I will be there tomorrow to make sure your children are neat and smiling.
Regards,
Asami
To: PWard
From: JDixon
Date: 01/17
Subject: Picture Day
Hi, Miss Ward,
Do you need any help wrangling the kids tomorrow when they’re getting their pictures taken? I’d be happy to help.
Thanks,
Jen
To: JDixon
From: PWard
Date: 01/17
Subject: Picture Day
Jen,
Sorry, but that’s a question for the class mom. You can reach out to her.
Thanks,
Peggy
* * *
Damn. I was hoping to avoid that. Ugh. This is going to hurt.
* * *
To: AChang
From: JDixon
Date: 01/17
Subject: Picture Day
Hi, Asami,
Happy New Year. Hope you are enjoying your new job. Your first email was very informative.
I was just wondering if you need any help wrangling the kids tomorrow while they are getting their pictures taken. I would be happy to keep an eye on them in the hallway before they go in, or bring a snack.
Let me know.
Jen
To: JDixon
From: AChang
Date: 01/17
Subject: Picture Day
Jen,
Well, I certainly didn’t expect to hear from you. I really don’t think I will need help, but if you are having trouble disengaging from your power seat and you want to come in for a bit, I guess it would be fine. Please bring the children a snack.
Asami
* * *
A snack, yes! I shut my laptop and turn my chair to look at my kitchen. I got me some baking to do.
* * *
Never say never. This is my new motto. I said I would never have another kid after Laura, and lo and behold I did. I said I would never read Fifty Shades of Grey, but after seeing Nina’s reaction to it, I did. And I said I would never again make my mother’s Sticky Chewy Five Napkin Brownies, but here I am putting the second batch into the oven.
These babies are killer. The recipe calls for, among other things, nine eggs, two cups of sugar, a whole pound of butter, toffee, chocolate chips, and whipping cream. Totally unhealthy, but they taste like heaven and my kids love them. The only downside is they are a leeetle messy to eat. If I’m being honest, you need a lot more than five napkins to keep yourself together. A container of Wet Ones is more like it.
Asami asked for a snack, and a snack she will get. Yes, that’s right. I’m going to give a bunch of five- and six-year-olds the equivalent of a mud pie to eat before they get photographed. I’m that small and petty. Our new class mom should never have reminded me to bathe my child.
* * *
On picture day, I sally forth to school around ten a.m., armed with the Sticky Chewy Five Napkin Brownies, a roll of paper towels, and, of course, a gluten- and nut-free snack for Graydon.
I head to room 147, where I see that Asami has all her hair-styling equipment lined up on a tray and ready for action.
The children are seated at their tables, listening with rapt attention as Miss Ward explains the best way to smile for a picture.
“When they ask you to smile, try to think of a funny joke. That way, when you smile it will be with your whole face and not just your mouth.”
She then proceeds to show the kids what a just-a-mouth smile looks like. She looks ridiculous, but the kids love it. They are laughing and doing it to each other.
“Okay, settle down. Now, who knows a joke, so I can show you a smile with my whole face?”
Sixteen hands shoot up, including Max’s, and I can’t help but wonder what jokes he knows. There is a chorus of “Me, please, me please, oh me please!” as Miss Ward takes her time deciding.
“Zach T. What have you got?”
Zach T. beams with excitement as he stands up.
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” “Europe.”
“Europe who?”
“No, you’re a poo!” Zach yells out, and the class explodes with laughter as Miss Ward’s face bursts into a bright smile. Even Asami is laughing.
“Good one, Zach. Put a marble in the compliment jar.”
As Zach proudly steps up I hear my universal name being called.
“Mom!” Max runs up and hugs me like he didn’t just see me an hour and a half ago. I love it. Way too soon, he will find it embarrassing when I come to his classroom, but for now it’s still a treat.
“Hi, buddy.” I give him a big squeeze. He still smells of last night’s bath and I take an extra whiff before I let him go.
“Jennifer, I’m glad you’re finally here” is all the greeting I get from Asami. “The photographer is set up two doors down the hall. The children will get their individual shots done and when they’re all finished, the photographer will take the group shot. I will be with the photographer and you will be with the class, sending the kids to me one at a time. Got that?”
“And good morning to you, Asami!” I reply.
“Did you bring a snack?”
I hold up my shopping bag.
“What are those for?” she asks, pointing to the paper towels.
“Just in case the kids get messy.” I hope to God she doesn’t ask me what I brought. “I even have something special for Graydon,” I add by way of distracting her.
But it isn’t necessary. She just nods to me and picks up her hair supplies. As she heads out the door, she has one parting instruction.
“Don’t give them their snack until they come back from getting their picture taken.”
“Got it!” I say, a bit too enthusiastically.
Miss Ward has been watching the whole exchange. She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Wow, Dixon goes to China, huh?”
Why is that okay for her to say, but my “your people” comment is still offensive? Seriously, where’s the line? Do they keep moving it?
“Okay, class, Max’s mom is going to let you know when it’s your turn to get your picture taken. The rest of the time, we will be practicing our letters. I want everyone to get out your workbooks and start working on capital ‘M’s.”
There is a brief commotion as the kids get their books from their cubbies; then they all settle down. I have to say, I still think Miss Ward is crazy, but damn if she doesn’t run a tight ship. She walks over and hands me a piece of paper.
“Here’s a class list. May as well go in alphabetical order.” She heads to the door.
“Class, Max’s mom is in charge. Please listen to her.”
“Wait, where are you going?” I ask and I can hear a little panic in my voice. I don’t want to be left alone with sixteen kids. I can barely handle my one.
“Just to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” As she walks out, I see she’s carrying her cell phone. Who does she need to call right now?
I consult the list and revel in the irony that it is the one I typed up for her at the beginning of the school year. When I look up, sixteen pairs of eyes are gazing at me, gauging my level of commitment to keeping order.
“Okay, Kit, you’re up first. The rest of you, back to your letters.”
Kit Aikens jumps up like she has just won bingo and skips out the door. Damn those lucky kids with “A” last names, always first for everything. I eye the rest of the group to let them know I’m not going to take any nonsense, and they all get back to work..
I take this opportunity to head to the long table at the back of the classroom and take out my weapon of mass destruction—the Sticky Chewy Five Napkin Brownies. Oh, they smell divine. I have a small twinge of guilt as I look at how nice all the kids look today, but when Kit Aikens walks back into the room with tears in her eyes and her beautiful blond curls tamed into a braid, I realize I’m on the side of right.
“Hey, Kit,
come on back here. You can have a brownie while you work.” I look at the list. “Hunter, you’re up next.”
Hunter dashes out the door with the reckless abandon that only a six-year-old can supply. Kit joins me at the back table.
“Do you like brownies?” I ask with a smile. I feel like I’m pushing drugs.
She nods and takes one hungrily. I hand her a paper towel. “You might need one of these.”
When Hunter returns, his hair all combed back and spit-shined, I send Nick Baton out and invite Hunter back for a snack.
It’s all going as planned until a severely braided Nancy Fancy gets back from her photo shoot with Miss Ward in tow. By this time eight of the sixteen kids are covered in chocolate. It’s smeared on their faces, in their hair, on their clothes. Miss Ward walks in and just stares, her mouth gaping. I decide to just keep it moving.
“Nancy, come on back and have a snack. Lulu, it’s your turn to go next door.”
As Lulu walks out, Miss Ward is still standing in the doorway, taking in the splendor of my work in progress. She waits a good minute before she slowly walks to the back of the room, grabs a brownie with her perfectly manicured hands, and stuffs it in her mouth.
“Good brownies, Jenny.” She walks back to her desk, licking her fingers.
I’m a little shocked. I never thought I’d have an ally in Miss Ward. Maybe Asami is getting on her nerves, too.
By the time Isabel Zalis comes back for her brownie, the class looks pretty comical. All the girls’ hair has been put into some sort of braid, and all the boys have had their hair wet-combed out of their face. They have all done a stellar job with the brownies. Even poor Suni Chang, who did her best to stay neat, ended up with brownie on her nose. It looks as though someone has filled a room with 1930s-style gangsters and Pippi Longstockings and splattered mud all over them. The one exception is, of course, Graydon Cobb, whose hair is too short to grease back and who didn’t have a brownie. Weirdly, it works. This is going to be one cute class photo.
* * *
To: Miss Ward’s Class
From AChang
Subject: Class photos
Date: Jan. 19
Dear Kindergarten Parents,
I take full responsibility for yesterday’s class picture fiasco. I assure you that under my watch the children were spic-and-span and their individual photos will look very sharp. However, because of a certain parent’s unfortunate choice of snack, the class picture turned into a dog’s breakfast. I have been assured, by the photographer, that it is “quite cute,” especially since Miss Ward covered herself in chocolate to blend in with the class. We will see. Perhaps we can all pitch in and hire the photographer to come and reshoot the class picture.
Onward.
Asami Chang
To: AChang
From: SLewicki
Subject: Class photos
Date: Jan. 19
Hi,
I will be out of the office until January 31.
Thanks,
Sasha
To: AChang
From: SCobb
Subject: Class photos
Date: Jan. 19
Asami,
What snack? Was Graydon given chocolate? Do I have to give you his list of allergies again?
Shirleen
To: AChang
From: AGordon
Subject: Class photos
Date: Jan. 19
Asami,
I believe I can speak for most of the mothers of girls when I say the snack was the least offensive thing that happened yesterday. When I picked Lulu up, she was very upset that you braided her hair even though we had just washed and blown it out for picture day. She told me all the girls felt the same way. What were you thinking? When you sent us the emails about bathing our children and telling us you would be standing by to do hair, I thought you were kidding. I would agree to put in money for a reshoot, but only so we could get rid of the braids.
Ali
* * *
14
I’m a good daughter. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I cross the bridge into Kansas City, Kansas, to find organic prunes for my mother. There is only one grocery store within a twenty-mile radius that carries the kind she likes. Apparently they act as a laxative for my dad, who, according to my mother, “can’t get the train out of the tunnel.” She is more than capable of driving to get them herself, but honest to God, I don’t think she wants to spend the gas money. She’s getting more like my grandmother every day.
It’s actually a splendid day for a little road trip. It’s mid-February—the thirteenth, to be exact. It’s still cold, but the roads are dry and the sun is shining.
God, I love my KCK—that’s Kansas City, Kansas, for those of you not from the Wheat State. It’s where I grew up and what I know best. I remember when I was a kid my dad would take me and my friends up to Sauer Castle at night and scare the crap out of us with goofy stories that seemed so scary at the time. He’d talk about a guy with a crazy cat who lived in the castle and wasn’t allowed out; then he’d pretend to see the guy in the window. We would all scream and laugh at the same time.
But now we live in Overland Park, Kansas, essentially a suburb of Kansas City, Missouri, which is generally known as Kansas City. The two KCs are spitting distance from each other, but sometimes I feel like a traitor for moving across the bridge.
Max is spending the day at the store with Ron, so I have a little extra time on my hands. Plus the place with the magic prunes is right beside this really cool coffee shop, called Grab a Java, that I love and hardly ever get a chance to go to. It’s the kind of place where bearded lumber-sexuals and their female counterparts hang out. I feel hip just walking in there. It was the first place I ever ate avocado toast. I consider texting Don to see if he wants to meet me there, you know, for coffee, but ever since my conversation with Nina I have been trying not to instigate anything. Now I’m just a reactor.
I’m feeling pretty good about myself these days. The fallout from Brownie-gate was almost nonexistent. My sabotage efforts, though not in vain, turned out to be unnecessary. Asami took almost all the heat because of the hair debacle. And once again, as predicted by me, the chocolate-smudged class photo was absolutely adorable.
Physically, I’m feeling great. I’m at peak performance level for a woman of my age and commitment to exercise. That’s what Garth tells me, anyway. I’ve cut back on my wine since January and plan to stay semidry until after the mud run. It’s not like I have a drinking problem, but I am trying to eat and drink clean to help make my body a more efficient machine. My only indulgence is one cup of coffee a day, which is why I’m humming Katy Perry’s “Roar” when I pull into the parking lot of Rupert’s Fine Foods. I can already smell the Grab a Java brewing.
After picking up a shitload of prunes, some Ezekiel bread, coconut water, and kale, I head next door craving the double breve I’m going to revel in. As I’m walking, some yelling down the street grabs my attention. I look toward the sound and about fifty yards away are two women, a blonde and a brunette, standing beside a black SUV yelling at each other. The blonde is dressed all in black and the other seems to have a white jacket on.
I’m not much of a rubbernecker, but for some reason I’m intrigued. The words aren’t clear, but both women seem to be giving as good as they get. Then, much to my surprise, the brunette hauls off and slaps the blonde across the face and boy it’s a resounding smack. What can I say? We grow our women tough here in KCK!
I walk into Grab a Java and head to the counter, wondering under what circumstances I would slap another woman. Asami comes to mind.
Grab a Java is its usual groovy self. Today’s barista is a nymphlike little pixie with cropped jet-black hair and a stud in her lip. The chalkboard sign tells me her name is Jack. Of course it is. No girl who looks like that is ever named Susan.
“Hey.” I nod. She nods back. Very hip.
“Double breve, please.”
She nods again. I look a
round the tiny shop. It has a rustic charm. Metal and wood tables are scattered around the room, as are barrels filled (not really) with coffee beans. The walls are black chalkboard and present the menu of drinks and food—limited but good. Did I mention the avocado toast? All kinds of quips are also scattered around the room; my favorite is “Dear Karma, I have a list of people you missed.” It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday—only three people hunched over their computers with their headphones on, a guy writing music notes on a piece of paper, and an older man reading the paper with a dog sitting at his feet.
“Double breve.” Jack speaks her first words to me. “Four twenty-five.”
I pay and toss the change into a jar labeled “Tipping—Not Just for Cows.” Normally I would stay and savor my coffee—being here is like a little vacation—but my mother is probably waiting to stew up the prunes for my dad, so I jump back into the Odyssey and pull onto the street. First, though, I take a selfie in front of Grab a Java and text it to Don. So much for being the reactor.
I notice the battling women are still standing by the side of the road. I take a peek as I go by and lock eyes with Kim Fancy. Five things go through my mind immediately.
1. Hey! There’s Dr. Evil.
2. I wonder if she knows about Grab a Java.
3. Who is she with?
4. Huh, I wonder what they were arguing about?
And finally,
5. Holy shit! One of them bitch-slapped the other.
I’m way past them by the time that final thought enters my mind. I try to remember who slapped who. They were both on the street, but I’m pretty sure the one in white did the smacking so that would be Dr. Evil. Well, no surprise there.
As I’m crossing back into KCMO, my cell phone rings. It’s Nina. I put it on speaker.
“You are not going to believe what I just saw!”
“What’s going on? Where are you? I need to talk to you.”
“I’m driving home. Want to meet me?”
“Sure, but I’m hungry, so can we meet at the place with the signs?”
Class Mom Page 13
