The Wonder Garden by Lauren Acampora

illustration.
    â€œI’m especially proud of the cost cutting we’re going to do through retirement buyouts. It’s a great way to infuse the district with fresh blood, and the only way to avoid losing extracurriculars.”
    John Duffy clears his throat. “If I may respectfully interject,” he says in a voice like a sludge-filled river. “It’s just not enough, Rosalie.”
    There is a whisper of fabric in the audience, as people shift in their seats.
    â€œWe can’t expect the community to accept another tax hike. The high school was irresponsible, and it’s time to pay the piper.”
    Gary Tighe begins to mutter something in defense, but John continues. His eyes are trained only on Rosalie.
    â€œThe taxpayers have sacrificed enough. Now it’s time for our students to sacrifice. They’ve been coddled, they’ve never been told no. It won’t kill them to go a few years without new sports uniforms, without another school psychologist.”
    â€œJohn,” Rosalie begins, fighting to keep her voice level, “our job as adults is to make sure our students don’t have to sacrifice.” As she speaks, she thinks of him on her lawn in his pink polo shirt, eating from a paper plate, and hates herself for having fed him.
    â€œRosalie, that’s just not realistic. I know you’re new to the board, but you’re not that young.”
    There is a rumble of laughter from the public.
    â€œIt’s not just about sports games and bake sales,” John continues. “Really, sometimes I think this board needs to be clearer about its expectations for candidacy. If you don’t understand business, you can’t understand budgets, and you’re not qualified for a seat. It’s a disservice to our students and to our community.”
    â€œOkay,” Gary interjects. “Thank you, John. I think that’s enough. Why don’t we go ahead and open the public forum.”
    Rosalie’s mouth is dry. She lifts her water cup and maintains a wry smile directed at the far wall of the library. She stares at the display of periodicals, crammed with arguments and opinion, words printed in aggressive black text, the voices of everyone but herself.
    As expected, the gray-haired woman is the first at the podium. Her words are more spat than spoken, like gun spray. Rosalie leans back into her seat and tries to relax her shoulders. No one is going to make her speak anymore. The other board members respond to the woman’s speech with their masculine drones, extinguishing it. She listens, then, to the mothers who rise, one by one, and put their fears into the microphone, their voices transformed into overamplified bird chirps. She sits back and becomes like a coral reef, allowing the voices to mingle and wave over her. After the public has risen to go, after the A/V staff has dismantled the overhead projector, she rises and smooths down the creases in her charcoal pants. The wry smile has hardened on her face. She nods at her colleagues, collects her notebook, and drives home.
    At dinner the next night, Rosalie detects tension at the table. Noah does not look up from his plate, and there is a slight distortion on Nayana’s face. Rosalie has the sudden suspicion that the children know about the board meeting, that they’ve heard about it at school. She wonders whether the other parents might have criticized her by name. She does not taste her dinner.
    Afterward, while Noah is helping in the kitchen, she asks lightly, “Is everything okay, honey?”
    â€œOf course,” he says, wiping the counter. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    These words are spoken frankly, with no note of sarcasm or accusation. Rosalie turns to look at her son, but he does not meet her eye, and his face reveals nothing.
    That night, Rosalie adds another blanket to the bed. It is, incredibly, already November. Like every year, the autumn has swept past too