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“I don’t care if they eat gold bricks for breakfast,” April shot back. “I think it’s invasive, and I think it’s alienating for those families who aren’t in a position to give. If you want to do a penny or nickel or even dime harvest in the school lobby and encourage everyone to drop their spare change into a giant jar, that’s one thing. But sending personal letters? I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable with that at all.” She shook her head.

“Okay, so we can put the letters in their backpack folders,” said Karen. “Or, if the main office is willing to share the e-mail addresses they have on file, we can do it that way.”

“However you send it, we’re still fostering an inequitable system in which schools with wealthier student bodies have more perks than those without,” countered April. “This is supposed to be a public school, not a private one.”

Exasperated, Karen felt her eyelids beginning to droop. “April, I agree with everything you’re saying,” she said slowly. “But for the moment, the system is what it is. And if you don’t believe in fund-raising, why be cochair of the fund-raising committee? For that matter, why do we even have a fund-raising committee? Also, do you ever stop to wonder why you feel compelled to argue with everything everyone says? What if, for once, just as an experiment, you tried agreeing with someone? You might find that people would actually be willing to join some of the committees you ran and even become active members of the PTA. Or do you prefer to reign over a kingdom of one?”

April apparently could think of no answers to any of Karen’s questions—at least, not ones she was willing to share. For a good half a minute, the two of them sat in silence, avoiding each other’s gazes, April flaring her nostrils and Karen grimacing. Finally, April pushed back her chair, stood up, and said, “Fine—do what you want. I have an important Education Partners workshop to run.”

“Thank you,” said Karen.

“There’s no need to thank me—I just do what I can to help,” said April. Chin raised and in full martyr mode, she stomped off.



That year, HK’s annual gala was being held in the banquet hall of a beaux arts building downtown. As in the past, the organization had hired a hyperorganized, headset-wearing event planner named Barbara to mastermind the festivities, so Karen was free to come as just one of the guests. Wearing her only decent black dress—the same knee-length shift she wore to all work-related parties—she arrived at seven sharp and made her way to the bar. At seven fifteen, there was no one there, which seemed slightly ominous. Then, suddenly, at seven thirty, a mass of people showed up, and a mob scene ensued.

Guests crowded into an anteroom, where silent auction items had been laid out on long rental tables covered with white cloths. As Karen sipped from a glass of pinot grigio, she did a cursory review of the offerings. There were cashmere baby hats, private tours of art museums, front-row tickets to Broadway shows, interior-decorating consultations, seven-night luxury beachfront resort accommodations in the Turks and Caicos Islands, spa services involving heated rocks, and giant baskets of beauty products wrapped in crinkly cellophane and tied with giant bows. The finest South American botanical ingredients, read one description, combine with cutting-edge science to boost the skin’s inner strength and revitalize its outer beauty. This his-and-hers gift basket even comes with a handy red carrying case—value $450.

Gazing out at the crowd, Karen saw a mass of wraithlike women bedecked in sparkly jewelry interspersed with pasty fat men with bald pates who understood that thinness was ultimately aspirational and that they required no such leverage. First among them was Lew Cantor, a private-equity honcho who sat on the board of directors of Hungry Kids. Lew had given a hundred grand last year. Karen had inherited him from the previous development director, Deb Lennon, which made it all the more essential that Karen go over and greet him. “Lew! It’s wonderful to see you!” she said.

“Hello there,” he said. “It’s Carol. Right?”

“Karen, but don’t worry about it! You’re looking very festive tonight.”

“Eh? You like the bow tie?”

“I do like bow ties. How is your lovely wife?”

“She’s vanished to Aspen. I haven’t seen her in weeks!” He chuckled.

“Oh, well, when you next see her, give her my regards. You know, this organization couldn’t do its work without you two…”

Karen was still pissed at Matt for blowing off the event, but mostly in principle. In truth, his absence gave her the freedom to conduct the necessary business of glad-handing the guests without feeling self-conscious or judged. It also gave her the freedom to socialize as she pleased. Although Karen had no close friends in the office, she got along with most everyone there, from Letitia Gutierrez, the sultry benefits associate, to Cary Ann Kreamer, the Southern sorority-sister-ish nutrition coordinator. But she was most fond of the outreach director, Troy Gafferty, whom she wished she saw more of; unfortunately for Karen, he was usually busy “reaching out” in a remote part of the city.

The estranged son of Jehovah’s Witnesses, Troy, who was now in his forties, had lost his lover to AIDS fifteen years before. Miraculously, he himself hadn’t contracted the virus. But for unclear reasons, he hadn’t had a real relationship since. At present, he lived alone in a bare-bones studio over a deli and liked to joke that the families he assisted sometimes had nicer apartments than he did. That evening, Karen and Troy made the rounds together, shaking donors’ hands (Karen would introduce him as “our heroic man in the field, Troy”) and whispering about who had and hadn’t shown up.