” Robin finally asked.
“Do we have a plan for Julia? Don’t you think she’ll show?” Robin didn’t want to admit that she’d been fantasizing about the same possibility.
“She’ll probably come,” Robin said sensibly. “She always does. But what can one person really do to ruin the whole event?”
“You think, even with Andrew taking over as luggage handler?” Annabelle laughed meanly then, and Robin joined in. It was sort of funny—the mother who cared most intensely about prestige had the kid who gave away his part.
“Probably especially in light of that.” Robin pictured Julia, enviably slim in her spandex outfit, stretching before last year’s 5K. She’d want to make it seem like this year was the same as any other, as if she hadn’t spent a huge chunk of her husband’s bonus on a bribe for a lead role only to have her kid self-sabotage.
“What will we do when she arrives?” Annabelle asked. “I don’t trust myself not to strangle her.”
“Don’t do that,” Robin giggled. “We’ve got a police presence—you’d certainly be caught. I’ll talk to Sally,” she said, thinking of Sally’s short to-do list. “We’ll put her on Julia patrol with the goal of keeping her far away from you at the T-shirt table. Deal?”
“I guess,” said Annabelle. “I should probably take a Xanax in advance, just in case.”
“Whatever you need to do,” Robin said. “I’m going to go, okay? Call the maintenance guys? Oh, and have you talked to Vivian today about the medals?”
TRACY ABBOTT
Why are you so mad at Mom?” Andrew asked after Tracy hurled her backpack into the rear of the RAV4 and slammed the passenger door.
“Did you know she hates Ms. Johnson?” Tracy asked. Her feet were still cold from skiing, and she pushed them up against the heat vents, not caring about the wet smell that emanated from her wool socks.
“I’ve heard some of it.” Andrew kept his eyes on the road as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“She’s in this Facebook group,” Tracy said. “It’s a gossip group for parents of Liston Heights kids.” She hadn’t told anyone about what she’d read there—what Julia had written about Ms. Johnson’s dad—but some of the others already knew. In English class that afternoon, Dylan Parkington had raised his hand and asked Mrs. Youngstead if she was the teacher now “because Ms. Johnson’s family are crooks, or whatever.” The substitute, thank goodness, had ignored him and continued her lecture on nominative pronouns.
“What does the Facebook group have to do with Ms. Johnson?” Andrew asked.
Tracy wasn’t sure if she wanted Andrew to know. He’d been so mad at their mom, slamming around the kitchen and asking to be excused after what seemed like thirty seconds of dinner. Things had just started getting better. “Do you like Mrs. Youngstead?” Tracy asked, stalling.
Andrew shrugged. “She lets us watch the movie in between reading scenes of The Crucible.”
“I think she’s boring,” Tracy said, suddenly angrier, “and not very creative.”
Andrew glanced at her. “Fine,” he said, undeterred, “but what’s the connection between Mom and Ms. Johnson and the Facebook page?”
Tracy reached up to touch the fabric-covered ceiling of the car, leaning her head back against her seat. She’d have to tell him. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, and she was planning to write about the group for the Humans of LHHS series that would begin on Monday. “Mom researched Ms. Johnson’s childhood and found out that her dad went to prison.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Tracy continued, “and then she wrote an essay about it and put it on Facebook. She’s a bully, it turns out.” Tracy had been thinking about that sentence for more than a week, since she first helped her mother untag herself in the video. She thought about it every time she got someone to sign her petition and every time Kate Awakened wrote another comment. She’d gone back and added some things in Kate’s voice: a defense of the assistant principal’s shoes, for one, and a vote of approval for the change from “freshmen” to “first years,” which someone named Sheila Warner had complained about. Saying it aloud—that her mother was a bully—felt both affirming and disappointing.
“Is that why you’re doing that petition?” Andrew asked.
Tracy looked over at him. She hadn’t known he knew about it. “It’s not fair,” Tracy said. “The treatment of her. She’s a good teacher. It’s not her fault that I don’t want to have kids.”
“What?” Andrew asked, confused.
“Nothing,” Tracy said. “Do you want to sign the petition? I have, like, a hundred fifty signatures. I’m presenting it to Ms. Montague tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Andrew was quiet for a second as he turned into their neighborhood. “Actually, we could add a version on Change.org. I could send it to all of the juniors, too.”
Tracy smiled. “Great idea. Thanks.”
“You should do a booth at the five-K. Bring a bunch of clipboards,” he said. And then, before Tracy could answer: “Did you know Mom was at school today?”
“Again?”
“Yeah. She thought Mr. Dittmer took away my part, but actually I just traded with Tryg Ogilvie. It was my idea.” His words were quiet and determined. And although she was curious, Tracy didn’t think she should ask for details. She’d seen Tryg’s profile on Humans of LHHS a couple of weeks before, just after he shot the video. Ninth graders hardly ever made the feed, but then, Maeve Hollister had been in charge that week, and he’d been the only ninth grader to be cast in Ellis Island.
“So, do you think she’ll go to the five-K this weekend?” Tracy moved on. “With everything? You still have to volunteer, right?”
Andrew bit his lip. “Oh, she’ll go,” he said. “She’s been training with Ron. I know she thinks she can run faster than she did last year.”
“She’ll go even though everyone hates her?”
“Probably,” Andrew said, and Tracy knew he was right. She’d go, even though everyone would
look at her. She’d go probably because everyone would look at her.
“Can I ride with you to the race?” Tracy imagined pulling into the parking lot with her mother, as she had the past several years. This time, kids who hadn’t realized her connection to the woman in the cast-list video would put it together. She’d lose her anonymity, which was so critical for survival as a first year.
Andrew reached up to the visor to press the garage door opener. “If you don’t care about getting there early, I can take you,” he said, “but we’ve got a rehearsal afterward. You’ll have to ride home with Mom. Or run home, I guess.”
Tracy peered through the family room window from the driveway. She could see her mother’s silhouette as she walked into the kitchen. “Okay,” Tracy said. “I guess I’ll ride home with her. It’d be super awkward to have to tell her I wasn’t going to.” Andrew parked in the garage, and they both set their jaws determinedly before walking in.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Friday movie night felt less festive than usual, nine days into Isobel’s suspension. She agreed to The Incredibles despite the gun violence. She’d been hoping to hear from Wayne before the weekend, had fantasized about an immediate reinstatement. Instead, there had been silence, plus a pile of ninth-grade research papers delivered in an interoffice envelope by Lyle.
Next Friday would be two and a half weeks out of her classroom. By then the contingency lesson plans she’d written would be obsolete. Eleanor would supply Judith Youngstead with materials on Steinbeck for the ninth graders. American Lit would be onto The Catcher in the Rye, and the irony of missing The Crucible with her juniors felt like a gut punch. Melissa Young flitted into her consciousness then, Julia’s elbow to her stomach an odd precursor to Isobel’s own troubles.
“So, I’m looking at the calendar,” Mark said as Isobel located the movie on iTunes, “and we’re supposed to run the annual theater department five-K this weekend. Sunday. Is that right?”
Shit. She’d run the annual thespian 5K each of the past five years. She’d lectured Jamie about the importance of school spirit and seeing students outside the classroom. Plus, Isobel’s own children had begun to see the event as a tradition, relishing their keepsake T-shirts and finishers’ medals.
But the race drew members of the entire community—her students, their parents, other teachers, and administrators—they’d all be there. And they’d be talking about her suspension, the Channel 6 story, and the fact that her father was a felon. It seemed like a good year to skip.
“Maybe we skip this year?” she asked.
“Skip the five-K?” Callie cried, overhearing from her preferred spot on the chaise. “No! I practiced last weekend. I’m going to run the whole thing like we planned.” She looked back at the screen as Isobel hit PLAY and Riley ran in from the bathroom.
Mark gave Isobel an apologetic look. “Maybe it would be good to make a show of confidence?” he suggested, quieter so the kids wouldn’t hear. “You usually see a lot of friendly faces there. Kids high-fiving you and stuff?”
Isobel dropped her shoulders and shuffled to the kitchen. She didn’t want to give Callie the idea that hiding from problems solved anything. Still, the thought of the 5K exhausted her, and she hadn’t even considered the actual running.
“Mom!” shouted Riley from the couch. “We’re not going to the five-K? I need the shirt!”
She felt Mark’s hands on her waist as she poured herself a glass of wine. “I think we should probably just go,” he said. “You’re in shape for it anyway.”
Isobel turned and hugged him, holding her glass behind his back. “Fine,” she said, though she knew chances were high she’d regret it.
“You’ll crush those assholes,” Mark said, laughter in his voice, and Isobel tried to smile.
JAMIE PRESTON
Jamie scanned Lisa Lions’s Facebook feed, a vodka soda in hand, legs folded beneath her on the couch. She’d thought of deleting the fake account, but worried it would look suspicious to shut the whole thing down the day after Mary, Isobel, and Tracy had mentioned it to her.
Her roommate hurried in, a miniskirt tight across her hips. “Is this too short?” she asked, a little breathless. As she spoke, she fastened a large hoop earring. Jamie considered the skirt a moment too long to conceal her actual opinion. “Shit,” Leslie said. “I know, but I can’t find anything Todd hasn’t seen.”
“You could try my black one—the one I wore to sushi that one time?”
“Thanks,” Leslie said. And then suddenly: “Hey, did you want to come out with us tonight? Maybe at least a drink before dinner? It’s Friday night.” Jamie read pity in Leslie’s eyes as she took in her sweatpants.
“No,” Jamie said, “I’m distracted by work. Did I tell you I think my contract is going to get cut?”
“Cut?” Leslie sat down on the other end of the couch, her earring brushing her cheek, skirt riding up her outer thighs.
“Well, there’s declining enrollment. Like, next year’s ninth-grade class is smaller than this year’s? Someone has to go to part-time.”
“And it’ll be you? Do you know for sure?” Leslie patted Jamie’s knee, as if she were a child.
Jamie glanced at her screen and absently clicked on the shortcut to the Inside Liston page. “It’s usually seniority,” Jamie said, “unless someone has some kind of disciplinary issue.” She peeked up at Leslie. What would her roommate think of the Facebook tactics?
“Is someone having a disciplinary issue?” Leslie asked. Her legs twitched, and Jamie knew she was anxious to choose her outfit for the evening, to move beyond this show of caring.
“Leslie, how far would you go to keep your job?” Jamie asked, not ready to let her go yet. “We’re young, right? If we don’t act like we really want it, won’t people just push us over?”
“I mean, I’d definitely fight for it.” Leslie smiled then. “We have to pay rent, after all.”
“Would you point out the reasons why you’re maybe better suited for the job than people with more seniority?”
“Sure,” Leslie said, standing. “I’m so sorry, Jamie, but can we talk about this later?” She started back toward the bedrooms. “Or tonight! Come for a drink!”
“Another time,” Jamie muttered, and looked back at the group she’d concocted, the whole thing an effort to avoid Peter’s fate. And here she was, embodying a false identity alone in her sweatpants on a Friday night with no guarantee of a full-time contract.
She read a new message at the top of the page showing a snapshot of a worksheet on the Trail of Tears. What happened to Westward Expansion? the caption read. A new, but vocal, group member, Kate Awakened, had commented, Maybe let’s tone down the low-key racism, which had sparked a flurry of defensive replies about the culture of the “American West.” The second new post was from a parent whose name Jamie didn’t recognize. Anyone care to speculate about which teachers will get laid off this year? Board says cuts, right? Who’s getting the ax?
Jamie breathlessly clicked the comments and scanned the names the parents suggested. She found her own rather quickly, only the second time she’d been mentioned in the group. Isn’t Preston in English rather new? Besides that, she’s bland. No spark. I bet it’s her.
A couple of people had liked the comment, and Jamie felt like crying.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Mom, I’m nervous. Do I have to run the whole thing?” Callie whined from the backseat of the minivan as the Johnson family pulled into a parking space, twenty minutes ahead of the scheduled start time of the Theater Booster Club 5K.
“I’m running the whole thing, Mom!” Riley piped in.
“Suck-up,” Callie muttered.
Mark squeezed Isobel’s hand. “No one has to run if they don’t want to.”
In the rearview mirror, Isobel watched Callie glare at her brother. She felt queasiness rise in her throat. Was this really su
ch a good idea, to face the families who knew about her suspension and about her father? And there was no guarantee she’d get her job back next week—this could be the last time she’d see these people, jogging along midpack in a stupid fund-raiser 5K.
“Let’s put up a brave front,” Mark had said that morning, and she’d agreed, in theory. She would have given the same advice to her students: Show up with a smile on your face. And now here they were. It wasn’t as if she could tell the children she’d chickened out. Get over yourself, Isobel thought, and reached for the door handle. “Let’s do this, family!” she said aloud. “Riley, I’ll run the whole thing with you if you’d like!”
“What about me?” Callie was saying as Isobel’s feet hit the pavement and she adjusted her black running tights, making sure to pull her jacket firmly over her backside.
“Ready?” she asked the kids as their door slid open.
“Yeah, but, Mom,” Callie said, “what about running with me?”
“If you’re running, I’d love to do it with you.” Isobel smiled. She slung an arm around her as they walked toward the registration table.
“Hey, Ms. Johnson!” Isobel caught a glimpse of Anika Bergstrom jogging, a lime green T-shirt pulled over her coat.
“Hi!” Isobel called. Anika pointed at the front of her T-shirt as she ran by, but Isobel missed the significance. “Here we go,” Isobel whispered to Mark as they reached the table. Allen Song stood behind it.
“Ms. Johnson!” he said, grinning. “I’m so glad you’re here. I want you to know I signed both petitions, the online one and the paper one. I don’t even care if they’re double counted. I’m not allowed to wear the T-shirt because of this.” He pointed at his volunteer shirt and frowned. “When will you be back in class?”
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 27