Eight

Lunch Ladies

My phone lit up with an electronic reminder: another tour of cafeteria duty. My dread rose; though I wanted to help Rachel and check in on her, handing out pizza with Lee and her acolytes was the last thing I wanted to do.

As soon as I arrived, there they were, clustering by the kitchen area, pulling on rubber gloves, and stacking cheese pies and paper plates. I hovered in the doorway, wondering if she or any of the others felt awkward, but they didn’t seem at all concerned.

Jess raced across the room to kiss my cheek and pet my faux pony tote bag. “Love your purse,” she purred. Why she was acting like we were pals when she’d recently left Rachel out? I felt like slapping her manicured hand away, but managed a hello before moving toward the table where the pizzas were.

It was excruciating, being trapped in a room full of PTA phonies and forcing myself to be civil. I heard a clamor as the kids began to take seats. “You get that one.” Jess was pointing, directing me to work the third grade table.

Once the littler ones had left, Rachel’s group marched in. I saw her sit at the end of her bench next to a brown-haired girl I didn’t know. She gave me a look that said, “Keep away.” After I’d served the other tables, the brown-haired girl waved me over. I stood behind her and Rachel, straining to hear because she was speaking so softly. “I was supposed to get two pieces,” she said, pushing her thick brown hair away from her eyes. “Sure, Maya,” I said, noticing the name on her water bottle.

As I was walking to get another slice, I noticed that the woman with the short bob, who’d wanted to volunteer that first day, was delivering her son’s lunch. I tried to catch her eye and say hello, but she put the lunch down and left. Her son went back to trading Pokémon cards with his friends. I wished his mom would stop nursing a grudge.

Before I knew what was happening, Lee and I were face to face. “Well, if it isn’t Victoria. What are you doing here, defending the rights of the downtrodden, ostracized, and misunderstood?”

“That’s it. You let me know if you need an advocate.” I nodded briefly and stepped away.

Scanning the tables, I recalled how the kids had made disturbing Instachat comments and shook my head, disgusted that this was even an issue, disheartened that volunteering had long ceased being enjoyable.

Just as the hour was ending, Sharon texted, asking me to meet her at the local teashop.

Once we were situated with our steaming drinks, she dove right in. “How’s it going? Neil usually tells me nothing, but he did say that some of the others have started giving Rachel a hard time.” My kid was the talk of the fifth grade? That made me cringe.

She put a hand on my arm and continued. “When I asked why, he said he didn’t know. But if he mentions anything, I’ll tell you.” She shifted in her seat.

“My exterminator sold me a pest control package to address my vermin problem. Too bad it extended only to the actual mice.”

Sharon giggled. “Oh no.”

“It’s worse than I thought, the way these women act. Sometimes I’m afraid Rachel will be scarred from all the exclusion and nastiness.”

“You’re referring to the girls’ moms? Lee and Jess, and the rest of them?”

I nodded as Sharon sipped from her steaming cup. “They’re the worst. They don’t do much except work out and stop on the way home to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner.”

The image was so specific it made me laugh. I almost choked on my tea.

“Rachel will be okay. After this year, they’ll mix up the classes. She’ll meet some different kids, even though we’re stuck with the same people through the end of twelfth grade.” Sharon shifted in her chair. “Any time you want to talk, I’m available,” she added, gathering her purse and jacket. “Sorry, but I have to go home to take a call, a new client. But, I did want to mention, there’s a school benefit coming up right after the break. It’s a karaoke night; we should go.”

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe you can introduce me to some of your friends who aren’t in the bitchy clique?”

“Of course,” Sharon laughed.

A week later I was in the Westchester office when Amy buzzed in and sat down. Pulling her wavy black hair into a loose bun, she described how a group of PTA moms repeatedly ignored her, while their girls told Lucy there was no room in the afterschool class. “How can that be possible? Everyone else who signed up got in! Then the girls laughed when she showed up at the meeting and tried to join. I heard about it after work.”

She balled her fists. “I hate them—especially the mothers. They’re like a bunch of junior high school girls, planning parties while someone who isn’t invited listens in. They’re just so small-minded. I went online last night and checked all of their social media accounts: Facebook, Instachat, Twitter, every last one. And I looked at the kids’ accounts too, the open ones. I didn’t post, just figured out who the key players were, parents and kids. Information is power, you know.”

I felt the hair on my arms rise. Reading a bunch of preteens’ social media posts, trawling the internet, and checking up on people? That was creepy. I couldn’t see myself doing that. But I understood her frustration.

The next morning after the last bell had rung and all the stragglers were racing past, we were parked in front of the school. Rachel was refusing to get out of the car.

“I can’t go today. Can I go back to bed?”

I turned off the ignition and got out to join her in the back seat. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“My stomach hurts.” She was crying now. “All the girls are going to be emojis together. Even Maya—who they say they don’t like. They got costumes online, and the DeVrys are making a big haunted house in their yard for Halloween in a couple of weeks. They were talking about it at lunch yesterday.”

Rachel turned to face me and took a deep breath. “Mom, I don’t know if I have any friends.” She buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed. The sadness filled my chest.

“Sweetheart,” I stroked her head. “Everybody feels like that sometimes.”

“Can I stay home alone?” she asked.

“I guess you can today, but you’ll have to go back tomorrow.”

“I’ll just go in,” Rachel’s tone was glum.

“We’ll try to figure this out when I get home from work, okay?” I was kicking myself again for moving to Mayfair. We were stuck—you didn’t just give up a mortgage-free house in a top school district—but since the same kids would be together in middle school and beyond, something had to be done.

Watching Rachel enter the building, head down, I no longer cared about rules concerning parents in the classroom and PTA hierarchies. I needed to act, but instead headed to work, where I spent the rest of the day making inroads on everyone’s problems, but my own.

Hours later, I’d just locked the door to my office when it hit me: Why not look at Guardian, an independent school with small classes? Perhaps sending Rachel there would solve our problems.

Guardian was the only private school in the area that offered a number of scholarships. And it was convenient, halfway between the city and our house. The website said the application deadline had passed a couple of days earlier, but I had an idea.

After composing an email to the headmaster, introducing myself and referencing a mutual friend, I asked if he could see me on an admissions matter, and hit “send.” When he replied, saying I was free to stop by, I headed out the door and into the car. The school was just south of Mayfair on the highway, a complex of stone and more modern buildings surrounded by meticulously maintained sports fields.

The office was in an old Tudor house close to the entrance of the campus. After passing through a huge wooden door, I found myself in the tasteful beige admissions office, standing next to a black rocker with the word “Veritas” on it.

“Hello,” I said to the receptionist, smiling to mask my anxiety. “Victoria Bryant. The headmaster is expecting me.” She spoke quietly into the phone, and before long, a lanky man in a tweed vest was striding across the carpet.

“Dr. Robert Lacanne. What can I do for you?”

Lacanne hadn’t even crossed the room, and he was already finished with the introductions. My best hope was to turn on the charisma. I stepped forward to shake, but tripped on a bump in the thick carpet. As the headmaster moved to steady me, I pumped inadvertently, shaking both hands at once, managing to turn a routine introduction into a full upper-body activity. There was only one thing for me to do: get a rocker that said “Klutz.”

When I regained my composure, I said, “Hi. My name is Dr. Victoria Bryant.”

He nodded. “You asked to see me?”

Ugh, this wasn’t going to be easy. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.

The headmaster just nodded. A Jehovah’s Witness would get a warmer welcome, but I barreled on.

“I’d like to discuss my daughter, Rachel Bryant. She’s a fifth grader at Barnum Elementary.”

“What did you want to discuss?” He glanced at his watch.

“Uh, well, I’m considering enrolling her, and I came to pick up an application.”

“Our deadline was October 14th. At this point, there’s nothing I can do. Thank you for your interest.” He stepped towards the receptionist’s desk.

I kept talking to overcome my growing desperation. “She’s so excited about studying here. So is there any way you can give me an application?”

The Headmaster glowered. As my panic rose, another man came out of the back of the office. He was tall and athletic with a masculine jaw and strong forearms, and something about him was familiar. Now the new man was also staring at me; I was starting to feel like a zoo animal.

“We make clear on our website that deadlines are final. No exceptions.” The Headmaster looked at his watch again. “Our meeting is concluded,” he said motioning toward the door.

My anxiety level surged. This was not only just plan B, but also C, D, and E.

“Wait. Please.” My voice sounded high-pitched.

He turned to stare. “Sir, I’m a practicing psychologist with over fifteen years experience, and my credentials are impeccable. I could help out, provide services . . . . ”

A nerve pulsed in his cheek. “We have several clinicians on staff, Yale-trained.”

I’d googled, and was well aware of the staff’s pedigree. “Is there anything I can do to help my daughter’s chances?”

“Miss Bryant . . . .”

Had he intentionally demoted me?

“Guardian does not tolerate requests of this sort, which raise the specter of favoritism and sully the admissions process.” He walked toward me and took my arm. “And now I must advise you again that our meeting is concluded. Good Day,” he propelled me toward the door and disappeared into a back room.

I checked out my reflection in the glass door. Who was that red-faced and exhausted-looking woman in a pencil skirt and heels? My long brown hair was disheveled, and I had a run in my pantyhose. I was battle scarred and humiliated—and it was a new low.

I bolted to the exit and sat down on a bench close to the front of the property. In our town and at Rachel’s school, the playing field was not level at all. How was I going to protect my child? Tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes.

“Are you okay?” Someone was speaking to me. It was the guy with the forearms—and though crying had made my vision blurry, I could tell his shoulders and pecs weren’t bad either.

I sniffled. “I’m leaving. You don’t have to call security.”

He smiled. “No, it’s fine. This is nothing we haven’t seen before. It’s been a parade of anxious parents around here lately,” he said, rerolling his sleeves. I wiped my eyes and quietly checked him out: pressed pants, blue button-down shirt, and plain loafers—solid and understated.

My new acquaintance continued with his story. “Yesterday a woman showed up with a $30,000 tote from Paris. She made a show of putting the big orange box on Lacanne’s desk and telling him how much his wife would adore owning the ‘it bag.’”

“Seriously?” I asked with a small smile. He was kind, but I still wanted to run home and hide. “Well, thank you. I guess I should be going now,” I said, standing up.

“You might try Lakeshore Academy. They’re still taking applications, I hear.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have an extra forty grand lying around and it’s too far from our house. That’s why I was so excited about Guardian. This location and scholarship program are ideal.”

The man extended his hand. “Jim Reilly. I’m Head of the Lower School.” We shook briefly. His palm felt nice on mine.

“Victoria Bryant.”

Jim looked at me and smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the sides. He seemed compassionate and was very handsome, although he was taller than the guys I usually liked. “Didn’t we run into each other at Starbucks?”

Of course! This was the guy I’d bumped into when I was rushing to work.

“Yes. Sorry again about your coffee.” He held my gaze as a warm blush deepened across my cheeks. Handsome as he was, I wasn’t sure what else to say and stood up to gather my things. “It was nice to meet you, Jim.”

“Victoria, wait.” My pulse picked up.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to get a beer with me?”

I tilted my head. “Do you have drinks with everyone who tries to elbow their way into your school?”

“Only the unsuccessful ones. I can’t go out boozing with the mothers of my students. That would be inappropriate.”

I laughed. Five o’clock might be a little too early for beer, but a cup of coffee would be okay. There was still time before Alva had to leave.

Had he just asked me out? Was this a date? I felt a pounding in my chest, but quickly pivoted. Given the fact that nothing had ever stuck, Colin was my first and only long-term relationship, dating seemed ill advised.

“I—”

“It’s only a beer.” Jim’s tone was playful, sparking tiny waves of excitement from within the dark recesses of my chest. As he stood there, smiling down at me, I felt my resolve beginning to waver.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”