“You know what, Amy?” she said through clenched teeth. “To answer your original question . . . no, I am not okay. Not even close. This”—she gestured toward McKinley, as if it were her kingdom, which . . . I guess it kind of is—“this was the last good thing I had in my life. And now that’s gone, too.”
My eyes rolled so hard they nearly dislocated themselves.
“Really, Gwendolyn? That’s the last good thing in your life? Your life is PERFECT. Do you even follow yourself on Instagram? This is one stupid little election, you’ve got like, three boats!”
“I have four boats,” she corrected me, “and who gives a shit? Now get in.” I got in before she could change her mind. It was freezing out, and I instantly relaxed into her heated seats.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A CAR RIDE THAT MAKES IT EASIER to share your deepest, darkest secrets with someone. Maybe it’s the proximity and the lack of eye contact? The fact that the doors are locked, and that the conversation can only last until your destination is reached?
I barely had time to buckle my seatbelt when Gwendolyn unloaded on me.
“You know, Amy. I really did like your speech tonight. You made a lot of really salient points.”
I did? I mean, hell yeah I did, I won the election!
“It’s hard to be a mom,” she said. “It’s hard for me, too, Amy.”
I know she’s right. I know that not everything that shines on Instagram is going to be gold. But what I don’t know is why she’s telling me this.
“Don’t you wonder how I found out about you and Mike?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“I don’t know, I just figured that your little gossipmongers told you.”
“Where do you think my husband is, Amy? He’s shacked up in the same hotel as Mike.”
That surprised me. Her husband—and I have no idea what his name is because she always refers to him as “my husband” as if that’s what is printed on his birth certificate—seemed as perfect as the rest of her life.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s in love with his high school girlfriend. Isn’t that cute? And all of the money he invested in his Northern California weed farms is going to finance their new life together ‘off the grid’ whatever the fuck that means.”
“Okay, that is not good,” I said, trying not to sound freaked out. Could it possibly be that Gwendolyn and I were more alike than we were different? Could this be a goddamn lesson for me? We were on my block, finally. And even though I’ve envied Gwendolyn’s walk-in pantry and her high-end seasonal décor, I had a full and new appreciation for my own cozy neighborhood. I loved the bikes lying in every front yard, and the sagging front porches that are decorated year-round with Christmas lights. My own flickering porch light, which I’ve been meaning to replace for years, was now a beacon of hope in this bizarre conversation in my enemy’s car.
Gwendolyn silently pulled into my driveway, her car proudly announcing to us that we had arrived at our destination. I could tell Gwendolyn wasn’t done talking, that I uncorked something inside her that wasn’t ready to stop flowing. So even though I just wanted to go inside, put on some sweatpants, and fall asleep watching Netflix, I did something I never thought I’d do.
I invited Gwendolyn James into my home.
“CAN I ASK WHERE YOU GOT THIS?” GWENDOLYN SAYS, SINKING into the worn cushions and pulling one of my old afghans over herself. “Please don’t tell me it’s custom, I have to have one just like it.”
“It’s from a little shop called IKEA,” I say like a TV host. “You might be able to get them to make one for you, too.”
“No kidding?” She sighs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Gwendolyn is wearing one of Mike’s hoodies and a pair of my old sweatpants, her blond hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head. We’ve spent the better part of the night sitting on opposite sides of the couch, our legs tucked under a pile of throw blankets and pillows, drinking some herbal tea that I’m sure she was judging for not being artisanal.
For all the revenge fantasies I played out in my head, none of them involved Gwendolyn James weeping on my couch about her life, begging my forgiveness for what she’d done to Jane. None of them involved me tucking Gwendolyn in on my beat-up IKEA couch after she’d cried herself to sleep. And none of them involved me gently shaking her awake the next morning so she could provide proof of life to the other McKinley moms.
Gwendolyn picks up her phone and scrolls through her notifications.
“Christ,” she says, sighing and patting the space on the couch next to her. “Come here, Mitchell.”
I settle in, handing Gwendolyn her coffee, and she lifts her phone up, tilting her head toward mine. Our sleep-lined faces fill her screen, and Gwendolyn smiles.
“Say ‘bad moms’!” she whispers, and pushes the red button.
Part III
Winter
46
Amy
Aside from the recent delivery of a small cardboard box filled with framed photos, half-used pens, and about two dozen lipsticks and lip glosses that had been at my desk during my time at CoCo, I haven’t thought of my old job since I was fired/quit. I have been very busy embracing my new life as an unemployed single mom. Mike and I are in mediation, and we all do family therapy together, so the kids are learning how to identify and process their feelings, which, it turns out, is something that Mike and I also need to learn. Jane asked for her own (leather-bound, monogrammed, college-ruled) journal for Christmas, and I gave her four, because I know she’s going to fill them. I swear I don’t read them while she’s at Mike’s apartment (okay, I sometimes do).
I’m not going to act like divorce was the answer to all my problems and now life is perfect. Sometimes I miss Mike, and the encyclopedic way he knows me. But that’s just sometimes. Mostly, my life involves exciting things like comparing the price per unit of the generic vs. brand-name toilet paper at Target. That’s where I am, stocking up on two-ply, when my phone rings.
Dale? Obviously a butt dial.
I answer anyway.
“Hello?” It isn’t silence, or the telltale rustling of a butt dial; it’s pandemonium, like when you call Kiki right before naptime.
“Dale? DALE.”
“Amy! Oh, Amy, thank God. I need you to come back.” His voice is desperate, and when he catches his breath, I listen to at least twenty straight minutes of apologies.
BY THE TIME I REACH THE CHECKOUT LINE, I AM THE PROUD new CMO of Coffee Collective, making enough money to pay the mortgage on my own, and with a schedule that includes time for me to be a mom, and a person. Speaking of which, I am still a person, aren’t I?
ME: Have you ever slept with a Boss?
JESSE: Like, my own boss? Have you seen him?
JESSE: Do you want to?
ME: No, idiot. We’ve got 2 hours till pickup.
JESSE: I don’t know, I have some pretty cool meetings this afternoon . . .
JESSE: YES. YES. YES.
* * *
To: McKinley PTA
From: Amy Mitchell
CC: Principal Burr; McKinley Staff
Subject: WHOOPSY!
Hey there,
Amy Mitchell here, reporting for duty. Sorry I have been MIA. I tried to log in to this email address using my usual password (my dog’s name and my birthday, please don’t steal my identity), but I had my birthday wrong. My OWN BIRTHDAY. I got locked out like a doofus and then the holidays happened, and things got a little away from me. Anyway, shoutout to the parents and teachers who still figured out how to make the concert happen and how to arrange a non-denominational solstice gift exchange. Turns out you might not need me, but too bad because I’m back and ready to associate the FUDGE out of our parents and teachers!