That evening, however, Julia sat with her laptop in her usual spot at the kitchen counter, her Tiffany bracelet clicking against the wrist rest. She opened her e-mail and pressed COMPOSE. In the TO: field, she typed [email protected], and then took a long sip of prosecco. In the subject line, she wrote, Many apologies.
Most of the times she’d contacted a teacher, she had been sure she was in the right. Her e-mails conveyed imperiousness. In this one, she’d grovel.
Dear Isobel, she began. I cannot tell you how much I regret my behavior in these last weeks. I know it’s an above-and-beyond request, but would you consider meeting me to talk about how I could make things right? I’d like to hasten your reinstatement, if I can. As a start, I removed the post I wrote about your father on that Facebook page. I also unfriended Lisa Lions and left the group. As I’m sure you know, Tracy adores you. You may have noticed her comments in your defense under the name Kate Awakened. “Kate” is not currently speaking to me, which I guess I understand, but which also breaks my heart. Could I buy you a coffee? Really, I’d be so grateful. Please consider it.
She reread what she’d written and typed her name to close. Please, she thought, and clicked SEND.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Callie was a disaster when Isobel picked her up at the middle school on Monday afternoon. As soon as she saw Riley in the back of the van, she snapped. “Ugh!” she shouted. “Can we turn off your stupid music?”
“Hey!” Isobel recoiled at her tone.
“No one ever thinks about what I might want,” Callie spit, grabbing the seat belt and fastening it roughly.
Riley and Isobel made eye contact in the rearview mirror, exchanging a wondering shrug. Once she’d pulled out of the school parking lot, Isobel tried to engage her daughter. “Did something happen today?” she asked.
“No!” Callie said. “What are you even talking about? Things happen every day.”
“Okay,” Isobel said, backing off.
By the time they’d gotten home, Callie had criticized Riley’s hair and Isobel’s shoes, in addition to accusing her mother of always “having to be better,” as demonstrated in the previous day’s 5K. When she stomped up to her room, Isobel was happy to let her go. Nothing improved during dinner—not even Mark could cajole their daughter out of her unpleasantness—and Callie staged a repeat of her indignant march upstairs the second she had finished chewing her last bite of roast chicken.
Before she loaded the dishwasher, Isobel refreshed her work e-mail on her phone. Bile stung her throat as a message from Julia Abbott appeared. She wasn’t interested in Julia’s “Many apologies.” She and Mark had heard Henry Abbott’s voice mail, and she’d forbidden Mark from calling back.
“We could at least let them cover the out-of-pocket medical expenses from the accident,” Mark said reasonably. “That would make them feel better and also help us. We could knock out the deductible.”
“No,” Isobel said. Any contact with Julia Abbott was too much, and the idea of cashing a check from her was disgusting. “She’s the worst kind of person,” Isobel told Mark. “Never engage.”
And yet curiosity led her to open Julia’s e-mail. What would she apologize for, exactly? And how would she phrase it? Despite her reservations, Isobel clicked on the message. When she got to the line about Tracy not speaking to her mother, Isobel was surprised to notice a pang of empathy. She glanced at the ceiling toward Callie’s room. Don’t engage, she told herself. And yet, somewhere upstairs, Isobel’s own daughter was sulking for who knew what reason and barely speaking to her. Isobel noted the first signs of adolescence and foresaw the battles she and Callie would fight, similar to those that most teenage daughters waged with their mothers. She’d read enough personal essays about that relationship to cover any scenario she and Callie would enact.
Julia had quit the Facebook page. She’d removed the horrible, holier-than-thou post about Isobel’s father. Though she’d alienated many of her own friends in the aftermath of the cast-list incident, Julia still had knowledge of the Liston Heights parental elite. Maybe now that Isobel knew who was behind Inside Liston, Julia could help her figure out how to make other parents understand its danger.
Though astonished by her own rationalization, Isobel hit REPLY. Yes, she typed on her phone. Should we meet at the Starbucks close to school? I think Liston Heights needs a culture makeover. It sounds like you could help.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
They’d agreed on noon at Starbucks, a time when Isobel imagined that almost no one would be there. The other mothers, if they were out, would be having lunch. Isobel arrived five minutes early to give herself time to order a decaf latte and settle into a corner booth. By the time Julia arrived in her black leggings and long down coat, she felt less jumpy.
Mark had encouraged the meeting. “Get a check!” he’d said, and Isobel had swatted at him. But with her nerves fluttering and her stomach perhaps too upset for coffee, she was starting to agree with him. The Abbotts owed her. Julia arrived and waved at Isobel. When she’d ordered, she came to the table while she waited for her drink.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” Julia sounded breathless. She folded her coat over the back of a chair and then accidentally dropped her phone—the thick rubber case bounced on the laminate flooring. She shook her head. “I’m nervous,” she explained as she bent down to retrieve it.
“Me, too,” Isobel said. “This is my first coffee with a parent.” She smiled wanly, not showing teeth.
Julia pointed to a large table across the shop. “That’s where the Booster Board normally sits. I haven’t been to the meetings for this show because I’m suspended.” She spilled these words quickly, and then, as if unsure what to say next, she turned abruptly toward the pickup counter. Isobel stared after her. She hadn’t known there had been consequences—beyond the public shaming—for the Melissa Young incident.
Julia slid into her chair and shook her ponytail out of a green Liston pom-pom hat. “This is Tracy’s,” she said.
“Were you suspended for the Melissa Young thing?” Isobel asked. She realized that they’d both been banished that month. At least they’d have a place to start.
“Yes,” Julia said earnestly, leaning in. “It was an accident! The Youngs threatened to press charges, and Wayne Wallace suspended me.” She took a sip of her drink and flinched against its heat. “For a year!” she added before Isobel could respond.
“A year? I’m hoping my suspension lifts before the end of the week,” Isobel said.
Julia looked at the tabletop and cleared her throat. “Tracy will be thrilled to have you back. She loves you, you know. You’re her absolute favorite teacher.”
“That’s so nice to hear.”
Julia looked as if she were about to cry. “She’s not speaking to me,” she said. “She thinks I’m a mean-spirited gossip.”
Isobel raised her eyebrows. Of course, she herself had arrived at the same conclusion about Julia.
“Okay, so maybe I acted that way,” Julia admitted, “but I have some ideas, and that’s why I asked you here.” Julia’s intensity overtook the sadness Isobel had just witnessed. Julia had pulled out a spiral-bound planner and flipped to a page where she’d written a series of bullet points. “The Inside Liston Facebook group has got to go, obviously,” Julia said. “I think we should replace it. I searched, and there isn’t a group like the one I want to create—a community Facebook page, yes, but the focus is appreciation.” Isobel almost laughed.
“No, it’s cool,” Julia insisted, noticing Isobel’s reaction. She seemed so sure of herself that Isobel had to stifle another giggle. Julia went on to describe a page on which people could share news about Liston Heights teams and clubs. They’d also celebrate teacher accomplishments and birthdays.
“I think we can get Shane McGregor to donate free pizzas for your birthdays,” Julia said. “The McGregors have run a popular pizza pla
ce in Liston Heights for fifty years.” She stabbed the bullet point in her planner corresponding to this idea and then blinked at Isobel, waiting for her response. She was so fervent about the pizza that Isobel laughed outright.
“What?” Julia demanded, crestfallen.
Isobel felt immediately sorry. “It’s a good idea,” she said quickly. “You’re just so serious about it that I laughed.”
Julia sighed. “Everyone says I’m overinvested.”
Isobel was surprised by her candor. “Are you this passionate about everything?”
“What’s the point of doing anything if you’re not doing it well?” Isobel understood the mind-set, but at the same time, it seemed like so much pressure, having to be excellent in every endeavor. When Isobel encountered students with this tendency, she tried to talk them out of it.
“Sometimes,” she told Julia, just as she’d tell a teenager, “it’s just the effort or the learning that’s important. Sometimes, it’s totally fine to get a B plus.”
Julia wrinkled her nose. “I noticed you’ve given both of my children B pluses,” she said. “Were you trying to teach them a similar life lesson?”
Isobel laughed again then, and Julia did, too.
“I’m really sorry,” Julia said after the moment had passed. “I’m obviously sorry for hitting you with my car.” Isobel couldn’t help it; she laughed again. “Are you concussed?” Julia blurted.
“No,” Isobel said, wondering at Julia’s phrasing. The woman was hilarious. “Soft-tissue trauma.”
“Thank God,” Julia said. “And while I’m at it, I’m also sorry about that Facebook article about your father. It wasn’t my business.”
“Are you also sorry about leaving me that voice mail?” Isobel asked.
Julia cocked her head. “Only if you’re sorry about that Channel Six comment.”
A rush of shame squashed some of Isobel’s mirth. “I’m really, really sorry about that,” she said. “It was stupid and thoughtless, not to mention bad for my career.” She had an inclination to reach out and touch Julia’s hand, but stopped herself.
“I don’t have a career,” Julia said. Isobel couldn’t quite discern the sentiment beneath the statement. She thought back on the well-constructed sentences in the article about Robert Miller. Julia had command of both the hyphen and the em dash. She’s a good writer, Isobel thought, but didn’t say it.
“You do have two beautiful and successful children,” she said. Julia’s face immediately brightened, and Isobel asked, “What are we going to do about Tracy not speaking to you?”
JULIA ABBOTT
One year later
Julia and Henry sat in the center of the third row when Andrew stood in a straight line of actors across the stage for the curtain call of Rent. Julia grinned at Andrew’s floppy hair and his green short-sleeved T-shirt layered over a white thermal. The costume shop had hardly been necessary this year, except for Angel’s getup for “Today 4 U.” Henry offered his usual whoop, deep and commanding. Andrew’s smile expanded as the audience cheered. Julia choked back happy tears.
In the lobby afterward, Julia slid her arm around him and kissed his cheek.
“I’m so proud of you,” Julia said, but Andrew’s attention migrated to Sarah Smith. Julia ruffled his sweaty hair and dropped her arm.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
Sarah thrust a clutch of carnations in Lions yellow and green toward him. “You were fantastic.” She blushed and whispered something in his ear.
Henry grabbed Julia’s hand, and they turned toward the door, though Julia couldn’t resist a look back at Andrew. Her baby! He’d be headed to college in the fall, his eye on the theater club at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. As she imagined him moving out, someone bumped her shoulder.
“Oh,” Julia said, startled. It was Sally Hollister.
“Julia,” Sally said. “Excuse me.”
Julia smiled, recovering. “Maeve was great. What a way to end her theater career at Liston Heights. And as Mimi, such a powerful role. I mean, really”—she felt the words tumbling out quickly—“pitch-perfect.”
“Thanks,” Sally said. “Andrew was wonderful. I could see his emotion in the Life Support scene. And”—she paused—“I think, honestly, Julia, our publicity was better than ever. I know it was a challenge, too, with the less-than-PC subject matter of the show.”
Julia flushed. A compliment? From the old guard? She had quietly joined a Booster committee at the start of the winter season, after having stayed away for the full twelve months required by the suspension. Obviously, the executive committee was not the place, but publicity had had a vacancy. The group, mostly ninth-grade moms, had been grateful for her leadership. “Well, the kids lobbied for Rent.” Julia shrugged. Andrew had been at the helm of the effort, telling her earnestly that the school musical should serve a dual purpose—entertainment and social commentary. Tracy had nodded solemnly behind him, and Julia knew that though Isobel herself might not be involved in this effort, she’d certainly influenced it.
“Are you joining us for drinks?” Sally asked. It was tradition to toast their children after opening night.
Suddenly, Annabelle Young appeared behind Sally and wrapped both arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “She was wonderful!” Annabelle sang. “Just sublime. Look at me. I’m still crying.” Julia looked down. The maroon carpeting appeared unevenly worn in places. She made a mental note to add its replacement to the list of Booster priorities.
“You’re sweet,” Sally said. She turned away.
Julia looked back to Henry and grabbed his hand. “You ready?” she asked. “We got invited to the theater parents’ thing,” Julia said, looking back toward Annabelle, “but that might be a little much?”
“Let’s visit the Tuolomee,” Henry said. “It’s almost done, and a new wine bar opened across the street. Martin Young even says he likes their selection.”
She and Henry walked to the door as she pulled her gloves out of her purse. The cold air blew her ponytail up as she walked out into the darkness. “Just one drink,” she said. “I’ve got a blog post to finalize for tomorrow morning. Plus, the Liston Heights Striders meet at nine thirty.”
Henry steered her around a slow-walking clump of kids. “One viral post, and you’re obsessed,” he joked.
The entire family had been surprised when, the previous spring, Julia launched a website called Helicopter Repair Shop. “It’s about my adventures,” she’d told them over family dinner. “Well, misadventures,” she clarified, “in helicopter parenting.”
Tracy and Andrew had glanced at each other. “Wait,” Tracy said. “Are you saying you’re a helicopter parent?”
“I’m hoping,” Julia said, “it’s going to be a past-tense kind of thing. Like, I was a helicopter parent.” Andrew smirked, looking exactly like Henry had as a young man.
Now Julia swatted Henry’s jacket with her free hand. “I got about two hundred new subscribers from that HuffPo thing,” she said. “You never know when—”
“I know,” Henry said. “And you have a race coming up?”
“Next weekend.” She nodded. “I think I can run a personal best.”
JAMIE PRESTON
Jamie’s cell phone dinged, and she leaned forward to grab it from the coffee table, her fading Liston Heights Lions sweatshirt folding over her black leggings.
Nightcap? the text read. It was from Jordan, the latest happy-hour guy. She looked down at herself, bits of Ruffles potato chips sprinkled on her clothes and a tiny dot of red wine soaked into the gray cotton near her belly button. The whole room smelled like her dinner, a frozen Salisbury steak, the charred bits of the sauce fused with the plastic tray it had come in.
Can’t, she typed back. Working. Walk tomorrow? She reopened the copy of Lord of the Flies she’d been reading, an uncapped red flair pen acting as a bookmark.
On Friday night? Jordan wrote back.
Jamie chose a meh-faced emoji as a response, put her phone down, and leaned her head back against her couch.
She’d wondered when she accepted the position at Amory Prep, a charter school in another Minneapolis suburb, if the workload would decrease in proportion with her salary.
Alas, if anything, she felt more harried. Amory was only two years old, still adding a grade per year, working up to high school. Jamie’s assignment was seventh- and eighth-grade English, and she was writing the curriculum herself. Peter Harrington had warned her that they were basically “building the plane in flight.” Why did so many education people use that phrase?
Anyway, she didn’t have much choice about Amory. Certainly she’d have been cut after Isobel’s glorious return, and there were all those questions about the Facebook group. Jamie had taken the new position in April, ending Wayne and Mary’s interest in getting to the bottom of things. Her parents, while unwilling to subsidize her rent, did agree that she could curtail her retirement contributions for a year or two.
Judging by how excited Peter seemed to hire her, Jamie got the sense that Amory didn’t have too many applicants for the job. After all, there would be no colleagues in such a new school—Jamie was to be the entire English department—and no curriculum. Jamie found once she’d started that she had to devise all of the systems. Together, the teachers decided how to grade, how to discipline, when to have lunch. Oh, and there was no cafeteria. She had to brown-bag it and supervise kids eating at their desks in her classroom. One kid muttered, “Bitch,” when she told her to throw away the uneaten crusts of her turkey sandwich.
“Should we have recess?” Jamie had asked Peter.
“What do you think?” Peter responded, same as always.
Once, just before winter break when she’d seen a striking picture of Isobel on the Humans of LHHS Instagram feed, her mentor looking down at an essay with light streaming in from the windows to her left, she’d texted her. Thinking of you, she’d written. Are you going to make it to vacation?
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 32