“When is it?”
“Last weekend in May.”
She only takes a moment to say, “I’d really like that. What do I have to do?”
I explain to her about signing up as a Holy Roller and pledging to raise $500.
“I know it’s a lot of money, but—”
“Not a problem. My ex-husband will be happy to help.” She smiles for the first time since I’ve known her.
“This is good,” I say and as though we have just made some sort of pact, we shake hands.
I look around the table and see everyone is winding down even though it’s only 8:30. That’s what happens when you go early to Ladies’ Night.
“Should we ask for the check?” Sylvie Pike reads my mind.
We all nod or shrug.
“I took the liberty of asking for separate checks.” Jeez, this woman is on top of things. Our man-candy Brandon is busy charming a table of twentysomethings, so she asks a passing busboy to tell him.
With my coupon and the fact that I only imbibed between six and seven when drinks were free, my total is a whopping $5.80. Wow. I really am a cheap date. I pay with cash and leave a very generous tip for our waiter, hoping to make up for the earlier harassment he had to endure.
* * *
I have dropped a very tipsy Peetsa off at her house and am driving her Jeep to mine after promising to return it in the morning. I’m worried about her, and not just because she’s going to have a world-class hangover tomorrow. Separating from Buddy has really taken the wind out of her sails. I feel like it’s going to be a while before she is ready to get back out there despite her Whore of Babylon shtick tonight.
Thinking back on the evening, I’m actually glad we ended up as a big group, and I chastise myself for always jumping to the negative before I give something a chance. It’s clearly a pattern in my life that needs to be broken, but it won’t be easy. I’m sorry, but sometimes the cup is half empty and there is no other way of looking at it.
I’ll keep working on this, but first I need to go home and give Ron a tour of the house.
16
* * *
To: Safety Patrol Patrollers
From: JDixon
Re: Bake Sale Tomorrow
Date: 01/20
Hello, my little Betty Crockers!
Just a reminder that all bake sale goodies should be dropped off at the back of the gym near Safety Patrol Command Central by noon tomorrow. We should be able to raise a good amount of money as long as the coaches and custodians don’t get to them first.
And for goodness’ sake, send your kids with money! There will be no more students signing bake sale IOUs that never get repaid. That insanity stops now.
As always,
Jen
* * *
I send the email from my kitchen-counter office and head to turn off the timer. A second batch of cupcakes is coming out of the oven and I’m almost done frosting the first.
I’m going with monkey-face cupcakes for my bake sale offering. They are a perennial crowd-pleaser because they both look and taste delicious. But man, are they a pain in the ass to make. You need two different shades of chocolate frosting, a really good piping bag, and M&Ms Minis and Junior Mints for the eyes and ears.
“Is this what you wanted?” Ron asks as he jogs up the stairs from the basement. He is carrying a very large glass jar that once held 5,677 jelly beans and yes, I know that for a fact because I counted every damn one of them when Vivs’s senior class tried to raise money for prom with a “Guess How Many Jelly Beans in the Jar” contest.
“Perfect. I knew we had it somewhere.” I place it in the sink and fill it with hot soapy water.
“What do you need it for?” Ron dips his finger into the frosting and is rewarded with a slap on his hand.
“It’s for the bake sale,” I say vaguely. He doesn’t need to know the details. “Did you talk to Rolly yet?”
“Yup. We’re all set. Vegas, baby!” He starts to cabbage-patch around the kitchen. It’s the only dance move he knows.
We’ve put off telling Max about the trip because, frankly, he’s been such a little jerk lately that he doesn’t deserve a treat. I know calling my kid names isn’t going to win me any parenting awards, but the shoe definitely fits.
He’s taken to fighting us on anything he doesn’t want to do. One of our worst nights was when I asked him to help clear the dinner table. He informed me that if he had a sister living at home he wouldn’t be forced to do this kind of work.
“And what kind of work is that?” I asked him.
“Girls’ work.”
Ron and I looked at each other with a mixture of surprise and amusement.
“I clear the table and I’m not a girl,” Ron informed his son.
“That’s because Mom will be mean to you if you don’t,” Max said matter-of-factly.
I didn’t know where this was coming from.
“I’m sorry, what am I missing?” I asked him.
“A heart,” Max replied without missing a beat. That was last week—definitely a low point in my parenting life. I’m sure he thought he was being funny, but something tells me these past five days without play dates and dessert have curbed his enthusiasm for comedy.
“When do you want to tell Max?” Ron has left the timing of the reveal up to me since I have been bearing the brunt of his behavior.
“Let’s see how he does the rest of the week. I’d like to see a genuine change in his attitude, not just a humbling while he’s being punished.”
“Okay, but try to let it happen soon.”
I nod and turn my focus back to monkey cupcake number 11 of 24. It’s going to be a long night. I decide to call Vivs and catch up. Sightings of her have been rare since the holidays, and we barely saw her then.
“Hi, Mom,” she answers.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Do you need something?”
“Nope. Just called to chat. I’m making monkey-face cupcakes for the safety patrol bake sale, if you can believe it.”
“I really don’t feel like talking right now.”
“Oh, come on. I’m stuck in this kitchen and you haven’t even told me about Brooklyn.”
“I did tell you. Raj and I broke up.”
“But you didn’t tell me how or what happened afterward.”
I’m treated to an annoyed sigh.
“Mom, please. We broke up. For good. That’s it.”
She seems unnecessarily irritated by my questions, which only makes me want to ask more.
“Was he hurt? Was he surprised? Did he agree or did he try to fight for you?”
“I’m hanging up.” Suddenly there’s nothing but dial tone in my ear. Vivs has had some epic bad moods in her life, but this has to be some kind of world record for her.
* * *
Miraculously, the bake sale treats are plentiful and intact when I get to the gym at two o’clock. Two very enthusiastic kindergarten moms (whose names I can’t seem to remember, so I call them Beauty Mark and the Other One) have offered to help set up and sell. They even made extra bake sale signs. We carry the treats to the lobby of the school, where the custodial staff has set up two long tables with white plastic tablecloths.
As we are setting things out, Shirleen comes through the front door, huffing and puffing and bearing a tray of what I’m guessing are her gluten-, sugar-, dairy-, and egg-free brownies, otherwise known as bricks.
“Down here, Shirleen,” I call to her. “We’ve cordoned off the end of this table, so nothing contaminates your brownies.”
“This will work,” she says after giving the table a once-over. I have put up two rows of water between her brownies and the rest of the treats. It’s an impressive spread with cookies, muffins, lemon puffs, Mallomars (from the grocery store; no judgment), raspberry tarts, and more cupcakes. Looking at it all laid out, I realize I haven’t thought about what I’ll do if we have leftovers.
My cupcakes are center s
tage, and right next to them I place the big jar Ron got for me yesterday. This is the manifestation of an idea that started when Asami told me they should have to pay me to fill in for them at safety patrol. I’m sure she was kidding, but I thought it was genius. I place booklets of raffle tickets and a homemade sign in front of the jar.
RAFFLE
$5 FOR FIVE CHANCES TO
GET OUT OF SAFETY PATROL!
ALL PROCEEDS GO TO
THE SUSAN G. KOMEN FOUNDATION
That’s right: I’m selling the opportunity for someone to skip their assigned day of the worst job ever. It’s the perfect way for me to raise money for the Holy Rollers. I figure, I’m here at pickup every day anyway; I may as well take the extra forty-five minutes and watch kids help kids cross the street. But I’m going to make it crystal clear that this is it. I will not be answering emergency “I forgot about blah blah blah” phone calls. These five chances are the only way I will ever fill in for someone again … unless it’s an emergency … or I’m not busy.
The bell rings at three and the kids start pouring through the lobby. But instead of running right outside as usual, they are stopped in their tracks by the glorious sights and smells of the bake sale. Their mothers start streaming in the front doors.
“Everything is a dollar,” I let them know while pointing at my monkey-face masterpieces (if you don’t count the ones that have crossed eyes; I was pretty tired by the last few). Max comes running over to me asking for money.
“I gave you two dollars this morning,” I remind him.
“I know, but I lost it.”
I’m trying to make change for people and hand out pens to those who want to fill out their raffle tickets. This is exactly why I gave him the money this morning. I knew I’d be busy.
“How did you lose it?”
“I lost a bet.”
I stop what I’m doing. “What bet?”
“Draper bet me my bake sale money that I couldn’t sit under a table while he knocked three times.”
I furrow my brow. “And?”
“And he only knocked twice and didn’t come back. Mrs. Randazzo made me get up.”
I don’t even know what to start with … that my son apparently has “Sucker” written on him somewhere, or that he would gamble away his treat money in the first place.
“Well, I’m sorry that happened, but I’m not giving you any more money. I hope you learned a lesson.”
Max looks close to tears, so I pull him behind the table with me, give him a hug, and get back to work.
“Hey, stranger!” It’s JJ Aikins. “These look amazing. Kit, do you want one?”
Kit shakes her head and walks to the cookie table.
JJ shrugs. “Sorry. I think they look delicious. So, what’s up? How have you been?” She attempts to casually sit on the table, and succeeds in sliding it back two feet. I’m handing out raffle tickets and pens and selling cupcakes, so it isn’t an ideal time for a chat, but I don’t want to be rude. I’m well aware that JJ has suggested three times that we have lunch, and I have never followed up.
“Been good, thanks, you?” I hand change to a fifth-grade mother and put her raffle tickets in the jar.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old.” I’m completely mystified that JJ could think this is a good time for me.
“What did you guys do for Christmas vacation?” she asks.
“Stayed home,” I answer while I replenish my cupcake plate with the second batch.
“That’s it? Don’t you guys usually go somewhere?”
At this point, my raffle ticket line is five deep and I need singles for my cash box, so I let JJ know that I will tell her everything over lunch.
“How is next week for you?”
“Tuesday works. Let’s go to Starbucks. I love their protein box.”
“Sure, sounds great. See you then.” I barely look up, but can tell she has moved on. Thank God!
I’m not at all surprised by how many raffle tickets I sell in the first twenty minutes. I knew it would be a hit, but the “Hell yeah” and “Great idea” reactions feel good anyway.
“Is this a joke?” I look up and see Sylvie Pike frowning and eyeing my jar and sign.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“You’re selling chances to get out of safety patrol.”
“Yes, I am.” I’m getting uncomfortable now.
“And the money is going to breast cancer research.”
Why does she keep stating the things written on my sign?
I hand a book of five tickets to one of Hunter’s two moms and wait for Sylvie to rip me a new one for violating some ethics clause in the PTA manual.
“Well, I just think that’s brilliant!” she effuses.
“Really? I’m not crossing any lines?”
“Oh, probably.” She shrugs. “But we’re going to make enough for the vests from the bake sale, so I say go for it.”
Now that’s what I’m talking about! A drama-free, boundary-pushing school incident! As the great Bob Dylan once said, “The times they are a-changin’.”
And as if to prove my point, Alison Lody strolls over, holding Draper by the arm.
“Hi. I heard someone lost a bet today.” She looks at Max. He’s still pressed to my side and doesn’t say anything.
“Mm-hmm.” She nods. “Well, Draper has something to say.”
Max and I look at a decidedly mortified Draper, who admits the bet wasn’t fair and gives Max his money back.
“I saw it on YouTube. This guy has a video of all the bets you can’t lose.”
“That sounds cool.” Max is perking up quickly.
“But not something you do to your friends,” Alison chides.
“Mom, can I get a treat now?” Max asks. I’m really not sure what the protocol is for situations like this, so I tell him he can buy one thing. I take the other dollar from his hand. He and Draper run to the next table to check out the Mallomars. All is forgiven, of course.
“Sorry about that. I was giving Draper money just now and he told me how he, quote, ‘took a kid for all he had.’ He’s so much like his father.”
I smirk. “You must be so proud.”
She looks at the almost empty table between us.
“Sorry I didn’t bring anything.”
“There’s always next time,” I assure her.
Her daughter comes walking toward us with a curious look on her face.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Mrs. Dixon.”
“Hi, sweetie,” we say at the same time and then laugh awkwardly.
“Hanna, want a cupcake?” I ask her.
“Aww … they look too cute to eat,” she says before taking a big bite. Once her mouth is full, she asks, “Mom, can we go? I’ve got to work on my science project.”
“Sure. Find your brother.” Alison hands me a dollar. “Thanks, Jen.”
“See you soon.” I watch her walk away and am relieved to no longer feel that gut rot I used to get when I saw her. Little Jen is growing up.
It’s slowing down sales-wise and I think about starting to clean up, but then a wave of fifth-graders who were on a field trip rushes through the front door and we’re busy all over again. Looks like I won’t have to worry about leftovers. Even Shirleen is part of the clean-table club. I’m told her bricks were very tasty and the two kids who actually have celiac disease were grateful to have something to buy.
It’s four o’clock when we start packing up the crumb-filled tables. The only leftovers are six oatmeal raisin cookies (big surprise there). My first instinct is to toss them, but instead I wrap them in some extra tinfoil.
We have quite a success on our hands; I realize it’s because this is only the second bake sale this year. There are years when you can’t swing a cat without hitting a bake sale, and people get tired of them. But this year, the novelty has proven very profitable.
According to Sylvie Pike, the goodies netted $117, which will get us vests and new stop signs. Those of us who are left (me, Beauty Mark,
and the Other One) applaud the good news and I’m impressed by the amount until I count my raffle money—$245! Woo-hoo! I’m a fund-raising genius.
“Can one of you come and witness me pulling the five raffle tickets?” I say to my coworkers.
The Other One walks over. “I hope you pull my name,” she lets me know. Frankly, I won’t know if I do, I want to say to her.
I stick my hand in the jar and roll the papers around.
“Okay, here we go.” I pull out five slips, one at a time, and read the names.
“Shanice Tyler. Maggie Grimmer. Bailey Dawson. Sue Akimo. Lily Booth.” Not surprisingly, I know none of these women. But I’ll be happy to call all of them tonight and give them the good news and put their safety patrol dates into my calendar. That part will be a bit of a buzzkill.
Max and I hightail it out of the school and into the minivan. It’s my dad’s birthday, so we’re having a family dinner tonight. We’re meeting everyone at Garozzo’s at six o’clock (the dinner hour of choice for the under-ten and over-seventy crowd). As we are pulling out of the parking lot, I spy Homeless Mitch bundled up against the cold, sitting on his park bench. “I can do this,” I chant quietly as I pull the car up to the curb beside the small park.
“Stay here,” I order Max and jump out with the tinfoil package in my slightly shaking hands.
“How are you today, Mitch?” I ask the large man on the bench, who stands up immediately. He still scares me, but not as much.
“Not bad, thanks. Yourself?” When he smiles, I see his teeth are stained brown and yellow, but at least they’re all there.
“We had a bake sale and I brought you some cookies.” I hand him the package. His large hands in their ripped mittens shoot out to take it.
“Thank you.”
“Do you need anything?” Who is this woman? I ask myself.
“No, thanks. I’m going to start making my way over to the shelter pretty soon.”
I look at the sky. It’s only 4:15, but it’s getting dark. “Do you want a lift?” I ask him.
“Umm … no, thank you. It’s not far.”
I’m surprised by his answer, but I don’t ask again.
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