“Okay, Mike. Goodbye.”
“Amy? I’ll go to therapy. I’ll cry and everything. I’ll cry the whole fucking time. Just please, please? Give me a chance.”
I SPEND THE DAY “WORKING FROM HOME,” WHICH I LEARNED from Dale and the other kids at work is code for “responding to the occasional email but otherwise just sitting around doing whatever you want.”
From my inbox, which is now too full to receive any new messages, I glean the following: that Dale is desperate to expand our direct-to-consumer business, that Tessa has pierced her right eyebrow, that the Ping-Pong Cup has been passed to a new champion, and that nobody has implemented the solution for the logistics issue that I proposed weeks ago. Seventy-four of the emails in my inbox are part of a chain about a one-legged foster dog looking for a home, and the merits of having an office pet that the entire staff could look after, like the rat we had in our fifth-grade classroom. That rat, by the way, grew a giant tumor and died a painful death over Spring Break 1992.
Thirty-nine of the emails are from Dale and seem to just be forwards from sales, logistics, and clients.
I resend my previous email about our logistics issue and delete the rest of my inbox.
Inbox Zero: achieved.
I TRY TO GET TO SOCCER PICKUP JUST A FEW MINUTES EARLY. Parents aren’t allowed to attend practices since the incident with Julia’s dad a few seasons ago, and even though he swears he only acted in self-defense when he clobbered the coach from behind with a full water jug after learning his daughter wouldn’t be starting in the home opener, the end result is that the closest any of us are allowed to get to the field is the sidewalk that divides the parking lot from what Gwendolyn had renamed the James Athletic Complex for Childhood Excellence in Sports.
There are fifteen minutes left of practice when I pull the van into the lot. Hopping out, I see the girls across the field, blending into a mass of burgundy practice jerseys and bouncy ponytails. Two years ago, these same practice jerseys looked like dresses on them, and Coach struggled to keep them on task for more than a few minutes at a time. Even hyper-focused Jane would spend a good portion of the practice lying on her belly in the grass, looking for four-leaf clovers. The girls look so big this year, all spindly legs and coat-hanger shoulders. I squint into the sun, trying to pick out which one is Jane.
She isn’t playing two on two.
She isn’t blasting practice penalty kicks at the goalie.
She isn’t running laps around the complex.
Where is she?
I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, which I assume is another parent who wants to talk to me about how I still haven’t sent in my twenty-five dollars for the coaches’ gifts.
It’s not a parent. It’s Jane. Blotchy-skinned and red-eyed, struggling to breathe through her sobs. Oh God, has Mike called her? Kids are geniuses now; did she hack into his phone and find out about his smarmy affair? Did Kyle Jensen find out she has a crush on him? I don’t know, but I pull my snotty, sweaty little girl into my arms, where she cries harder than she did when she found out that Justin Bieber married someone who isn’t her.
“It’s over,” she sobs, “it’s over.”
“Janey Bear,” I whisper into her hair, “what’s going on?”
Jane wipes her nose on the front of my shirt, and I watch her angst turn into anger. “I’m a loser, Mom. I’m on B squad.”
“Bee squad? Like, bumblebees?”
“Like, the kids who just practice. Who don’t actually play in the games. A benchwarmer, Mom.”
Look, I’m not a Sports Mom. I hardly know what the hell is going on during a soccer game, and I’m pretty sure that anyone who claims to actually know what offsides is has to be European or just a liar. But I know that Jane was named MVP of her traveling team this summer, and that her summer traveling coach said Jane had the fastest and most accurate first touch the league had seen in a kid her age. I know that she’s quick and aggressive and that since she put on a Mustangs jersey, she’s hardly even seen a bench, let alone warmed it.
A flash from the bake sale repeats in my head. I’d laughed when Gwendolyn tried to flex her McKinley muscles at me. What had she said, exactly? That nobody kicks a ball or plays an oboe without her say-so? That if I didn’t back down, she’d come for me and my kids?
“Go to the car, Janey Bear,” I whisper, and double-click my key fob to open the automatic door for her. “There’s a red Gatorade in the center console for you. It should be nice and cold.”
Jane shuffles toward the car, struggling to walk across the concrete in her cleats. “Mom,” she calls from her seat in the back, “are you coming?”
“One second, babe!” I call over my shoulder, clicking the button to shut the door. Across the field, Coach is wrapping up practice while the girls pull off their cleats and chug from the giant insulated jugs their moms had filled with ice and filtered water.
At my feet, a painted yellow line shouts “PARENT ZONE: DO NOT CROSS.” On the other side is a carpet of plush grass, a mixture that Gwendolyn bragged needed hardly any water and could be eaten or juiced by anyone in the community who needs additional antioxidants.
From the car, I hear Jane’s muffled shouts, but the time to hesitate has long passed. The consequence for breaking this rule, if I remember correctly, is a two-game ban for the offending parent. Fine, I thought, make it five. Let the whole Mom Squad come for me. This is not the first time a line has been crossed.
COACH MAKES A BREAK FOR HIS OFFICE WHEN HE SEES ME striding across the field. He’s trying to look casual, but he’s basically run-walking away from me as fast as you can run-walk while carrying a mesh bag full of soccer balls.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he calls over his shoulder as we near the doors of the Athletic Center, “you know I can’t discuss team business directly with parents. Any complaints need to be handled through the proper channels.”
I dash around him and open the door for him, following him into the dark basement where McKinley keeps athletic equipment and coaches’ offices and apparently doesn’t ventilate properly. I feel like I’m breathing in decades of body odor, which I probably am.
“What’s the proper channel, Coach? Is it . . . Gwendolyn?”
He turns around nervously. I’ve struck a nerve.
“I cannot comment on that matter at this time,” he says slowly. “I would like to have my lawyer present.”
I feel bad. I do! He isn’t even old enough to rent a car and whatever he gets paid is not going to cover the cost of the therapy needed to deal with parents like me, but this isn’t an interrogation. At least not formally.
“It was Gwendolyn, wasn’t it?” I challenge him, and he gives a nearly imperceptible nod. My fists instinctually tighten.
“Our rosters are set for the year, Mrs. Mitchell,” he says, reaching for the door of his tiny office. “I-I look forward to having Jane as a valued member of our team. Please address any further questions to Gwendolyn James and the rest of the Athletics Committee.”
“Thanks, Coach!” I slam the door harder than I mean to, but I’m satisfied by the sound the door handle makes rattling in place. “I’ll do that!” I shout toward the closed door. “I’ll follow up with Gwendolyn!”