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I shrug helplessly. “I thought she was doing better.”
Dad looks at me sideways. “It doesn’t get better, Marta. It only gets worse.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way to the car.
I find Taylor’s e-mail waiting when Eva and I get home. I’m sitting on the couch with Eva, using my laptop to check my in-box even though I’d vowed not to do e-mail on my laptop anymore.
But the always rushing out to my studio is proving to be a big pain, and I’d rather sit with Eva on the sofa anyway.
Taylor has sent a mass e-mail to her committee, advising us that there will be a room parent meeting at the school one day next week, once she confirms the time and place with the school. In the meantime, she’s working on preparing “informational packets” for all the parents working with her, packets she’ll distribute at the first meeting next week that will explain our goals and job descriptions.
I scan the job descriptions just to see how bad it’s going to be.
Class Auction Chair
Room Party Coordinator
Field Trip Coordinator
Yearbook Liaison
And the list goes on.
Is this for real? Whatever happened to just a normal fourth-grade experience?
I’m still reading Taylor’s e-mail when Eva leans across me to see what’s on my computer screen.
“Why did Jemma’s mom e-mail you?” Eva demands, catching a glimpse of Taylor Young’s name.
She scans the e-mail before I answer and then straightens to look at me with a mixture of awe and concern. “You’re really the first assistant head room mom?”
The way she makes it sound, I could either be her savior or a catalyst for catastrophe.
I’m silently thinking catastrophe, and I’d wager so is she. “Yeah. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s a pretty big step.”
Her confidence underwhelms me. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”
“Noooo.” But she doesn’t sound convinced. “But on the positive side, you’ll get to spend lots of time with Mrs. Young. You’ll probably be seeing her a couple times a week.”
That’s so not cool.
“And maybe she’ll be able to help you,” Eva adds more brightly, moving back to her spot on the couch to resume watching her show. She gives me a big cheery smile. “Maybe she’ll be able to teach you all the mom stuff you need to know.”
Sunday afternoon, Eva and I hit the bookstore as promised, and while Eva shops, I select a handful of CDs. She already has her purchases paid for and bagged when I emerge from the music section. “Ready to go?” she asks.
I pick up an iced coffee from the adjacent Starbucks, Eva gets a Raspberry Tango, and we head home, where we’re doing something boring for dinner like meat loaf. It’s easy and fast, and I can work in the studio while the meat loaf’s in the oven.
As I work I hear the house line ring, but I ignore it, just as I always do. The ringing ends abruptly, and I fear Eva’s answered it. I’m right. She appears in the studio a minute later, holding the phone against her chest.
“It’s Mrs. Young,” she whispers excitedly. “Jemma’s mom.”
I save up my work on the computer and take the phone. “Hello.”
“Hi, Marta. This is Taylor Young, and I’m calling to schedule our first room parent meeting for sometime this week. Thursday’s Back-to-School Night so we need to find another evening that works.”
“That sounds great,” I answer. “Let me just get my calendar.”
Eva’s two steps ahead of me. She’s already grabbing my BlackBerry from where it’s charging on my desk and hands it to me.
I tap on my calendar icon for the coming week, and it’s more booked than I expected with the Freedom Bike Group dinner on Tuesday night and Back-to-School Night on Thursday.
“I’m free Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening,” I tell Taylor. “I’m wide open on those days.”
“Oh dear,” Taylor says with a sigh. “That’s not good at all. You’re sure Tuesday’s bad?”
“Very sure. You can’t do Monday or Wednesday?”
“No. And, it’s not just me,” she answers. “It’s everybody. After polling the other moms, Tuesday night seemed to be the best night, so it’s what we decided on.”
I find myself mentally counting the number of times Taylor uses everybody, others, we.
Who is this “we,” and when did they decide? “I don’t understand. I thought I was the first assistant head room mom—”
“Oh, well, yes, but I didn’t want to bother you until we had some sort of consensus, and since Tuesday night was the best night, we’re going to go with that.”
“Am I the last one you called?”
“Yes, but it’s just because I’ve worked with the others before, and since they’re married I thought it only fair to check with them first.”
“That’s fair how?” I ask quietly, thinly.
“Well, uh, they have husbands.”
“Right.”
“And nearly everyone has got to check in with their husband.”
“Is that a big deal?”
“Well, um, yes, it can be.” She’s beginning to backpedal.
“And why is that?”
“It’s just more work. They’ve got to make sure someone can cover kids, coordinate schedules, things of that nature.”
I can tell Taylor’s scrambling, but I feel no mercy. In the meantime, Eva is giving me incredulous looks, as though I’m an NFL player and have just thrown the Super Bowl.
Taylor clears her throat. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to make it—”
“Where is it?”
“The school library.”
“What time?”
“Uh, seven.”
“Thank you.” And looking down into Eva’s pleading face, I add as sweetly as I can, “Have a nice night, Taylor.”
I hang up.
Now I know where I stand. I’m evidently the C team.
I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll be able to make the room parent meeting, but at the last minute Frank calls and says a group of the executive team can’t fly out because of a problem on the East Coast and the meetings in Seattle have been rescheduled for the following week.
I’m disappointed not to meet the Freedom Bike Group for another week but very glad I’ll be able to make the room parent meeting.
Dad and Mom come for dinner Tuesday night and have agreed to stay with Eva while I slip out to the meeting.
I shouldn’t be late to the meeting, but a phone call from Tiana has me laughing hysterically instead of getting out the door.
After ten minutes, though, I beg off, promise Tiana I’ll call her in the morning, and race toward my truck.
By the time I drive to school, find parking, and make my way into the library, Taylor’s leaning against the librarian’s desk, talking. The parent meeting has already begun.
Quietly, I shut the door behind me so as not to disturb the others. Taylor’s looking quite sharp tonight, very much the professional mother in her brown trousers with a subtle gold-and-green plaid, a white blouse, three strings of fat cream pearls, and brown crocodile pumps.
I slip into the nearest empty orange chair as Taylor’s narrowed gaze sweeps over the parents approvingly. “I’m really excited about this new school year. We’ve got the best group of parents, absolutely the best, and we’re going to be the best class, too.”
Taylor reaches for a leather binder. She’s made each of us, her room parents, a binder, too, and filled it with everything we could need to know. It has four plastic dividers with the tabs already marked and placed inside. Calendar. Contacts. Parties & Field Trips. And last, Class Project. And in each of the four sections are handouts, schedules, forms, information sheets, and helpful how-to-do directions and then how-to lists.
The information is so detailed, and the to-do lists so cute with cartoon graphics and liberal use of fun color fonts, that I feel as if I’m i
n high school on the student council or maybe it’s the first day of cheerleading camp. Either way, it’s so BUBBLY and UP that I feel even more uncomfortable.
High school was anything but the best time of my life. I did well in school, although my grades suffered because of my numerous unexcused absences and tardies.
My high school years are mostly a blur, but two things stand out: (a) I didn’t fit in; and (b) I lost my virginity at the junior-senior prom.
I was only a sophomore the year I attended the junior-senior prom. My date was a senior, and I’d just turned sixteen. He wanted to get laid. It was his senior prom, after all, and I was too stupid to tell him no. The sex was forgettable (it hurt more than I expected), and worst of all was the indignity of spending the rest of the evening in a stiff formal gown feeling wet.
I didn’t expect to feel so wet the rest of the night. No one ever talked about that. And I never went to another prom. Proms were stupid fake parties full of drunk, overdressed kids wearing the oddest flowers a florist could sell a seventeen-year-old.
Or put it another way—it wasn’t me.
As most of adolescent life wasn’t me.
Taylor continues to move the meeting along at a nice, crisp pace. She’s obviously done this before. Her points are precise. Her tone is friendly and yet firm. I’m in Taylor Young’s favorite domain.
