Play Dates (26 page)

“Happy new year, kiddo.”

Chapter 13

J ANU AR Y

Dear Diary:

I hate school. I hate gym most. Now that it’s wintertime, we don’t
play outside anymore for recess and gym. We play poison ball
and kickball in the gym and we have tumbling and swimming.

Tumbling is the only one I like. I’m not good at playing ball. Some
of the kids are really fast and some of them play like it’s hockey
like we played at Xander’s birthday party and they bump into
you and knock you down. Xander and his friend Asha knocked
into me when we were playing poison ball and I fell down and got
a big bump on my leg. They didn’t even say they were sorry.

It’s so noisy in the gym, too. Everyone is yelling and it makes
an echo and it gives me a headache. The gym teacher, Mr. Sparks,
said he didn’t believe me and he was going to call Mommy and
ask her if I really get headaches from loud noises. He did call
Mommy and Mommy told him that I got headaches so now I
don’t have to play ball in the gym anymore.

They put me in swimming instead. All the girls in my class
made fun of me because of my bathing suit. It used to be my fa-

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vorite bathing suit but not anymore. My friends have really
grown-up bathing suits and I still have an Ariel bathing suit. This
girl from the other second-grade class, Gelsey, said that nobody
wears Disney bathing suits after first grade. I told Mommy what
Gelsey said and Mommy said that my Ariel suit still fits me. She
said that we only have swimming in school for a couple of months
until springtime and she will buy me a new bathing suit in the
summer. I was really angry and I was crying and I told Mommy
she didn’t understand. Mommy said
I
didn’t understand and that
if Gelsey thought I should have a different bathing suit, then
Gelsey could buy me one. But Gelsey doesn’t have her own
money.

I don’t like swimming in school either. The pool smells yucky
and we have to take a shower before and after swimming and the
floor in the showers feels icky.

Mommy got a new job. She is working at the big museum with
the steps selling things in the gift shop. When she comes home she
says her feet hurt a lot from having to stand up all day. She said
she has to work really hard because people are bringing back presents they got for Christmas that they didn’t like. She even saw
some of my friends’ moms. She saw Mei-Li’s mom and she saw
April and May’s mom, June. June is the only mom who lets the
other kids call her by her first name instead of Mrs. Miller. I wish
Mommy didn’t have to work because then we would get to be together more. June told Mommy that she misses her when I go to
their house to play with April and May, because a lot of times
Mommy used to go with me and they would talk in the kitchen
while we played. Moms don’t always go on play dates but
Mommy and June are friends so it was like they had a play date,
too. When I was little Mommy went with me all the time on play
dates. After first grade started she didn’t go so much and since
Daddy left she hardly ever goes at all.

April bragged that she has a boyfriend that goes to another
school. His name is Grayer. What kind of name is that? I think
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April made him up because no one has a name that silly. If I
were going to make up a boyfriend he would have a real name
like Michael.

My feet are killing me. I’m walking in the door from a very long day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s gift shop, and now it’s time to get dinner on the table. For the past week and a half, since I started at the Met, post-job anything has been an effort. Like the sightseeing guide gig, I have to be “on” all day.

At least I’m surrounded by pretty things, but fielding questions from uncomprehending, curious, and disgruntled customers is giving my nerves quite a workout.

I’ve been so caught up with the new job that it’s all I can do to find some quality time to spend with Zoë, which, lately, has been manifesting itself solely in doing her homework with her before putting her to bed.

I

In fact, was the one who was up last week until two-thirty in the morning building an igloo out of Styrofoam. As much as it galls me, I think I’ve finally caved in and adopted the “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” philosophy when it comes to Thackeray’s view on parental “supervision” of their children’s homework.

I feel like I’m walking through the world wearing blinders.

I drop Zoë at school, head across town to the museum, spend eight hours behind one of the jewelry counters, then pick up Zoë from a friend’s house, where she spends her after-school and after-after-school program hours until I’m able to retrieve her. I haven’t even taken the time to look at a newspaper or catch up on housekeeping. For all I know, Armageddon may be imminent and all I’m aware of is an invasion of dust bunnies.

I’m reheating some leftover beef barley soup for Zoë and me when the phone rings. “Have you spoken to your sister re-

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cently?” my mother wants to know. I admit that I haven’t and fill Tulia in on my crazy new schedule.

“Mia’s been very upset lately. Did you know that?” I confess that I don’t. And I feel guilty about that, because I
should
know these things about my sister. We live only a few miles from each other and sometimes it seems like we’re several time zones apart. “She’s looking at turning thirty next month as an event worthy of a Willard Scott announcement.” My mother manages a laugh. “Of course, when you get to be nearly twice Mia’s age, you realize how insignificant the three-oh, and even the four-oh, are in the grand scheme of things. Besides, there’s a lot of truth to being as old as you feel.” Following that formula, I feel about a hundred and ten. Tulia, however, is in a state of perennial bloom. I think her whimsy keeps her outlook youthful. It’s a good object lesson. Tulia’s the kind of woman I wouldn’t mind turning into in my old age.

Zoë wanders into the kitchen and wants to know who I’m talking with. I let her know it’s Granny Tulia, then tell my mother I’ll speak to her soon and hand the phone to Zoë to say hello to her grandmother.

The clever little devil launches into her litany about how un-fashionable her Ariel bathing suit is (yet she dressed as a mermaid for her school Halloween party, and had a mermaid birthday cake), adding that she has to take more swimming classes this winter because she’s been excused from the activities that take place in the noisy gym. By the end of five minutes, she has extracted a promise for a new swimsuit, courtesy of Granny and Grandpa.

Zoë hands back the phone. “Granny Tulia wants to talk to you.” She grabs a brownie—at least we took time this past weekend to do a little mommy-daughter baking—and skips out of the room, wearing a smug expression thinly disguised as a tri-umphant smile.

“You shouldn’t do that. You’re spoiling her,” I tell my mother.

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“You know it’s our pleasure. And a grandparent’s prerogative.”

“It undermines my authority. We’ve been through this before.

I told her that she’ll have to wait until the summer to get a new suit. The Ariel one still fits her fine. It was too big for her last season, and actually, she’s finally grown into it.” And here I am telling an avant-garde clothing designer that I don’t want my seven-year-old turned into a fashion victim. Plus, I don’t like the precedent that when Mommy says no, she can run to Granny.

“Being indulgent goes with the territory,” Tulia tells me, vaguely amused. “I can’t wait ’til
you’re
a grandmother.”

Dear Claire, On a job. Meeting Hunks. Sand and surf and sex.

Last fling of my roaring 20s. Wish you were here. Not! Say hi to Zoë. Love, Mia.

I guess “very upset” is a relative term.

“Oh, God, she’

shopgirl

s a

.” Nina Osborne’s words sink into

my gut, sending seismic waves of queasiness undulating through the rest of my body. Some people never outgrow the urge to be cruel. Playground bullies just get older, taller, fatter, balder; and their female counterparts . . . well, kittens become cats.

It’s been a busy season at the Met. A couple of glitzy exhibits are packing the halls. From behind my jewelry counter in the main gift shop, I’ve learned to discern the true art lovers—those who have been waiting a lifetime to see a work of art in person—

from the dilettantes who just want to be able to tell their friends that they saw the latest blockbuster because it’s so hard to get in.

Nina Osborne, although Zoë tells me she has “real paintings”

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on her walls, appears to fit neatly into the latter category; those who collect exhibits. After I overhear the first offending remark about my new job, she tells her companion, a moneyed matron of the same ilk, that she’ll meet her back at the gift shop in half an hour after they “do” the Monet/Manet show. Since I’m used to being asked questions about them, I’ve memorized a few facts about each of the current exhibits. The Monet/Manet displays 186 works of art across seven rooms. If my calculations are accurate, that leaves Nina approximately 9.6 seconds to view each object, not factoring in travel time from the gift shop on the first floor to the exhibit, which is tucked away in the south wing of the second floor. Actually, according to the statistics given by one of my art history professors, that’s better than the average viewing time of eight seconds per object.

I guess my own little brand of snobbery is kicking in, as a form of private revenge for Nina’s rude comment. A
shopgirl
indeed!

After Nina and her friend have “done” the Monet/Manet, they approach my counter. I’ve never been made to feel smaller in my life. Or poorer. They want to see the most expensive items in the case; and while it’s true that the stuff is costume jewelry, some of the reproductions cost several hundred dollars.

Nina is torn between an eighteen-carat gold necklace and the vermeil version of it, which is only slightly cheaper, but it’s the color that makes the difference. She spends countless minutes examining the two pieces side by side, probably much longer than she took to enjoy any of the masterworks upstairs, some of which are so breathtaking they bring tears to my eyes. “Claire?

Which would you choose if you could afford them?”

I feel my blood begin to bubble and boil. I want to sink into the floor and evaporate. One of us is going to die. I briefly wonder if I were to reach across the counter and strangle Nina with one of the necklaces, whether I would get fired. Probably so. But it would be worth it. If I didn’t worry about having to take care PLAY DATES

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of a small child, it might even be worth going to jail for. The only way I can survive this encounter is to fantasize, Walter Mitty-style, about revenge. I am a modern-day Medea (except for the infanticide thing), and the necklace is poison, but Nina doesn’t know it. She politely asks me for help with the difficult clasp. I cinch it closed and it sears her neck and throat. She becomes unable to speak, the circular burn mark reddening and deepening the more she struggles to say something nasty to me.

She begs me to remove the choker, but,
oops
, I am powerless.

Once the clasp has been fastened, the black magic is out of my hands.

I catch my supervisor watching me.
Can’t try any funny stuff,
Claire
. “Which one would I select?” I repeat. I smile sweetly and point to the one with the vermeil finish. “If I were you, of course, I would choose this one, no question. It’s much more mature-looking.”
You bat.

She pushes it away and taps the glass in front of the gold necklace, as though a fingerprint on the piece itself would mar it irrevocably. “Then I’ll take
this
one. I think it does more for my tan.” She turns to her friend, keeping half an eye on me. “I always think pallid skin, particularly at this time of year, tends to make people look so sickly. And after all, a bronzed com-plexion is a universal symbol of good health.” Nina’s friend must be mute, because I have not heard her utter so much as a syllable in my presence. And I don’t know whether she’s in concordance with any of Nina’s opinions because the Botox injections (a girl can tell, okay?) have rendered her face wrinkle-free, but alarmingly impassive.

“Will that be cash or charge?” I ask.

Nina takes out a platinum card and slaps it on the counter instead of handing it to me. I run her transaction while she tells her girlfriend how much fun it is just to treat yourself to a little something now and again. I carefully box up the “little something,” all $825-plus-sales-tax of it. I can’t wait for this woman

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to leave my counter, but I wonder if
she’s
wondering whether or not I work on commission and if I do, is thinking smugly that with her purchase she’s just performed an act of charity.

As she leaves my counter, with the curtest words of thanks, she comments to her friend that she can’t wait to tell some of the other Thackeray mothers what Claire Marsh is doing with her time these days. My supervisor catches my eye. I’m glad I have no other customers at the moment because it gives me an excuse to Windex the countertop. I am, in fact, wiping away my tears.

I get to kinder karate in time to watch the last ten minutes of the class. Zoë’s earnest little face, a mask of concentration, is adorable. My Powerpuff Girl is learning how to kick butt for real. As soon as the session ends, all the students bow to the sensei, and suddenly their game faces disappear and they become little kids again, running straight into the arms of the waiting parent or nanny.