“Can’t you arrange the same sort of thing with a more reputable school? The Fancy Girls’ School, for instance?” Pamela inquired.
“No. I can’t. This is part of a pilot program that was initiated by the mayor’s office. They’re interested in fostering partnerships between public and private schools and chose The Public School and The School because of our outstanding music programs. The mayor has asked the combined group to perform at Gracie Mansion during the holiday season.”
Sara knew all along that this would be the part that would hook Pamela, but got a certain pleasure out of luring her in slowly.
“Well, all right, then,” Pamela agreed, feigning reticence. “Since it is such an unorthodox partnership for The School, I think it best that I be the one to inform the parents of the choral members.”
At that moment, Margaret barged breathlessly into Pamela’s office. “April Winter has fainted on the volleyball court. We called nine one one, and an ambulance is on the way.”
“I keep telling Dana she has to get some breakfast into that child,” Pamela responded casually. Taking her cue from her mentor, Felicity remained immobile as Sara dashed out, following Margaret back to the gym.
The students were nervously standing around in their gym uniforms and sneakers, relieved that they weren’t the one on the floor getting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Ms. Nash. Sara had her CPR and Red Cross emergency certification and was just the person one would want to have on board one’s lifeboat in the event of a shipwreck.
When the ambulance arrived, most of the kids backed up to clear the way, but a curious few stuck close to the action, anxious to see what would happen.
Pamela waltzed into the gym just as the gurney was wheeling April out, her face covered with an oxygen mask, two emergency medics in bright orange jumpsuits flanking her sides. With a morbid desire to pick up some titillating detail they could pass on to their friends, a few students trailed behind.
“Pamela, why don’t you go in the ambulance? I’ll call the Winters and then follow in a cab,” Sara suggested.
“No, you go in the ambulance. I should stay back and make sure the children are all right,” Pamela insisted. “They must be shaken up.”
“Fine,” Sara snapped, and hopped into the vehicle just as the siren began to wail.
Sara ended up spending the better part of the morning in the emergency room, where she remained with April until the Winters arrived. Both Dana and Patrick responded to their daughter’s predicament with more anger than compassion, blaming her for skipping breakfast and not getting enough sleep the night before. Sara stood to the side as the resident psychiatrist explained to them that April was dangerously underweight and exhibited multiple symptoms of depression, but the Winters continued to insist that her problems were nothing serious.
After the third time that Dana sharply asked, “Where the hell is Pamela?” Sara decided it was time for her to leave. There was nothing more she could do for them, and she was beginning to feel unwelcome. Also, she had an interview scheduled in forty-five minutes that she really shouldn’t miss.
On her way back to The School, Sara thought about how tragically April’s adolescence was unfolding. As if the external pressures weren’t enough, she had her parents’ expectations to contend with as well and was literally being pushed to the brink of collapse. She remembered that there had been early signs of April’s instability, when in first or second grade, she had pulled out all her eyelashes. Sara recalled thinking at the time that Pamela was irresponsible for not recommending psychiatric help to the Winters before the problem worsened.
Sara was grateful that in Kindergarten admissions the children were relatively oblivious to the external turmoil, and that sensible parents made every effort to shield their children from it. But there were always a few cases in which the parental hysteria filtered down, laying early groundwork for this type of anxiety-related disorder. She hoped that Helen wasn’t exerting undue pressure. She would hate to see Zoe suffering like April.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Helen arrived at The School to take Zoe on a prearranged shopping expedition. As they traveled downtown, Zoe poured out all the gory details of April’s collapse.
“We were in the middle of a volleyball game. She was on my team. Ethan Weill whacked the ball really hard and it zoomed right over April’s head. She jumped up to get it, missed, and then sort of crumpled on the floor. We stopped the game; Mr. Buff ran over and turned her over and she looked dead. But she was breathing. Marissa ran upstairs for help; I ran and got water while everyone else was just standing around looking panic-stricken. Sara came in and was giving her CPR when the ambulance arrived. I guess she’s at the hospital now.”
“Did she regain consciousness?” Helen asked.
“Not before she was taken to the ambulance.”
“That’s serious.”
“No kidding. And, Mom, all the kids are saying that if she misses too much school she might not get into high school.”
“Sweetie, if April’s health is in jeopardy, treating her physical problems has to take precedence over everything else in her life,” Helen explained gently.
“And what if she can’t take the SAPS?”
“Zoe, none of that matters if she’s sick. She’s had problems for years that have gone untreated. The stress of admissions has exacerbated them, and hopefully now, the Winters will be forced to face reality and get her help. Her education may have to be put on hold for a while.”
Zoe listened intently, thinking about whether what her mother said supported or disputed what some of the kids at school were saying today—that April was on the verge of committing academic suicide.
Their destination was SoHo—Manhattan’s answer to the shopping mall. The cobblestoned former industrial district, lined with dignified cast-iron buildings, had over the past ten years been transformed by developers from a bohemian neighborhood into a retailer’s paradise. Now it was home to every store in the lexicon of teenage shopaholics and on the weekends was overrun by tourists on the prowl for urbane consumables. And as far as Zoe was concerned, it was the place to shop.
The search for the perfect jeans and hooded sweatshirts was an activity they both enjoyed. Helen got vicarious pleasure from seeing her daughter look adorable in virtually everything she tried on, while Zoe was glad to be the beneficiary of her mother’s discerning eye and credit card largesse. After a fruitful hour at Zoe’s current favorite store, Betwixt, Between and Beyond, they stopped for a break at a trendy snack bar, popular for its vast selection of panini.
“Mom, tell me about your boyfriends before Daddy,” Zoe asked out of the blue.
Helen paused for a moment, wondering what sparked this question. She hesitantly began a shorthand version of her premarital love life, careful to avoid any mention of one-night stands and zipless fucks—not that there were many, but there were enough to edit when speaking to a teenaged daughter.
“So you were a virgin when you met Daddy?” Zoe inquired curiously.
“Uh, not exactly,” Helen hedged. “But that’s not important. The important thing is that we’ve been faithful to each other since we got married.”
“Aren’t you ever tempted? You know, by other men?” Zoe asked. Helen couldn’t help but wonder if there were subconscious or, for that matter, conscious thoughts of Phillip Cashin motivating Zoe’s query.
“Rarely. But neither of us would ever compromise our relationship or our family by doing something foolish,” she stated definitively, for her own benefit as much as Zoe’s. They both fell silent and nibbled on their prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches, Helen wistfully thinking of missed opportunities, Zoe deciding which of her new outfits she would wear the next day.
When they returned home that evening, they listened to the numerous voice-mail messages that had accumulated in their absence, all related to April Winter’s hospitalization. Zoe excitedly returned the calls from her friends, anxious to get filled in on the most recent developme
nts, and later that evening, Helen reluctantly returned Dana’s call.
“As president of the Parents’ Association, I thought you should get a heads-up on the situation,” Dana began what was clearly going to be a drawn-out saga. Helen took off her shoes, put up her feet, and quietly plugged in the hands-free headset so she could sort through the mail while Dana yammered.
“April experienced a momentary black-out in gym class at ten thirty-seven this morning and was rushed—by ambulance, I may add—to the hospital. Sara Nash accompanied her in the ambulance, although I would have expected Pamela to. You know, she and April have such a special relationship. Not only did Pamela not go to the hospital, she left The School for the ENTIRE day, leaving no number where she could be reached. Later in the day, when I called The School to speak with her, Margaret tried, as usual, to cover for her. She actually burst into tears when I cross-examined her, and still wouldn’t tell me where Pamela was.”
“It’s now ten p.m. Have you heard from Pamela yet?” Helen agreed that Pamela’s not calling was unconscionable, but it was hardly out of character.
“Not a peep. Patrick is furious and, after speaking to John Toppler, is talking about a lawsuit. But I think we should proceed a little more slowly. You know, learn the facts first. Then we can discuss legal action.”
“Good idea.” Helen was having trouble imagining what the charge would be. The School had responded to the emergency in a responsible manner. Pamela’s lack of common courtesy? Rude, yes, but hardly a crime. As far as Helen was concerned, if anyone should be accused of a crime, it should be the Winters. The crime was called negligence.
“But more importantly, Dana, how is April?”
“Fine. She’s fine,” Dana answered too quickly.
“Is she home now?”
“They want her to spend a night or two there, for, er, observation,” Dana said evasively.
Psychiatric, thought Helen. “So what can I do to help?” she offered sincerely.
“There’s a PA meeting tomorrow morning. I would like to discuss the incident. So I thought I would call you tonight so you can put me on the agenda,” she demanded rather than asked.
“You know, the agenda is always approved by Pamela before each meeting. Unless I can reach her tonight, I’m afraid I can’t do that. However, I have no objection to your bringing it up at the end of the meeting in the open forum,” Helen volunteered.
“I’ll be there. But, uh, Helen, do you think I’m overreacting? I mean, I’m not sure it’s exactly a good time to, you know, cross Pamela.” Dana began to backpedal.
“Why is that?”
“You know, admissions,” she whispered.
“Dana, you have a legitimate gripe. One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Helen responded, but she knew damn well the two were intertwined. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting,” and she hung up.
As she was leaving for school the next morning, Zoe asked her parents if she could visit April in the hospital after school that day.
“That’s a nice idea. I know you and April haven’t really been close friends for a while, but I’m sure she would really appreciate it,” Helen said encouragingly.
“I think so, too. It was Julian’s idea. He thought since she’s in most of our classes, we could fill her in on what she’s missed. You know, the homework and stuff.”
“Home by six, though. You have that history paper due.”
Helen arrived at The School to find a larger group than usual assembled in the multipurpose room. Normally about a dozen room parents attended the monthly PA meeting, but today there were close to twenty. All it took was a little drama to mobilize the troops; add to that a looming combat, and the entire stroller brigade came out in full force.
As the parents hovered around the coffee urn and Danish pastry, rehashing the story of who did (or didn’t) do what during April’s crisis, in waltzed Pamela Rothschild.
“Dana, dear, I am sooo sorry about April. I so wanted to get over to the hospital, but I could not for the life of me get out of my meeting. I was stuck in a room all day with the heads of the top ten city high schools discussing admissions,” Pamela emoted histrionically.
A surge of whispering filled the room; the Rothschild worshippers murmured supportively; the skeptics raised their eyebrows and subtly sneered. Dana fell somewhere in between. Although even she was beginning to have niggling doubts about Pamela’s integrity, she forced herself to brush them aside.
Helen called the meeting to order. “The first item on the agenda is the upcoming book fair. Cheryl, could you give us a progress report?”
“We’ve received donations of over five hundred new and used books for the fair. We’re very long on fiction, so we’re looking for more nonfiction—how-to’s, cookbooks, travel guides, self-help, etcetera.”
“I could ask Michael if the Cooking Network could donate some cookbooks,” Helen offered in an effort to get the ball rolling.
“My sister just published Children’s Etiquette for the Millennium. Maybe I could get her to donate a few copies,” Lauren Toppler volunteered.
“I can name six families who should buy that book,” Pamela tittered. “I have just received a box containing a dozen copies of Tally Easton’s new book, How to Tell Your Child that the Stork Is a Kitchen Utensil. I’m sure there will be a few customers for those.” There was murmuring in the room. Did that mean Tally’s son would be admitted?
“Good. Anything else on the book fair? No. Okay. Next item on the agenda is the Holiday Festival. Janine, how is the bake sale shaping up?”
“I’m happy to report we have a long list of participants. At least forty people have volunteered to bake. The list of goodies includes petit fours, baklava, biscotti, a tarte tatin, three Boxing Day puddings—thank you, Pamela—a charlotte russe, pain au chocolat, red bean buns, and something called lou-kou-ma-des,” Janine recited.
“Sounds Greek to me,” someone in the back of the room joked. Fortunately, Irena Kaztanakas was not at the meeting.
“No sprinkle-covered Christmas cookies or red-and-green cupcakes?” Helen asked sarcastically. Apparently not for this melting pot of a parent body.
It was Pamela’s turn to hold forth. “I have some exciting news regarding the Holiday Festival. Through my relationship with the mayor’s commissioner of culture and my very close friendship with the music director at The Public School, I have come up with an innovative plan to combine our two choral groups. After several rehearsals, the group will perform during the holiday season at both schools and at Gracie Mansion. It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for our chorus to expand its repertoire and its reach. This kind of community partnership has been a long-term goal of mine, and I am grateful to my colleagues in the public schools for agreeing to participate,” Pamela explained with such conviction that she even had herself believing it had happened this way.
Helen thought this sounded like a great coup, and wondered why Sara hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe it was news to her as well.
“Thank you, Pamela,” Helen said solicitously. “The last item on the agenda is the annual fund-raising auction and gala, which will take place on February ninth. I know the committee has been working very hard on soliciting items from the entire community, and from what I have heard, they have an exciting evening planned. Denise Doyle-Gillis, our auction chair, will give us an update.” Helen ceded the floor to Denise.
Denise boasted an MBA, a law degree, and a host of managerial and organizational skills. When her first child was born, she redirected all her energy into being a full-time mother, the kind who micromanaged her children’s lives and shuttled her family in a Volvo station wagon bearing a bumper sticker that read, “Got breast milk?” The downside was, Denise could be bossy and possessed a self- assured stubbornness that made disagreeing with her almost impossible, and as a result, many of her committee members regularly griped about her abrasive and dictatorial style. But Helen recognized Denise’s take-charge attitude as an asset and
was thrilled to have her chair the auction committee, thereby allowing her to distance herself from this event. She had no time for that this year.
Denise took the floor. “The theme for this year’s gala is ‘A Night to Remember.’ The Newman family has generously underwritten the cost of renting the magnificent party boat the Spirit of New York, which will sail around Manhattan for about four hours. In every way possible, we hope for the evening to feel like a glamorous cruise. The invitation will be designed to look like a boarding pass; the wait staff will be dressed in full dress whites; the decorations nautical and the sea breeze plentiful.”
“Our goal is to raise three hundred thousand dollars. For those of you who are new to this, let me tell you how it works. The auction catalogue will contain approximately fifty items that have all been donated to The School. The donor of each item will establish its value so that when the sale begins, the auctioneer knows where to start the bidding. If all goes accordingly, there will be several people interested in each lot and the bidding will raise the sale price of the item way above its value. The auctioneer will accept bids in increasingly large increments as the sale price increases. Does everyone understand?”
“What was the highest-priced item last year?” a new parent asked.
“I think it was the walk-on part in a Woody Allen film. That went for eighteen thousand. Right, Helen?” Denise answered.
“I think that was tied with the sixth-graders’ stained-glass window,” said Helen.
“Oh, I remember that. It was spectacular. The battle scene from Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War.”
“Denise, can you tell us what some of the highlights will be this year?”
“Let’s see, there’s the week in Tuscany at a Medician villa for eight to ten people, cook and child care included; lunch with a Hollywood agent, who will read and critique a screenplay; a parking space in front of The School. There’s no limit as to how high that could go. And there are many of the always-popular classroom projects. One of this year’s more spectacular is the ginkgo-wood canoe carved by the seventh-graders out of the tree that fell in front of The School during Hurricane Doris. Oh, and I can’t forget the four-day weekend at the Winters’ Telluride ski chalet. Is that confirmed, Dana?”
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