“Switch to private?” asked Allison.
Was she being serious? Or was Allison getting back at Karen for having implied she was a hypocrite the last time they met up? “I can’t afford it on a single nonprofit salary,” Karen replied. “And besides, you know I’m a public-school Nazi.” She smiled so Allison would understand the joke was on her.
Allison smiled back and said, “Okay, if I solve your school problem for you, will you tell me who you’re having an affair with so I can be scandalized and also live vicariously through you?”
“Oh, please—you and David have a great marriage,” said Karen, without really knowing. In truth, Allison barely ever mentioned the guy. For women of Karen and Allison’s age, the husbands became conversation-worthy again only when one of them walked out or—God forbid—had a heart attack or got cancer.
“We do?” said Allison.
“Well, even if you don’t, I don’t recommend my life to anyone. But will you tell me what to do about the address thing?”
“Is there any chance of this woman finding out that you stole her address?”
“Not much.”
“Then forget about it.”
“That’s it?”
“If possible, I’d avoid the whole topic of where you live. But if it ever comes up or the girl comes over, just say you recently moved.”
“Okay, but the woman also asked me if I’d fund-raise for the school, the very thought of which makes me want to jump off a bridge. The school is already rolling in dough—I mean, at least by public-school standards. But I feel so guilty around her that I don’t know how to say no.”
“So don’t. Consider it the price of admission. Besides, you can probably fund-raise with one eye closed. If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems like you have bigger problems. And on that note, please for the love of Christ stop torturing me and tell me who you slept with!”
“I’m too ashamed,” said Karen, and it was true, but it was only half the truth. The other half was that she found herself savoring the unique experience of having information that others coveted. “But I will,” she added.
“When?” asked Allison.
“Later.”
“Why don’t you just waterboard me.”
“Oh, stop,” said Karen, but now she was laughing and, just maybe, enjoying herself. “Order me another drink and maybe I’ll tell all.”
Allison ordered them another round. “It was the hedge-fund billionaire from college,” Karen suddenly blurted out.
“The one who didn’t like your nose ring?”
“Yes. And he has four kids and a wife. And a plane. Or at least a share in a plane. But I ended it. I think. I hope. Though I also don’t hope. Oh, and he also bought me jewelry. Like, real jewelry.”
“Wow.”
“I have to swear you to secrecy,” said Karen, knowing full well that Allison would tell everyone she knew.
“I swear,” said Allison. “Now I need details.”
“Well, he has these sparkly blue eyes. He’s a little on the short side…”
The problem was that talking about Clay only made Karen more desperate to see him.
The next evening, Karen received an e-mail from Susan Bordwell, reiterating what a pleasure it had been to have Ruby over to play. She also asked if, by chance, Karen could attend a PTA executive board the next morning so she could meet everyone and talk about fund-raising and what was next for the school. The meeting was to be held in the school library at seven thirty, so Karen couldn’t very well use the excuse of needing to be in the office. Resigned, she wrote back:
Of course! Happy to attend. See you then. Best, Karen
The next day, Karen had the thankless task of trying to get Ruby out of bed a half an hour earlier than usual. Predictably comatose, she lay spread-eagled and with her eyes still shut while Karen tried to fit leggings and a T-shirt onto her body. In exchange for the hardship, she promised to buy Ruby a chocolate croissant on the way to school. But there was a line at the fancy bakery with the fermented bread, so Karen didn’t arrive at Mather’s school library until seven forty. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Head bowed, she took a seat in the last free Windsor chair at a blond-wood table while Ruby plopped down in a beanbag chair and began to doze off.
“Karen! Welcome!” said Susan, who sat at the head of the table. She was dressed that morning in a slightly more corporate version of the Indian-top-and-frayed-jeans uniform favored by so many of the mothers at Mather—the jeans stiff, the embellished tunic more Tory Burch than Ravi Shankar. Karen’s eyes traveled from Susan to the library itself. The walls were painted lime green. The shelves were well stocked and tidily arranged, with banker-style brass sconces illuminating the volumes below. There were also two rows of spanking-white Apple computers, while spanking-white women—and they were all women and all white except for one who was equally pale but who appeared to be of Asian descent—smiled back at her from across the table. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” Susan went on. She turned to the others. “Karen is a new parent at the school, and she’s a fund-raising professional. And I’ve already guilted her into helping us!” The other women laughed affably while Karen marveled at the irony; if only Susan knew how guilty she’d actually made Karen feel. “First, this is Denise, our vice president,” Susan continued with a nod at a petite woman wearing a mustard-and-brown chain-link-patterned dress of the type that sported a fair-trade label promising the garment had been hand-batiked in Ghana by women named Charity and Esther.
“Nice to meet you,” said Karen, nodding.
“And this is Amy, our volunteer coordinator,” Susan went on. “And Deirdre, our member-at-large; Liz, our secretary and interim treasurer; Leigh, our chair of the after-school enrichment program; Kim, our fifth-grade committee chair; Janine, our STEM chair; and Meredith, chair of our arts committee.”
“Great to meet you all,” she said, nodding some more.
“Let me give you a copy of today’s agenda, and here are the minutes from our last meeting.” Susan handed Karen a short stack of white paper. “But before we get to fund-raising”—she turned back to the others—“I want to say a few words about the Olive Oil Initiative, especially for those who missed last month’s general PTA meeting. By all accounts, it’s been a huge success so far. Thanks to PTA funds, the lunchroom now has on reserve two thousand bottles of cold-pressed, extra-virgin Trader Giotto. And our new Culinary Institute of America–trained cooking consultant, Olivier, is busy teaching the old lunchroom staff to cook without Crisco.”
There were murmurs of approval.
“Though let me just say that, from what I understand, it’s been a fairly steep learning curve.” Susan smiled knowingly.