She had to pull herself together. It was her children’s art show this afternoon and she could hardly show up tearful and pitiful. Kim now knew that she was gossip fodder; she knew there would be eyes on her, judging her and watching for some slipup. There was no way she would give those jerks the satisfaction of seeing her sniveling over the loss of her blurb-writing job. And while part of her wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and cry for two hours straight, Kim would not let her kids down. Aidan was displaying an etching he’d made in eighth-grade metal work (a promising handful had been selected for inclusion in the upper-school art show), and Hannah was showing some photographs. Kim was still a devoted, if unemployed, mother.
The school-wide art show was set up in the main entryway and flowed down several offshoot hallways. With nearly a thousand art students displaying their masterpieces, the building had transformed into a rather manic, makeshift art gallery. Kim strolled past long tables hosting collages and sculptures, past easels bearing self-portraits and animal sketches, stopping to admire the more talented and smiling appreciatively at the attempts of the less. Most of the parents wandering the displays were strangers to her. Despite sitting on the PTA, organizing the annual holiday cookie bash, and contributing to the teacher appreciation lunch, Kim knew only a handful of attendees. Most parents regarded high school as a time to back off after the endless demands of an elementary education. After seven years of driving on field trips, aiding in craft days, baking for fund-raisers, it was tempting. . . . But Kim knew better. Teenagers needed engaged parents more than ever.
Still, Kim noted a few sideways glances at her, a modicum of whispering. At any moment she could stumble upon Debs and her overtly hostile crew. Kim texted both her children:
Where are you?
She knew they were there, somewhere, probably giggling with friends, devouring the “edible art” that the foods class set up every year. They weren’t worried about their mother feeling vulnerable, judged about what happened in her home. They faced it every day. Kim moved through the works of art, searching for the metal etchings and photographs.
Turning down a hallway, she found herself immersed in the abstract oil paintings. Despite the simplistic brushwork, the obvious lack of skill or care in most cases, the bright colors drew her in. Kim had always had a thing for painting. She could picture her future self, hair gone gracefully gray, painting in the backyard studio she would build for herself. She’d wear Jeff’s old work shirts and drink mugs of tea, dabbing paint with precise abandon. She wouldn’t sell her canvasses but give them as meaningful, heartfelt gifts. They’d become heirlooms, of a sort, passed down from her kids to theirs and on and on. . . . When she had time, she would take a class. When she had time . . . Damn you, Tony.
She was standing, staring at an interesting piece—a dark background gradually becoming bright, almost luminous in the center—when she heard it.
“Want to buy it?”
The voice was instantly recognizable; the intonation more than the resonance. It wasn’t tinged with judgment, like Debs’s or Karen’s, it was full of blatant loathing: Lisa.
Kim hadn’t prepared herself for this encounter. She’d steeled herself for sidelong glances and critical whispers, but not for a full-blown confrontation with her nemesis. Hannah said Ronni barely went to school anymore. And even in the best of times, Lisa wasn’t one to attend school functions. Why was she here? Kim looked at the painting again. In the bottom right corner, scrawled in blue paint, an R.
She turned toward Lisa and saw the hatred she’d heard. “That’s what she sees now,” Lisa said, with a twisted smile. “Out of her blind eye. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Lisa, I—”
“The painting’s yours if you want it, Kim. We’re asking three million. Oh, wait . . . you don’t have that kind of money.”
“I don’t.”
“Right. You might have to go without a spa treatment. Or sell one of your luxury cars.” She gasped. “You might even have to get a job.”
Kim felt anger well up inside of her. She wanted to fire back, You’re one to talk, you aspiring Reiki healer! But she held her tongue. She couldn’t attack Lisa, couldn’t even defend herself. Kim knew no one would take her side in this battle. “We want to help Ronni,” she said calmly, though her voice wavered. “We want her to have everything she needs.”
“She needs her eye,” Lisa spat. “Can you get that back for her?”
“I w-wish I could. . . .” A crowd was forming, a few ninth graders elbowing one another and snickering, a handful of concerned parents looking on. “But I can’t.”
“And you had the nerve to send Hannah over to our apartment. Was it a reconnaissance mission?”
“I didn’t send her!” Kim said. “If she went, she went as a true friend.”
“Yeah right!” A mirthless laugh. “Ronni’s been through hell since Hannah’s party,” Lisa said, her voice getting louder. “She’s been bullied. She’s been dumped by her supposed friends. She’s fallen way behind in school. In a way, her eye is the least of her problems.”
“I’m sorry,” Kim said softly, her gaze flitting over the bystanders. There was the woman from the soccer game, the friend of Debs’s and Karen’s. What was her name? Jane. Jane looked almost amused, evidently enjoying the show. There was Caitlin . . . And Maddie, from Hannah’s basketball team. They were whispering furiously, one eye on the confrontation, one eye scanning the halls for someone: Hannah? Ronni? The other faces were strangers, some shocked, some bemused, some uncomfortable.
But Lisa didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. “It’s all about your fancy house and your fancy cars and your fancy lifestyle. You don’t give a shit about my daughter’s well-being.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true! Or you would have checked on them, Kim! You would have searched their bags for alcohol and drugs. You pretend you’re such a diligent parent—”
“I am diligent,” Kim said, her heart hammering in her chest, in her throat, in her ears. . . . She gulped some air before continuing. “I laid out the rules. The kids broke them.”
“Because they’re fucking kids!” The f-bomb elicited a few giggles and whispers from the peanut gallery. “That’s what kids do. Maybe if you weren’t on pills and wine, you’d have thought about what a bunch of unsupervised, sixteen-year-old girls could get up to at a sweet sixteen party.”
Kim heard the snickering, heard someone say: “Maybe we should get Principal Edwards?” They’d become a sideshow. A laughingstock. Two naughty children who needed separating by an authority figure. The weight on Kim’s chest was heavier now, the pressure making it hard to breathe. Lisa’s angry face was obscured by shimmering spots of light.
“I have to go.”
Kim took a step to leave, but she was light-headed. Her feet felt numb, her hands, too. She was afraid she might fall; she needed something to hold on to. Still, Lisa’s voice followed her.
“That’s right. Run back to your mansion, Kim!”
It’s hardly a mansion, Kim wanted to say. It was a fairly modest home that they had made impressive with a challenging and time-consuming renovation. But Lisa wouldn’t listen, no one would.