“Is that really necessary?”
“The only thing more gossipy than a small town is a small-town school,” Miss Sally said. Clara should have known last week’s respectful hesitation to gossip couldn’t last. “The back door will be locked, but I’ll let you in.” You could always tell the best teachers by their ability to render even a capable adult obedient and eager to please. The Tahoe finally out of her path, Clara steered around the side of the building, even though the precaution felt like overkill. She couldn’t imagine another parent actually approaching her about The Color-Blind Gazette fiasco. For Clara and Thomas, the school was a voluntary, leisurely foray into early education, but for many others it was a full-time day care, and morning drop-offs, though streamlined into the simple steps of hugs, promises of what fun the day would hold, and affectionate but firm good-byes, were privately a complicated emotional time for all involved. If you bought into the Circle school’s New Age insistence that everyone had a detectable aura, from a lone parent on any given day one might glean hues of guilt, relief, love, worry, exasperation, pride, and conflicting urges to flee and to stay.
For this reason Clara did not find the school a particularly social place, nor did she attempt to make it so. Only at playdates, outings, and birthday parties did you maybe get a chance to connect with another parent. Here, it was the kids who were focused, the parents whose attention wandered in countless directions. Was it any wonder Kristin had been the only one she’d talked to much?
“Mommy?” Thomas, who thrived on routine on school days especially, was watching her suspiciously as she swung the car into the spot with ASST DIRECTOR painted on the asphalt.
“This is an adventure,” she told him quickly. “Today we get to use a special entrance as a special treat.”
“What’s an entrance?”
“It’s how you get into a place.”
“We get into this place through the front.”
“A place can have more than one entrance.”
“I saw Kai go in the front with his mommy. I want to say hi to Kai.”
“We’ll see Kai inside, sweets.” She snapped off the car and reached back to unhook his car seat harness. “You can sit at the steering wheel while I get Maddie out, okay?”
“Yeah!” It was ridiculous how much of successful parenting was about knowing how to head off an argument before it started. Distraction was almost always the key.
Come to think of it, it worked pretty well for adults too. Usually.
By the time they were all out of the car, Sally was waving them through a utilitarian steel door in the brick wall. Inside, they found themselves in the back hallway connecting the pre-K and preschool rooms.
“Neat entrance!” Thomas yelled, trying out the word loud enough to turn a few heads.
“Clara?” Kai’s mother—Clara floundered to conjure her name— was beelining toward her, grabbing at the sleeve of Clara’s coat as if they were in the habit of speaking intimately rather than merely waving in passing. Maddie clung to Clara’s other shoulder, startled, and Clara felt a foolish rush of pride that her daughter’s instincts were good. “How is everything? Are you okay? Any news on Kristin?”
She shook her head no. “I mean, yes, I’m okay. No, no news.”
“Is it true you supported that article because you suspected domestic violence all along?”
Clara stepped back, shaking her sleeve free of the woman’s hand more roughly than she’d intended.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Just a theory among some of the moms. We know you knew her best, and being right next door—”
“I didn’t support the article,” she said sharply. “The police released a statement saying my implied involvement was a misunderstanding.”
“Come on. We weren’t born yesterday, as my mother used to say.”
Clara harbored a dislike for people who preceded or followed statements with “as my mother used to say.” Their mothers, she was quite sure, had been insufferable.
“Do you honestly think I’d help a child break the law by recording and sharing private police conversations?” Clara bristled. “I told her not to, in fact.”
“So you did know about it beforehand, though!”
Thomas and Kai were playing a game of peekaboo that was escalating in volume around them, each one giggling from behind a flap of his own mother’s coat, and as Thomas pulled her off balance, Clara fixed her eyes longingly on the safe portal of his classroom.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Miss Sally cut in, “but I was filling Clara in on our new Good Choices program. Perhaps she can catch up with you another time?” Without waiting for a response, she pulled Clara toward the portal, leaving Kai’s mother slack-jawed beneath the BIRDS OF A FEATHER banner stretched across the hallway. Clara had only a moment to fantasize about it coming loose and ensnaring the nosy woman before realizing she was no more sheltered inside the classroom. The three other mothers in the midst of drop-off were staring intently; the lead teacher, Miss Lizzie, was crossing to greet her.
“None of them can decide if you and that Hallie child are heroes or troublemakers,” she said, so only Clara could hear. While she’d learned early on to leave the other parents to their own devices, Clara never hesitated to socialize with the faculty. She wanted to know whom her son was spending his day with and for them to feel comfortable speaking with her in turn. Still, the relationship could be delicate, as you wanted to believe you knew your own child best but also had to acknowledge that teachers knew more about children in general.
“That’s—”
“I err on the side of hero myself. But I worry for you. Have you talked to Paul? Since the paper, I mean?” Clara was almost intimidated by the exuberance Miss Lizzie brought to every interaction, whether they were discussing the weather, the lunch menu, or an “incident report,” as the worst missives home were so diplomatically called (“Thomas was kicking a ball when he fell and scraped his knee; we washed the scrape, gave him TLC, and he returned to normal activity.” “Thomas was bitten by a friend who did not want to share; the friend understands that he made a bad choice and apologized.” “Thomas drew what he referred to as ‘a poop machine’ at the art station. We explained that while we value creativity, certain subjects are not appropriate, and worked together to turn it into a Tootsie Roll machine—see attached.”). Large gold hoops hung courageously from the teacher’s ears; Clara had given up anything that dangled after seeing a friend’s infant gleefully rip a teardrop stud straight through her mother’s lobe.
“I did talk with Paul briefly, just to apologize,” she said, then rushed to clarify. “For the misunderstanding.” Miss Sally gave her a reassuring touch on her shoulder before fading into the hallway, her charge turned over to another responsible party. Clara fought an irrational urge to call her new ally back.
“Is he angry with you?”
“He says not.”
Miss Lizzie looked at her meaningfully. “He’s never been a big fan of the school, that much is no secret.” Clara wanted to ask what she meant, but the other moms were inching closer, straining to hear.
“Did you tell the detectives that?” she asked, in spite of herself.
“Oh, yes. We’ve all spoken with them.”
“Good.” Clara nervously eyed the encroaching mothers, and Miss Lizzie finally seemed to notice.
“You’ll recall we have an open door policy,” the teacher said smoothly, “to allow parents to sit in whenever they’d like?” Clara nodded. “Why don’t you take advantage today?” She lowered her voice. “Until traffic clears.”