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“Hm?” My cheeks burn when I realize I’ve been distracted from the discussion at hand. “Well, I think that litigious families come and go, but if we stand our ground knowing we’re doing the right thing then we have nothing to worry about.”
A few of my staff members exchange looks. “I don’t know,” one of them says. “Those who are old enough remember everything that happened in 1989. We’re not invincible as a school. Yes, it came to a positive end after some time. But the Rushmores aren’t going to swoop in and save the day every single time.”
“I agree with Judy,” another teacher says. “I think we need to double back and be extra careful this year before we go changing anything else.”
A lot of crosstalk begins, and soon I’ve lost control of the meeting.
Suddenly, I remember who I am. I am the fucking headmistress. I steer the meetings. I am in charge here. I am their boss. This meeting is not going to be hijacked by a bunch of namby-pamby scaredy cats. I stand up and clap my hands five times—clap, clap, clap-clap-clap—before raising two fingers in the air for silence.
Half of the staff snicker, and the other half look offended at my use of a teacher move to quiet everyone down. “If you’re going to argue like children, then I’ll treat you like children. Here’s what is going to happen. We’re going to let the drama club do their project as planned, and we’re not going to micromanage it. Because they are not children, and I’m not going to let Ms. Fairhope go back on her word. If anyone has a problem with it, you may come see me personally. You are all dismissed.”
I march out to the hall to get a drink, my hand shaking on the button of the water fountain.
I am so ready for this day to be over, but I have so much more to do.
Things do not improve after school at the PTA meeting.
An innocuous talk about whether the bake sale this year should fund the drama club’s trip to London or fund the chess club’s trip to Moscow breaks down when one parent throws a wrench into the works. “Latin club, chess club, debate, drama…why do we never support more accessible kinds of things? Those things are not going to do anything but pad college applications. What about a vocational club?”
I squint at this parent and realize I’ve never seen her before. While I’m trying to place her, all hell breaks loose.
“This is a college prep school! What is it you think we should be doing instead?” says the chair, Bianca Rushmore.
The mystery parent retorts, “Well, down-to-earth, real-life skills, for one thing. Like get kids prepared to work construction.”
Bianca smirks. “So the Chamberlains can have built-in cheap labor for their company under the guise of vocational classes? No thank you. And besides, the public school system has a magnet school for that.”
One of the teachers comments, “It’s a valid point. Those things are becoming more and more in demand. Maybe we should try to be more relevant.”
Another parent snidely comments, “Then you secure the funding for that and start a club for it yourself.”
Bianca reminds everyone, “PTA is not in the business of starting clubs. We are here to raise money for the existing programs of the school. Clubs are independently funded by parents.”
I quietly step away from the table to examine the sign-in sheet by the door of the conference room. I know the name of every parent and staff member on that list, and yet that one person who instigated this whole argument is not on this list.
“I just think the school is headed in a very elitist direction and maybe we need to go back to its roots,” says the mystery parent.
I turn to examine her skeptically, my inner cautionary flags gradually turning from yellow to red.
“Its roots are long gone, that’s what 1989 was all about, and good riddance,” says Mrs. Shermer, whose whole family is secretly my favorite of the entire school. They don’t have the most money, not by any stretch. But their daughter Addie, a junior, is one of the best and kindest of our student body.
And now it seems, for the second time today, a meeting has lost control for a silly, out-of-the-blue reason. Not that I’m even supposed to be in control. I glance over at Bianca Rushmore, who’s giving me a knowing look. The chair of the PTA nods as if to say, I got this.
Bianca stands up. “I think I know what’s going on here. People are scared because of the lawsuit. They think we need to let the Chamberlains have their way. But if they do, you know what’s going to happen. It’s not up to one family to decide what’s best for the school. We pay Headmistress Moody to lead us, and I think she’s done a wonderful job. We’re not going to let one family bully us.”
/> I turn about eight shades of red as a majority of the people gathered seem to be in agreement.
Unexpectedly, as everyone leaves, the mystery parent approaches me. “I know one thing, Ms. Moody: you’d better make this lawsuit go away or else we’ll be having bake sales to pay your legal feels.”
I raise my chin. “And you are? I didn’t see your name on the sign-in sheet.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “A concerned parent.”
I reach out a hand for her to shake it. I smile as she takes it and seems to let her guard down and smiles back at me. In a register only she can hear, I say, “You listen to me. I know exactly what you’re doing here. So why don’t you run along to your friends the Chamberlains and report everything you heard here today. But the next time anyone tries to get you to be a mole at a PTA meeting, at least have the courage to sign your fucking name.”
Just when I think I’m free to go home and drown this whole wretched day in a bottle of pinot, I get a call from the head of the board of trustees. They’re having an emergency meeting tonight and I’m to be there.
Well, I think. This is it. They’re going to fire me.
