Barbarians at the PTA

It was Saturday, and Rachel had a game in the school gym. I didn’t feel like mingling. So while she warmed up on the court, I plopped down in a corner at the top of the bleachers and pulled out a book.

Rachel’s team won the tip-off. As usual Lee and her pals cheered for their kids, while the rest of us tried to make up the difference.

My daughter had been sitting on the bench for the first two quarters. I glanced at my watch. Would they put her in? Jess’s husband was the coach, and I was starting to wonder whether the dads were as bad as their wives, when Rachel was rotated in.

Our team was up by six. Rachel was dribbling, trying to get close enough to the basket to take a shot. I clapped and cheered, watching her move down the court. Suddenly she pitched facefirst onto the floor. My heart stopped, but I made my way down the bleachers, passing Lee and her crew along the way.

“She’s clumsy, that one,” Lee tittered as Rachel stood up and rubbed her head.

“No parents, Ma’am.” The ref was coming toward me, motioning for me to sit down. I planted myself in the front row to monitor the situation. Lee raced over with an ice pack—being PTA president obviously guaranteed a blanket security clearance—and then Dr. Audrey swooped in. To my relief, she made a thumbs-up gesture.

I spent the rest of the game employing mental gymnastics, desperate to manage my racing thoughts. It was important for kids to learn to solve their own problems; they needed room to fail—unless, as in this case, the playing field was stacked.

After the game, I raced down to the court, and while motioning for Rachel to come over so we could leave, nearly bumped into Lee, who was laughing with Jess and her husband. Lee and I locked eyes as he stepped back with a look that screamed no female drama.

Rachel had come over and was standing next to me. “Let’s go,” I said, steering her past Lee.

“Not at all. But I am wondering, don’t you have anything better to do than laugh at a ten-year-old who’s tripped and fallen on the court?” I guided Rachel toward the door without waiting for a response, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Lee and Jess were beginning to whisper.

Once we were in the car, Rachel ignored my questions about her head and refused eye contact or conversation. “Why would you say that to Mrs. DeVry in front of the whole team, and the moms and dads? Now everyone will be even meaner than they are now.” She was screaming by the time we pulled into the driveway. “I hate it here. And I hate you.” I was about to apologize, but she’d gotten out of the car and slammed the door.

I watched her let herself in through the kitchen, worrying that I’d finally done my best to stand up to Lee, but had only made things worse.

My fears were borne out a few days later. Rachel told me she’d gotten ten points off on an in-class math exercise because she hadn’t been able to measure the base of an isosceles triangle. Some kids—she assumed Collette and Lexi because they’d been whispering and laughing—had taken her pencil case and ruler. She told me when I got home from work.

It was typical fifth grade hazing, but I was concerned. Rachel obviously wasn’t fighting back. That evening I joined her at the kitchen table where she’d been doing her homework. “Maybe you could sit with other people and avoid those two?” I suggested.

Rachel’s eye roll told me everything I needed to know. “That’s impossible. We’re all in the same class,” she curled her lip in a show of preteen contempt.

I moved on. “I found this,” I announced, stepping toward the sink and pulling one of Rachel’s long-sleeved T-shirts from the cabinet underneath where I’d stashed it.

The garment had been shoved at the bottom of the kitchen garbage that morning and was definitely worse for wear with macaroni noodles pasted to the front, and carrot peels dangling off one of the sleeves.

She gave me a pleading look. “Collette said that she’s the only one that can wear shirts with French sayings on them.”

My anger rose, and I wanted to tell Rachel that she shouldn’t let another kid dictate her wardrobe, but bit my tongue, knowing how intimidating Collette could be. “Okay. No more French sayings. But let’s donate this so some other girl can use it.” I added the shirt to a pile of dish towels I was about to wash. Rachel nodded and picked up the book she’d been reading about Pocahontas.

The ruler and T-shirt incidents told me that certain girls had turned out to be exactly like their moms. Their clique-y behaviors and the group’s sheer numbers, all went against Rachel’s ability to stand her ground.

I had a lot on my mind, like the call I’d gotten several hours earlier from the school nurse, the second one that week.

“This girl Francesca, the one with the red hair, was crying at recess. Some of the kids took her phone and sent texts from it to a boy, pretending to be her, writing stuff like, ‘Will you go out with me? I like you.’ It was really mean.”

My body tensed. The stolen cell phone story was cruel and made me realize that aside from a few early warnings about texting with strangers and making friends online, I hadn’t had the full “internet safety” talk with Rachel. Now was as good a time as any. “What they did to Francesca sounds awful. Did it upset you?”

I saw my chance. “I’ve been meaning to go over something. If someone you don’t know texts or contacts you on social media, what would you do?”

I sighed. “Say he or she somehow gets your number and starts bothering you. Or posts on social media. Then what?”

I gave her a thumbs-up. “You have Facebook and Instachat. Anything else?” She shook her head.

“Just an FYI,” I said, “First thing this weekend I want to go through all of your social media accounts.”

“And I told you that I’d be checking periodically.” I didn’t have the energy to look at her phone right now, especially since we hadn’t gotten to the nurse issue. “I’m glad you told me about Francesca. I think it’s terrible that she’s being picked on.” Rachel nodded. She shrugged, and I took a deep breath. “Which brings me to my next question. Was there something else that happened today?”

I was about to hug her, but stopped short. It was better to let her speak. “Why? What were you doing there?”

“There was too much drama in the cafeteria, and I had a stomachache. The nurse let me lie down on her cot.”

If Rachel had gone to the nurse’s office during lunch, things were getting even worse. “How many times have you gone there?” I ignored the flutter in my chest and forced myself to sound calm, as though I was asking whether she’d remembered to put her homework in her backpack.

“Uh . . . I ate there today, and yesterday. And a few times last week I went to the library.”

Rachel looked down at her hands, and my butterflies turned to anger. The nurse’s messages indicated that there was no fever, and said that she’d been sent back to class. But even if there was nothing physically wrong, my child clearly needed help.

I’d given Rachel time to transition, and had been unsure if I should contact her teacher. But the time had come.

“Hi, Ms. Franklin,

This is Victoria Bryant, Rachel’s mom. I’m writing today because I am concerned about something and would like to speak tomorrow. I will be at work, but if you let me know what times are convenient, I’ll call you when you are free. Otherwise, you can reach me on my cell.

Thank you.

Victoria

The voice on the answering machine was reassuring. It was Ms. Franklin, Rachel’s teacher. “I’d be happy to speak during my lunch hour if that time is convenient for you,” she said.

I called at the agreed-upon hour. She was soft-spoken and sounded kind. “You said you’re concerned about Rachel? Tell me what’s going on.”

Shouldn’t she know? I pushed my annoyance to the side, and focused instead on the fact that she’d made herself available so quickly. “She’s been quiet and anxious lately, keeping to herself socially, and going to the nurse’s office at lunch.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. By the way, Rachel is a lovely girl. She works hard, and is very bright. And from what I’ve seen in the classroom, she’s doing well. As far as socially, Rachel often sits with another girl during small group time. Do you know Maya? And she’s gone over math problems with Neil. So I haven’t seen any major red flags. As teachers, we don’t usually witness what’s going on in the lunchroom or on the playground, but I will discuss it with the aides. I agree, Rachel shouldn’t spend her lunch period in the nurse’s office.”

She started to say goodbye, but I pressed on. “Thank you for looking into this and for speaking with the aides. May I check back with you about this?”

Ms. Franklin sounded like she cared about the students, but my doubts still nagged. It seemed odd that Rachel’s teacher wouldn’t have picked up on anything. She had to be missing something. Two knots pooled in my shoulders. It would probably be up to me alone to deal with my child’s problems.

After we hung up, I left word for Alva, asking her to please stay late on Friday. Then with Rachel’s troubles continuing to weigh on me, I counted the hours until my date with Jim.