Class(29)

“Wow,” said Allison, eyebrows now up near her hairline. “Well, I wish Eastbrook Lab had a few more disadvantaged minorities. Seriously, the only kids of color in the whole school are adopted ones from Ethiopia with white parents who thought it would be really cool to go to Africa and buy a child like Madonna did. Oh, and there’s one half-black girl in Esme’s class whose dad is one of the top guys at Bank of America, but that so doesn’t count. I think there’s one actual impoverished scholarship student in the other seventh-grade class, the one that Lucien’s not in. Maybe it’s the school janitor’s son or something? But really, everyone else is either a banker’s or a lawyer’s kid, including my own little brats. It’s so disgusting. A kid in Lucien’s class literally just hired Kanye to perform at his bar mitzvah. And Esme’s fourth grade is almost as bad. I was picking her up the other day, and I heard this little missy saying”—Allison assumed a high-pitched voice—“‘I spent spring break at the Four Seasons in Nevis. Where did your family go?’”

“Sounds awesome,” said Karen, who couldn’t always tell the difference between Allison bragging and Allison complaining. “How do I get myself invited?”

“You and me both.” Allison laughed. “We just got back from ten days with David’s parents in Florida. Shoot me now.”

“Don’t his parents have a house on the Gulf Coast?”

“Yeah, in Naples. The infinity pool was nice, I admit. But they’re honest-to-God Rush Limbaugh fans. It’s really hard being around them, to tell you the truth. They think Obama is a communist agitator—as if. I honestly couldn’t wait for school to start again. Though of course, Eastbrook being Eastbrook, they were off for practically the entire month of March. It’s like, the more you pay in tuition, the fewer days of school there are.”

“That’s crazy,” said Karen, feeling marginally better about her own life again. In Karen’s experience, as much as she adored Ruby, school holidays was an oxymoron.

“And it’s only been two months since the four weeks they had off for Christmas and New Year’s,” said Allison. “Also, can I tell you? I just found out that, for snack at Eastbrook’s after-school program, they hand out Oreos. Real Oreos. Like, the Nabisco version with the trans fats, not even the Paul Newman kind. As if the school doesn’t bring in enough tuition dollars to buy non-crap cookies.” Allison shook her head and scoffed.

Growing the tiniest bit weary of Allison’s tirade, Karen downed half the wine in her glass and began to sing a commercial jingle from her own youth: “‘Do you know exactly how to eat an Oreo’—”

But Allison didn’t get the hint and apparently wasn’t finished. “And don’t even get me started about the math program,” she went on, and on. “I swear, the fourth-graders haven’t learned multiplication yet. Or at least my fourth-grader hasn’t. They’re still adding, like, twenty plus forty. It’s pathetic…”

To be fair, Allison and Karen had a long-standing tradition of ragging on everyone and everything in their lives. Some of it was serious; some clearly for sport. But at that moment, Karen had the distinct impression that Allison was playing up her discontent for Karen’s benefit. As if the education Karen was providing her only child was so inadequate that she needed to hear that private school wasn’t perfect either. “Allison,” she said, grabbing her friend’s wrist and leaning forward. “If you hate the school that much, why do you send your kids there? I’m serious.”

Allison let out a whimpery little moan, as if she were a teenager who’d been caught at the front door breaking curfew. “I know. You’re right. It’s just—it’s complicated. David never went to public school, so he doesn’t even consider it an option. And I guess I’ve bought into that whole BS about progressive education, even though I’m not sure what it really means, although I think it has something to do with school not just being about memorization and test prep and the kids getting to dress up in fairy costumes and write their own plays or something. But mostly, once your kids are in private school, it’s really hard to go backward. Or forward. Or whatever you want to call it. Not that we can actually afford to send them to Eastbrook—this ridiculous basement-pool dig-out is literally eating up every last dollar we own—but whatever. I just have to say, I really admire you for sticking it out in public school, and not even one of the famous or selective ones.” She smiled apologetically at Karen, just as Leslie Pfeiffer had done on the street.

“Sticking it out?” scoffed Karen, because it was the easiest point to argue. “Ruby is only in third grade. I wouldn’t really call that sticking it out. But whatever! Compliment taken.”

“What do you say we order?” said Allison, adjusting her chair. “I’m suddenly starving.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Karen.

“To be honest, I get so bored talking about my kids,” Allison added while perusing her menu a final time. As if she’d been the one monologuing Karen with a jeremiad against Betts.

Karen bristled, irritated on multiple fronts. Not only did Allison’s declaration seem like a cop-out, but it also implied that Karen, not Allison, had been the one who’d forced them to talk about their children at the expense of more interesting topics. “I’m not bored,” she demurred. “But sure. Let’s talk about something else.”