Other People's Houses(29)
“OK.” Anne smiled, her face calm.
Frances pulled away, strangely uncomforted by this exchange. She looked at Anne standing there in the rearview, still with her arms folded, unmoving. There was no outward sign of her recklessness; she just looked normal. Frances pulled her eyebrows together, and flicked the indicator.
Something inside that was always denied
For so many years. Bye, Bye.
Thirteen.
After drop-off there was a PTA meeting at the elementary school, so Frances was heading back there once she was done at the preschool. Preschool drop-off took time, though, what with book reading, multiple hugs, and a surreptitious glance at today’s snack.
Frances was now old enough to resist what she referred to as The Tyranny of Snack. It started innocently enough, when your first child started preschool. For the first week or so the school would offer the kids goldfish crackers, fruit, whatever, and put together a roster of parents who would bring in a snack in the future. Then a hunting horn sounded and all hell broke loose, but in a very progressive, mutually respectful way, of course.
First blood would be drawn by those parents who baked. Frances had had the misfortune of Ava being in a preschool class with a world-famous chef, who would send in tiny tartlets, each one folded like origami, filled with fresh figs and mascarpone. For three-year-olds, who took one bite and declared them “yucky.” Others sent in baby chia muffins, or curated granola bars, baked from scratch and containing at least four grams of omega-3s per serving. One time Frances reached out to snag a homemade cheese straw and realized it was literally the best cheese straw in the history of the world. There were two little boys using them as light sabers, crumbs flying everywhere, and it was all Frances could do not to confiscate them.
Then there would be a murmuring about gluten intolerance, and baked goods would give way to fresh fruit, washed and presented artistically. Sometimes there would be a confit of some sort to dip things in, other times the fruit would be cut into shapes. Generally, it was a no-no to just buy a fruit platter at the grocery store and dump it on the table. The fruit had to be decanted into artisanal bowls of indeterminate national origin. “We’re teaching the children to appreciate presentation,” one mother had explained to Frances. “We’re raising their aesthetic bar.” Seeing as that mother’s child had another kid in a headlock around the corner and was forcing sand down his pants, Frances wasn’t sure aesthetics was going to be his primary challenge, but she let it go. She also simply stopped signing up for snack once Milo started school, and now that Lally was there she just went to Costco and bought Cheez-Its in bulk instead. If it was a banner day she would find the ones with letters on them, and consider herself ahead of the game.
Anyway, elementary school was a different arena. In that one, fights were held at PTA meetings. Frances kissed Lally goodbye and drove to the school. There she donned her full-body armor, grabbed her pepper spray, and headed into the auditorium.
Hunting for a familiar face and somewhere to sit, she spotted Lili Girvan. Tiptoeing around the other parents she sat next to her and hissed, “What did I miss?”
“Not much,” replied Lili. “So far there’s just been the naked human sacrifice and the lamb-shearing contest.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Frances.
Miss Delgado stood at the front, clutching a sheaf of papers. She was the assistant head, and nominally in charge of the T part of the PTA. The P section was represented by Erica Feinberg, a dermatologist and professional viper, who’d served time for lasering off someone’s entire head, on purpose. That wasn’t true, but she was a bitch. She’d started out as secretary, then treasurer, and now had attained the highest office possible in a medium-size public charter school: president of the PTA. It was heady stuff, apparently, because Erica’s eyes were gleaming.
Lili leaned closer. “Could Erica’s pupils be any wider?” She paused. “Do you think she did cocaine this morning?”
“Before school?”
Lili shrugged as Miss Delgado began to speak.
“Thank you all for coming, we certainly appreciate your time. We’ll try and move through the agenda as quickly as possible. I know you all have places to be.”
“Although,” put in Erica, “I know we all consider this our most important job.”
“Not me,” said a voice from the front, and everyone laughed. Natalie Clements was the mother of a sixth grader, and she’d been at every PTA meeting Frances had ever attended. She was a comedy writer on a TV show and couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Some people came to PTA meetings just to enjoy Natalie. Erica hated her, which was a huge point in Natalie’s favor.
Miss Delgado, who regularly faced hundreds of children with nary a hint of mortal fear, kept moving on.
“Our first item is next semester’s after-school enrichment offerings. We have a couple of new options, in addition to the standard arts and crafts, yoga, and drumming circle.” She looked again at a piece of paper, as if to check the words hadn’t changed. “First off, we are adding knitting and crochet, because we discovered Miss Mariachi can knit and crochet and I caught her at a weak moment.” Another laugh came from the crowd, who were clearly overcaffeinated. “The other new offering is gardening, which has been generously funded by an anonymous donor, including the building of brand-new raised beds and a new gardening teacher.” There was a small round of applause, and Miss Delgado could be seen blushing. Apparently, the new gardening teacher was handsome. Frances turned to Lili.