Seven

I’ll Never Do Lunch in This Town Again

The first thing I noticed was the smell: ammonia burning its way through my sinuses, searing every tissue in its path like that potent Japanese mustard I hated. How could the kids stand this place?

I had no interest in seeing Lee or any of her friends. But I wasn’t letting them steal volunteering out from under me, not after finally being able to spend time at school after years of full-time work. There was no way I was canceling.

After getting a pass in the front office, I headed for the cafeteria, where the word of the day was “drab.” Cinderblock walls, steel picnic tables, and hard wooden benches as far as the eye could see. Multigallon trash canisters lined the room’s perimeter, their wideopen jaws awaiting the latest haul of pizza crusts and goldfish discards. The aides seemed miserable, and I couldn’t blame them.

I introduced myself to the other volunteers, two moms whose daughters were in the second grade. One of them asked me if I’d heard the district had been awarded first place in the state’s orchestra and strings competition. And did my child play in the band? I told her that Rachel had briefly taken a turn at the recorder, but decided to quit when several of our former neighbors called the doorman to report that a wailing sound, possibly the cries of an injured animal, was emanating from our apartment. They laughed, and then it was time to ready the tables for the first group of kids.

Moments later, the room began to buzz with entering students. The kindergarteners walked in two-by-two, their colorful lunchboxes swaying, as they skipped to their seats. Two girls began giggling over mac and cheese and smiley-face cookies, as the boys across from them broke out into a sword game with their milk straws.

The girls clapped and slapped hands. I broke into a smile. “Miss Lucy Had A Steamboat.” I hadn’t heard that one in years. The girls were face-to-face, like they were the only two kids in the room, mirroring each other’s delight. On the other side of the cafeteria, several boys in football jerseys who looked to be about eight, laughed and threw Cheetos at one another. The buzzer sounded and they lined up in two messy rows, snaking out of the cafeteria and up the hall.

The upper grades made their way in, and it became a war zone. I was on high alert wondering how the girls would treat Rachel. I hoped that seeing them in their element would give me some ideas about how to strategize with her, help her meet different kids.

Turning to the task at hand, I set down greasy paper plates of pizza in front of the children. Rachel sat quietly at the end of the table of girls. The others were chatting, interrupting one another and laughing.

Suddenly, Lee appeared in tennis whites, her shapely legs on display as she approached one of the tables. “Excuse me, Ma’am.” An aide was running behind her, flagging her down. “You need a pass from the main office.”

“You must be new,” Lee snapped. Turning her back on the woman, she handed several takeout containers to Collette.

I was hoping Lee would stay across the room, but she strode over to me. “Jess said you’d be here today.” She stared, waiting for a response. Before I could formulate one, a woman in a roomy college sweatshirt headed straight for us.

“Lee?” Her voice cracked. Lee smiled mouth only. “You rang?”

“We met at a rec game last spring. I’m Robin.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I’m here to drop off Ally’s EpiPen. Anyway, I came over to talk to you in person because I, uh, tried to text you.”

Lee frowned. “What did you want to speak about?”

Robin looked over at the closest table of kids, who were busy debating whether Nicki Minaj or Cardi B was a better rapper. “Well, Ally’s been asking for a playdate with Collette. I was wondering if we could get them together one day after school?”

“Let me get back to you, okay?”

Robin nodded and lowered her eyes. For a second I wondered whether she’d bow and back away. Instead she sped out and down the hallway.

Lee scrolled through her phone. “There’s no way mah Collette would spend even fahve minutes with her loser daughter,” she muttered, before looking up at me. “Why are you still standing there?”

I felt like making a snarky comment, telling her I’d come for the collaborative atmosphere, but the secretary cut me off. “Mrs. DeVry?” she called from the doorway.

As Lee was leaving the room, a screeching sound drew my attention back to the tables, where the red-haired girl I’d seen that first morning was digging her heels into the floor, squatting to push the bench backward and stand up. Lee’s daughter, Collette, had used wooden chopsticks to push a small container of soy sauce to the edge of the table, where it tipped over onto the redhead’s lap.

She managed to stand and wipe her pants, and was slowly making her way over to the trash bins. Collette and one or two others giggled, and the rest of the group ate their pizza, business as usual. I felt a catch in my throat, glad Rachel was at other end of the bench and temporarily out of danger, though I couldn’t shake a feeling of despair. Kids could be so cruel. I really hoped it would get better for Rachel and the redhead.

I ignored the impulse to go over—volunteers were not allowed to interact, just hand out food—and made my way to another table, where I served a pair of twin boys in identical gold LeBron James jerseys, and then the rest of the group. On one side was a kid with a cleft chin, next to a curly haired child in a bright blue T-shirt bearing the image of a large smiling dog. “I Love Poodles,” the caption read. Suddenly, one of the twins elbowed the poodle kid hard, causing him to fall off the end of the bench.

Physical danger crossed a line, and just as I was about to intercede, a tall aide pointed at the kid with the cleft chin, who appeared to be the ringleader. “You have been warned, Jake. Leave Lucas alone.” Jake and several others snickered. Lucas moved to the other side of the table, focusing intently on his lunch tray.

My stomach lurched. No wonder people repressed their childhoods.

I’d made my way over to the other volunteers and was about to ask if they wanted to go out for coffee, when Sharon texted, asking me to join her for lunch. I accepted, grateful for a friend.

We met at the Organic Hub, the new health food restaurant close to the station. It was a tiny place, next to a frame store, a small wooden room with a few bistro tables, chairs, and a counter. Sharon stood up when I walked in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “So glad we could do this,” she said, pushing her dark bangs out of her eyes. “How are things going? Does Rachel like school?”

“Moving in fifth grade hasn’t been easy.”

Sharon nodded. “Why did you choose to do it now, as opposed to next year when they’d be in middle school?”

I wasn’t sure if I should tell her about my great aunt’s house. I didn’t want to sound showy, and I definitely wasn’t going into the scene at the altar, though I wanted to be authentic with her. I compromised, “It was a good time for us to leave the city, and the house came up.”

“How long have you guys lived here?” I asked.

“Seven years. I can’t believe that it’s been that long. We came here for the schools when Neil was turning four. My job with the planning bureau required city residency, so I had to quit. The first few months I was isolated because the pre-K was two towns over. That was brutal. But once Neil started kindergarten, I met people.”

“And you like it now? It stinks that you had to give up your career.”

Sharon was about to speak when the server came over with a smoothie. “Can I get you anything?” she asked me.

I glanced at the menu. “Everybody around here seems crazy for avocado toast. What do you think? Is it as good as they say?”

Sharon laughed, “Let’s do it!”

“Two orders of avocado toast,” I smiled at the server. We were seated next to a window. Two women in matching black yoga pants strolled by. Didn’t anyone wear street clothes anymore? They were walking in step with their identical wheat-colored dogs. I said, turning back to Sharon, “I was interested in what you were saying, about moving and having to quit work.”

“I was with the real estate department. It was a lot of paperwork. And then our first year here, my husband, Michael, and I decided that it made sense for me to go back to school for graphic design.”

“How has that been?”

“I like it, and I can structure my hours around the kids’ schedules. And you?”

“Psychologist. I love my job; people are fascinating.”

“Especially around here.” Sharon leaned forward. “Some of the girls’ moms are interesting. They can be pretty clique-y.”

“I think you mean bitchy.”

Sharon looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or give me a sympathetic shake of the head. “Neil had some playdates with a few of the girls in kindergarten. Some of their moms were insufferable.”

I nodded. “Still are. I’ve been trying to steer Rachel toward some of the other girls, but she seems afraid to befriend the ones who aren’t in the right crowd.”

Sharon nodded. “Their grade has a bunch of snotty moms and kids. But there are some nice people, promise.”

I nodded, remembering my silent vow to stand up more firmly to Lee. I still wasn’t sure exactly how to do that without making things even worse for Rachel.

Sharon was speaking again. “Does Rachel play sports? She’ll meet kids that way.”

The food came quickly, and although it didn’t rise to the level of the religious experience everyone had promised, the toast was filling. We paid the bill and promised to get together soon.

I was making my way to the car, thinking how Sharon had said that some of the girls’ moms were “insufferable,” when a dark SUV sped past. As I registered the vehicle’s insignia, a symbol resembling a chrome peace sign, something brushed my leg. It was a third buff-colored dog, the latest iteration of the hypoallergenic mix that was favored by Mayfair’s cognoscenti. No need for an identifying marker on his rear.

Watching the pup retreat, I slid into the front seat of my compact car thinking: In Mayfair, kids were “popular,” dogs, blond, and cars, black and roomy.

The fifth graders were gearing up for the upcoming basketball season, practicing on Saturdays. Rachel had been randomly assigned to a team with Lexi and a couple of others from class. To my relief, Collette was on a different squad. I hoped playing in the rec league would be a good experience for my daughter. Today was her first preseason scrimmage.

We were at the gym. While Rachel went onto the court, I took a seat in the bleachers, planting myself next to a tall, lithe woman in fashionably ripped jeans. I thought I recognized her from the classroom and also as the woman Lee had displayed the photo of at dinner. “Hi,” I said, “I’m Victoria. I think I saw you at pick-up. Our daughters are in the same class.”

She shook my hand, “Phoebe. I heard a new girl had moved in.” I was about to ask who her daughter was, and if she’d played basketball before, when Lee and Jess walked into the gym with their girls.

Phoebe stood up immediately. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping down a few rows until she reached the one where Lee and Jess were now seated. I watched, pressure rising, as she positioned herself next to them. I guess I didn’t rate when the Star-mothers were around.

There was the same in-group/out-group nonsense I’d heard patients rant about. I felt like leaving the gym, but wanted to watch the scrimmage, and pulled out my phone, hoping my email messages would distract me.

When I wasn’t dodging the PTA clique, I was trying to block out the conversation of two men who were seated down the row from me, watching the kids warm up. “That one has a good shot, though it needs work. See how she doesn’t put enough movement in the wrist?” I rolled my eyes. His companion offered an opinion. “See how that one moves. Now she’s a ballplayer.” Rating players on athletic ability and promise, these guys sounded as though they were scouting for a professional draft.

I glanced down at my phone, noticing out of the corner of my eye, that a tall man in a knit shirt, dark jeans, and suede loafers had appeared at the top of the bleachers. Before I knew it, he was sitting down next to me. “What are you doing here, Colin?” I hissed, while scanning the room. Hopefully no one was watching.

“Rachel posted on her Instachat that preseason was starting.”

I made a mental note to have her block him. “I told you—”

He flashed a big smile at me and spoke a little more loudly than I would have liked. “I thought that talking in person might make a difference.” A few people glanced over.

“You had no right to show up here,” I whispered, noticing that Lee and Jess were now staring. “Your presence will only confuse Rachel. Please go.”

“Fine.” Colin stood up. “But I think you’re being precipitous.” I glared at his retreating back until the whistle blew.

The girls were now running up and down the court, in the action. Rachel was dribbling the ball, passing to the others. After the first quarter had gone by with her taking several tries to score, she caught a pass, set her body into position, and made a basket, scoring three points. “Go, Rachel!” I hooted and applauded, along with the coach. Rachel gave me a look, so I sealed my lips and watched the rest of the game without a peep.

Whenever Lexi, Collette, or Phoebe’s kid scored, Lee and company shouted and clapped, but only for their daughters and those in the chosen group. I wondered if Rachel was aware of this. There were other parents too, but I didn’t know them. A couple of women had taken seats a few rows behind the contingent, and also screamed only whenever certain kids made baskets.

A few parents were more diplomatic in their show of support, but only a handful. I decided that Jess, Audrey, and Phoebe, were like members of a college sorority, striving to fit into Lee’s group, no matter what cruelty ensued. The clique was their oxygen tank.

While we were driving home, Rachel played on her cell phone. “Any nice girls on your team?” I asked.

“It’s the same people from school,” she said without looking up. “Can we have pizza and watch a movie in bed?”

“Sure.”

It turned out to be fun; giggling at Will Ferrell’s portrayal of an elf come to earth, while eating our slices. It was nice to see my daughter smiling again. But given the situation with the moms and kids, I suspected that our good cheer wouldn’t last very long.

It did not. After waking up the following morning with my mind pinging like a pinball machine, from Rachel’s misery to Lee and the other mothers, and back, I couldn’t sit still. Getting out of the house would help.

“Come on, let’s go for a run,” I said, trying to rouse Rachel from her phone.

“Nice sweats, mom. Where’d you get them, the Knicks uniform archives?”

They’d looked kind of cute when I grabbed them from the sale rack. “They’re yours anytime you want to borrow them,” I said as Rachel slid into the back seat of the car.

I parked on a quiet street and admired the changing leaves as we headed to the track. She went around once, then played Candy Crush in the stands while I huffed and puffed my way through a few more laps. Man I hated jogging. My motto had always been, “Don't run unless someone's chasing you.”

I told Rachel we could grab a frozen yogurt after doing a few errands. We quickly did the grand tour: pharmacy, dry cleaner, and shoemaker. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting at the counter of the sweet shop. “Tell me about school, honey?” I asked as she swiveled on a tall stool.

“It’s fine.”

“What did you do in science this week?”

“Nothing much. We did a lab on butterflies. Right now the larva is at the stage that’s called a pupa.” She busied herself with the cell. “Look, I made it to the ninth level.”

“Bet I can beat you,” I said.

“No way. You can’t even get to Level 3.”

I had never tried this game. “We’ll see about that. Winner gets an extra scoop and sprinkles.”

I managed to coax a smile, but couldn’t help feeling sad. Once again Rachel had made no mention of anything social.

A few hours later, we were sitting on the sofa watching a sitcom about a family of witches and warlocks, when Rachel grinned and invited me to look at her phone. Since she rarely bestowed confidences these days, I was eager to see what she was sharing.

It was something the kids called a “Tribute,” a flattering post on her Instachat feed. Rachel had written: “Happy Birthday Mom. Thank you for everything you do. Love you!” Above the words was a photo of us hiking in one of the upstate parks we’d discovered last summer.

My heart fluttered. My daughter didn’t find me annoying—at least some of the time! Glancing around the old room at the faded grass cloth wallpaper, wishing real time had a pause button with which my happy moment could be preserved forever, I reached over and hugged Rachel. “This is beautiful. I love you too, sweetie. Why don’t I make a special breakfast for my birthday tomorrow?”

The next morning I made the pancakes, arranging strawberries in a half-circle smile with two fat blueberries for eyes, and a glob of whipped cream at the top. Julie called, and she, Hal, and Carly sang “Happy Birthday” into the phone, while Rachel giggled.

The mood changed quickly while we were eating. Rachel showed me her phone. Katie, Audrey’s kid, had posted a vomit emoji, while Lexi added a laughing face. Rachel deleted both comments.

Another day, another bully. The kids were just as bad as their moms, and it was getting to me.

A little bit later when Rachel suggested we get the first Harry Potter book and read it together, I felt a tiny surge of hope: we were a team and together we would conquer the girl problems. Then Alva came to drop Rachel off at school, and I headed for work, still feeling burdened, but making time to grab lunch at a salad bar close to the train station.

It was the type of place that had lots of sustainable products and smoothies made with kale. In the back, I saw my patient, Maureen, chatting with a woman. They were hunched together, whispering.

I’d have to be quick. Holding utensils and filling a plate with greens, chicken, and vegetables—apparently they mixed everything together at the counter—I’d passed by the drink line and ordered a tea to go. Grabbing a giant chocolate chip cookie in Saran Wrap and sticking it between my lips, I turned and promptly bumped into Maureen, who had gotten up to get a cup of coffee. We nodded and smiled. I broke into a sweat, resting my purchases on the counter, and handing the cashier my debit card.

When I was in the doorway putting on my coat, I heard the cashier ask her about the new yoga studio that was opening up in the next town, but raced out without stopping to hear the answer.

I finally made it to my office feeling like a goldfish, or maybe a canary, whatever the trapped and cornered creature was. Let your psychology practice distract you. It’s easy, I told myself, all you have to do is focus on work.

But wait—these people were my work.