You've Been Volunteered

by Laurie Gelman

  I looked at Ron, thinking he and I would have a laugh over my almost-kiss with Suchafox a few years ago, but to my great surprise, he took a sip and so did Janine.

  “Who have you been kissing?” I was only half kidding.

  “When I was married to Cindy,” he drawled. Oh, I knew that.

  “Your turn, Ron.” Janine nudged him. He leaned forward dramatically and looked directly at me.

  “Never have I ever … farted and blamed my kid.”

  There was a moment of silence then Rolly and I both took a drink.

  “I knew it!” Ron slapped the table and we all had a rollicking drunken laugh over a fart joke. It was a great night.

  “I should call Janine and see when she wants to spin.”

  Ron pushes his chair back from his desk and pats his lap. “Come sit. What are you doing here?”

  “Just killing some time before I have to pick up my dad from his Kiwanis meeting.” I snuggle into his lap and put my arms around him. I’m reminded of the early months of our relationship, when I’d stop by for a quickie on my lunch break.

  Ever since Ron pressed Go on franchising, he has been working even longer hours. Thankfully, he’s able to do a lot of it at home, so at least he can have dinner with Max and me. But then he goes into the room once known as our dining room, which now looks like Office Depot threw up in it, and is on his laptop for a good three more hours. I miss my TV partner in crime. I’m like three seasons ahead of him on Breaking Bad.

  “It’ll be nice to see them. I just hope my liver can survive it.”

  “I didn’t know someone was strapping you down and making you drink.” Ron tickles me.

  “Have you moved forward on asking Rolly to invest in the expansion?”

  “Not yet. Still priming the pump.”

  “So, where do you want to go for dinner?”

  “I was thinking about that steak-and-seafood place you love.”

  “Bristol? Really? I didn’t know they gave out coupons.”

  “Very funny. I never used that gift card my staff gave me last Christmas.”

  “I forgot about that. Okay, good. I’ll make a reservation. Hey, can you slip out now and grab a bite with me?”

  “It’ll have to be drive-through. I’m pretty swamped.”

  “Taco Bell it is.”

  * * *

  I’m still munching on my cinnamon twists when I pull into the Kiwanis parking lot again. Inside my dad is sitting on a bench with his two best friends, whom I still call Mr. Collins and Mr. Arrucci. I put on my best daughter face and brace myself for the “My, hasn’t she grown up?” comments from these men, who have known me since birth. I’m almost fifty-one, but they always make me feel like a kid again. I kind of like it.

  “How was lunch?” I kiss my dad on the cheek.

  “Fine. I thought your mother was picking me up.”

  “Nope. I dropped you off, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  We leave Dad’s friends to a chorus of “Drive carefully!” and hold on to each other for warmth as we walk to the minivan.

  I take my time driving my dad home. When he gets out he says, “Thanks for lunch!” I don’t bother correcting him. I make a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts for some hot chocolate before pick up, where I unfortunately encounter one Alison Lody arguing with the girl behind the counter about whether or not she used nonfat milk in her latte. Spreading her joy as usual, I see. I want to tell her a little fat won’t kill her, but instead I back out of the shop and decide I’ll pick up a Swiss Miss at Command Central.

  Chloe and Carlo are bundled up and trudging to their post when I pull into the parking lot.

  “Are you guys all set?” I ask them from the comfort of my warm car.

  They reply “Yeah” in unison and without much enthusiasm. Christmas Angel, who is right behind them, seems even less happy, if that’s possible. On days like this the bloom is most definitely off the safety patrol rose, not that it was ever on.

  I zip my coat higher, pull on my hood, and tell myself to butch up. I’m from Kansas, for God’s sake. I beeline it into the school, because I want to go over the plans for the school trip with Razzi.

  In room 402 I see the kids getting their coats on and lining up at the door. As they file out I grab Max and tell him to wait in the hall for me.

  “Hi, Winnie, do you have a minute to talk about the trip?”

  She looks up at me. Between the fishing hat and the dirty glasses she looks a bit like a crazy bag lady.

  “The trip? Oh, the trip! Yes. Sorry. You say trip and I think ‘Bahamas!’ Did you call and set it up?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?”

  “Well, yes. I sent you that email about it.”

  “The email only told me it was happening, not that I needed to set it up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure. I’m happy to do it, I just didn’t know.”

  “Well, okay then.”

  I pause, unsure of what has just been decided.

  “Okay, meaning you want me to take care of it?”

  “Yes, Jen, please do.” She turns and starts writing on the chalkboard.

  “Okay then, I will.” I don’t know what to do next, so I say goodbye and head downstairs to the parking lot with Max dragging his feet behind me. When we get in the car I start it up and immediately whip out my phone to find Winnie’s email about the trip, just to confirm that she hadn’t asked me to set it up. She hadn’t. Great. Another person in my life is losing their mind.

  “Sweetie, how was school?”

  “Good.”

  “What did Draper bring today?” This question is now on the daily roster because the answer is always entertaining.

  “A shark tooth. Bor-ing.”

  Wow, a rare miss for Draper.

  We ride in silence for a few minutes while I decide how to ask this next question.

  “Hey, does Mrs. Randazzo forget things sometimes?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, anything.”

  He thinks for a minute.

  “She couldn’t find any staples one day.”

  “Huh.”

  We ride the rest of the way home in silence while I try to figure out if Razzi’s losing it, or I am.

  11

  * * *

  To: Mrs. Randazzo’s Class

  From: JDixon

  Re: Sweets and Treats after the concert

  Date: 12/14

  TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF “LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW”

  Oh, the Christmas party’s in a blinky

  And we’ll need some food and drinky

  But since it won’t get itself here

  Volunteer, volunteer, volunteer!

  We’ll be meeting in 4-0-2

  When the concert songs are through

  And since it’s that time of year

  Volunteer, volunteer, volunteer!

  We’ll need bagels and cream cheese too

  Water, juice, coffee, and Yoo-hoo

  Donuts, muffins, and lots of fruit

  But nothing that will make the kids toot!

  Oh, the children will surely be happy

  And Razzi’s feet will be a-tappy

  But only if you all adhere

  And volunteer, volunteer, volunteer!

  December 21st, people. Let’s get the lead out. I want this off my plate. Response times will be noted.

  Jen

  * * *

  I look at my song parody and wrinkle my nose. Not my best work, but I’m crushed for time. I’m off to the Shawnee Indian Mission with my two besties, Shirleen Cobb and Alison Lody. I have not spoken to Alison since the stop-sign incident. I saw Draper the next day at pickup and he was sporting an impressive black eye. Max said he was fine in school and still reigned over the secret club meeting at recess, where he showed everyone his latest treasure, a pair of very strong reading glasses.

  “When I put them on they made me sick to my stomac
h!” Max raved.

  I’m not sure what kind of reception I’m going to get today from the lovely Alison, but I’m hoping for the best.

  I pull into the school parking lot and see the kids are just starting to board the school bus. I park and rush over to see Winnie Randazzo bundled up and counting heads.

  “I’m here,” I announce.

  “Oh, good.” Winnie gives me a smile. She has swapped out her trademark pink fishing hat for a woolen one with a huge pompom on top. “The other two moms are on the bus already.” She leans in close and whispers, “I don’t think they like each other very much.”

  I grimace and climb the steps of the bus after the last two have boarded. Razzi is right behind me. The kids are as loud and rambunctious as you’d expect them to be, what with the thrill of getting out of the classroom and actually going somewhere. Even the most boring museum trip is met with as much excitement as Disneyland … at least until they get there.

  I notice Max sitting with Mike T. in the third row, so when I pass by, I lean down to kiss his head.

  “Mom! Stop.” He bats me away like an annoying fly.

  “Can I sit with you guys?”

  Mike T. wisely says nothing, but Max is happy to inform me that parents sit at the back of the bus.

  I’m tempted to force him to scoot over, but Razzi is waiting for me to move so I ruffle his hair as I walk toward my designated area. I see Shirleen and Alison sitting in separate rows and looking at their phones.

  “Hi, girls! Thanks for coming today.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t miss it,” Shirleen chirps. “I always like to reconnect with my roots.” Her coat is undone, and I see she is sporting a colorful beaded vest. I guess I should be thankful she didn’t come in a full feather headdress.

  I look at Alison, who hasn’t looked up from her phone. I decide to sit beside her and let Razzi take the seat next to Shirleen.

  “Let’s keep the noise down to a dull roar!” she yells at the class. As the bus lurches onto the street, she turns to us.

  “Now ladies, when we get there we are going to be touring just the north building and learning the techniques for basket weaving and beadwork that have been passed down through the generations.”

  Shirleen proudly rubs her vest and nods.

  “After an hour, we will hand out a snack and then get the kids back on the bus.”

  “That’s it?” Shirleen says, a bit too loudly. Alison finally looks up from her phone and rolls her eyes.

  “What were you expecting? Smoke signals and a scalping demonstration?”

  Whoa! Even I can see the inappropriate in that little comment.

  “Well, obviously not,” Shirleen snaps back. “And I certainly wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Mrs. Randazzo.”

  Razzi seems fascinated by this exchange and is in no hurry to stop it, so I jump into the unfamiliar role of Voice of Reason. “Guys, the kids can hear you.”

  This shuts everyone up for a good ten minutes, until I say to Alison, “I’m sorry again about Draper’s nose.”

  “It’s fine.” She sighs.

  “Your daughter is a real sweetheart. I love having her in safety patrol.”

  She just nods and looks straight ahead. I’m finding this conversation very unsatisfying. Why am I sucking up to this woman? I take out my phone and play Words with Friends until we get to the Mission.

  Inside, the kids are separated into two groups. Razzi and Shirleen go with the basket weavers and Alison and I with the beaders. We are directed to stand against the wall and observe. They have set up stations for the kids to try their hand at this ancient Indian craft. Just as I’m thinking this is going to be the longest hour of my life, Alison leans over and whispers, “Thank God I’m with you and not her.” I can only assume she’s talking about Shirleen.

  “She’s not that bad once you get to know her.” I know better than anyone that Shirleen is an acquired taste.

  “She’s trying to blame Draper for her son not having any friends.”

  What happens next can be filed under “When will I ever learn?”

  “Well, it may have something to do with the club.”

  “What club?”

  Wishing I could jump in a time machine and go back thirty seconds, I reluctantly answer her. “Um, the secret club that Draper started for boys in the class.”

  Her look tells me she has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “They meet at recess and Draper always brings in something to show everyone.”

  “He does?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Like what?”

  I shrug. “All different things—deodorant, a cockroach preserved in amber, a skeleton hand, and something he said was to stop a bloody nose, but from Max’s description I think it was a tampon.”

  “What are you even talking about? Who told you this?”

  “Max.” I shrug.

  “Are you sure he isn’t making it up?”

  Hey, slow your roll, lady. My son is many things, but not a liar.

  “Trust me, he doesn’t have that good an imagination.”

  Alison’s expression is one of silent fury.

  “Why didn’t the teacher tell me about it?” she demands.

  “I don’t think she knows.”

  “Oh, isn’t that convenient.” She is keeping her voice low, but her irritation level has skyrocketed. “What is it with you people? We are new. We just started at this school. I’ve never felt so unwelcome, and now my son is being blamed for some club and a boy not having friends? We had a play date with that kid, by the way, but he didn’t want to do anything. He barely said a word.”

  “Well, Max told me Draper excluded him from the club.” I figure I may as well just wade all the way into the shit show.

  “I really don’t want to hear any more.” Alison turns and walks over to Razzi, says a few words, then walks out. Wow. I thought I’d seen everything, but a parent walking out on a field trip is definitely uncharted waters.

  Razzi gives me a curious look, but I just shrug and pretend to watch the beading demonstration. I’m so preoccupied that I barely notice the two groups switching places and before I know it we are handing out cheese and grapes courtesy of an obviously very conscientious snack mom. I’m guessing it’s Asami’s week.

  “Why did she leave?” Shirleen asks me on the bus ride home.

  “No idea.”

  “She told me she wasn’t feeling well,” Razzi informs us. I’m relieved Alison didn’t tell her the truth.

  “Winnie, do you know about the boys’ secret club in your classroom?”

  “It wouldn’t be a secret if I knew about it, would it?”

  She winks at me.

  I’m confused. “So … you do know?”

  “Of course I do. They all huddle together at recess.”

  Shirleen sniffs. “Everyone except Graydon.”

  “Really? He didn’t want to join?”

  “That Draper kid wouldn’t let him!”

  Razzi looks skeptical, so I tell her that Max told me the same thing.

  “Well, I’ll handle that,” she assures us.

  “I’m surprised you let the boys form a club.”

  “Oh, it’s typical behavior for third-graders.” She waves me off. “They all love to be in a club. The girls have them, too. But they aren’t allowed to exclude anyone. I’ll have a talk with Draper.”

  I glance at Shirleen to see if this has mollified her. It’s hard to tell.

  12

  * * *

  To: Mrs. Randazzo’s Class

  From: JDixon

  Re: Holiday Party Goodies

  Date: 12/17

  Hello, Superstars!

  Thank you, one and all, for heeding the call so speedily. I knew you had it in you! The best response time came courtesy of Ali Burgess, who got back to me one minute and fifty-four seconds after I sent the email. It was just the lift I needed in an otherwise bleak day. Merry Christmas to me!

  Here’s the list. And remember, if
you don’t see your name, don’t panic! There is always next time.

  Burgess—Yoo-hoo

  Chang—mini bagels

  Adams—cream cheese

  Baton—water

  Alexander—donuts

  Dixon—coffee and tea

  Wolff—juice

  Kaplan—fruit

  Zalis—muffins

  Remember, December 21st in the classroom after what I’m sure will be a rip-roaring concert of timeless Christmas melodies.

  At the party, we will be giving Razzi her mug, which is very big and very colorful. I won’t burden you with details of my afternoon in the classroom getting the kids to decorate it. I’ll just say I have a much better understanding of why people take drugs.

  Stay real,

  Jen

  * * *

  I look at the clock and see I have about an hour to get myself all dolled up for dinner at Bristol with Rolly and Janine. And by dolled up, I mean take a shower and possibly put on some lipstick. Mommy’s going out tonight!

  After showering I do something that is not for the faint of heart. I take a good look at myself naked in the mirror. To quote the great actress Bette Davis, this aging thing “ain’t for sissies.” I felt pretty good when I turned fifty, but every month since then has seen a slow decline into flabbiness. Regardless of how much time I spend spinning and running and hitting the bag in my basement, I can’t lose the layer of fat that surrounds my middle area and my thighs. Not to mention the general looseness of skin around my arms, legs, and neck. Time does indeed march on.

  I quickly grab for my robe when I hear Ron’s footsteps on the stairs. He hasn’t seen me naked in the light for about two years, and I’d like to keep the illusion of youth that clothing provides me just a little bit longer.

  While I’m putting on some makeup, Ron dashes in, rips off his clothes, right in front of me, and jumps in the shower. It must be so nice to have no body shame.

  He starts singing “Bohemian Rhapsody,” his go-to shower song, and before you can say “Scaramouche Scaramouche,” he’s out and toweled off.