Class

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “It’s Hungry Kids,” said Karen, embarrassed and also surprised he was opening his wallet this quickly. It usually took a few weeks to get money out of anyone. At the very least, there were accounting teams to consult. Besides, who carried around paper checks anymore? “But—oh my God, Clay, you don’t have to do it right here! I mean, unless you want to…”

  “Why wait? As you said, the kids in my backyard are hungry. Though maybe not the kids in my actual backyard, since those are my own greedy little bastards.”

  “Point taken,” said Karen, feeling bold. “Well, how’s seventy-five grand, and you win my eternal devotion?”

  “Let’s make it a hundred,” he said, writing down the number and then signing his name at the bottom with what looked like a single horizontal line.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “Well, thank you so much, Clay. Really.”

  “My pleasure. Hey, next summer, you and Mark—”

  “It’s Matt.”

  “Matt—that’s right. Well, you and Matt should come visit us out at the beach. We’ve got lots of room. And my youngest daughter, Quinn, just turned eight. She and your kid—”

  “Ruby.”

  “Ruby—that’s my niece’s name too.”

  “Funny,” said Karen. “Where does she live?”

  “San Fran.”

  “Of course,” said Karen, grimacing. While pregnant, she’d spent countless nights lying awake trying to dream up a name that sounded original without being odd, dignified while still cute. She didn’t want it to overwhelm her husband’s last name either; to her mind, McClelland was already a mouthful. Karen had always considered her own first name to be dispiritingly bland and was determined not to stigmatize her own daughter in a similar fashion. She’d always hated her last name too, if only because it rhymed with nipple and had therefore inspired endless schoolyard taunts. According to family lore, Kipple had once been Kiplowitz, but the bureaucrats at Ellis Island couldn’t be bothered to spell it out. Matt hadn’t seemed to care all that much what they named the baby, though he’d boycotted one suggestion of Karen’s (Eden), insisting that it sounded like a stripper. Ruby had been Karen’s second choice, and Matt had been fine with it. But now she wished he hadn’t been. There seemed to be Rubys everywhere. Or, at least, they were everywhere in a certain milieu. There had been two others in Ruby’s pre-K class at Elm Tree alone. And there were three in her gymnastics class. Though there seemed to be considerably fewer at Betts.

  “Well, your Ruby and my Quinn can play in the pool while the grown-ups keep themselves in refreshments,” said Clay.

  “That sounds like a dream,” said Karen, knowing it would never happen. There was no way Matt would ever agree to show up at the home of some hedge-fund zillionaire acquaintance of his wife’s and partake of the guy’s munificence, never mind spend the night in his mansion. Matt had had the same friends since high school and showed few signs of being interested in making new ones.

  “Great. I’ll have my assistant call you to book a weekend. In the meantime, I should really run. I’m actually going to Hong Kong this afternoon.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish I was. Long fucking flight. But it was great to see you.” Clay stood up. So did Karen. They embraced again. “Seriously, you look amazing.”

  “So do you,” said Karen. “The fleece is very flattering.”

  “Are you kidding? I put on this jacket especially for you.” He lifted his pullover by the zippered collar and grinned at her.

  “Well, it’s a winning look.”

  “Not as winning as yours.”

  “You’re a total liar. But thanks.”

  “Not in this case.” He kissed Karen on the cheek and walked out.

  Karen stayed behind to finish her sparkling water and, for a few more minutes, to bask in the afterglow of what, on all counts, had to be called a successful lunch.

  On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Ruby stayed late for Betts’s after-school program, which was known simply as After School. Ruby’s first two years at the school, Karen had secretly dismissed the program as subsidized daycare for low-income students. Instead, she’d had Ashley, a white twenty-year-old psychology major at a local college, pick Ruby up at three o’clock three days a week. Karen couldn’t deal with the racial politics of employing a woman with darker skin than her own to help raise her child. Or was her prohibition on doing so even more problematic? Was she denying jobs to the people who needed them most? In any case, mostly for financial reasons, she’d decided to give After School a chance this year and had been pleasantly surprised by the results. Ruby seemed fine about staying late a few afternoons a week. And at fifteen bucks for the whole afternoon, it was certainly cheaper, and arguably more educational, than having Ashley bring Ruby home at three o’clock to do glitter tattoos.

  Still giddy from her lunch with Clay when she entered the building later that afternoon, Karen also felt uncharacteristically sanguine about the school. At the sight of a fifth-grader sitting in the hall sipping a Pepsi, Karen, rather than experiencing the usual tsunami of disapproval regarding the empty calories, told herself that her daughter was receiving an invaluable, once-in-a-lifetime education in multiculturalism and class difference. It was the same when, on her way into the gymnasium, she passed two mothers talking and overheard one of them say to the other, “I pulled off all my gels this morning, but I ain’t be getting them redone till payday,” her fingernails raised for inspection. Rather than cringe at the woman’s grammar—never mind Karen’s feelings about nail extensions—Karen imagined how stressful it would be to live paycheck to paycheck and reminded herself how lucky she was. Moreover, at the sight of her own rosy-cheeked progeny sitting in the corner of the gymnasium awaiting pickup, Karen felt as if she were the luckiest woman in the world. “Ruby Doobie!” she cried.

  “Mommy!” cried Ruby, matching Karen’s exuberant tone as she jumped up and ran toward her. Mother and daughter embraced as closely as flesh allowed. The word miracle got thrown around a lot when it came to children. But Ruby’s existence often struck Karen as that very thing—not only because Karen had spent two frustrating years trying to get pregnant, but because Karen had put all her own unrealized dreams of changing the world into her daughter’s not-quite-four-foot frame.

  But Karen’s sense of well-being lasted only so long. On the walk home late that afternoon, their fingers entwined and arms swinging in unison, Ruby informed her mother that Maeve was still out. Somehow, Karen found the news disturbing and kept returning to it throughout the evening, wondering if she’d underestimated the severity of Maeve’s injuries. Having resolved to send Maeve’s mother, Laura, a carefully worded e-mail inquiring about her daughter’s condition, Karen then struggled to get Ruby to bed. Ruby claimed not to be tired and fought all of Karen’s attempts to convince her otherwise until Karen’s entire body was in a tangle of frustration.

  She’d only just gotten Ruby down for the night—nearly an hour later than normal—when Matt waltzed through the door. He was late, as usual, but even later than usual. And Karen was as irritated as ever, but even more so. Sometimes it seemed as if Matt considered raising Ruby to be Karen’s project rather than a joint one. Or was that unfair? Maybe she was just mad at him for not being as complimentary as Clay Phipps. “What’s up?” he said, taking off his coat.

  “What’s up?” she answered, her voice rising on the up. “It just took me, like, two hours to get Ruby to sleep. That’s what’s up. She only quieted down, like, five minutes ago. And I’m completely fried.”

  “So go to bed,” said Matt.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, seeming finally to comprehend. “But you won’t believe this story.”

  “What story?” said Karen, softening slightly.

  “You know the old Dominican guy down the block who’s always sitting on the stoop—Miguel?”
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  “Yeah.”

  “He’s getting kicked out of his ground-floor apartment after forty fucking years. I mean, the guy fucking grew up there! But his mom died a few years ago, and she was the only family he had. And now this scumbag developer has come in and is planning to turn it into a single-family, state-of-the-art ‘passive house’”—Matt made quote marks in the air—“whatever the fuck that is. Anyway, I offered to represent him for free in housing court. We were out on his stoop talking strategy.”

  “Well, that was nice of you,” said Karen, feeling torn. On the one hand, she admired her husband for taking up cases he didn’t need to take up. She also felt sorry for Miguel, who had always been friendly to her and Ruby, sometimes making funny noises with his cheek and thumb for Ruby’s amusement as they walked by. Moreover, the loss of Miguel would undoubtedly make the neighborhood a tiny bit less diverse and a tiny bit more like a community with invisible gates. It wasn’t hard to imagine the guy ending up on the street either.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel that Matt’s time might be just as well spent paying attention to his wife and daughter as it was helping out a neighbor. There was also the fact that Karen was terrified of Miguel’s pit bull, who had a thick black ring around one eye, giving him the appearance of a canine pirate. Then there was the deafening salsa he played at all hours of the day and night, apparently unaware that others might not enjoy his music as much as he did. Karen also secretly considered the building as it existed now to be a blight on the block, with its plastic-sheathed windows and chipping stucco. The fetid garbage smell that emanated from the front yard was another matter, as was the Dominican flag that Miguel flew out his window, the sight of which Karen found difficult to reconcile with her interior-decorating taste. Not that she was prepared to admit any of this to her husband. “But if the building is already sold,” she said, “I doubt there’s much you or anyone else can do. I’m sure Miguel didn’t have a lease.”

  “He didn’t have a lease, but he’s always paid his rent,” said Matt. “And—most important—he’s a human being who deserves a roof over his head.”

  “Well, I feel bad for the guy,” said Karen. “But in all honesty, I won’t miss his dog. I actually cross the street when it comes near me.”

  “Jesus! Whose side are you on?” cried Matt.

  “I’m on Miguel’s side!” replied Karen. “But I also think pit bulls are scary. They’re illegal in England, you know.”

  “Pit bulls aren’t even a real breed of dog—look it up. It’s just a blanket term. But whatever.” Matt grimaced. “So, what did you do today?”

  As generic and open-ended as the question was, it still irked Karen. “You mean in addition to getting our daughter fed, bathed, and to sleep? Well, I made a hundred grand for the organization at lunch.”

  “Wow, good job.”

  “Yeah, I had lunch with a college acquaintance—this preppy guy named Clay Phipps who’s made a gazillion dollars running some hedge fund. He actually wrote a check on the spot.”

  “Nice tax write-off, I guess. Or at least it would be if he paid taxes, which he probably doesn’t, being a hedgie and all.”

  “Do you have to be so cynical?”

  “You probably wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t.” Matt smiled.

  “Whatever you say.” Karen smiled back. “Anyway, he invited the three of us out to visit him and his family next summer at his waterfront mansion.” Karen didn’t actually know for a fact that the island house was on the waterfront, but she assumed so. She also assumed her husband would reject the invitation outright. But she needed to go through the motions of asking him so she could feel frustrated and resentful but also admire his steadfastness to his principles.

  “Sorry—I’ll leave the social climbing to you,” said Matt, right on cue.

  “So you’d rather spend the entire summer stuck in the city,” said Karen, “sweltering to death and going to ‘family swim’ at the overchlorinated YMCA pool than get wined and dined in some gorgeous house with ocean breezes while Ruby plays in an actual pool that doesn’t require shower shoes when you walk around it because there aren’t pubic hairs everywhere you look?”

  “I thought your whole thing was that you hated vacations.”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.”

  “Karen, I don’t know this guy from Adam,” Matt continued. “What am I going to do there? Lie in a lounger humming to myself while the two of you talk about what happened to everyone in your freshman dorm?”

  “Fine,” she said, still playing the martyr even though she had to admit that her husband had a point. “You’re not invited. Okay? Forget I ever said anything. It’s better to be hot and bothered and have integrity than to actually enjoy the summer. Because life is long.”

  Matt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Speaking of shower shoes, I’m going to shower, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  After he disappeared, Karen sat down on the sofa with her laptop and began composing a message to Maeve’s mother, Laura. Just as she was typing the sentence I hope Maeve is doing okay, an e-mail from Laura herself uncannily flashed across Karen’s screen. On further inspection, she determined it was a group e-mail sent to all the parents in Ruby’s third-grade class. Karen quickly scanned the message. It read:

  Dear Room 303 Parents,

  As some of you know, our daughter, Maeve, was injured Friday morning during the community-unit celebration. Evan and I had an early-morning work commitment and were unable to attend. But we’ve pieced together what happened by speaking to various people who were there at the time. We also saw firsthand the injuries suffered by our daughter, who has a fractured septum, had to spend a full day in the hospital, and is now suffering from PTSD.

  This is not the first time that Jayyden Price has bullied our daughter. What happened on Friday was part of a long-standing pattern that began in second grade and that includes verbal taunts and, in at least one case prior to Friday’s incident, physical violence. During recess last spring, he kicked Maeve in the shin, causing severe bruising.

  We have felt privileged to be part of a school community that prioritizes diversity. But our daughter’s physical safety trumps all else. Principal Chambers does not seem to agree. Here is a transcript of our meeting with her yesterday, which my husband, Evan, recorded:

  Evan: We don’t feel safe having our daughter in the same class as this child [Jayyden Price].

  Ms. Chambers: I can assure you that [Jayyden] is receiving all the special services this school offers. He meets with our school psychologist three days a week, and since the incident, he has been banned from recess. There is no excuse for what he did to your daughter, but I ask you to appreciate that he has an unstable family situation. And I understand that your daughter can be provocative.

  Evan: So you’re blaming our daughter for having her nose broken? Unbelievable—

  Ms. Chambers (interrupting): I’m not saying that.

  Laura: We feel sorry for Jayyden. But our first priority is keeping our own daughter safe. How can it be that, as principal, your first priority is not guaranteeing the safety of the children at this school?

  Ms. Chambers: I can do my best to create a supportive and accountable environment, but I cannot guarantee the safety of any child. I wish I could. [Laughs.]

  Evan: Well, you can guarantee that our daughter will not be bullied by Jayyden by removing him from the school and sending him somewhere for troubled children.

  Ms. Chambers: I cannot make Jayyden leave this school. Nor is there anywhere I can legally send him. This is a public school, and he has just as much of a right to be here as Maeve does.

  Evan: Well, then we’re taking Maeve out.

  Ms. Chambers: We’ll be sorry to see your family go—and we hope you change your minds.

  In short, she offered nothing—and we will not, alas, be changing our minds. Maeve will miss all her friends at Betts, just as we will miss being part of the Betts co
mmunity. But we feel we have no other choice but to remove her from the school. We’ve appealed to the board of education this week for a safety transfer to another elementary school in the district.

  Thank you for your support and understanding,

  Laura Collier and Evan Shaw

  (parents of Maeve Collier-Shaw)

  Karen’s first emotion, before she realized what the e-mail actually amounted to—namely, a kiss-off to the parent body of Betts—was hurt. In Laura’s attempt to piece together what happened, why had she not reached out to Karen? Had Laura developed a stealth friendship with one of the other mothers in the class? Karen’s second emotion was embarrassment and discomfort on behalf of Jayyden and his family. Then she recalled that there was no e-mail contact info on the class list for Jayyden, so it was unlikely that Aunt Carla or any of Jayyden’s cousins would ever see Laura’s letter. Karen’s third thought was that Ruby would be upset when she heard Maeve was leaving Betts.

  But the reality—which was only now beginning to dawn on Karen—was that she was just as upset as her daughter was likely to be, if not more so, by Maeve’s departure. It was not the loss of Maeve, per se, but the loss of her representative status. By Karen’s calculations, Ruby would now be one of only three Caucasian girls in the class—possibly four, depending on whether you counted the Cuban girl, Sofia. Maeve had also been Room 303’s only blonde—a superficial detail, of course. And yet, somehow, it mattered. Somehow, the existence of that golden hair in that kaleidoscopic setting held the promise of a more beautiful and more unified world.