You've Been Volunteered
Page 5
“Hey, how was your meeting?”
“Really good. Their stuff is perfect for us. Simple but edgy.”
“That’s great! I just wanted to let you know I got a call from Max’s teacher and I have to pick him up from the classroom after school.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I always forget this is Ron’s first trip to the rodeo.
“Well, it’s not usually good, but I’m hoping for the best.”
“Want me to come?”
“No. I’ll handle it. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Okay. Well, thanks. It’s always nice to have something else to worry about.”
“Why should I have all the fun? Hey, are you home for dinner tonight?”
“Definitely.”
“Woo-hoo! I’ll attempt to make something really good.”
“Oh, don’t go changing just for me.”
“You like canned asparagus, right?”
“Ha ha.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
As I hang up, my phone rings immediately. It’s my mother, of course.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I’m on my way, sweetheart! Where did you say you were, again?”
* * *
Kay picks me up in her new blue Hyundai Santa Fe—a gift from my father when she finished her chemo. When I open the car door, she is blasting the soundtrack from Hamilton and singing along to “My Shot.”
“Hi!” I yell, and she turns the music down.
“Hi, sweetheart. Sorry I kept you waiting.”
“That’s okay. Sorry I dragged you out of the house.”
“It actually worked out well. I have to go to the grocery store anyway. Gilda rang the bell last week and we’re having a celebration dinner for her.”
The depth of my mother’s kindness always amazes me. She has kept in touch with every person she met while she went through chemo and every time someone rings the bell, she has a little party for them.
“I don’t remember Gilda.”
“You probably didn’t meet her.” Kay shoulder checks and pulls into the traffic flow. “She came after I left, but I met her when I was taking Claire Hewitt for her treatments a few weeks ago. She wears the most stylish scarves on her head.”
“You’re so good, Mom,” I tell her. Nina’s words from earlier start playing in my head: You know who might have a thing or two to say about this.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What was it like for you when I was in Europe?”
I can tell she’s surprised by the question.
“What was it like? It was hell.”
“No, really.”
“Yes, really! Your father and I were worried sick about you.”
“You never said anything!”
“What could I say? You were a grown woman.”
“No, I wasn’t, I was barely twenty-two!”
“Is this about Laura?”
I don’t say anything, so she continues.
“I know your generation has trouble cutting the apron strings, sweetheart, but back then, twenty-two was all grown up. We worried about you, sure, but we’d already raised you. Our job was done. We knew we’d brought up a strong, smart girl. And you did too. You did a great job with both your girls.”
I correct her: “We did a great job.”
She nods. “It’s okay to worry, but try not to drive yourself nuts.”
She’s right, of course. I need to let both my daughters live their own lives and make their own mistakes. Definitely something to work on … along with my swearing and my pessimism. Shit, I’ll never get to all that.
I look over at Kay and study her profile. The chemo definitely took its toll. Her hair has grown in a few inches, but it is very brittle, where before it was silky. She is much thinner than she was pre-cancer, and that weight loss shows in her face. Her pale skin is sagging around her jawline and her eyes have sunk into her skull. I choke up a bit as I realize that youthful seventy-five-year-old Kay Howard is no more. She is still energetic for her age, but my mom is getting old. Both my parents are. I promise myself to spend more time with them.
“Why are you looking at me? Did I grow a second nose?” she asks.
“Nope. Just thinking how beautiful you are inside and out.”
Her eyes cut to me for a second and she frowns. “Have you been drinking?”
* * *
After my mom drops me off, I have about an hour before school pickup. So, I shower off the sweat I never built up, don the mom uniform, and grab a quick yogurt from the fridge. While I’m scarfing it down, I fire up the iMac at the kitchen-counter office and check my emails again.
Yes! Replies from many of the parents in Max’s class fill my inbox.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: RBrown
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/10
Hi Jen,
This is the funniest email yet! I love your sense of humor so much.
Did you send one for curriculum night? I want to bring something.
See you later,
Ravi xo
* * *
I frown at the computer. I know Ravi hasn’t always understood my sense of humor, but the email I sent was pretty humor free.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: AChang
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/10
Jennifer,
I’m going to go ahead and assume this is another one of your weird jokes. If it is, it’s a good one.
Have you heard from Laura? Any idea how Jeen is doing? His mother hasn’t heard from him in a while.
Asami
* * *
Clearly Asami has not heard the breaking news about Jeen and Laura. Can’t wait to see her at pickup and ruin her day. It will be fun to watch her try to hide her reaction, which I’m sure will be pure horror.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: ALody
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/10
Jen,
Isn’t there some woman who does the safety patrol? Will this put her out of a job? I need further explanation, please.
Thank you,
Alison
* * *
I’m super looking forward to meeting this woman face-to-face. If it happens to be on the same day as my bikini wax and mammogram, it will be as close as one gets to a perfect day.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: JJAikins
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/10
Hi,
Are you doing this *and* being class mom? Wow. Any idea what the plans are for curriculum night? And we never got a chance to catch up! Let’s make a date.
JJ xo
* * *
Yes, I’ve got to put that on my to-do list.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: ABurgess
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/10
Hey there, Supermom! Is there anything you don’t do? Don and I were both safety patrollers in grade school. This is going to be fun.
Anything we can bring for curriculum night?
So glad you are class mom again!
Love,
Ali
* * *
Argh! I have got to get that damn curriculum-night email out. It’s only a few weeks away. I’m glad to see that Ali took Don Burgess’s (he’s such a fox!) name. My high school crush and his wonderful baby-mama finally got married last spring after what I heard was a lot of begging and promising on Don’s part. Believe it or not, Ron and I were invited to the wedding, and it wasn’t at all difficult to see Suchafox commit to love another woman for the rest of his life. That was just dust in my eyes.
I have to leave to get Max, so I grab my key fob and jump in the minivan. The clock on the dashboard tells me I will have to break a few laws to get myself to school on time.
As I’m pulling onto Hay
ward Avenue, I wave to Marge DeJones’s granddaughter, who is already ushering kids across the street. Shit. I really am late. So much for ruining Asami’s day with the Laura-and-Jeen news.
I park, dash past a bunch of moms while chanting, “I’m late I’m late I’m late,” and make my way to room 402 on the second floor of William H. Taft Elementary.
Razzi is sitting at her desk and Max is in a chair directly across from her. The classroom is cheerful but practical. All the bulletin boards have either colorful maps, lists of rules, or work from the students. The desks are in straight rows all facing the front. Razzi is definitely old-school.
“Hi.”
“Mommy!” Max jumps up and races to me.
“Hey, kiddo.” I hug him.
“Hi, Jen. So good to see you.” Razzi gives me a big smile and walks toward me.
“You too, Winnie.” I hug her. “How is George?” Her husband teaches economics at Johnson County Community College.
“He’s great. Retiring at the end of this year, if you can believe it.”
“Are you thinking about joining him?” Not for nothing, but Razzi’s been around since the Nixon administration.
“I’m thinking about it. I’m just worried George and I will wind up driving each other crazy.”
I laugh. Max seems mystified by this whole exchange. Yes, teachers are people, too, I want to say to him.
“So, what’s up?” I direct the question to Max. He shrugs. Razzi raises an eyebrow in his direction.
“Max, do you want to show your mother?”
He shrugs.
“They were playing tag football today and Max got a touchdown.”
“You did?” He nods. I’m a little shocked. Max is decidedly not the athletic kind. “Did you hurt someone?”
“No.”
I look to his teacher for clarification.
“Would you please show your mother what you did after you made the touchdown?”
Max proceeds to shake his hips side to side. He can’t keep a grin from creeping onto his face. Once again, I look to Razzi for clarity.
“Come on, Max, do what you did today. It was so fun!”
Needing no more encouragement, he jumps up and down once then starts doing hard pelvic thrusts and moving his arms. He looks like a member of a boy band trying to make his audience of adolescent girls go wild with desire.
Mrs. Randazzo claps her hands and laughs. I give her a curious smile. I mean, it’s cute, but kind of inappropriate for an eight-year-old. I look at my son who has a big grin on his face.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I’m genuinely curious.
“I saw it on Nickelodeon.”
Of course, he did. “Okay, well…” I look at Razzi, because I’m really not sure why I’m here.
“I just wanted you to see how creative and free-spirited Max is at school! Maybe you should sign him up for dance lessons.”
At this suggestion all traces of a smile leave Max’s face. I think I’m on to Razzi’s game.
“Well, we’ll definitely look into it,” I tell her.
“I just think all that creative physical energy might need an outlet a little more suitable than school.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Ready to go, buddy?” I ask my suddenly sullen son.
“Yeah.” He grabs his backpack and beelines it to the door. I look back as I follow him out, and Razzi gives me an almost imperceptible smirk.
5
* * *
To: Ms. Randazzo’s Class
From: JDixon
Re: Taking Care of (Curriculum Night) Business
Date: 9/24
Hey, Party People!
Hope the first couple of weeks have been tolerable. I don’t know about you, but I’m finding the third-grade homework a bit challenging. Did anyone else have to go look up what an estuary is?
On the bright side, in only a few weeks that Fyre Festival known as curriculum night will be upon us. What? You want to see who isn’t aging well? Who’s still married? Who’s barely tolerating my emails? Well then, to quote Bette Davis as Margo Channing in All About Eve, “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”
Normally I would leave a list of things we will need, and have you email me what you want to bring. However, I hear tell we are using some newfangled techno thingamajig called SignUpGenius. So, if you click on the link below, it will take you to a magical place where you can sign up and I don’t have to assign things. Not sure how you guys feel about this, but I’m delighted!
See you at 6 p.m. sharp on October 11th in room 402, aka Ms. Randazzo’s class.
Jen
http://www.signupgenius.com/go/30e0f4fa4a82ba2fd0-randazzo
PS They wouldn’t let me include wine on the sign-up sheet, so I’ll take it upon myself to bring many, many bottles. Cheers!
PPS I can still check response times on this sign-up thing so don’t get lazy.
* * *
* * *
“Bam,” I say as I hit Send. Done. Glad I got that monkey off my back. Today I’ve decided to be superefficient and resolve all unfinished business, kind of like Michael Corleone does at the end of The Godfather, but with less bloodshed … maybe.
I glance at the clock. It says 8:15. “Max, are you ready?” I yell toward the stairs.
He comes loping down, wearing his school uniform, a windbreaker, and his favorite baseball cap with the Fitting Room logo on it. Gone are the days of Max the fancy dresser. He started to tone down his style late last year and now he looks like every other eight-year-old boy. He won’t admit it, but I think peer pressure played a big part in the decision.
“Looking good. Do you have your homework in your bag?”
“Mom, for the gajillionth time yes!” He heads toward the back door.
“Okay, sorry! I just don’t want to get another emergency ‘I forgot my … whatever’ call.”
Max has been in a mood ever since the touchdown dance incident. I made him reenact it for Ron, who played along about the dance lessons until Max promised to keep his moves to himself. We then had a discussion about inappropriate gestures and why football players and pop stars are allowed to do them, but eight-year-old boys are not.
“I can’t wait till I’m nine” seemed to be Max’s takeaway from the talk.
I follow him out the back door and into the minivan. Mid-September and there’s a little nip in the air, so I turn up the heat after I turn the ignition. Max immediately reaches for his earphones in the middle console, but I wave him off with a look. He slams his body back into his seat and does up his seat belt.
“So, who are you hanging with at school?” I try my hand at conversation as we get on our way.
“Draper.”
I knit my brow. “Who’s that?”
Max shrugs. “Draper Lody. He’s new. He’s really cool.”
Lody, right. The lovely Alison’s son.
“What makes him so cool?”
Max shrugs again. “He brings cool stuff to school sometimes.”
“Like what?”
Max kicks the seat in front of him and sighs. “I don’t know. Just cool stuff.”
“What did he bring yesterday?”
“I don’t remember. Oh wait, it was this thing called Mennen Speed Stick.”
That’s cool? I think but do not say.
“He brought deodorant to school? What did he do with it?”
I see Max blush a deep red in my rearview mirror. “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret. Just for guys.”
I frown. “Did he put it on his underarms?”
Max cackles. “Nope. Not even close.”
While I’m trying to crack the mystery of what Draper Lody does with his Mennen Speed Stick, I see Marge DeJones’s granddaughter at her post. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, but it’s hard to tell with the curlers in her blond hair. She is sporting a very eye-catching neon pink sweater under her safety vest. I wave as I drive by and she gives me a smile. She is surprisingly pale for so
meone who works outside twice a day. I turn into the school parking lot and Max jumps out practically before the van has stopped.
“Hey! Be careful!”
“Bye, Mom!” he yells.
“Bye!” I yell back. I choose to believe that he has forgotten that I am actually staying at school today. I have my first meeting with my safety patrollers. We are gathering in the gym at 8:30 with Sylvie Pike and one of the fifth-grade teachers. Apparently, we are going to “walk the route” from the school to the sidewalk and alert them to any dangers they may encounter.
As I head toward the gym, I call Ron. “Can I ask you a question as a guy?”
“I’m flattered.”
“Where would you put deodorant, other than your underarms?”
Ron laughs. “Do I want to know why you’re asking me?”
“Probably not. But seriously, where?”
“Umm … Well, I’m not proud of this, but I used to put it on my balls.”
I freeze midstride. I don’t know what to react to first: the fact that the man I married put deodorant on his balls or the possibility that this is what Max was talking about.
“Hello?”
“I’ll call you later.” I hang up to the sound of my husband’s laughter.
When I walk into the gym, wishing like hell for a venti latte, I see I’m the last to arrive. Why is everyone always early? About ten kids are running around the gym chasing each other, making the noise of a hundred, and Sylvie Pike is standing talking to Mr. Green, one of the fifth-grade homeroom teachers. He always reminds me of the little kid from the movie Up, but all grown up. He is famously known as the most popular teacher at William Taft, probably because he is so cute and single. I walk over to join them.
“Am I late?”
“Hey, Jen. Not at all. Do you know Scott Green?”
“Only by reputation. Jen Dixon.” I smile and shake his hand.
“None of it’s true.” He smiles back. “Thank you so much for taking this on.”