Bridget, by contrast, had always felt instinctively more comfortable when Jennifer was present at their morning meetings, and so found herself startled by the suspicion that a rift may have begun long before—not just with Tamara, but with Jennifer, too. She’d noticed a drifting between them that had been present back in the summer and, possibly, even in the spring, but she’d tried to shut it out and think only of the three-plus years of good discussions and warmth. But the clues were in the little things. The increasingly longer conversational silences. The unanswered phone calls. The lack of realness when the problems turned deep and dark, despite the many hours the women had spent together in the past.
Perhaps, Bridget thought, Jennifer had been easier to be around simply because she’d hidden herself so successfully. And perhaps Bridget had been fooled over the years into believing they’d had a genuine intimacy when it may have merely been careful self-protection on Jennifer’s part, drenched in a sheen of polite attentiveness. It hurt her to think so, but she couldn’t rule it out.
So, when the next two Fridays brought with them a natural reprieve from the stresses of their coffee gatherings (parent/teacher conferences one week and the four-day, wraparound Columbus Day weekend the next), none of the three women experienced any emotion akin to disappointment.
Of course, while all of the ladies may have had a much needed break from each other, they were hardly immune to the troubles at home. In fact, their required and concentrated attention in that quarter only intensified those problems.
Jennifer, for instance, was getting the sense that too much time scrutinizing the behavior of her elder daughter would lead to little good for either of them. And parent/teacher conferences, never one of her favorite events under the best of circumstances, proved to be a gateway to a series of uncomfortable yet unavoidable discussions.
She’d been pretending to listen with rapt attention to Veronica’s U.S. history teacher, Mr. Ryerson, a wiry, genteel man who had the gaze of an impassioned hawk. Having survived all of Shelby’s conferences relatively unscathed (“Your daughter is a bright student but quiet in class discussions…”), Jennifer had not expected to encounter any difficulties with the reports of her more talkative daughter. But Mr. Ryerson had no less than six pages of notes on Veronica.
“She doesn’t have trouble with the class work,” he told her, “when she pays attention to it. But I’ve noticed a steady drop in her concentration over the course of the first quarter.”
Jennifer fidgeted with her watchband. “Uh-huh.” Veronica was a teenager—what’d he expect? She’d gotten a B for the grading period. It wasn’t like she was failing.
As if guessing her silent argumentativeness, Mr. Ryerson continued, “I realize high school history is about the last thing a typical fourteen- or fifteen-year-old would be interested in, but I suspect Veronica’s lack of attention has far more to do with a triangular drama that’s playing out in the classroom than with any real resistance to the Boston Tea Party.”
“A triangular drama?” she said, finally making eye contact with the man.
“Yes.” The teacher sifted through a few pages of notes. “Not to name names, but your daughter seems to be…socially involved with two of the boys in the class.”
“Two of them? I only knew about Tim Taylor.”
He nodded. “Tim is one of the boys. He sat to Veronica’s right for most of the quarter until I had to move their seats a few weeks ago. They’d taken constant texting to new levels.”
Jennifer squinted at him. “But the school has a policy about cell phone use. They’re only allowed between classes or after school.”
Mr. Ryerson gave her a significant look. “Exactly.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said. “So, I take it you took their cell phones away for the class period and then…?”
“And then they borrowed phones from friends. After I discovered that ploy, they resorted to old-fashioned note passing. But as distracting as this behavior was, most of the teachers in the building are fairly lenient about cell phone infractions and the like. So many kids text each other in secret, we would have class sizes of ten if we sent everyone who’d abused the policy once or twice to the office. No, it wasn’t until another boy—Erick—started getting involved that the situation worsened.”
Jennifer murmured his name. “She’s never mentioned an Erick.”
“Erick sat directly behind Veronica until I moved his seat, too. He’s a new student this year, a sophomore, actually, and very charismatic. He and your daughter have really, uh, hit it off.”
“They’re flirting?”
The teacher laughed. “Teen flirting in public is generally a nonverbal thing. Lots of looks and smiles, the occasional rude gesture. Sometimes, when the kids are popular and confident, it morphs into giggling, chatty conversation and suggestive language. It does not routinely include inappropriate touching or grappling, or it crosses the line from flirting into wrestling.”
Jennifer gulped. Tim and now this Erick guy have been grappling with Veronica? “They’re touching her?”
He shook his head. “Most of the time, she’s the one touching them. Even with their seats in opposite corners of the room from hers, she’ll often make a point to pass by one of their desks when she gets up. The class tends to find it all very funny, so even when I don’t see it happening, their laughter gives her away.”
Jennifer felt a spasm of embarrassment as she thought of her extroverted, popular daughter. Was this really how Veronica acted in class? “I’m so sorry she’s been this disruptive, Mr. Ryerson, but why is this the first time I’m hearing about this problem? I would’ve liked to stop it immediately.”
“It’s progressively worsened,” he said. “Initially, I’ll admit, I didn’t think the kids’ behavior was anything out of the ordinary, but since the Homecoming committee’s activities have accelerated in the past two weeks, so have their in-class antics. I had a discussion with the three of them after class on Tuesday, and all of the kids promised to tone it way down. The boys made an effort on Wednesday and Thursday—Tim, in particular, was quite subdued—but Veronica kept at it, primarily by sneaking up behind Erick and running her hands down his chest…and a little lower.”
“Oh, crap,” she whispered, not quite under her breath.
Mr. Ryerson smiled kindly, though his gaze pierced right through her skull. “You’re going to need to talk with your daughter. I spoke with the principal this morning, and Veronica’s on probation in my class. She’ll be suspended for two days and moved out of my room within one week if that behavior continues.”
At Glendale Grove Elementary, Bridget was hearing equally disturbing news from Evan’s first-grade teacher, Miss Welsh.
“I’m glad you were able to come in today,” Miss Welsh said, gently but not at all like her usual, bubbly, third-year-teacher self. “I’ve kept the next conference slot open, so we’d have a little extra time. Mrs. Molinelli, the school social worker, is going to stop by in a few minutes.”
The social worker? “Why?” Bridget asked in alarm. She kept Evan clean and well fed. She made sure he got enough sleep and wasn’t late to school. She never forgot to pack his lunch, his mid-morning snack or his gym shoes. She wasn’t a negligent mom, was she?
“You know, I’m still pretty new to the school district,” the teacher said. “So there’s a lot about the kids’ emotional development that I’m still learning. But I’ve been noticing how Evan’s been really withdrawn lately and, when I question him about it, he gets irritated. There does seem to be something bothering him, though, yet he always denies there’s a problem. Have you noticed him acting differently at home or showing signs like these?”
Well, of course Bridget noticed that! But she had three children. Each of them had their own personality. And Evan had always—always—been her supersensitive one. She tried to explain this to Miss Welsh.
The teacher nodded. “I can see that about him. He’s very attuned to the needs and hurts of the other kids. But�
��” She paused at the knock on the classroom door and the subsequent appearance of the social worker.
“Hello, ladies. I’m Mrs. Molinelli,” she said with a smile at Bridget. “Thanks for letting me join you.”
“Hi,” Bridget murmured, the worry in her gut expanding.
Mrs. Molinelli jumped right in. “I’ve observed Miss Welsh’s class several times,” she explained. “And we’re both concerned about Evan’s behavior this year. Back in the spring, I’d spoken to him and his classmates when I observed the kindergartens, and there was no sign of the frustration we’re noticing in him this year. Are there any…situations at home that might be upsetting him? Any kind of family issues that could be affecting his routine?”
Bridget began to shake her head but then stopped. “I started working again in the summer,” she admitted. “Just part time, though, and it’s only during the hours the kids are in school, so I’m still always home when they get back. You think that could be it?”
Mrs. Molinelli scribbled something in a spiral notebook. “It’s possible, but there are a lot of possibilities.” She scribbled some more. “Has he mentioned being disturbed by anything in particular lately? A classmate? A sibling? Did you have a pet or family member pass away in recent months or experience any kind of marital discord that might cause him trauma?”
Bridget blinked at the woman. She knew the school had to ask questions like these. That they were bound by law to report any potential abuse or to follow up in situations where a child might be in physical or emotional danger. But for all of Evan’s sensitiveness, Bridget couldn’t believe there was something going on behind her back at home that would affect him so profoundly. And, sure, she’d had some marital concerns lately, but Evan couldn’t have picked up on that, could he?
“No.” But then she remembered that day in the backyard when he said his stomach hurt, and she told the two women about that. And about him mentioning some kids being mean. “He didn’t mention any names, though. And he’s really tired by the time he gets home, so maybe it’s just the longer day.”
Miss Welsh agreed to an extent. “The transition from half-day kindergarten to full-day first grade is a challenge for many of the children. But school’s been in session for almost six weeks now. Most everyone else who had difficulty with the extra hours seemed to adjust several weeks ago. But it’s possible that’s the problem. He may just be more sensitive to change than most.”
Bridget’s heart tightly embraced that theory.
“We are, however, noticing Evan going further and further into his shell,” Mrs. Molinelli said, flipping to an earlier page in her spiral. “The behavior we’re seeing in him—his hesitation in playing with other children at recess, his inhibition in the classroom, his unwillingness to be engaged by either adults or other kids and his quick temper when forced to interact—all of these are especially unusual given the report from his kindergarten teacher that he was ‘a kind, bighearted boy who loves to laugh and play with blocks and other building material with his classmates.’” She looked up from her notes. “We’d like you to talk with him. Keep an eye on him at home. Perhaps he’s not getting enough sleep, or he’s being bullied by a sibling or someone on the bus. He has been really tired lately, so maybe whatever the problem is has been keeping him awake at night and the fear of the conflict is giving him stomachaches.”
Bridget took in all the information and readily agreed to do whatever she could to help—talk with Evan, her other children, her husband. She zombied her way through Keaton’s conference (thank goodness she’d had Cassandra’s the night before) and rushed to her car, calling Graham on his cell phone while still in the school’s parking lot.
“Okay, okay, Bridget. Calm down. We’ll figure out what’s going on with Evan,” her husband said, sighing. “You get too emotional. He’s just a growing boy. Moody like the other two. It’ll sort itself out, so just relax, would’ya?”
Relaxing wasn’t in the cards for Bridget. Easy for Graham to tell her to calm down! A problem like that didn’t just “sort itself out”—a parent had to help. She fumbled in her purse for a licorice twist and a pack of gum. Then she chomped agitatedly until she thought she could drive safely. It took ten minutes, one Cherry Twizzler and two pieces of Trident Cool Mint before that happened.
Tamara, meanwhile, was nowhere near any of the Glendale Grove schools. In an odd (for her) tea choice, she was working her way through a rather large pot of Berryblossom White and losing herself to the sentimentality of not getting to go to parent/teacher conferences this year.
For the first time since Benji had been five, she was home on this day with not a single teacher expecting her. A whole day with no one to tell her what a smart, amiable, creative son she had. And it just sucked.
She’d heard some nonsense once about women who cried when menopause hit and they stopped getting their periods. Sobbed like infants, for chrissake, right in the middle of the Tampax aisle. Even now she rolled her eyes thinking about it. She planned to drink a pitcher or two of raspberry-lemon-drop martinis when that blessed day occurred.
But nobody had told her to prepare for this day. Nobody had ever said, “You’re gonna be a wreck while every other mother in town is listening to some fifth-grade dragon lady criticizing their child’s spelling or a leather-skinned industrial arts teacher praising their kid’s birdhouse. Make yourself some soothing tea, buy yourself a box of tissues and don’t talk to anyone. It’ll be embarrassing.”
And, of course, Jon was away again. Indianapolis this time. Not that he’d be nearly as affected by missing out on conferences as she was. He’d barely made it to one in four when Benji was a kid, and he hadn’t gone to a single one when their son was in high school.
She blew her nose and poured another cup of tea, envying Jon the distraction of his job. Perhaps the time had come for her to really consider getting out there again. She had an MBA after all. She was marketable. Mostly. Not that she’d used any of her business skills in years—at least not to further her own career—but they were still there. Just waiting until she was ready to pull out her portfolio and unleash them. With the economy the way it was, a lot of people who’d been out of the workforce for a while were going back if they could get a position somewhere. She’d be proud to be one of them.
She pulled out a sheet of lined paper and began listing anything that could legitimately fit on her résumé:
BS degree in marketing from University of Illinois–Urbana-Champaign, 3.86 GPA.
MBA from Northwestern University, 3.73 GPA.
Three-month summer marketing internship at Lewis, Darvis & Webstock in Chicago.
Two years experience in the marketing-promotion department at Tower Graphics, Evanston (part time, while in grad school).
Nineteen years of working a room for her husband at incredibly boring law firm cocktail parties and supporting his career.
Excellent PTA negotiating skills as evidenced by a new playground, a revamped hot lunch program and the best Teacher Appreciation Brunch in a decade (when Benji was nine).
Top-notch Boy Scouts fund-raiser—sold LOTS of popcorn tins and holiday wreaths (when Benji was twelve).
Can type…pretty fast.
Has no problem—morally or physiologically—with two-martini lunches.
Likes dress clothes.
Okay, well, maybe she’d have to reword everything after her time at Tower Graphics, but at least this was a start.
What other skills did she have?
She could coordinate outfits pretty well, grow vegetables and a handful of robust flowers, use Microsoft Word and Excel, e-mail attachments, fax documents, collate, copy, talk on the phone—
The knock on the door startled her. She hadn’t been making any noise and there were no house lights on (well, it was ten-thirty in the morning). Maybe, if she sat really still, whoever was there would leave.
Or not.
Three more knocks followed, louder this time, followed by a ring of the doorbell.
Oh, boy.
“Hey,” she said, swinging the door open and noticing the brown bag he had clasped to his chest. “What’cha got in there?”
“Just some my-produce-is-better-than-yours proof.” He grinned. “The bag’s kinda heavy. Can I set it down for you somewhere?”
She squinted at him. It didn’t look that heavy, but she said, “Sure, thanks. There’s an open spot on the kitchen counter.” And she stepped back so he could come in.
Once he’d set down the bag, he opened it, rummaged through half of it and pulled out his first offering.
“Just take a look at this.” He held up a perfect, soccer-ball-sized pumpkin. “Happy October, neighbor.”
“Wow,” she said, genuinely impressed. “Suitable for painting, carving or reenacting The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“Damn right.” He sifted through the bag some more, this time unearthing two smallish cantaloupes. “What d’ya say to this?”
“Braggart.” But then she thought about what she was seeing. “Those grow in the Midwest?”
He looked triumphant. “Yep. I’ve got five more of ’em in my kitchen. They’re small, but pretty tasty, if you let them ripen.” His hand dipped into the bag yet again.
“Lettuce?” she guessed, staring at his latest retrieval.
“Cabbage,” he corrected, setting it down on her counter before pulling out two beautiful zucchinis, several bunches of broccoli, a smattering of Roma tomatoes and a small spray of wildflowers, which he handed right to her. “I lied. I do have poppies and a few wood violets. No buttercups, though. But I keep them hidden in the backyard. It was an experiment. I used one of those floral seed packets from the grocery store,” he explained. “Didn’t turn out too badly, though.”
She stared at him.
“You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 15
