Carpool Confidential (25 page)

Arlene frowned. “Does anyone know who St. Stanley
is
?”

“Patron saint of college admissions,” Sue cracked.

“Not a real saint at all?” Arlene, herself the patron saint of earnestness, sounded depressed.

“Depends on your religion,” Sue said.

“In order to dispel any perception of negativity, we might want to suggest some alternative methods of fish preparation,” Ken suggested. “I'll kick things off: Robert likes a filet of had-dock grilled with a dash of paprika.”

My cell phone rang. “Hello?” I whispered.

“Cassie.” Charlotte said. “Are you in the middle of one of those thrilling activities that make up your days?”

“Sort of, yeah.” I looked up. Sue was giving me the hairy eyeball.

“I won't keep you. Do you think you can get me another entry? The momentum's really good right now. We decided it would be great if you could be sporadic, like update two or three days in a row and then go a few days.”

“Farmed salmon won't be tolerated,” Betsy Strauss was saying.

“Can I call you back? I have to go take notes on the fish stick crisis,” I whispered.

“Cassie?” Sue looked really aggrieved about the me-being-on-the-phone thing.

I didn't blame her. It
was
rude, but it irritated me that she couldn't have any conception of what it was like to be caught between two worlds.

“Before coming here this morning,” Arlene said, “I took the liberty of discussing this crisis with Saskia, my nutritionist, and she said to me, ‘Arlene, you can't be complacent about ketchup!' And frankly, I think that should be our rallying cry.”

“We Can't Be Complacent About Ketchup.” Betsy frowned. “I like it. Although I think it needs a tiny bit of tweaking. No Ketchup Complacency For Us?”

“WCBCAK?” Ken suggested. “NKCFU?”

“Cannot,” Sue's eyes were closed. “The impact, the rhythm, it works better with cannot than can't.”

“We
can-Not
be complacent about ketchup.” Betsy was beaming.

“Have you been reading it on the site?” Charlotte asked.

“Not really.” I felt like everyone was looking at me whispering into the phone. “It makes me feel squeamish to think about it.”

“You're getting comments, people are responding like they get you. Much to my surprise, they seem to like the navel gazing. I think the key is to keep it unexpected, mix the frivolous with the serious.”

The squeamishness was shot through with a spike of excitement at the thought of comments. The blog wasn't falling into empty space. How weird.

“It's time to throw something lurid into the mix.” Knowing what was coming, I closed my eyes. Unfortunately I could still hear. “Let's get you to that orgy.”

“Charlotte, I really—” I was whispering.

“In our house we find a dash of soy livens up a piece of fish nicely,” Ken said.

“It won't be bad, Cassie. It's just kind of like watching porn.”

“I don't”—I dropped my voice further and cupped my hand around the phone—“watch porn. Have you been to one?”

“Nope.” She sounded cheerful. “For fuck's sake, what are those people yammering about? Did I hear some woman shrieking about ketchup? Is that what you're reduced to? Actually having a meeting about ketchup?”

“Cochairing, actually,” I said. “From which duties you are distracting me.”

“I certainly hope so. I'd rather chew my own arm off, and I am not kidding.”

“Teriyaki sauce is a better choice sodium-wise,” Tierney Leblanc said.

“Good for you,” I said to Charlotte. “I can kind of see your point.”

“Oh, and by the way, I talked them into upping the money, still not a lot, but more.”

I wanted to cry with happiness. “I think I might be in love with you.” I said it just a little too loud. Ken gave me a strange look.

“Save that for the blog on same-sex dating,” Charlotte suggested. “Everyone does it now. You're no one if you haven't done at least some girl-on-girl kissing.”

“Tamari's even better,” Arlene said.

“So they say,” Ailsa said darkly.

Charlotte hung up.

“Most kids love aioli,” Betsy said.

I laughed. I assumed she was joking, OK?

Betsy was looking put out. “I guess I don't understand what's funny about that. Do your boys
not
like aioli?” Her voice was stiff.

“They would have to try it to know that,” I admitted.

She frowned. “I've always considered it my duty as a parent to broaden my children's culinary horizons to include representation of other cultures.”

“They like spaghetti,” I said, but things were saved from getting nasty by Laura Spicer raising her hand and announcing that
she
would like to talk about
bread
.

 

Afterwards, Randy grabbed me. “Do you have time for coffee?”

“A quick one. I have to get home and”—I looked around and lowered my voice—“blog about being sent to an orgy.”

She shuddered.

In Starbucks she said, “I gave notice at work. Josh and I talked last night, but I wavered. Then I decided this morning, right smack in the middle of the discussion about genetically modified wheat, to just do it. See?” She held up her BlackBerry. “This thing does come in handy sometimes.”

Even though I'd known she was thinking about it, I was stunned. I'd known Randy since Owen was two weeks old, and she'd always had a restless mind. I just couldn't picture her contentedly doing the domestic thing, but I wanted her to be happy, so I hugged her. “Congratulations, Ran. I'm glad if you feel good about it.”

She slid her BlackBerry into her bag. “It'll take me a week or so to clean up loose ends, but then I can really concentrate on what I need to. I just hope it works.”

I hugged her again. “I know.”

Being Randy, the melancholy was gone, instantly. “So I never knew Laura had such a rye fixation. Can you believe she actually did a nutritional cost/benefit analysis on different kinds of bread?”

I gave her a look. “Why do you sound admiring?”

“Not admiring exactly.” She tucked the pages into her bag with the BlackBerry. “But, you know, once I leave my fulfilling, challenging, and stimulating job and I have nothing to do all day other than inject myself with hormones, I can see the possibility of developing an appreciation for this kind of thing.”

www.carpoolconfidential.blogspot.com

I'm at Trudy Bonham's big emergency meeting. I can't, of course, disclose the topic, other than to say it is, indeed, big. So I will once again substitute the ever-handy, all-purpose transfat-laden snack cookie.

From the start, the meeting has taken on the tone of a gathering of that modern-day New York equivalent of a lynch mob—a group of private-school parents unhappy about something.

“No more,” Trudy's voice rises to the rafters, like Jerry Falwell preaching at the Astrodome.

Hallelujah, Lord!

A collective murmur swells as ripples of shock and awe run through the room.

“We must stop this. We will stop it.”

Amen, Brother.

“No more hydrogenated fats!”

I close my eyes. I don't fit any more. If I think of my life as a puzzle, the upside is that I might eventually with some elbow grease and diligence put it back together. The down is my husband has clearly run off with half a box worth of critical pieces and the picture is never going to look like the one on the box again.

The conversation swirls around me. My stomach is clenched at the thought that I might not be able to afford to send my children here next year. In addition to dealing with the almost-certain psychosis of their father, they'll have to leave this nice, safe nest they've been in since preschool. I only hope the house doesn't get repossessed too.

A few months ago I would not only have been participating in this but participating with gusto. My children are being fed trans-fats! Now it seems inconceivable that any of this could matter all that much. I know, that as these things do, the crisis will pass. If I'm lucky, if my life plays out well going forward, one day the insignificant will again seem significant. I will care about this again.

In the meantime, I'm preoccupied with orgy etiquette. Chapter number two in my introduction to the real world is apparently going to require my attendance at one. Frankly, I'm wondering why. I mean, who goes to orgies? None of the single people I know, that's for sure. Not even the ones who are encouraging (i.e., forcing) me to go for the sake of this blog. They'll all be sitting home in their jammies watching reruns of The Office while I'm in some seedy club watching accountants and people who probably wear earth shoes in real life getting it on in public.

Why? And would you do it? Can I get a little feedback on this, please?

Jared's teacher Trina was possibly the nicest person I'd ever met.

“Cassie,” she said the next morning as she sat down in the cafeteria and handed me a cup of coffee, “I hope you don't think I'm prying, but is everything OK at home?”

“Sure,” I said, as chirpily as I was able.

“I'm asking because Jared's been…not himself lately.” Then came the laundry list: withdrawn and aggressive, getting upset easily, sucking his thumb, having a hard time with transitions, seeking attention both positive and negative. At least the attention-seeking part explained his Dickensian-misery behavior.

I thought about what was at stake here. Protecting myself from pity and keeping secrets for professional reasons, or coming clean to help my child. It was a no-brainer. I rummaged in my bag for the bottle of Advil I now carried at all times. “Rick left a few months ago.” I washed the Advil down with coffee—a combination that's highly recommended for the lining of your stomach, I believe—and told her the whole story.

She had her hand over her mouth by the end. “That's incredible. He's always seemed like a really involved, devoted dad. Jared talks about him all the time. How awful. I'm so sorry.”

Then I had to explain about the blog and the need for discretion.

“Cool!” Her face was shining. “I go on that site all the time. I can't wait to read it.”

Which made it the first time that I knew that someone who knew me (other than my closest friends) was going to be reading about everything from my innermost thoughts on my marriage to my feelings about the prospect of using a loofah to prevent ingrown hairs (to wit: I don't fucking think so) to my trolling of sex clubs. I clenched up in anticipation of the weird icky feeling, but if felt…OK. I smiled at her. “Tell me what you think.”

She smiled back. “Absolutely. I can't wait.” It struck me that this was the first time in all the years I'd known her (she'd been Noah's teacher too) that I was revealing anything of myself other than the surface to her. We talked a bit about strategies for Jared, then I thanked her, promised to keep her posted, and ran home to shower and change. There was nothing that was going to get me to meet Letitia for a Freudian-nightmare lunch at Esta with lank, unwashed hair, old jeans, an old shirt of Rick's with frayed cuffs, and a down jacket. Nothing.

 

Did I say nothing was going to get me to meet Letitia for a Freudian-nightmare lunch at Esta with lank, unwashed hair, old jeans, a frayed shirt, and a down jacket? I might have spoken too soon.

As I headed out the doors, my phone rang. I looked at it in my hand (it was Sue Moriarty) and seriously considered splurging for a taxi to lunch just so halfway across I could wing the stupid thing off the Brooklyn Bridge. “Hi, Sue!”

“Listen,” she said, “a few of us got to talking in the lobby this morning. We're about to get together at Starbucks on Montague. Can you come by?”

“Oh, I'd love to, but I have an appointment—”

“This will only take a few minutes, but it's important.” She sounded firm.

“I, um—” I glanced down at my jeans. “I really need to—”

“Look, Cassie, I know you're busy, goodness knows my plate is so full it's practically overflowing. If you can no longer be counted on, if your priorities have changed, that's fine. But you just might be interested in knowing that what we're talking about this morning is a potentially very serious situation.”

I was planning what I was going to wear for lunch and only half listening. There was no way I could compete with Letitia— or even Bouvier—but I was thinking black suede boots and my Catherine Malandrino—

“There's some psycho woman doing a blog about her husband leaving her.”

—suit with my—Sue's words cut through. “What?” My mouth was dry. It was the strangest thing. When I was writing the blog, it felt almost out of body, like I was someone else not related to the me standing there on Remsen Street. That person was so other in some way it was almost a shock to hear about her. “I've seen it, but why are we having a meeting about it?”

“Because I think I know who it is.”

I was suddenly hanging from a helicopter on a line, swaying. Paranoia arm-wrestled with rationality.

Paranoia:
Oh fuck. My life as I know it is now, officially, over.

Rationality:
If she knew it was you she wouldn't be inviting you.

Paranoia:
She knows you'll think that and she's trying to disarm you to get you there so she can move in for the kill.

The part of me with an actual voice, as opposed to two silent but psychotic warring voices, said, “What makes you think it's someone we know? I mean, this is a big city, it could be anyone.” How desperate did that sound?

“I know it sounds like a long shot”—Sue was clearly digging her heels in here—“and granted, some of the stuff doesn't match up, but she admits right in the blog to changing details to obscure her identity, so it's hard to separate truth from red herrings.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I mean, she's talking about cookies for snack, but it doesn't take much to decode and deconstruct that as fish sticks for lunch. And there's another thing.” Pause. “There's this person in the blog, this really bossy, totally overinvolved-no-outside-life, over-the-top PTA type, Trudy Bonham, and I think it might be—”

I actually felt really bad at this moment.

“—Betsy.”

“Really!”

“Don't get me wrong, I love Betsy like a sister, but I think I recognize some of her less desirable traits. I actually think”— her voice dropped to a whisper—“the blogger might be Nancy Bosworth.”

I'd stopped walking now and was just standing. “Why?”

“She's calling herself Delphine. Nancy
would
come up with a French name. She hasn't liked Betsy since Betsy got the school to change art club to a talent-based group and Nicole got dropped.
And
she's the type to do something like this.”

“Maybe”—I kept my voice neutral—“under the right circumstances any of us could do something unexpected.”

Sue laughed. “Unexpected, sure, completely out of character? No.”

“But why are we meeting about it? What difference does it make?” I started walking up Clinton Street. Guilt about Nancy taking the rap was getting to me.

“The
NYMetro
site gets major readership. Eventually her identity is bound to come out, and if you think about—” Actually, I preferred not to. “—the effect that could have on applications if prospective parents start to associate Meetinghouse with someone like tha—”

“Order me a latte, I'll be there in five minutes.” I might not be able to do damage control, but I'd at least know what was being said.

 

“It's possible I'm wrong about it being Nancy, but it's someone in the inner circle.” Sue sipped her skinny half-caff soy latte.

I was watching my children's humiliation unspool. Following their father leaving them for Barry Manilow, their mother is unmasked as someone who, after tucking them in and making sure their revolving dinosaur night lanterns are switched on, sneaks off to blog about her sex life.

“Inner circle?” Randy bit into the biggest muffin I'd ever seen (the fertility hormones apparently make it so you're either puking or hoovering up anything without bones that crosses your path). “Is this a PTA or some kind of secret society?”

“What makes you think it's someone from inside?” Betsy asked.

Sue looked down at her notes (she had taken notes!). “Little things—”

I hadn't to the best of my knowledge written a single thing that could identify me as a Meetinghouse parent. If part of the point, according to Charlotte, was to make people wonder if they knew me, I seemed to be doing pretty well. Was it wrong that I felt a little wiggle of pride?

“She's mentioned snack cookies, which I'm pretty sure is code for fish sticks.”

“Isn't that universal? Who doesn't secretly call fish sticks snack cookies? And besides”—Randy didn't even glance in my direction, for which I was grateful, because even with the terror I was having a hard time not laughing—“Nancy doesn't care about the school food.”

“She still knows stuff.” Sue looked up. “People talk. And—” She glanced at Ken. They had obviously been over this evidence before. “She made reference to that yert-dwelling hermit. The one who does the yellow pegs.”

God. I wanted to smack myself in the head. If I was stupid enough to let myself be brought down by a yert-dwelling hermit, I deserved it.

Betsy looked excited. “Did she mention me? That I've been to the yert?”

“No.”

“Has she mentioned anyone who devotes her summers to educating her children about lesser-studied indigenous peoples of the world?” Betsy persisted. “Because that could definitely be me.”

“Actually, Sue, I checked, and”—Ken was reading something on his pocket-sized Sony Vaio with Wi-Fi as he spoke—“that's a dead end. Apparently the yert hermit is part of the NYAIS curriculum.” He took off his glasses and passed the back of his sleeve over his forehead. “All the independents in Manhattan and Brooklyn belong, so that narrows it down to eighty schools.”

Jen came in and sat down with her coffee. “Maybe she's a public-school mom having fun with us.”

“Or a man,” Randy said and started laughing.

“Please understand we're not trying to drum anyone out. We're an
inclusive
school community”—Sue gave Jen a
meaningful
look—“and I'm all for that, absolutely, but let's be frank, that doesn't come without a downside: we're fighting a perpetual uphill battle against St. Stanley's for reputation, and this won't help us any.”

Libby Sawyer said, “I guess I still don't understand how it can hurt.”

“To be blunt,” Sue said crisply, “our parents as a group are, shall we say delicately, known for being a diverse and eccentric group. This one's an out-and-out oddball. And so's the husband. Who but a total weirdo leaves their family, particularly in questionable financial shape, to go be some fake Barry Manilow? I'm not saying, by the way, that the last disc isn't excellent, because it is. Love it. Listen to it all the time, but who'd do that?”

“But you always say St. Stanley's parents are neglectful and uninvolved,” I said.

“But not publicly psychotic,” Sue said.

“Didn't you think the way she wrote about the snack cookie crisis made us sound like a bunch of foolish overprivileged parents getting worked up over nothing?” Ailsa Grandman asked.

Libby said, “We
are
a bunch of overprivileged parents getting worked up over not much. It's one of the great pleasures of my life that I have the freedom to live that way.” (Libby had grown up in a steel town in Pennsylvania.) “I have to admit, I find the whole blog pretty entertaining.”

Maybe I should just come clean. How awful could it be? Maybe there'd be a groundswell of support and I'd become a kind of PTA cult hero.

“I disagree,” Sue said stiffly. “I think she's a liability waiting to happen and she's going to make laughingstocks of us—”

OK. No groundswell of support. No coming clean. No cult hero status.

“No more than of herself,” Jen said, and I shot her a
gee, thanks
look.

“—and,” Sue continued, “I just believe we need to get to the bottom of this.”

“And then what?” Randy asked. “Because as far as I know, those annoying freedom of speech rights still stand.”

“Make sure she isn't given access to sensitive information,” Sue retorted.

“Sensitive information?” Libby said, laughing. “Come on, Sue. Even the Bush administration would declassify the PTA exec committee minutes.”

“I've drawn up a list,” Ailsa said, “of possible people. But I see Nancy as a long shot. I think it's someone—as you touched on, Sue—much closer to the center.”

“Can I see?” Jen asked, reaching out to take the list from her. “What's this based on?”

“Anyone you guys don't like,” Randy said.

Jen looked up and gave me an almost imperceptible head shake meaning I wasn't on it.

“It shouldn't be difficult to figure out if any dads have taken off recently,” Betsy said. “Has anyone heard anything?”

“You know what I think?” Randy sounded very decided. “It's impossible to tell. Like Sue has already said, people talk, and that applies to inter-school gossip. I had lunch with a friend two days ago whose girls go to Brearley. I could give you practically a blow-by-blow description of their last middle-school-parents meeting.”

“My oldest friend's kids go to Collegiate, and we talk all the time,” Betsy admitted.