The look of confusion on his face makes me want to laugh out loud, but instead I kiss him and whisper, “Make it quick, doctor.”
* * *
Running after sex isn’t ideal for a vagina of my age and mileage, but I wanted to get a workout in before noon. Between my mother’s illness and Garth moving away, my exercise has been about as regular as my perimenopausal periods. It really pisses me off that it takes so much damn time to get into shape and no time at all to fall out of it.
Today, I really need to pound out my frustrations before my lunch meeting with Sylvie Pike.
When she asked me at drop-off this morning if I was free for a lunch powwow (her word, not mine), I wasn’t quick enough to think of an excuse. The no-caffeine thing has really put a damper on my ability to think of credible lies on the fly.
Sylvie is one of those mothers whom I have noticed over the years but, because our kids aren’t in the same grade, never actually talked to. Sadly, I’ve just described my relationship with 90 percent of the parents at William Taft.
I have to admit I’ve always been a little curious about Sylvie. She has an interesting style. She dresses in loose-fitting, flowing clothes so it’s hard to tell what her body type is, and she wears her extremely long dark hair loose down her back. I initially pegged her as one of those moms who brings homemade granola for a snack, but her emails suggest a very organized rule enforcer without much of a sense of humor. Is there such a thing as a type A hippie?
We’re meeting at Chili’s at 12:30 for a get-to-know-you lunch. After a shower and quick blow-dry I don the mom uniform of jeans and white T-shirt and head to the kitchen. I’m going with the boyfriend fit these days because I need the extra room. I didn’t realize that turning fifty came with so many unexpected delights, among them an extra ten pounds that no amount of cardio is going to get rid of. My doctor told me to start eating from a bread plate instead of a dinner plate to manage my portions, and to stop drinking wine. He’s no longer my doctor.
I jump in the minivan (my fourth!). This time we’ve gone with a white Chrysler Pacifica. I can’t say I don’t miss my Honda Odyssey, but this new one is pretty damn amazing. It has a ton of room, a huge cargo area in the back, a tricked-out entertainment system—and, get this … a built-in vacuum! Max actually likes to clean up his own mess. I let him do it once a week as a special treat (wink). Tom Sawyer’s got nothing on me.
My phone rings as I’m driving to Chili’s and I push the button on the steering wheel to answer.
“Jen’s Nail and Tan.”
“You really need some new material,” says my oldest daughter dryly.
“What’s up, pretty? Slow day at Jenny Craig?”
“Actually no. I have sixteen people here for a weigh-in, but I just wanted to remind you that we’re Skyping with Laura tonight at six.”
“Yup. I know. Do you want to come for dinner?”
“Well, I was hoping you’d come to me. I’m trying to make it to a six forty-five screening at the Tivoli.”
“What are you seeing?”
“Uh, it’s a Russian film about an insane fencer. It won a prize at the International Moustache Film Festival. Want to come?”
Silence.
“Mom?” Vivs sounds concerned.
“I’m sorry, I fell asleep after you said, ‘Russian film.’ I can’t, darn it. It’s actually mustache-waxing night.”
“Why do I bother?” she asks the ether.
“See you at six, sweetie!”
It’s been really fun having Vivs live in the same city again, even though it’s just temporary. She wants to rejoin Raj in Brooklyn as soon as she can, but I love that she put her life on hold and came home to help with my mother.
I had expected Laura to do the same after college, but she surprised all of us by announcing she was going to London with her boyfriend, Travis. Apparently, his band, Sucker Punch, had booked a tour of what I’m sure are the worst dives imaginable in the UK and Europe, and she went along to support them. I’m not going to lie, my reaction was split between disappointment and envy. I just hoped she would use birth control, unlike her mother. The last thing I want is for either of my girls to have to carry the burden I did. Not that either of them could. As sophisticated and capable as they are, neither could handle a baby the way I did.
Laura’s been gone all summer and we’ve barely heard from her. A couple of days ago, she texted on our family chat that she wanted to Skype. I’m a little scared, but mostly excited to see her tonight and hear how things are going.
I pull into Chili’s half-full parking lot, next to one of those cars that is so small it looks like my minivan pooped it out, and head into the restaurant.
I like Chili’s because it has something on the menu for everyone. You can eat healthily or not. The challenge is always to force yourself to order a salad with protein and not the chicken crispers and fries.
I spy Sylvie sitting at a booth, furiously typing on her laptop. Her hair is pushed back off her face with the help of a pair of gold-rimmed aviators and she’s wearing a purple peasant blouse. She is somewhere in her mid-forties; she has what my gran would call great bone structure, and beautiful, large blue-gray eyes that widen when she sees me walking toward her.
“Am I late?” I look at my phone to confirm I am not.
“Not at all. I got here half an hour ago. It’s like a mini vacation to sit here by myself.”
I nod as I sit across from her.
“I know how you feel. I took a flight to visit my friend in Memphis and it was like a day at the spa.”
“I’ll have to try that one. I don’t remember the last time I flew without a child.”
“How many do you have?”
“Five.”
“Oh my God” is all I can think of to say.
I’m stunned. I mean, I love my kids, but I drew the line at two. And then I erased that line and drew it at three. But the U.S. Treasury hasn’t printed the money you’d have to pay me to have more than three.
Sylvie laughs at the obvious horror on my face.
“Yes, well, God did have a little something to do with it. We’re Catholic, so our only birth control is the rhythm method.”
“I can see how well that worked for you.”
“Actually, it probably did. Matt and I got married right after high school. By my calculation, we could have had, like, ten kids by now.”
Well, that’s the cup-half-full way of thinking about it. Sylvie Pike is quickly becoming the most interesting person I have met in a long time. How did I not know her before this? Oh, yeah, I don’t like to mingle.
“Do they all go to William Taft?”
She shakes her head. “Only two. I have two in high school and one in middle school.”
“And you have time to be PTA president?”
She laughs. “I do! I don’t work, so what else am I going to do with my day?”
I can think of several things, but I’m not going to burst her bubble. I’m suddenly feeling like quite the underachiever.
“I’ll never know how Nina did it. She made it seem so easy.”
Sylvie nods in agreement. “I know. She was my hero. Best PTA president we ever had. You guys were really good friends, right?”
“Still are. I miss her a lot.”
Our waitress, Candy (according to her name tag), comes by with a glass of water for me, and a Coke for Sylvie.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks me in a squeaky voice.
“I’m good with water, thanks. Sylvie, do you know what you want?”
She glances at the menu.
“Yeah, I’ll have the chicken fajitas.”
“And I’ll have the California turkey club sandwich with salad, no fries.”
“You got it.” Candy picks up our menus and scoots away.
There’s an awkward silence and we sip our drinks. Sylvie breaks it by getting down to business. No more chitchat.
“So, Jen, I’m glad we could meet, because I wan
t to talk to you about spearheading a special project for the school this year.”
Well, this is unexpected. I thought I was going to get a talking-to about the responsibilities of being a class parent. I give her my curious-but-not-in-a-good-way look.
“Really? Why me?”
“Well, I keep hearing what a fun and efficient class mom you are. You didn’t CC me on your first email to your class, but I got hold of a copy and you’re pretty funny.”
Pretty funny? I must be slipping.
“Thanks, I think. What’s the project?”
“Well, you know Marge DeJones retired as our crossing guard, right?”
Marge DeJones was, like, 104 years old and was about as effective at stopping cars as a down pillow. But she was beloved by all the kids, so the school kept her on and just hoped everyone would get across the street without incident.
“I heard. Oh, God, you’re not asking me to replace her, are you?”
“No, of course not. Her granddaughter is filling in for the month of September. What I want is for you to spearhead a new safety patrol program for fifth-graders and parents.”
Sylvie obviously mistakes my stunned silence for curiosity, so she keeps going.
“A bunch of schools in the area are doing this. I’ve visited a few and it seems like a really positive experience.”
For who? I think, but do not say. For some reason my wit and sarcasm are nowhere to be found. I mean, she must be joking if she thinks I’m the person to launch a program like this. It would mean dealing with OPCs! (Other People’s Children!) Plus, I barely have a handle on my own class-mom kingdom.
“Wouldn’t you be better off asking one of the fifth-grade parents? I mean, they know the parent body so much better than I do.” I silently commend myself for coming up with such a logical rebuttal on the fly.
“Truthfully, fifth grade is a really busy year for the parents. They do an overnight trip to Branson, and they also have that huge science project, not to mention the French festival and graduation.”
“So, they all said no.” I believe in calling a spade a spade.
Sylvie has the decency to look sheepish. “They all said no.”
At this moment of truth, Candy swoops in with our lunch. Sylvie’s fajitas are sizzling, and the smoke is blowing directly on me and basically guaranteeing I’ll be smelling like a Mexican restaurant for the rest of the day.
“Enjoy!” she sings and beats a hasty retreat.
I take a bite of my sandwich and consider Sylvie. I like her style. She really does have the crappiest job at the school. Nina always made it look effortless, but the truth is the PTA president can’t afford to be a bitch to anyone. She takes a lot of abuse and the only response she can make is “Thank you, sir, may I have another?” I wouldn’t do it for the world.
I take a deep breath and wish like hell I’d ordered French fries.
“Tell me what-all is involved,” I say without any enthusiasm at all.
Sylvie’s eyes widen, and she breaks into a smile so big I can see chicken bits stuck in her teeth.
“It’s really nothing. Just make up a schedule for the parents and make sure they show up for their assigned day. We need someone before and after school every day just to make sure the kids are doing their job.”
“So, you need parents to patrol the patrollers?”
“Exactly.”
Once again Sylvie mistakes my silence for encouragement.
“So, is this a yes?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty busy—”
“And you know what they say,” she interrupts, “give a job to the busiest person and it will get done.”
“And you’re sure it’s basically just making up a schedule for the parents?”
She nods. “And they have to say yes, because participation is mandatory.”
Honest to God, I can’t think of a good excuse to say no. This has been quite the crafty ambush. I’m going back on caffeine tomorrow.
“I have one condition. I’ll do it if I don’t have to copy you on my class emails.”
I can almost see her weighing the consequences of having a rogue class mom versus having no safety patrol organizer.
She nods, and her relief is obvious. “Deal. Thank you so much. Phew! You had me on the ropes there for a minute. But Nina said you’d probably do it.”
I just smile, take a sip of water, and mentally start drafting a hate text to Nina.
“And I can just get your class emails from someone else.” She shrugs and smiles.
I finish my lunch knowing full well that I have been bested. Well played, Sylvie Pike.
* * *
“And she expects me to make sure the parents all participate!”
Ron, Max, and I are on our way to Vivs’s place and I’m venting about my newest job. Luckily Max has his headphones on and is oblivious to my bitching.
“Did you use a coupon when you paid?” Ron asks me as my phone rings. It’s Nina, so I put her on speaker.
“Well, aren’t you just the gift that keeps on giving?” is how I greet her.
“Oh, stop. If I were there, you’d do it for me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I counter, but she’s probably right. “Jesus, safety patrol, really?”
“You’re doing a good thing. Marge DeJones is up in heaven smiling at you.”
“She’s not dead. She’s just retired. And if she’s smiling, it’s because she doesn’t have to do frickin’ safety patrol anymore.”
“Thanks a lot, Nina!” Ron yells toward my phone.
“Oh, you’re mad at me too?”
“Yes. We are a united front on this,” I answer for him.
“I told her she could have said no!” Ron booms.
“Stop yelling, babe. She can hear you.” The noise is getting to me for some reason. “How’s Chyna? How’s her new school?”
“Jury’s still out. It seems okay. She just made the volleyball team so I’m hoping she makes some friends from that.”
Chyna has always been one of those kids who do better with adults than with people their own age. She is an old soul and her vocabulary is insane. In middle school she had a really rough time. The boys were intimidated by her, and the girls threw her shade for showing off with her big words.
“Remind her to dumb it down and pretend she’s an idiot,” I advise Nina. “Nobody likes a smarty-pants.”
“Yes. Good advice. Thank you, O wise one,” says Nina’s disembodied voice.
“What’s up with Garth?”
“He’s okay. Working really hard. Middle-schoolers are such a pain in the ass. And these kids really don’t want to work out!”
“He’ll turn ’em around,” Ron assures her.
“I know he will. But getting there is going to be a bitch.”
We have pulled up to Vivs’s apartment complex, so I tell Nina we have to go.
“Miss you tons. Give Chyna and Garth hugs from us.”
“Miss you too. Let me know how safety patrol works out.”
“Thanks for reminding me why I’m mad at you!” I hit End and turn off the car, which makes Max’s movie stop.
“Hey! What the hell?”
“What the what?” I turn and glare at him.
Ron is stunned. “What did you say?”
Max looks at his lap. “What the heck,” he mumbles.
“We don’t talk like that, Max,” Ron admonishes him.
“Mom does.”
“Well, you’re not Mom.” Ron looks pointedly at me. We’ve had a few discussions about my language over the years, and I can tell we’re going to have another one later tonight.
“Let’s go, Max.” I wave him out of the minivan and lock it up.
* * *
“Mad Max! Whazzup, brotha?” Vivs says when she opens the door.
Max storms past her.
Vivs’s eyebrows go up, but I wave her off. She nods knowingly.
“Can we get this going? I really need to be out by six
thirty.”
I walk into Vivs’s apartment already knowing I’m not going to see anything new. She chose to live in a studio when she moved back here last year instead of coming home. She said she didn’t want to get too comfortable in KC because her main goal was to get back to New York as soon as possible. The weird thing is, I told her two months ago that my mother was going to be fine and we had it covered, but she still hasn’t left.
Her apartment is as minimalist as she is. Just a few pieces of furniture including a red leather sofa bed that I have never actually seen folded up as a sofa, a desk, and two not very comfortable chairs. The plain white walls sport black-and-white prints of famous New York City buildings. One of them is the photo of workers sitting on a crossbeam having lunch during construction of the RCA building. I get sick to my stomach every time I look at it, but I can’t seem to stop looking at it! It would definitely be something to talk to my shrink about if I had one.
“When was the last time you talked to her?” I ask Vivs as we gather around the laptop on her desk.
“Umm … it’s been a few weeks. You?”
“Longer than that. I text mostly.”
“Me too. Do we know where she is?”
“Last I heard they were in Luxembourg.”
Vivs smirks. “I heard the only reason they got booked in Europe at all is because someone thought the band’s name was Soccer Punch.”
Vivs has taken to insulting Sucker Punch every chance she gets. I’m not sure what her motivation is, but she comes up with some pretty funny stuff. Before I can tell her to put a sock in it, the computer rings and Laura pops up on the screen with her beautiful blond hair shaved to a buzz cut and a stud in her nose. Oh, God, here we go.
“Now you know how your mother felt,” Ron murmurs in my ear while the girls scream, “Hi!,” to each other. I ignore him.
Turns out I don’t have to be the bad guy, because Vivs gets right to it.
“What the hell did you do to your hair? It looks terrible.”
“Mom!” Laura whines.
“Okay, okay, let’s all settle down. We’ll talk about the hair in a minute. How are you, my girl? Where are you?”
“We’re in Paris. It’s so amazing here!”
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