ONE
WENDY
“Shoulders back, and sparkle!” Wendy’s mom said in memory. “Whatever you have to face will go better with a smile!”
Wendy had tried her entire life to live according to Mom’s maxims. She consciously straightened up, firmed her smile, and marched into the fourth-grade classroom. She caught sight of a group of chattering women, the teacher’s bright red hair at the center.
Wendy joined the group, giving them her best sparkle.
“Ah, Ms. Poulet,” Ms. Nelson, the teacher, exclaimed. “I’m glad Sam gave you the message to stop by. Very responsible, Sam. And here we are, Baili and Maggie and Elizabet were just discussing our Barnyard Fundraiser, which you know, is coming up in a few days. We have a few last-minute things to arrange.”
The women exchanged quick looks with one another, drawing slightly together as Wendy reflected that the teachers and other parents—all twenty years or more younger than she was—invariably used first names with each other, but she was “Ms. Poulet,” as if she were a grandmother, not a mother. But then, no doubt some of these women had mothers around Wendy’s age. Surely she was not the only woman in town who’d had a child at forty-two?
“As Sam has probably told you,” Ms. Nelson trilled, “we’re completing our unit on heathy foods and how they are grown, which we always end with this fundraiser for disaster relief.”
“I remember,” Wendy said, using her Bright Voice. “Sam handed in his report on Friday, right?”
“Of course he did. Sam is always conscientious about his work. But we have to make sure the Barnyard Fundraiser goes smoothly.”
Another exchange of serious side-eye. “Fourth-graders tend to either get silly, or get stage fright,” Elizabet said. “This is my third time. And last, thank fu—uh,fun.” She caught herself with a guilty glance, but the kids playing around nearby paid the circle of moms no attention whatsoever.
Baili and Magda tittered, and Wendy added the well-bredtee-hee-heethat her mother had made her practice before the mirror.Ladies don’t hoot or guffaw,Mom had said.It’s not just the dress but the details that make you a lady, and if you are ladylike at all times, when you meet the right gentleman he will recognize a lady at first glance.
Well, look how that turned out. But habit was habit.
“Oh, guaranteed my Declan will try to get silly,” Magda said.
“And my Jayden will be just like his big brothers,” Elizabet said, with more pride than regret.
“Which is why we began having an adult right with the children,” Ms. Nelson said brightly in her own version of the Bright Voice. “In case we have a problem with the recital.”
Another exchange of looks.
It can’t be about me, Wendy thought uneasily. That was paranoid thinking.
She stiffened her shoulders as Ms. Nelson uttered a tinkling laugh that harrowed Wendy to the soul. Come on, girl, she scolded herself. How bad could it be? This was fourth grade at her son’s little elementary school, not the Snake Pit of Doom in some horror videogame. “Sam has been practicing his poem every night,” Wendy said. “He was so glad you let him be a squirrel. He loves squirrels,” she said.
“Hedoes,”Ms. Nelson exclaimed. “He’s told us that he feeds the squirrels in his grandmother’s garden. This is why we encouraged the children to choose their animal, and we’ve been constructing their costumes in class. The parents have beenwonderfulabout pitching in to make it the best year ever. But we areespeciallygrateful to the generous parent who comes forward to be thecenterpieceof theentire show, the children’s favorite—Flossie!”
As Ms. Nelson gave this speech, Baili and Magda vanished, and Elizabet was busy restacking the wooden blocks with a concentration and precision usually found in a brain surgery arena.
Ms. Nelson finished up by handing Wendy a huge and rather battered department store bag. Wendy took it, puzzled. It was heavy enough for a couple of overcoats designed for winters in Russia.
“As Mr. Champlain probably told you, it is a very, verysimplepart. There are no lines to be memorized. The children will each recite a poem and all you have to do is stand there, and thank them in your best Flossie voice. Thank you so much, Ms., uh, Poulet.” Did her voice just quiver on the name ‘Poulet?’
Wendy squashed down the urge to run. Whatever Flossie was, Wendy was very certain she did not want to be it. She said, quickly, “Unfortunately, I do work, so there is no way I can be here during the school day...”
“Oh, but there is no need for you to rehearse,” Ms. Nelson said, so quickly Wendy knew that this objection was not new. “I’ll give you a list before the fundraiser, and all you have to do is read the names, then thank the child after their poem.” She lowered her voice. “The teacher’s aide used to be Flossie, but then the county-wide budget cuts got rid of the aides, so we have to ask for parent volunteers.”
Wendy accepted her fate, aware that she had to be at work in twenty minutes. She hoiked up the bag full of Flossie, and made her escape.
As she lugged the heavy bag out to her car, she was thrown back to her own school days in this same sleepy little beach town, specifically her many, many dance recitals. She was fairly certain she knew why there was a Flossie, who would be a neutral figure, freeing up the teacher to be in the background making sure the kids didn’t wander off, or ruin each other’s costumes, or to dry tears if someone got stage fright, which Elizabet was right about. It could happen at age nine. And a costumed figure not only went over bigger with the kids, but in her own remembered experience, even if everybody knew whose mom or dad was inside Santa, or the Halloween witch, they accepted the mask as neutral in a way the more competitive parents might not accept another parent acting as host for a classroom event.
The question was, what was Flossie supposed to be? If the costume was cute, surely those moms always hanging around would have been offering to play the part? Instead, as soon as Ms. Nelson zeroed in on her, those moms had started slinking out as if they’d been caught with their hands in the lunch money. No, really, they hadescaped. Flossie. Barnyard. Flossie the Farm Woman?
Oh lord, Flossie the Cow?
No—she’d glimpsed bright red felt at the top of that bag, and orange beneath. Wendy had never seen cows except on TV, but she would swear there were no neon red or orange ones.
