I’m sitting, feet up, licking powdered sugar off my fingers and fantasizing about what Jesse looks like without a shirt on when Gwendolyn strikes.
“Amy. Mitchell.” She is trying to whisper, but her rage makes it seem more like a shout. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”
“It’s the bake sale, right? I mean, I know I resigned and all, but I’d signed up, and I didn’t want to leave you hanging. Donut hole?” I hold the plastic container up like a peace offering, as if Gwendolyn has let an artificial flavor pass her lips since the millennium.
“Is this funny to you?” she whispers, her pack of Moms gathering behind her, creating a wall that shields the rest of the room from Gwendolyn’s true nature.
“Look,” I say, “I was going to make them at home, but honestly I kinda lost track of things lately—”
Gwendolyn’s arms—lean and long—strike quickly, the left knocking the donuts from my outstretched hands, and the right sending the second package tumbling to the floor. Her kickboxing classes are really paying off.
“Listen here, Amy Mitchell.” She says my name like it’s in quotation marks. “I know that everyone thinks you’re sooooo sweet. And soooo relatable. And sooooo smart. But you know what I think you are? I think you’re a liability. This might be a joke to you, but it isn’t to me. Because this school has high standards. And we have high standards. And that’s why our school’s test scores are the highest in the state, has the best college acceptance rate in the state, and, yeah, the best bake sale in the state, six years running. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, Amy. But I happen to believe that excellent schools make excellent children. And that’s what we want—excellent children.”
“Don’t we want happy children?” I counter, tentatively.
“Excellent children are happy children, Amy! Because losers are never happy, and nobody wants to be a loser! Did you forget that when Mike left you?”
That hits me in the gut. How does she know all this Mike stuff? Did I make some announcement that I forgot about? Is Mike out there parading his new Internet girlfriend around town? Normally I’d burst into tears, but for some reason I’ve broken into a reflexive smile. And my reflexive smile is making Gwendolyn even angrier.
“Now, I know that you are hurting, and I wish you peace and love, and I pray for the healing of your marriage.”
I know how angry I have to be to pray for someone, and I’m a little afraid at this point. But Gwendolyn isn’t done.
“I want to remind you of something: which is that I am not just the head of the Mom Squad. I’m the chair of the board. The largest donor to McKinley in the history of our school. I sit on forty-seven councils and committees and task forces across the school and the school district. Nobody takes a class, kicks a ball, or plays a clarinet at this school without my say-so, and I can and will make life a living hell for you and your dirty little children, do you understand?”
Yesterday, Gwendolyn had posted a guided meditation to her blog. The entire basis of it was to “cultivate a mindfulness practice based in loving kindness.” Today, she is foaming at the mouth, threatening my children over a few boxes of donut holes and one public outburst of mine. I am speechless.
Gwendolyn closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, sighing openmouthed in my direction. Her breath smells like hay. When she opens her eyes, she smiles at me, as if she has just rebooted, and turns to her pack of acolytes, who turn and follow her like a row of baby ducks chasing their mother. Just one hangs back. Stacy and I have never had a conversation deeper than the typical pleasantries you exchange when you pass another mom in the hall, so I don’t know what I’m expecting when she lingers at my now-empty table.
“You’re . . . so fucked,” she whispers. It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a fact.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Ingrid Dawson
Subject: Referral for Mental Health Specialist
Dear Mrs. Mitchell,
I’m Ingrid, one of the fifth-grade counselors here at McKinley. Today I had the pleasure of meeting with Jane, who was sent to the nurse’s office with stomach cramps and a racing heart. I’m so glad that she and I had a chance to connect. She is certainly a very driven girl, and you and your husband must be very proud of her.
As you know, high-achieving girls tend to have high stress and high anxiety, as well. Per the voicemails I left you today, I am including several referrals to mental health counselors who specialize in childhood anxiety.
Please contact me with any questions.
Best,
Ingrid
The email should read, “Congratulations! You’ve failed your child! She’s a walking ball of anxiety, and even an adult who barely knows her can tell she’s wound a little too tightly! Don’t worry, it’ll definitely get worse when you tell her that her parents are getting a divorce!”
I add “call counselors” to my to-do list, tap out a reply that I hope reads as grateful and not guilt-riddled, and then call the McKinley Absentee line.
“Hello, this is Amy Mitchell, calling to let you know that Jane and Dylan Mitchell will be absent tomorrow due to a . . . family emergency. Thank you.”
“MOM!”
Jane clatters down the stairs like a newborn foal just trying to get her legs under her.
“MOTHER. AMY!” Jane bursts into the kitchen, still trying to pull her leggings over her scrawny little bod. There is rage in her eyes. Behind her, Dylan stumbles in, more confused than upset.
“School started ONE HOUR AGO,” Jane shouts, grabbing the keys to the van. “Why didn’t you wake us up? Stop smiling! We need to go. NOW.”
I sip my coffee while she taps her foot impatiently.
“No school today,” I say, turning the page of my newspaper.
Jane rushes to the McKinley calendar that we keep on the fridge.
“Yes, there is!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at the page.
“Well, there is. Just . . . not for you two. I called you in sick.”
Dylan gives a fist pump and runs over to hug me. “You’re the best mom in the whole world,” he whispers into my hair with his sleepy breath. “Can I go play Xbox?”
Jane looks at me as if I’d just told her that what was in my coffee cup wasn’t coffee, but the blood of orphaned puppies.
“You can’t . . . do that,” she says, but her face has softened.
“I can do anything I want!” I say. “I’m a mom! Now, we have a full day to do anything we want. Except play Xbox. What do you all want to do? Go for a hike? Go to Fun City and ride some roller coasters? Go see a movie and order all the junk food we can handle? Jane, I’ll even let you eat popcorn and I won’t tell your orthodontist.”
Jane’s agitation is obvious. Her shoulders remain tucked up by her ears as she kicks off her shoes and shoves me over on the banquette, reaching for my toast.
“So we’re just going to do nothing?”
WE LAST APPROXIMATELY THREE HOURS BEFORE JANE GETS antsy.
“What if I just checked in online to see what assignments I’m missing, so I don’t fall behind?” she whines, as if watching Harry Potter on a weekday morning is an unjust punishment and not the dream day of basically any other kid.