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“Well, let’s give some thought to all these ideas in the next two weeks,” said Susan. “Anyone with a proposal, please submit it by Friday. In the meantime, let’s talk fund-raising!” She turned back to Karen. “The school year ends in two months, I realize. And traditionally, fall and winter are our biggest moneymaking seasons. But I think the rest of you know how disappointed I was with the results of the spring auction. We netted just over six hundred thousand.” Karen coughed to disguise her shock. “Which might sound like a lot,” Susan went on. “But the year before, we made over seven. And we had similarly disappointing results from last fall’s Harvest Dance. On that note, Karen, I was wondering if you might have time to mastermind a kind of last-ditch spring fund-raising event. Like maybe a picnic or something? I was thinking we could call it Fund in the Sun. Too corny?” She surveyed the group.

“No, I think it’s—cute,” Karen replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, even as she wondered, Why raise more money when you can’t spend the money you already have?

“Glad you like it,” said Susan, smiling. “And since you’re going to be working the money angle, how about becoming our treasurer for the duration of the school year? Liz has kindly been filling in, but—as you can see—she’s due any day now with baby number three.”

Silently groaning at the prospect of devoting even more time to a cause she didn’t support, Karen glanced over at the Mather PTA interim treasurer and realized that her embellished tunic was in fact inflated to capacity. “Wow—congratulations,” she muttered.

“Thanks,” Liz answered morosely.

“I never made it past baby number one,” Karen felt somehow compelled to add, if only as a distraction from her own mounting obligations.

“That’s probably because you’re sane. Apparently, I have a deep masochistic streak.”

Karen smiled, then turned back to Susan and said, “Anyway, I’m very flattered to have been asked. But—”

“But you’re busy, I know,” said Susan. “I promise that being treasurer is not a time-consuming position. Liz can show you where we keep the books, so to speak, and how to get into the account. And I assume you’re familiar with Excel?” Before Karen had time to answer, she turned to the rest of the group and said, “All those in favor of electing Karen our new interim treasurer, please raise your hands!”

Nine hands went up. It was suddenly clear to Karen that no one else wanted the job—moreover, that they’d already tagged her for it. Allison was right, Karen thought. This was her punishment for lying about her address. Even so, her heart sank.

“So it’s settled,” said Susan. “Karen, congrats. You are officially on the executive board now.”

“I’m honored,” Karen said miserably.

“Now, moving right along to arts committee business,” Susan said, turning to her left. “Meredith, can you tell us what arts enrichment you’ve lined up for the month? I understand Pilobolus was a big hit.”

“Yes, it was. And this month, the fourth grade is going to see La Bohème, and the experimental puppeteering troupe Stringtheory is performing a kid-friendly version of Schindler’s List for the third grade. We also have a West African drumming troupe coming next week to perform for the lower school, thanks in part to the multicultural committee.”

“Thank you, Meredith. Sounds fabulous,” said Susan.

The others nodded in agreement—even Denise, who apparently found nothing ecologically objectionable about men with dark skin striking animal skins with sticks.





Ruby came home from school scratching. And when Karen lifted up Ruby’s hair, she found a row of tiny red bumps on the back of her neck. By then, Karen was madly clawing at herself as well and in a state of barely controlled panic at the thought of bloodsucking insects running rampant on her scalp. It seemed particularly ironic that she had picked them up at a school that looked as clean cut as Mather did. But then, bloodsucking parasites apparently didn’t select for socioeconomic status. In any case, Karen knew she had to act. After dinner that night, she sat Ruby down on the toilet seat with a Highlights magazine to distract her, while, comb in hand, Karen began dividing Ruby’s hair into sections the way she’d seen someone do it on a YouTube video. Ruby was reading her a knock-knock joke that had been sent in by a reader—“‘Knock, knock. Who’s there? Isolate. Isolate who? I-so-late to the party’”—when a tiny black insect resembling a mosquito only without the wings appeared in her part line. “Oh my God!” Karen cried before she dropped the comb on the floor and ran into her bedroom. She’d always considered herself competent, but this task was possibly beyond her.

“Mooommm!” Ruby called to her in a whine.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Karen called back. She counted to three on the inhale, then three on the exhale. Then she did it again. Feeling calmer, she walked back into the bathroom and announced, “Mommy can’t handle this. We’re going to see a specialist.”

That was how, an hour later, she and Ruby ended up in the vinyl-sided home of an Orthodox Jewish nitpicker and mother of ten. When Karen and Ruby arrived, at least seven of the ten were visible under the dining-room table, playing with plastic toys. Bathsheba sat Ruby down in a chair facing a wall of gold-framed photographs of white-bearded rabbis who appeared to be as old as Methuselah and went to work with a metal comb. Then it was Karen’s turn. “You have a bad case, even worse than your daughter,” said Bathsheba.