Class(33)
Karen was closing out of Facebook when, once again, Clay’s name flashed onto her desktop. He’d replied.
Of course not. My kids go to private school. But then, I’m really rich. xox
At least he’s being honest, she thought. But the response aggravated her as well. It seemed so smug, so facile. Karen knew that if she didn’t answer, she would come away with the upper hand. Only, she couldn’t quite bear not to get the last word—and wrote back:
Lucky you.
Her flipness masked defensiveness. In that moment, Karen had the distinct impression that her daughter’s school—and, by extension, Karen’s entire way of being—was under attack. Moreover, battle lines having been drawn, it was time to choose a side. It was also time she put her professional skills to use. Swallowing her pride, Karen opened a new window and quickly drafted an e-mail to April Fishbach, reiterating her pledge to man the front table at Visiting Artists Day and also offering both to chair the PTA’s fund-raising committee and to help elevate the profile of the school. Betts might not have been a clothing or cosmetics brand, but in a public-school system where parents had choices about where to send their kids, even elementary schools had to market themselves.
A reply arrived just ten minutes later.
Dear Karen,
On behalf of the PTA of Constance C. Betts Elementary, I’m delighted to hear that you’ve finally decided to volunteer your time, and I accept your offer to fund-raise! But you make one mistake: the fund-raising committee already has a chairperson. It’s me. In this case, however, I’m happy to share the honors and responsibilities with you as cochairs. Perhaps we can meet for coffee tomorrow or the next day to talk strategy. I look forward to hearing from you.
April Fishbach
The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.—Mahatma Gandhi
Karen had grown so accustomed to April’s power-mongering that her response failed to evoke anything in Karen but resignation. April was simply the price one paid for trying to help out. Though Karen had found that the woman did serve one useful purpose: her very unbearableness provided endless opportunities for bonding among those who found her similarly hard to stomach. Before answering April’s e-mail, Karen forwarded it to Lou with the subject heading Classic April.
To Karen’s delight, Lou immediately wrote back:
She is such a shrew. How does her husband stand her? And those poor kids. Also, who knew she was responsible for the Indian independence movement? Not I. hahaha
Karen wrote back:
If Gandhi were a parent at Betts, do you think she’d even let him run his own bake sale?
Lou wrote back:
Not a chance.
Karen was still giggling to herself as she replied to April:
That’s fine. How’s tomorrow morning at Laundry at 8:30?
April replied:
At 8:25 would be better, as I’m conducting an important Education Partners workshop at 8:50.
April’s e-mail was followed by yet another one from Clay:
But when will I get lucky with you?
Karen felt as if a sticky mass had spontaneously formed in the back of her throat, preventing her from swallowing. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Or was he only joking around? And wasn’t he married? Karen’s heart pounded with confusion and excitement as she typed out the words:
We shall see.
To Karen’s mind, her response was noncommittal enough to be safe, but open-ended enough not to discourage his efforts. Because the truth was that it felt good to be flirted with—better than good. It felt as if the shapes in the room were just coming into focus, revealing their angles and contours after a long, deep sleep…
The next morning, after dropping Ruby off at school—only five minutes late, which was earlier than usual—Karen set out for her first fund-raising meeting with April. It was already a few days into the month (of April), but there weren’t many visible signs of spring. The trees were still bare, the crocus buds shut tight, the chill formidable. Spring had not sprung.
En route to Laundry, Karen found herself hunching her shoulders against the wind, pulling her jacket collar tight around her neck, and secretly wishing that global warming, or climate change, or whatever you were supposed to call it now, would happen sooner rather than later so she would no longer have to suffer through the winter. Was that selfish of her? Probably, yes; if she really cared about the planet, she would just bundle up and deal with it, the way her daughter seemed to do. In fact, Ruby seemed completely oblivious to the elements, putting on T-shirts, shorts, and sundresses in winter and failing ever to see the point of wearing a hat.
The same Tattoo Guy with the man-bun from last time was behind the counter, but Karen actually managed to get a “Hey” and a half smile out of him before she ordered. Seconds later, April appeared at her side, clipboard in one hand, masala chai tea in the other. “Morning, Cochair!” she said brightly to Karen.
“Hey,” said Karen, already regretting her offer from the night before. “I’m just ordering.”
“I’m at the table in back.”
“Be right there,” said Karen.
But her slow-pour coffee took even longer than usual to pour, and April looked irritable by the time Karen finally joined her. “Sorry about that,” she said. “My coffee took forever.”