Spencer Alexander Wright, said the boy, adorably adding, Very pleased to meet you.
The teacher’s face brightened. The pleasure is mine, she said, checking them off on her clipboard and letting them through. She scribbled a note by the boy’s name, no doubt urging the admissions committee to accept this charming, articulate child. Looking up, she spotted the three of us picking our way toward her and waved. I waved back. Maria kept right on whispering in Henri’s ear. Whatever she told him worked, because when she set him down, he reached for my hand.
Good luck, have fun, Maria said, and then her footsteps receded down the sidewalk.
Ready, Cooks? I asked.
He gazed up at me and chortled like I’d told the best joke.
You must be Ava, the teacher said. And you must be Henri. She bent over so she was eye level with him, and my heart soared when he let her shake his hand.
We were taken to a classroom with the other prospective students—five in all, plus four moms and one dad. The teacher supervising the playdate introduced herself as Ms. Jenny and instructed us parents to take a seat on the miniature chairs lined up against the far wall.
Ms. Jenny had Shirley Temple curls and large shiny teeth like a horse. Sit back and relax, she said, which prompted nervous laughter, plus a hoot from the dad. This time is for the kids to explore the classroom and have fun. That’s it! There’s nothing else on the agenda.
The dad gave a little snort. He had reddish scruff on his chin, a silver hoop in one ear, and an overly friendly demeanor. I resolutely ignored him, already annoyed. The platinum-haired woman retrieved a notebook from her Evelyne bag (rouge tomate, Clemence leather) and scrawled something in it. Was she writing down what Ms. Jenny said? Was she taking notes on her child? On our children? Who knew?
The teacher gave the kids a tour of the classroom, pointing out the shelf of board books, the table stacked with coloring sheets and crayons, the bin filled with dolls and stuffed animals and trucks and planes, the basin of homemade playdough, the Lego corner. The kids scattered about the room. A half Asian, half white girl with two tiny pigtails sticking straight out of her head knelt by the bookshelf and chose a book, and I oozed envy.
The dad spoke out of the corner of his mouth. Cecily’s favorite thing to do is read.
Aha, an Asian wife, who must have worked in tech or finance and made a boatload of money if this man, her husband, was the primary caregiver. The dad waved at his little reader, displaying a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that read [sic].
Henri and Spencer Alexander Wright went straight for the construction toys, and my fingers gripped the seat of my chair. The bigger boy got there first and plucked out the shiny yellow bulldozer, which Henri wanted too. He stood there, looking deflated and bewildered, and I held my breath and prayed. And then, instead of pressing his case, Henri simply dug through the bin and found another shabbier, smaller bulldozer. I wanted to leap up and cheer. I looked over at the teacher to see if she’d noticed my son’s magnanimity, but she was watching another toddler draw long orange streaks across a page.
That one’s mine, I said to the dad, who replied generously, What a good sport.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we parents murmured and chuckled and gawked as though playtime were a most engrossing piece of theater. When Ms. Jenny announced that it was time for the children to move on to another activity of their choice, I tried to signal to Henri with a subtle flick of my chin. Books. Go to the books.
He took his time, roaming the room, watching the other kids.
So watchful, I observed softly. Such a thinker.
Little Cecily was apparently completely absorbed in The Very Hungry Caterpillar because she kept turning pages, paying the teacher no mind. Ms. Jenny approached and told her it was time to try something else, and she scrunched up her face and flung the book on the floor with a prolonged screech.
Henri looked over with concern, but the teacher was too occupied to notice his deep well of empathy.
It’s okay, Cece, the dad called out. I’m sorry, Ms. Jenny, she loves that book so much. He rose from his chair, but the teacher stayed him with a shake of her head.
In a calm voice she said, Cecily, it’s time for another activity.
The little girl grabbed the book and chucked it straight at Ms. Jenny’s sternum.
Ouch, said the teacher.
The girl giggled, probably more from surprise than from malice.
Cece, the dad yelled, say you’re sorry.
The girl ran over to her dad, who ordered her once again to apologize.
She looked over her shoulder and sang, almost coquettishly, Soooorry.
She’s very sorry, he said. He pushed her toward Ms. Jenny. Say it like you mean it.
Cecily slinked over to the teacher. She looked up at her through long lashes and gave her the most alluring grin. I’m sorry, Ms. Jenny.
The teacher patted her grimly on the head.
The rest of us parents clucked, charmed and horrified by this beguiling child and, above all, relieved our own kid hadn’t been the one to act out.
Behind me, one mom said to another, The most advanced are always the most willful.
The platinum-haired woman called out, Good job, Spence!, when her son hammered a rubber nail into a plank, which prompted a pointed look from Ms. Jenny.
Henri wandered past the bookshelf and landed, finally, at the table with the playdough basin. Good choice. Playdough was safe. It couldn’t be jabbed or hurled or otherwise used as a weapon. A little later, Cecily joined Henri at the table, a wonderful chance for him to demonstrate how well he played with others. For a few enchanting moments, the two of them stood side by side, companionably molding lumps of dough.
Look, Cecily said, taking her lump and pancaking it on the table, which Henri found hilarious. Mimicking her, he, too, pounded his lump flat. Apparently, he now felt like he owed her something in return because he peeled his pancake off the table and gleefully nibbled its edge.
The girl’s eyes widened and then she threw back her head and laughed. I inhaled long and slow. The dough was just flour and water (and dirt from the hands of innumerable preschoolers). It would be fine. Ms. Jenny wouldn’t even notice.
Henri must have decided the playdough tasted pretty good, though, because he took another nibble. Now this was too much for Cecily, who flagged down the teacher like she was hailing a taxi and shouted, Baby eat playdough!
The dad slapped his knee. She’s so bossy. My wife says she has the personality of a CEO, and she would know.
I wanted to throttle him and, to be honest, the little girl, too, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my son, who balled up his pancake and licked it like a lollypop.
He never does that, I called out. Cookie, don’t be silly, stop it.
Ms. Jenny glanced at his name tag. Henri, playdough isn’t for eating.
Henri’s big brown eyes gazed up at her. He slowly unfurled his tongue. I sank into my tiny chair.
No, she said, taking the playdough from his hand.
He craned to look at me, his eyes filling with tears.
I shook my head and mouthed, You’re fine. Don’t cry. I love you.
He pulled on his earlobe and released a chilling scream.
The moms behind me gasped. Cecily made a big show of stuffing her fingers in her ears. I couldn’t stop myself from shooting her a dirty look as I hurried to my all-out-wailing child.
(Don’t be afraid to take your toddler outside for air, said the moms. You’re the parent!)
I’ll take him outside for a bit, I said, surprised when Ms. Jenny simply nodded.
What did this mean? That she’d already made up her mind about him? That no further observation was necessary?
I carried Henri up and down the hallway, pushing his face into my sleeve to muffle his sobs. Still, a teacher in another classroom stuck out her head and told us to quiet down. Out in the front yard, I searched hopefully for Maria, but she was back at the car.