“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but why start with a lie?” I laugh so he doesn’t know I’m not kidding.
“The kids’ new vests arrived, thank goodness.” Sylvie leads me toward the back of the gym. “Can you imagine those kids having to wear Marge’s old vest?” The visual is pretty comical. Let’s just say Marge is a roomy gal.
Mr. Green lets out an ear-piercing whistle to get the fifth-graders’ attention and we all converge on the utility room, which I guess now doubles as Safety Patrol Command Central. One counter has been cleared of sports bric-a-brac and now holds two bright orange vests neatly folded, two hand-held stop signs that look as though they’ve been smashed on the ground in frustration once or twice, and an old walkie-talkie sitting in an ancient charger. There is also an electric kettle and a basket full of Swiss Miss hot chocolate packets. Taped to the wall above the kettle is a schedule with what I’m guessing are the kids’ names plus a bunch of blank spaces for names of the parents who will supervise that day.
“Fifth grade, look sharp,” Mr. Green says with authority, and miraculously all chatter ceases immediately. I’m duly impressed.
He continues. “This is Mrs. Dixon. She will be here every day to make sure you get your vests on and get out to your post on time.”
I’ll do what now? Clearly no one has briefed the Up kid that my role is that of supervisor, not daily participant. I decide to set the record straight.
“Well, either I will be here, or another parent will. But we’re just going to keep watch. You guys have the real job.” I wonder how sincere I sound.
“Can you please introduce yourselves to Mrs. Dixon?”
No one comes forward, of course. No fifth-grader wants to be the first to do something as embarrassing as saying their name out loud.
Mr. Green sighs. “Aaron?”
A lanky boy with shoulder-length hair and braces raises his hand. “Yeah, hi, I’m Aaron.” He can barely look at me.
The boy beside him is half his size and his pants are too big for him. “I’m Jonah.” I’m reminded what a painfully awkward age this is for boys.
The dam having been effectively burst, they all take their turn introducing themselves. There are three boys, Carlo being the third, and seven girls including two Chloes (one with shockingly big boobs for an eleven-year-old), a Hanna, an Abby, a Keira, a Mia, and an Isabella. The girls all look at least five years older than the boys—even Aaron, who has the height—and act as though they are auditioning for America’s Next Top Model.
“Can we try the vests on?” one of the Chloes asks.
“Sure!” Sylvie Pike seems thrilled by the request. They all rush toward the counter at once and I think it’s going to be a bloodbath, but Mr. Green stops them in their tracks with two words: “Red light.”
They all freeze. I have got to get me some of what he has.
“One at a time. Alphabetical order by first name.”
“No fair!” says one of the girls … definitely not Abby.
While they try the vests on two at a time, Sylvie sidles over to me. “Want to try your vest on?”
“My vest? I get a vest? Is it pink?”
“Yes, and a walkie-talkie. It’s tuned to the security desk in the office, so you can call for help if you need it.”
If by “help” she means Stan the custodian, I’d be better off with one of the Chloes. In the four years I’ve been at William Taft, I don’t think I have ever seen Stan stand up.
Sylvie interrupts my thoughts by handing me a bright-orange vest that, let’s just say, has seen better days.
I scowl. “You’re kidding, right?” I reluctantly put it on and accidentally put my arm through a hole instead of the armhole not once but twice. Seriously, the vest looks like it went three rounds with Edward Scissorhands.
“It’s Marge’s old one. It’s just until we raise money for some new equipment. We need new stop signs, too. You can throw a bake sale if you like.”
Before I can even respond to that bombshell, Hanna (I think) approaches me and says, “Mrs. Dixon, you could totally wear an orange jacket underneath that and it would look okay.”
Sylvie and I both stare at her for a moment. She’s absolutely wrong about that, but she has the sweetest face and smile and I’m instantly charmed.
“Thanks, cutie. I’ll try it.” I smile back at her. For a moment I’m reminded of Vivs and Laura at that age … well, Laura, anyway. She was always so sweet.
“Shall we head out to the street?” Sylvie says to the general population and we all turn toward the rear gym door that leads to the parking lot and beyond. I take a last glance at Safety Patrol Command Central and see Hanna picking up the vests from the floor, folding them neatly, and putting them back on the shelf.
* * *
Out on the street, Marge DeJones’s granddaughter and her pink neon sweater have joined us. I have just learned that her name is Sherlay. Not Shirley, mind you, SherLAY. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to anyone that this is my new favorite name. I now have a Sherlay and a Shirleen in my life. Check another one off the bucket list!
“You’ve gotta be extra careful with the little ones,” Sherlay is explaining to the group. “They like to jump out before you put the sign up.”
While she continues her demonstration, I look out at the street and take stock of what’s around. As many times as I have driven through this intersection, I don’t think I have ever really noticed what’s here.
The corner of 12th and Hayward is relatively busy. It’s a four-way stop and sees quite a bit of action, especially around drop-off and pickup times. Across the street from the school, a small strip mall houses a 7-Eleven, Cathy’s Nail Salon, and the offices of someone named Dirk Burke, CPA. Diagonal from where I’m standing, there is a gas station, and across from that a small park with a bench.
I turn my attention back to Sherlay and the grown-up kid from Up. They seem to be having a very good time explaining to the kids what’s expected of them. As I understand it, there will be two children on duty every morning—one stationed on the park side of the intersection and the other by the gas station. They will stop the already stopping traffic by using their signs and their orange-clad bodies and help the best and brightest of KC cross the street and go on to another great day of learning at William Taft. How’s that for lipstick on a pig? In the afternoon they will be stationed on the corner nearest the school and do the whole thing in reverse.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Peetsa.
Where are you?
Crap! I totally forgot I was going to meet her for breakfast. I signal Sylvie, who is intently listening to Sherlay.
“Sorry, I have to scoot out early. Do we have a launch date for this yet?”
“October sixteenth.”
“Not until then?”
“Sherlay wants to do it while the weather is good. Are you sure you have to leave?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I double-booked myself by accident. Can you let me know if I miss anything?”
“You mean besides Sherlay flirting with Mr. Green?”
My eyes widen. I look over and she does indeed have a little pink in her cheeks and a smitten look on her face.
“She’d up her chances considerably if she lost the curlers,” I say as I text Peetsa, On my way.
I rush to the parking lot, jump into the minivan, and hightail it to Stu’s Diner, aka the place with the signs.
Peetsa is sitting in a booth with a cup of coffee in front of her, looking at her phone.
“Sorry! My safety patrol briefing went longer than I expected.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t order you anything. I wasn’t sure if you were still off caffeine.”
“Dumbest decision I ever made.” I sigh.
Steph, our waitress, calls across the room. “Coffee, hon?” I nearly burst into tears.
“Oh, for God’s sake just have some.” Peetsa sounds genuinely annoyed. “There isn’t a special place in heaven for people who don’t drink
coffee.”
It only takes me a moment to cave. I give her a grateful smile, and nod to Steph. She is over in a flash with one of their jumbo-sized mugs and the coffeepot. The scent of the rich dark brew makes my mouth water. Just one, I promise myself.
“What’ll it be, girls?” she asks and pours at the same time.
“Scrambled eggs and a toasted bagel,” Peetsa orders while I take my first sip of coffee in four months.
“Mmmm. I’m good for now, thanks.”
Steph nods and turns to go. “Two new signs if you can find them,” she tosses over her shoulder.
This is what I love about Stu’s. The walls are covered with hilarious signs from all over the country. I look around for the new ones but instead land on one of my recent favorites.
DRINKING AND DRIVING GO TOGETHER LIKE PEAS AND GUACAMOLE
“Have you found them yet?” I ask Peetsa, who is staring into her mug.
“Haven’t really looked.” She doesn’t look up.
Something is off.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing worth talking about.”
I frown. “Please don’t tell me it’s Buddy again.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
I take her hand across the table, but have to let go almost immediately as Steph slides in with the eggs and bagel. She also has the coffeepot so she refills us both and glides away but not before shooting me a WTF look.
Peetsa has settled into quiet sobs but is nowhere near finished crying. I take her hand again and give her a minute. I also take half her bagel, because seeing a sad friend makes me stress-eat.
About a year ago, Buddy made the colossally idiotic decision to cheat on Peetsa. I say “decision” but I’m not sure that’s really the correct term when your dick is doing the thinking.
For reasons unknown, when Buddy turned forty-five he dove headfirst into a midlife crisis. He amped up his workouts, bought some designer jeans, and started listening to EDM, which I now know stands for electronic dance music. At first, I thought Peetsa said he was listening to R.E.M. and I was like, “That’s not so bad.”
We were all enjoying the new and improved Buddy. He kept initiating these really fun outings to outdoor music festivals and cool restaurants and clubs, and his energy was infectious. He and P. seemed to be having a great time, as usual.
It was Ron who told me about Buddy’s newly roving eye. They had gone to a Royals game and imbibed a few too many. I guess Buddy was striking up a conversation with every pretty girl who walked by and making Saint Ron very uncomfortable.
Nothing happened that night, but not long after, Buddy took to “working late” and “meeting a pal for dinner” a little more often than Peetsa liked. She went snooping on his phone and found some pretty suggestive texts from someone named Zuzi. As a veteran of the flirty text myself, I told P. she probably shouldn’t worry, but to definitely ask him about it.
After feigning indignation at the invasion of privacy, Buddy ultimately caved and said he’d had a fling with Zuzi after meeting her at a rave. A rave????
P. was heartbroken, of course. They immediately went into couples counseling, hoping to iron things out. But instead of helping, it brought up a Pandora’s box of other issues in their marriage including money, in-laws, and a few of Buddy’s personal habits.
“I thought things were better.”
“They were better, but then in our therapy session yesterday he said he doesn’t think he can guarantee he won’t do it again. How’s that for a slap?”
“At least he’s being honest,” I offer.
“Oh, spare me.” Peetsa looks at me like I had suggested pardoning Hitler.
“I know, I know. He’s a jackass. I feel so bad for you.”
The untouched eggs and half-eaten bagel sit between us like some kind of metaphor for her marriage, half-finished and cold.
“So, what do you do now?”
She shakes her head as her eyes start to well up again. “What can I do?”
“Have you talked to a lawyer?”
She closes her eyes and rubs them. “I really don’t want to. How can I do this to the kids?”
“How can he do this to the kids. This isn’t you.” I look at my watch and Peetsa signals for the check. “Can you hang out and talk some more?” I ask her.
“Nah, I’ve got a bunch of errands to run and I have to pack up some things for Buddy.”
“Is he going somewhere?”
“He’s going to stay with a friend for a few weeks while we figure things out.”
“What friend?”
“Do you remember TJ Stern?”
I shrug.
“You met him at our tiki-torch barbecue this summer. He wore that really bright yellow Hawaiian shirt?”
I frown. “The guy with the scar under his eye?”
“That’s him. He and his wife got divorced about eighteen months ago, so Buddy is sleeping on his couch.”
“P., I’m so sorry. You so don’t deserve this.”
She huffs. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Maybe I do. You know we hadn’t had sex in almost a year.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” I really want to know.
“I just wasn’t into it. I couldn’t get excited about anything.”
“Did you try porn?” I ask helpfully just as Steph drops the check and treats me to a look that says Hell yeah, I love me some porn.
Peetsa bursts out laughing. It’s nice to hear. “Oh my God, only you. No, I didn’t try porn. I didn’t try anything. I just kept saying no and finally Buddy stopped asking.”
She looks at me sheepishly. P. knows my philosophy. I think the key to a happy marriage is sex at least twice a week whether you want it or not, to keep yourselves connected. This goes for both men and women. It’s not a popular opinion among the liberated, #metoo women in my life—especially my daughters—but I stand by it.
“I’ll get this.” I grab the check and leave a generous tip for Steph, knowing full well I’ll have to report the extra spending to Ebenezer Ron.
Out in the parking lot we hug goodbye. “Hang in there, girlie. Call me if you need anything.”
Peetsa gives me an extra squeeze. “Thanks. There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Can I get out of doing safety patrol?”
This time I’m the one to crack up.
* * *
As I’m driving up College Boulevard, I realize that I’m very close to Vivs’s Jenny Craig branch, so I decide to drop in. I’m not sure what kind of reception I will get. She’s still playing hard to get via text, but I figure a face-to-face will help. I pull into the strip mall and park right next to her old blue VW Jetta. It was secondhand when we gave it to her in high school, but she has taken excellent care of it.
Jenny Craig is bustling with activity and I realize I have come during a weigh-in. Since I know Vivs will be busy, I take a seat and check my emails while I wait for the crowd to thin … pun intended. I’m buzzing from the much-missed caffeine that is coursing through my system and I need to keep busy.
I don’t see any responses from my curriculum-night email and I’m about to start mentally cursing out my class when I remember that we are using SignUpGenius. Chances are I won’t hear from anyone unless Shirleen has an issue. I make a mental note to check out the so-called Genius later and see how it’s going. I notice quite a few more emails about safety patrol. I have been getting a steady stream for the last few days. Reaction is mixed.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: TMilton
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/24
Dear Jen,
What an absolutely great idea to have the students take over safety patrol duties. Bravo! Well done! I’d really love to participate but I don’t generally like to do any outdoor activities unless I have to.
But good luck with it!
Tammy Milton, Chloe’s mother
* * *
Can standing
on a corner be considered an outdoor activity?
* * *
To: JDixon
From: PJackson
Re: Safety Patrol
Date: 9/24
Jen,
I’m Pam Jackson and I’m happy to help. So would my husband but he’s in a wheelchair. So just me I guess.
Thanks,
Pam
* * *
“Mom?” Vivs’s voice startles me out of my email stupor. I notice the room is almost empty.
“What are you doing here?” She’s standing behind the counter and I can’t help but notice how great she looks … really healthy.
“I just thought I’d stop in to say hi.”
“Hi.”
“Are you busy?”
“I have a lot of paperwork to do.”
“Why are you being so snippy?”
She scowls. “I’m not. I’m busy.”
I look around at the now empty office. “I’ll only stay a few minutes.”
She sighs loudly and gestures for me to follow her back to an area with about six cubicles. She pulls a chair from one of them into hers, so I can sit down. It is sparsely decorated, but on her desk is a picture of our family in my parents’ backyard from a few years ago, and pinned to the fabric wall is one of her and Raj at the Empire State Building.
Realizing I’ll get more with honey than vinegar, I start with a compliment. “You look great, sweetie.” She really does seem to have an extra spring in her step.
“Thanks. I’ve been doing this boxing class at Fusion Fitness. It’s kicking my ass, but I love it.”
I give her an admiring nod. “It’s really working for you. Hey, we haven’t had a chance to talk about the Laura-and-Jeen thing. Pretty crazy, right?”
“I wasn’t surprised.” She leans back in her chair. “I always thought there was something there.”
“I just hope Travis is okay.”
Vivs rolls her eyes. “You always worry about the guy. He’ll be fine. He was such a baby. He used to sleep half the day away and he made Laura do all his errands. It really bugged me.”
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