Yeah, especially SO’D
Anyone know who SO’D is? Bad form, whoever it is.
And from Celeste: nothing.
I put my face in my hands. How the hell had I sent it to the whole group instead of to my sisters?
“I’ve done it—we’ve all done it,” Jon says, reading my mind and rubbing my back. Bella is on his shoulder now, whimpering sporadically. We’re both ignoring the spilled tea. “Remember when I was moaning about the cost of the trip to Spain and sent it to the lads’ group instead of you?”
I love him for trying, but it’s not the same. Jon’s gang have been friends for ever and the banter is a daily ritual. That’s notthis. Jesus Christ, I mentioned Celeste’s kids. Teenagers. And I’m their teacher. A grown woman, a secondary-school teacher, bitching about teenagers. What had I called Nika? Bratty.Oh god.
“Would it make sense to call Celeste?” Jon suggests, laying Bella gently in her bassinet, soother in her mouth. “To apologize?”
“Oh god, I can’t bear the thought of that. Maybe it’ll all blow over. She might not even know it’s me.”
Jon takes a bottle of Glenmorangie from the cupboard under the TV. “If she has your number saved in her contacts, she’ll know it’s you. And realistically, you’re her kids’ teacher and you live in the same estate…I’m guessing she has your number saved.”
He pours whiskey into two tumblers. “Or someone will tell her. She’s good pals with Juliette next door, isn’t she? And obviously since Juliette has your phone number, she’ll have seen that it was you…”
I want to cry. “This is going to make parent-teacher meetings horrendous.”
“Well, that’s why it might be worth calling her now, get it over with.” He hands me a whiskey. “Medicinal.”
Bella starts to whimper and Jon gets up to put the soother back in her mouth.
“Why can’t you be the kind of husband who tells me to put my head in the sand and doesn’t make me do hard things?” I smile to stop myself crying and he kisses the top of my head as he sits back down, Bella now settled again with her beloved soother.
The drink is welcome, the strong taste a distraction. Jon is right: I need to bite the bullet and apologize. Deep breath. I take another sip of whiskey and pick up my phone. Taking responsibility must surely count for something…
Celeste isn’t in my contacts so I go back to the Oakpark group to get her number. The replies are still streaming in, including calls for people to stop replying and move on. Mostly, though, they are posts about me—asking who “SO’D” is, asking me to apologize, asking for me to be expelled from the group. I feel hot and sick. This is the last thing I want. I’m not confrontational; I hate arguments. With shaking hands, I save Celeste’s number and before I can chicken out I hit call.
No answer.
She must know it’s me. I try once more anyway, out of a sense of duty more than any real hope that she’ll pick up. And of course, in all honesty, the coward in me doesn’t want her to answer. What am I going to say? Sorry for telling the truth? No, the best course of action is to leave the group and never speak of this again.
Unfortunately, leaving the group doesn’t stop the replies—direct messages now, coming straight to me. People who don’t know who SO’D is but take the time to reply privately. People telling me I’m a disgrace, Celeste is hurt, her children are upset. I’ve dropped a bomb, and everyone, faux moralizing notwithstanding, is loving the drama.
“What am I going to do if they find out that SO’D in the group is Susan O’Donnell, local teacher?” I ask Jon, once Bella’s settled upstairs and we’re back on the couch.
A grimace. “I’d say it’s more of a when than an if…”
As capital cities go, Dublin isn’t exactly anonymous. And South Dublin is no different to any other area—through a network of schools and sports clubs and housing estates, everyone knows everyone.
I google my own name. Nothing much comes up—there are multiple Susan O’Donnells on Facebook and LinkedIn, but I’m not on social media under my own name, and you have to scroll a good bit before you find anything. I’m listed as a teacher on the Rathwood Park website, and there’s a mention in an online magazine about a charity dinner I went to with Jon, though I’m not pictured—it’s just Jon looking cute in a tux, presenting a check to the charity organizer. There are also, I remember, with a curl of anxiety, the posts on the parenting forum back when things were bad. I don’t want to think about what I wrote there. But they’re not under my own name, so nobody could know it’s me.
“Set up a Google Alert,” Jon says, offering me the Glenmorangie bottle. “That way, if your name gets out online, you’ll see it.”
I’m not sure Google Alerts can pick up gossip from social media, but there’s nothing to lose so I do as he suggests, waving away the whiskey—the last thing I need is a fuzzy head and a phone in my hand. He pours one for himself and, just as he settles back on the couch, my phone beeps with a text:
You should be ashamed of yourself. A teacher bitching about children. Someone should pass this to your principal.
So at least one person knows “SO’D” is a teacher. Brilliant. And I have only myself to blame.
• • •
Just after midnight, I go to bed, with Jon following a few minutes later. We don’t speak or turn on lamps, not with Bella in the crib in our room, but Jon is still on his phone half an hour later, its glow irritating me as I lie here trying to sleep. It’s not really the phone keeping me awake, of course, it’s the guilt and the worry. I keep thinking and hoping it will all blow over by morning, that people will find some other drama to entertain them. But what if it doesn’t? What if word reaches the school? Could I be in trouble? Possibly…If I wasn’t a teacher, it would be easier. But rightly or wrongly, we’re held to a higher standard. And quite apart from the worry, I feel horribly guilty. Nika, Celeste’s daughter, is not my favorite kid in the class, and Cody, the son, is hard work—howevernothingjustifies what I said in the text.
Exhaustion eventually takes over, and I close my eyes.
