first thought was,
Oh no!
Followed instantly by,
Oh, yeah! Maybe they’ll cancel the field trip and reschedule it for next week, when I won’t be able to chaperone because
I have a job.
I particularly looked forward to making this fact known, somehow, to my nemesis, Julia Swensen, who had absolutely no idea how largely she figured in my imagination. We rarely spoke more than a couple of words, as she was as unaware of me as I was aware of her.
I’d stopped introducing myself to her after the third or fourth time, when it became abundantly clear that she had filed my name, and me, in the folder marked “No Reason to Remember.” Julia was always perfectly turned out, with great shoes that I coveted, waiting to usher little Neela inside the minute the school doors opened at seven thirty. School doesn’t start until eight; I have only been there earlier than that a couple of times, and never by choice.
Julia’s cell phone would already be ringing, and you could practically smell how important it made her feel to have people absolutely desperate to reach her at seven twenty-five in the morning. She would roll her eyes at the rest of us, huddled in a dazed little group, clutching our travel mugs. Her look said,
Can’t I please be left in peace to droop my only child at school? Am I that indispensable?
Julia didn’t chaperone. Ever. She didn’t have time. She was very,very busy, terribly busy, crushingly busy. According to my friend Lianne, who volunteered part-time in the school’s newly established development office, she gave the school money, instead.
Lying in bed listening to the rain on the eaves, I imagined the interaction unfolding like this.
I would show up at seven thirty some morning in my one nice suit (if it still fit—I hadn’t had it on since before Henry was born). Julia would practically do a double take and say:
“It’s—Anne, isn’t it?”
Wrong, sister, but we’ll let it pass
.
“Uh, Anza, actually.”
Julia would secretly be congratulating herself for dredging something fairly close to my name up from the depths of her memory. She’d smile wearily. “Early meeting?”
I’d sigh and nod but offer no details, making her work for the information she wanted.
“Where do you work?” she would finally ask, curious to place me somewhere on the grid.
“Oh, at the Boston Athenaeum,” I’d coolly respond, in a tone of voice that conveyed my surprise at the fact that she didn’t already know this. My suit would send the signal:
And not sweeping floors, baby
.
“Really? I had no idea,” she would no doubt go on, relegating to her thoughts the second half of the sentence,
Because you always struck me as such a schlump
.
“I’m restoring a collection of rare books,” I could now say, casually. Topping
that
with, “and consulting on the provenance of a priceless medieval manuscript.”
Julia would then respond with, “Wow!” Or something like that. Which is all I really wanted. That one moment in which she instantly understood how profoundly she had underestimated me.
I didn’t like Julia at all. I didn’t want to be friends with her. I didn’t want to meet her husband or be invited to dinner or askedto a party to which I would have nothing fun to wear. I just didn’t want her to look at me first thing in the morning through her chic, tasteful glasses and think,
Loser
.
Henry was up in a tree. I wasn’t sure that the owners of the orchard would be crazy about this, the health of their branches being closely tied to the wealth in their coffers, but the low-hanging limbs were proving irresistible, not only to Henry, but also to several other kids.
“Henry,” I called.
He ignored me.
“Henry!” He looked down.
“Come on down. It’s not good for the branches.” “I’m not hurting them!”
I gave him a look, the kind that meant,
Did you hear what I just said?
“I’m not,” he insisted. Then I heard, much more quietly, “You’re not in charge.”
He
Oh no!
Followed instantly by,
Oh, yeah! Maybe they’ll cancel the field trip and reschedule it for next week, when I won’t be able to chaperone because
I have a job.
I particularly looked forward to making this fact known, somehow, to my nemesis, Julia Swensen, who had absolutely no idea how largely she figured in my imagination. We rarely spoke more than a couple of words, as she was as unaware of me as I was aware of her.
I’d stopped introducing myself to her after the third or fourth time, when it became abundantly clear that she had filed my name, and me, in the folder marked “No Reason to Remember.” Julia was always perfectly turned out, with great shoes that I coveted, waiting to usher little Neela inside the minute the school doors opened at seven thirty. School doesn’t start until eight; I have only been there earlier than that a couple of times, and never by choice.
Julia’s cell phone would already be ringing, and you could practically smell how important it made her feel to have people absolutely desperate to reach her at seven twenty-five in the morning. She would roll her eyes at the rest of us, huddled in a dazed little group, clutching our travel mugs. Her look said,
Can’t I please be left in peace to droop my only child at school? Am I that indispensable?
Julia didn’t chaperone. Ever. She didn’t have time. She was very,very busy, terribly busy, crushingly busy. According to my friend Lianne, who volunteered part-time in the school’s newly established development office, she gave the school money, instead.
Lying in bed listening to the rain on the eaves, I imagined the interaction unfolding like this.
I would show up at seven thirty some morning in my one nice suit (if it still fit—I hadn’t had it on since before Henry was born). Julia would practically do a double take and say:
“It’s—Anne, isn’t it?”
Wrong, sister, but we’ll let it pass
.
“Uh, Anza, actually.”
Julia would secretly be congratulating herself for dredging something fairly close to my name up from the depths of her memory. She’d smile wearily. “Early meeting?”
I’d sigh and nod but offer no details, making her work for the information she wanted.
“Where do you work?” she would finally ask, curious to place me somewhere on the grid.
“Oh, at the Boston Athenaeum,” I’d coolly respond, in a tone of voice that conveyed my surprise at the fact that she didn’t already know this. My suit would send the signal:
And not sweeping floors, baby
.
“Really? I had no idea,” she would no doubt go on, relegating to her thoughts the second half of the sentence,
Because you always struck me as such a schlump
.
“I’m restoring a collection of rare books,” I could now say, casually. Topping
that
with, “and consulting on the provenance of a priceless medieval manuscript.”
Julia would then respond with, “Wow!” Or something like that. Which is all I really wanted. That one moment in which she instantly understood how profoundly she had underestimated me.
I didn’t like Julia at all. I didn’t want to be friends with her. I didn’t want to meet her husband or be invited to dinner or askedto a party to which I would have nothing fun to wear. I just didn’t want her to look at me first thing in the morning through her chic, tasteful glasses and think,
Loser
.
Henry was up in a tree. I wasn’t sure that the owners of the orchard would be crazy about this, the health of their branches being closely tied to the wealth in their coffers, but the low-hanging limbs were proving irresistible, not only to Henry, but also to several other kids.
“Henry,” I called.
He ignored me.
“Henry!” He looked down.
“Come on down. It’s not good for the branches.” “I’m not hurting them!”
I gave him a look, the kind that meant,
Did you hear what I just said?
“I’m not,” he insisted. Then I heard, much more quietly, “You’re not in charge.”
He
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