One day, when Jaxon was still a toddler, spending his days with our elderly neighbor, Janine, I’d gone to the library to research schools. The first step, the local website told me, was to identify our school district. The computer screen featured a map of our area, cut into what looked like jagged, angular puzzle pieces in different colors. The McKinley district was the smallest, a tiny island of purple smack in the middle of the map. And right there, right on the edge of that purple area? Was our neighbor Janine’s house.
Just a measly ten yards south was our house, on the edge of the Colton district. I’d never heard of it, but a quick search showed me that it had the worst school in the state. Their graduates go on to become guys who wear sunglasses on the backs of their heads, telemarketers, and disc golfers. And those are the lucky ones. Jaxon was screwed.
So when I went to pick up Jaxon, I cut a deal with Janine. I would put her address on all my school paperwork, and when school mail would arrive at her house, she would dish it to me. In exchange, I gave her free pedicures. That old lady has some nasty feet. But it was worth it.
Jaxon was in. I was in.
THAT WAS KINDERGARTEN, WHEN ALL THE COMMUNICATION was done in colorful flyers that Jaxon just jammed into the bottom of his backpack. I’d usually find them after they’d congealed into a pulp with spilled water, loose raisins, and other unidentifiable snack residue. Apparently Jaxon wasn’t the only kid who made an unreliable mailman, because the teacher eventually wised up and decided that the best course of action was to hand those flyers to parents personally at drop-off or pickup. She’d look us dead in the eye and narrate the entire moment, too, just so we couldn’t pretend we hadn’t known about the Harvest Hootenanny or the Book Bonanza. “Hi, Ms. Dunkler, here’s a flyer for next month’s volunteer opportunities,” she’d say, and I’d promise to look it over when I got home and had a better sense of my schedule. Wouldn’t you know? I was booked every day of the next month with LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE.
Thank God for first grade, when Gwendolyn strong-armed the entire teaching staff into communicating only via email. She saved thousands of trees and saved me from dying of boredom at a science museum field trip with a bunch of nerds. Ever since then, my email address has been my shield: taking one for the Dunkler team day after day. “Sorry!” I can say whenever a mom asks if I’m going to whatever fucking carnival they’re planning to celebrate something that isn’t a holiday. “Musta missed that email!” It’s called plausible deniability. You can’t prove that I didn’t not get that email.
KIDS ARE DUMB ENOUGH NOT TO NOTICE THE DIFFERENCES between them right away. Kids don’t know that their parents’ car costs what I make in a year, or that Jaxon’s backpack came from the thrift store. To them, class is a place you learn, not a pecking order that determines your worth and your path in life. So when Jaxon was in at McKinley, he was in. He was huge and athletic, and when you’re a kid, that’s kinda all you need to be popular. He made every team and got invited to every birthday party. But I was not in. I’d walked into that first parent-teacher conference ready to parent the fuck out of it. But Mrs. Fagnani—with her boring jewelry and her prim and proper sweater set—had taken one look at me and written me off. She had so many questions: Was I married to Jaxon’s dad? Did Jaxon have a dad? Where did we live? And were we sure it was in district? I’d gotten the message loud and clear. And I’d ignored it.
I never went to another parent-teacher conference. I never answered another letter or email from the Mom Squad, the administration, or anything else related to this school. Jaxon was in. I didn’t need to be.
SEVEN YEARS LATER, I’M TROLLING THE HALLWAYS OF McKINLEY trying to run into Jaxon’s teacher. From everything I’ve heard about Mr. Nolan, he’s single and at least not not trying to mingle. Bam! I didn’t even see her there when I took that corner, poor kid. Except she’s not a kid. Though she is dressed like a large kindergartner.
“It’s okay!” she says, smoothing down her hair. “Oooooh!” Her small, clammy hand clamps itself around my forearm. “Nice tats!” It sounds like she’d practiced saying “tats” before.
“I’m Kiki,” she announces, sliding her hand down my forearm until we are shaking hands.
“Okay,” I reply, glancing behind me to see if Mr. Nolan had slipped by while I was being accosted.
“Hey, would you like to have a special coffee date with me sometime?”
“Like, an Irish coffee?” I ask. “Because I have some Bailey’s in my bag if you want . . .”
“Like, a Starbucks?” she asked, which is confusing because why is she asking me an additional question when she hasn’t even answered mine?
This woman has so many questions: What grade is my kid in? Where do I work? What’s my name? I have one question: What the fuck is wrong with this lady?
My dreams of bumping into Mr. Nolan dissolve while this happy little Gollum leads me deep into the caverns of McKinley. We end up in the auditorium, where dozens of other moms are gathered in what they’d call “small groups” but I would call very small circles of my personal hell. They are meeting. Gathering.
My perfect nonparticipation streak is officially over. I’ve accidentally and tragically attended a fucking Mom Squad meeting.
I’VE WATCHED PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING MY ENTIRE LIFE, and I wish I could take back every penny I ever spent on those tour shows, because going to PTA meetings is free and even a bunch of drugged-up, over-tanned meatheads in spandex can’t bring the amount of energy or drama that a roomful of anxious moms provides.
You’ve never seen so many moms in your life. They’re everywhere, packed into the McKinley auditorium like they heard there was going to be a pop-up Ann Taylor sale where our kids hold their “talent” shows.
The crowd here is decidedly more sober than at any WWF event I’ve ever been to, and I’m the only one holding a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew, but the energy is similar. The most hardcore fans sit right up front in the folding chairs and everyone is in costume: perfect hair, perfect outfits. Even the women who are dressed like they could bust out into a series of walking lunges at any moment are showered and made up.
Bits and pieces of conversation float into my ears:
“That’s just one of the pitfalls of having a gifted child, I suppose.”
“Me? Oh my GOD, I’m disgusting right now. I swear, I’ve gained ten pounds since Max started kindergarten, just eating my feelings!”
“And I said that . . . I said it right to her face. I said, Jenn, you’re not acting like yourself right now. You’re being very hostile.”
I need to get out of here, but most of the exits are blocked by tight pods of moms all very intensely discussing whatever it is moms like them discuss: Artisanal diapers? Small-batch peanut-free peanut butter? Grass-fed, organic children?
This is why people have dogs: they’re a built-in excuse to have to leave at a moment’s notice. Then again, so are kids, and you don’t see a single kid in this room. Not one.
The lights flicker. The crowd hushes.
Showtime.
Gwendolyn takes the stage, and I fully expect pyrotechnics to follow. The crowd applauds before Gwendolyn even opens her mouth, and all I can think is, “I really, really wish I were high.”