After Chanel, I resolved to be done with Winnie once and for all. I made it clear that I could not work for her. I screened her calls, claimed to be too busy to meet up when she came to town. And there was plenty of truth to my excuses. We were entering that fraught and stressful period known as preschool interview month, and I had to keep my calendar open in the event that one of the eight schools we’d applied to summoned us in for a visit.
I spent the rest of February refreshing my email and scanning the mommy message boards, torturing myself by reading every celebratory thread. In March the rejections streamed in, one after another. We regret to inform you. Record number of applications. Many more qualified students. We are sorry, truly wish, sincerely hope.
Oli coped by making barbed jokes of the they-don’t-deserve-our-son variety. Me? I cursed myself for telling everyone in our circle that we’d applied this year and prayed they wouldn’t bring it up. I wondered if I could spin a credible tale about deciding against sending Henri so early; after all, he was not yet two and a half.
But then, one afternoon, seven rejections later, our last hope, Divisadero Prep, wrote to tell us we’d been moved on to the next and final round. The playdate-slash-interview was scheduled for the following Tuesday at 9 a.m., and I set out to do everything in my power to ensure it would go smoothly.
On the morning itself, Maria and Henri and I were fifteen minutes early. As the message board moms advised, arrive too early and your toddler might get bored; arrive too late and he won’t have time to adjust and could grow cranky and confused. I parked on the shady side of the street and rolled down the windows to let in the breeze.
In the back seat, Maria and Henri played round after round of patty-cake. Each time she chanted, Roll it up, pat it, and mark it with an H—drawing the letter across his belly with her finger—he bounced up and down like a bobblehead doll. Everything had lined up in our favor. Henri was in a great mood. He’d slept well the night before, waking briefly only once. Maria had made his favorite breakfast of blueberry-chocolate-chip pancakes, which he’d downed with gusto. I’d dressed him in the cutest little peach Lacoste polo shirt that brought out the pink in his cheeks. (Do your best to ensure that your toddler is neither hungry, nor thirsty, nor exhausted, nor dirty, the moms counseled.)
From time to time Maria’s eyes flickered down to her watch, a tic that revealed her to be as anxious as I was. With ten minutes to go, she lifted Henri in the air, sniffed his butt, and patted it twice. Smells like roses, she said. I think he’s all set. She cupped Henri’s face in both hands. Have fun at school, mi amor.
Not for the first time I wished I could send Maria into the classroom with him. When the school had specified that each prospective student arrive with one caregiver, they’d obviously meant a parent, but what if I gave a valid excuse? Like, I had to leave town because of a death in the family? Or I was busy getting chemo? Yes, that’s how much of a wreck I was.
Let’s go, Cookie, I sang inanely. Maria, we’ll be back in an hour. I opened the passenger door and hoisted Henri out of the car, and he twisted around and held out his hand to his nanny.
Her smile froze. I’ll be right here, mi amor, she said, waving.
He opened and closed his palm insistently, a tiny despot demanding to be paid.
It’s just you and me, Cooks, I said, steering him to face me. It’ll be fun. You’ll get to play with your new classmates.
I tried to lead him away but he squirmed out of my grasp and clung to the hem of Maria’s T-shirt. She gently pried him loose. Go with Mama.
He scowled and tugged on his ear.
Okay, okay, I said. What if Maria walks us to the gate and we say goodbye there?
She was already getting out of the car. She hefted Henri into her arms, and the whimpering stopped. This was precisely the scenario we’d hoped to avoid, for surely there would be a teacher standing at the gate to greet us, and her first impression could not be of a boy screaming for his nanny.
We walked slowly, Maria and I searching for a way to avert the impending disaster.
Remember what I told you? she said to Henri. You’re a big boy now and big boys go to school.
He gnawed placidly on a hank of her hair.
There’ll be lots of new toys. And the teacher will teach you games and songs and give you yummy snacks.
By now we were half a block away from the school, and I said, How about Mama carry you now?
Maria freed her hair from his grasp. Yes, go to Mama.
She and I had landed on the same plan; she would slow down behind us, and I would hurry him inside and distract him, hopefully before he noticed she was gone. But when I extended my arms to him, he burrowed his face into Maria’s bosom.
Mi amor, she whispered, it’s only for a little while. Maria will be right outside waiting. Had the stakes not been so high, she would never have said that in front of me—she, who always took care not to spark parental jealousy.
Honestly, though, I was too stressed for her words to sting. (Try to exude tranquility, the moms cautioned. If you’re tense, your toddler will notice and tense up too.) We were no more than ten paces from the school gate. I watched a tall white woman with a platinum-blond ponytail stride toward it with a matching oversized blond child, who enthusiastically high-fived the teacher standing guard.
Frances Wright, the woman said, holding out her hand. Tell her your name, honey, she prompted her son.
Spencer Alexander Wright, said the boy, adorably adding, Very pleased to meet you.
The teacher’s face brightened. The pleasure is mine, she said, checking them off on her clipboard and letting them through. She scribbled a note by the boy’s name, no doubt urging the admissions committee to accept this charming, articulate child. Looking up, she spotted the three of us picking our way toward her and waved. I waved back. Maria kept right on whispering in Henri’s ear. Whatever she told him worked, because when she set him down, he reached for my hand.
Good luck, have fun, Maria said, and then her footsteps receded down the sidewalk.
Ready, Cooks? I asked.
He gazed up at me and chortled like I’d told the best joke.
You must be Ava, the teacher said. And you must be Henri. She bent over so she was eye level with him, and my heart soared when he let her shake his hand.
We were taken to a classroom with the other prospective students—five in all, plus four moms and one dad. The teacher supervising the playdate introduced herself as Ms. Jenny and instructed us parents to take a seat on the miniature chairs lined up against the far wall.
Ms. Jenny had Shirley Temple curls and large shiny teeth like a horse. Sit back and relax, she said, which prompted nervous laughter, plus a hoot from the dad. This time is for the kids to explore the classroom and have fun. That’s it! There’s nothing else on the agenda.
The dad gave a little snort. He had reddish scruff on his chin, a silver hoop in one ear, and an overly friendly demeanor. I resolutely ignored him, already annoyed. The platinum-haired woman retrieved a notebook from her Evelyne bag (rouge tomate, Clemence leather) and scrawled something in it. Was she writing down what Ms. Jenny said? Was she taking notes on her child? On our children? Who knew?
The teacher gave the kids a tour of the classroom, pointing out the shelf of board books, the table stacked with coloring sheets and crayons, the bin filled with dolls and stuffed animals and trucks and planes, the basin of homemade playdough, the Lego corner. The kids scattered about the room. A half Asian, half white girl with two tiny pigtails sticking straight out of her head knelt by the bookshelf and chose a book, and I oozed envy.
The dad spoke out of the corner of his mouth. Cecily’s favorite thing to do is read.
Aha, an Asian wife, who must have worked in tech or finance and made a boatload of money if this man, her husband, was the primary caregiver. The dad waved at his little reader, displaying a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that read [sic].
Henri and Spencer Alexander Wright went straight for the construction toys, and my fingers gripped the seat of my chair. The bigger boy got there first and plucked out the shiny yellow bulldozer, which Henri wanted too. He stood there, looking deflated and bewildered, and I held my breath and prayed. And then, instead of pressing his case, Henri simply dug through the bin and found another shabbier, smaller bulldozer. I wanted to leap up and cheer. I looked over at the teacher to see if she’d noticed my son’s magnanimity, but she was watching another toddler draw long orange streaks across a page.
That one’s mine, I said to the dad, who replied generously, What a good sport.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we parents murmured and chuckled and gawked as though playtime were a most engrossing piece of theater. When Ms. Jenny announced that it was time for the children to move on to another activity of their choice, I tried to signal to Henri with a subtle flick of my chin. Books. Go to the books.
He took his time, roaming the room, watching the other kids.
So watchful, I observed softly. Such a thinker.
Little Cecily was apparently completely absorbed in The Very Hungry Caterpillar because she kept turning pages, paying the teacher no mind. Ms. Jenny approached and told her it was time to try something else, and she scrunched up her face and flung the book on the floor with a prolonged screech.
Henri looked over with concern, but the teacher was too occupied to notice his deep well of empathy.
It’s okay, Cece, the dad called out. I’m sorry, Ms. Jenny, she loves that book so much. He rose from his chair, but the teacher stayed him with a shake of her head.
In a calm voice she said, Cecily, it’s time for another activity.
The little girl grabbed the book and chucked it straight at Ms. Jenny’s sternum.
Ouch, said the teacher.
The girl giggled, probably more from surprise than from malice.
Cece, the dad yelled, say you’re sorry.
The girl ran over to her dad, who ordered her once again to apologize.
She looked over her shoulder and sang, almost coquettishly, Soooorry.
She’s very sorry, he said. He pushed her toward Ms. Jenny. Say it like you mean it.
Cecily slinked over to the teacher. She looked up at her through long lashes and gave her the most alluring grin. I’m sorry, Ms. Jenny.
The teacher patted her grimly on the head.
The rest of us parents clucked, charmed and horrified by this beguiling child and, above all, relieved our own kid hadn’t been the one to act out.
Behind me, one mom said to another, The most advanced are always the most willful.
The platinum-haired woman called out, Good job, Spence!, when her son hammered a rubber nail into a plank, which prompted a pointed look from Ms. Jenny.
Henri wandered past the bookshelf and landed, finally, at the table with the playdough basin. Good choice. Playdough was safe. It couldn’t be jabbed or hurled or otherwise used as a weapon. A little later, Cecily joined Henri at the table, a wonderful chance for him to demonstrate how well he played with others. For a few enchanting moments, the two of them stood side by side, companionably molding lumps of dough.
Look, Cecily said, taking her lump and pancaking it on the table, which Henri found hilarious. Mimicking her, he, too, pounded his lump flat. Apparently, he now felt like he owed her something in return because he peeled his pancake off the table and gleefully nibbled its edge.
The girl’s eyes widened and then she threw back her head and laughed. I inhaled long and slow. The dough was just flour and water (and dirt from the hands of innumerable preschoolers). It would be fine. Ms. Jenny wouldn’t even notice.
Henri must have decided the playdough tasted pretty good, though, because he took another nibble. Now this was too much for Cecily, who flagged down the teacher like she was hailing a taxi and shouted, Baby eat playdough!
The dad slapped his knee. She’s so bossy. My wife says she has the personality of a CEO, and she would know.
I wanted to throttle him and, to be honest, the little girl, too, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my son, who balled up his pancake and licked it like a lollypop.
He never does that, I called out. Cookie, don’t be silly, stop it.
Ms. Jenny glanced at his name tag. Henri, playdough isn’t for eating.
Henri’s big brown eyes gazed up at her. He slowly unfurled his tongue. I sank into my tiny chair.
No, she said, taking the playdough from his hand.
He craned to look at me, his eyes filling with tears.
I shook my head and mouthed, You’re fine. Don’t cry. I love you.
He pulled on his earlobe and released a chilling scream.
The moms behind me gasped. Cecily made a big show of stuffing her fingers in her ears. I couldn’t stop myself from shooting her a dirty look as I hurried to my all-out-wailing child.
(Don’t be afraid to take your toddler outside for air, said the moms. You’re the parent!)
I’ll take him outside for a bit, I said, surprised when Ms. Jenny simply nodded.
What did this mean? That she’d already made up her mind about him? That no further observation was necessary?
I carried Henri up and down the hallway, pushing his face into my sleeve to muffle his sobs. Still, a teacher in another classroom stuck out her head and told us to quiet down. Out in the front yard, I searched hopefully for Maria, but she was back at the car.
Look, Henri, I said, pointing at a sparrow on a branch, but he appeared to only take interest in the birds of Hong Kong.
Patty-cake, patty-cake, I said, holding up my hand for him to slap.
He squeezed his eyes shut and cried harder.
Did Ms. Jenny make you feel bad? She didn’t mean to, I don’t think. Or was it Cecily? You don’t have to play with her when you go back in there.
Henri was inconsolable.
Please, Cookie, we have to go back. Just for a few minutes.
He mournfully shook his head.
Ten minutes, I promise.
And then, a gift from the heavens: a bulldozer was ambling along this very block.
Look, Cooks, I cried, and this time, he perked up and waved and waved, and the driver, a veritable angel, tipped his hard hat in response. I wiped my son’s snot, blotted the drool from his shirt collar as best I could, and hustled him inside. But by then we’d missed cleanup and sharing circle and the playdate was over.
Can we come back another day? I asked Ms. Jenny as the other parents filed out with their sweet, saintly children.
I’m afraid not, the teacher said.
Please, I said. He’s very shy. He’s an only child. He’ll get used to being around other kids.
This is our last session. Letters go out next week.
Could he sit in on a real class? Or meet a few more teachers? I could hear the frenzy creep into my voice. He’s really lovely once you get to know him.
I’m sure that’s true, Ms. Jenny said kindly, which made me feel worse. He’s going to find the right school, whether it’s here or someplace else.
It has to be here, I said. We love this school. It’s our only choice.
The teacher gave me a smile that stopped short of her eyes. It will all work out. You’ll see.
A loud crash hijacked our attention. Henri had swept every last book off the bottom shelf and cackled at his accomplishment.
Oh, Cooks, what did you do? I fell to my knees and started shoving books back onto the shelf.
Leave it, said Ms. Jenny.
Absolutely not, I said.
Her tone was sharp. No, really, leave it. She sighed. You’re shelving them wrong. I’ll just have to do it all over again.
I set down The Cat in the Hat, got to my feet, and took my son’s hand. Together he and I walked to the car, where Maria sprang up, asking, How was it? How’d he do? Did you have fun, mi amor?
I shook my head, and she pressed her lips together and said no more.
Oli, of course, would not be so easily silenced.
He called as I was pulling out of the parking spot, and I put him on speakerphone.
What do you mean? Disastrous how?
I recounted the whole morning.
He’s a baby. They of all people should know how babies act.
It’s over, I said.
Not necessarily. Did you explain that this was an anomaly? Did you ask to bring him back again?
Yes, I replied to every one of his questions, until, at last he said, We can still fix this. I’m sure of it.
If you’re so sure, you fix it. I glanced into the rearview mirror, and Maria politely avoided my gaze.
Hang on, he said.
I heard him say something brusque and important-sounding to an unknown colleague.
I have to go, he said. Call your friend Winnie. Didn’t she teach kindergarten?
I was taken aback that he’d remembered. What’s she supposed to do about it?
With exaggerated patience he said, Well, I don’t know, Ava, that’s why you have to call her and ask.
Winnie answered the phone right away.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call you back, I said.
It’s totally fine, she said. I know you’ve been busy.
My eyes stung. It seemed like it had been weeks, maybe months, since anyone had been kind to me. I said, It’s been awful over here.
I told her about the playdate, and after I explained the teacher’s unfairness, Winnie said, To tell you the truth, I don’t know why people think that school’s so good. They don’t seem like anything special to me.
Already I felt better.
She said, Tell you what, I’ll call my friend Florence Lin at Ming Liang Academy in the Richmond.
I pointed out that it was too late. Every decent school’s application period had closed in January. Notifications would go out any day now.
Winnie gave me that bark of a laugh. Florence is a friend. We taught together in Culver City. She’ll accept Henri with my recommendation.
Was she serious? Could it be this easy? We hadn’t looked into Chinese immersion schools, since Oli was already teaching Henri French, but Ming Liang had a good reputation.
Henri will love it there, she said.
You really think this’ll work? Winnie had never mentioned this friend of hers before, and I wondered what she’d done for Florence to be owed this favor.
Of course. And if you don’t want to take any chances, make a small donation. A couple grand will do.
I hesitated.
What’s wrong? Even three, four grand is enough. Just a small percentage of what you’re already spending on school fees.
It wasn’t the money I was worried about; it was my husband. I could already hear his rant: We’re not bribing our son’s way into preschool, Ava. Don’t be absurd.
I quickly calculated how much I had left in my WeChat account and realized that just as Oli didn’t need to know about Henri’s upcoming visit to the pricey speech therapist, he wouldn’t need to know about this.
I told Winnie I’d be happy to make a donation, and she said, Great, I’ll call Florence right now.
Thank you, I said. I mean it.
She brushed it off. What are friends for?
By the week’s end, an official acceptance letter from Ming Liang Academy had arrived in the mail. My husband got his I told you so and I was further ensnared in Winnie’s web, biding time until whenever she decided to collect.