From what I can gather, every woman here is mega into Gwendolyn, the way all the guys I grew up with were mega into Hulk Hogan. Confused, anxious people like a strong leader who promises absolute order. It’s a basic tenet of fascism and pro wrestling. And, apparently, the PTA.
Gwendolyn doesn’t tan—it “causes premature aging”—but she does pay two hundred and fifty dollars a month to be airbrushed the color of coffee with cream and sugar. It takes a lot of work to make you look like you’re effortlessly beautiful. Personally, I don’t get it. If I wanted to look like I wasn’t wearing makeup, I’d just skip the process altogether. I don’t mind people knowing that I’ve put in some effort. That’s kind of the point, actually. But what’s really in now is for nobody to know that you’ve made any effort at all. That everything from your gel manicure to your highlights look natural, which seems like a big waste of money and gel polish to me.
I don’t get it, but I do appreciate Gwendolyn for bringing this trend to McKinley, because the local beauty community owes her our livelihood. Once she started telling people that the secret to her look was one hundred ounces of water and nine hours of sleep at night, the spa was overrun with women who wanted to look natural. The problem with wanting to look natural in a world that still expects women to look fuckable is that you want to look like you naturally looked when you were twenty, when you were maybe drinking a couple ounces of water a day and stumbling in to work hungover, on three hours of sleep, and were still a straight-up hottie.
I don’t know how much water Gwendolyn drinks or how much sleep she actually gets, but I can tell you by looking her up in our database that Gwendolyn’s “no-makeup” look is the result of bimonthly facials, quarterly Botox injections, and a half-syringe of filler at the apples of her cheeks, refilled twice per year to add some fat to her skinny-ass face.
Look, everyone needs a little help. There’s nothing unnatural about that. I like my help to come in the form of a heavy-duty push-up bra, a professional-grade concealer/foundation that could also work to spackle your walls, and the occasional morning margarita. I don’t like the idea that anyone should feel bad about the help they get, or the help they need. And I sure as shit don’t like when people lie about it.
A face that has trouble matching the tone of your voice is not the “natural and organic” lifestyle that Gwendolyn promotes on her blog and her Instagram, except that botulism is naturally occurring, and our tanning solution is labeled as organic because who the fuck is going to check? Only one woman has ever asked what made it organic. She was standing there in her paper panties bent over at the waist like a Barbie doll so I could tan the crease under her butt cheeks. “It’s made from the skin of naturally felled acorns,” I’d said, and she’d nodded like that made any sense at all. I swear to God you can tell women like this that anything is organic, and they’d pay three times as much for it.
Speaking of organic, Gwendolyn is now discussing the importance of using an organic, nontoxic homeopathic solution whenever treating head lice.
“We’re facing a crisis here,” she says, nearly whispering. A pause, and then her voice gets louder. “Our children are facing a crisis.”
Now, look, I had lice for about ten years growing up. Your head is a little itchy because there are bugs on it, but eventually the bugs die. Big deal. It’s annoying, sure, but it’s not exactly a crisis. A crisis is when your girlfriend has amnesia and doesn’t remember who she is and has been pulled into a crime ring that’s taking advantage of her lack of memory, which somehow doesn’t affect her driving skills. That’s from Fast & Furious, by the way, and Dom Toretto got through it and he and Letty got back together and everything.
Maybe I am high. Because the crisis Gwendolyn is talking about isn’t even lice.
“As you know,” she says, smiling, “I’m dedicated to being the change I wish to see in the world. I’m dedicated to making our school and our world safer for our kids. I’m not afraid to cause a stir. Or take on big challenges.” She pauses here, and the crowd applauds in agreement, like Gwendolyn is some sort of freedom fighter. I gotta admit, the energy here is contagious.
“And that’s why I’m so proud to bring the following issue to your attention. An issue that’s quite literally poisoning our children . . . right in front of us. Every year. An issue that’s been disguised as fun and fundraising, an honored tradition that has been tainted by our own laziness and inattentiveness.”
Dramatic music rises, and I lean forward in my chair.
It isn’t quite pyrotechnics, but a projector suddenly turns on, and two words illuminate the movie-theater-size screen behind Gwendolyn. Her nemesis has been named. The gauntlet has been thrown.
Gwendolyn James is calling out the bake sale. And with that, I am fucking outta here.
13
Amy
Most people know to sneak in when they’re late. I know to sneak in when I’m late. But sneaking in is for people who are thinking clearly, and there are too many thoughts zipping through my mind, too many things on my ever-growing to-do list. What I’m saying is, I forgot to sneak in. In I walk, like I’m not arriving twenty minutes after the scheduled “gathering time.” Gwendolyn clocks me right away.
“Oh,” she cries out, shielding her eyes from the stage lights, “Amy Mitchell! How nice of you to join us. Right on time, as usual!”
The crowd laughs nervously, but I don’t even crack a smile. I just shrug and look around for a seat.
“I was just naming the lead on our Bake Sale Task Force,” Gwendolyn continues, “and I think you’re just the woman for the job!”
That stops me in my tracks. She can’t be serious. I am drowning at work; I am juggling one stressed-out kid, one lazy-ass kid, one sick dog, and a marriage that is hanging by one mangy little thread—and also? I just realized I have to pee. I have not peed today, or if I did, I can’t remember it. I absolutely cannot head some stupid, made-up Bake Sale Task Force. I just cannot.
The word is out of my mouth and into the atmosphere before I can even think it through.
“No.”
It hangs there for a moment, and then incites a ripple of murmuring through the crowd.
“Pardon me?” Gwendolyn places a hand over her heart as she says this, pretending to truly give a shit.
“I SAID . . . NO.”
That came out a little louder than it needed to, I know. It’s a bad idea to cross Gwendolyn. The last mom who pissed her off ended up suddenly moving her family to South Dakota. But fuck it.
“No, Gwendolyn. I don’t want to be on the Bake Sale Task Force.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. “Or the Lice Task Force. Or the Community Recycling Task Force, which I’m pretty sure gave me mercury poisoning last year. I don’t want to bring snacks for the class. I don’t want to go to class. I’m done with school! I finished thirteen goddamn years ago! I don’t want to spend my entire life taking care of everything for everyone. I quit!”
Gwendolyn looks like a robot who has just found out she isn’t a real person. “You . . . quit?” She forces a laugh. “You quit . . . what, honey?”
“This! All of this! I quit . . . trying so damn hard. I’m done.”