Mrs. Perfect

While Monica’s off grilling the new dad, Kate, Patti, and I make an effort to mingle. I’m not a big fan of mingling. All that chitchat is exhausting, but the point of the Welcome Coffee is to make new and returning families feel welcome, so that’s what I do. Mingle, shake hands, kiss cheeks, and effusively greet. Patti and I work the room in opposite directions so we’re near each other as we come full circle. I have no one left to greet, but Patti is still talking to a very petite, very thin brunette in a gray dress and black knee-high boots.

Patti waves me over. “Come meet Amelia,” she says. “They transferred into Points this year, and she’ll have a kindergartner here next year. Her daughter and Tori might be in the same class.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “Where did you move from?”

“Not far. Just the Plateau. We decided we couldn’t handle the traffic any longer.” She smiles a very small smile. “And you? Are you a native Washingtonian?”

“No. I’m a California girl, although I’ve lived here thirteen years now.”

Amelia’s expression is curious. “Where did you go to school?”

“USC.”

“No way. So did I.”

“Were you in a sorority?” I ask.

“For a year,” she answers, nose scrunching, “but then I dropped out. Hated it. So fake.” She pauses. “Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

Patti feels the sudden awkwardness, too, and she rushes to fill the silence. “Amelia’s an actress.”

I smile stiffly. “How did you get up here, then?”

“My husband was offered a job here, and we thought it’d be good for the family to get out of L.A. It’s hard to raise children there, hard to be normal when everyone’s trying to make it in the industry.”

I nod as if this is every woman’s problem. “Where does your husband work?”

“For the McKee family.”

My ears perk up. “Mine does, too.”

“Who is your husband?”

“Nathan Young.”

Amelia frowns, thinks, shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“He works for the holding company.” I hesitate and then delicately drop in, “He’s a vice president.”

Amelia’s brow furrows more deeply. “So is mine. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of him. I’ll have to ask Christopher.”

There’s something about her tone that makes me feel defensive. I smile more broadly, do my best to nod graciously. “I’ll ask Nathan about Christopher.” And then, turning away, I spy Monica. She’s heading toward us and walking like a lioness who has just taken down a kill. Patti and I meet her halfway across the room.

“His name is Leon,” Monica announces coolly. “His wife’s a neurosurgeon, and he’s Mr. Mommy now. They moved from Philadelphia, he’s an avid cyclist and marathoner, although he’s recently discovered yoga. Best of all, he’s going to co-chair Fun Day with me this year.”

Patti arches her eyebrows. “Wow. Impressive. That’s quick work.”

Monica laughs, giving her once dark hair that’s now full of honey highlights another small toss. “It’s not every day we get new blood in the PTA. What should I have done? Let him get away?”

The first week of school goes as smoothly as a new school year can. The girls don’t have too much homework, just the usual getting-to-know-you essay assignment stuff. I help Brooke with hers—she can’t really write yet—and stay on Jemma until she gets four paragraphs completed. Jemma’s not much of a writer, and it’s always a struggle to convince her that a paragraph must be three sentences long.

On Thursday, I’m in the school office making photocopies for the next auction committee meeting when I happen across a sheet of paper with the volunteers for each class this year.

I skim the sheet—Taylor Young, head room mom for Miss Johnson’s second-grade class—and then I check to see who will be working with me in Mrs. Osborne’s class. But when I check Mrs. Osborne’s class, it’s not my name there.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and for a moment, I think I have it wrong:

“Fifth Grade, Mrs. Osborne, Head Room Mom, Marta Zinsser.”

Marta Zinsser?

I’m beyond shocked. That can’t be right. I must have read the wrong class or the wrong name. I check again, but no, it still reads, “Fifth Grade, Mrs. Osborne, Head Room Mom, Marta Zinsser.”

Dropping the paper on the corner table, I stand there stupefied. Marta Zinsser is going to be the head room mom for Jemma’s class?

You’ve got to be kidding.

Marta Zinsser doesn’t even know where Yarrow Points Elementary cafeteria is. How can she be not just a room mom, but head room mom?

That’s like making SpongeBob SquarePants president of the United States.

Marta isn’t just seriously unqualified, she’s weird. She makes me feel weird, as though there’s something wrong with me and I just don’t know it. But the fact is, she’s the one who doesn’t fit in. She’s the one who wears totally inappropriate clothes for a woman her age. She wears her hair down to her butt. She likes stiletto heels and/or clogs, depending on her outfit. It’s so obvious she doesn’t care what others think of her, and she doesn’t even try to get along with others. Marta comes late to school meetings, leaves early, sits at the back, and although she doesn’t exactly sit there filing her nails, she does look damn bored.

Oh. Just thinking about her makes me crazy. She makes me crazy.

I start the copy machine and then head to the front where the secretaries sit poised to deal with tardies and lunches and the principal’s requests.

“Alice,” I say, approaching Alice Dunlop, the secretary with most seniority, “I saw the room parent assignment sheet—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Taylor, that’s not public yet.”

Well, good, if it’s not public yet, it’s not too late to make some changes. I’m already feeling better about things. I lean on the counter, smile hopefully. “I think there was a typo.”

“Really?” Alice looks up at me, brows furrowed. We’ve worked together over the years and have an excellent relationship.

“It has what I’m thinking is a typo. Marta Zinsser, head room mom, fifth grade?”

Alice’s expression doesn’t change. “No, that’s correct.”

“Really?” I’m back to just being stunned. I can’t fathom how this has happened. What did Marta do, waltz into Mrs. Osborne’s class and announce she wanted to be in charge? I honestly don’t understand. “Does she know?”

“I’m calling all the new room moms today.”

“Yes, but—”

“I believe you’re the head room parent for Miss Johnson’s class. She requested you.”

“And Mrs. Osborne didn’t?”

Mrs. Dunlop, being the model of professional diplomacy, reveals nothing. “As you know, it’s important to involve as many parents as we can.”

“Yes, but who made the decision to choose Marta Zinsser instead of me?”

Alice Dunlop smiles kindly. “I really don’t know, Taylor. I wasn’t involved in the selection process. And I know you need your copies. Were you able to make them, or did the machine jam again?”

Chapter Four

Later that afternoon, I’m sitting at the dining room table giving Brooke her spelling words, but I’m unable to concentrate.

I’m still angry about Marta being chosen as head room mom for Mrs. Osborne’s class. It’s not just that I’m more qualified and better suited to the job, but the decision is also unfair.

Marta hasn’t even paid her dues. She never donates to the auction, doesn’t attend, doesn’t spend, doesn’t support the school financially the way Nathan and I do.

I don’t see how Marta can just waltz in at the last minute and announce that she’d like to be a head room mom, and presto, that’s that.

I work hard at the school. I read with the kids who need support. I put in hours in the computer lab when there aren’t enough parents wil

ling to volunteer. I do recess duty and supervise at lunch. Movie night? I organize. Big class project? I implement.

“What’s the next word, Mom?”

It’s not that I’m looking for a blue ribbon or a tangible reward, but it doesn’t seem right that someone who has never cared enough to sign up to bring anything but paper goods for the class party should now be the mom in charge of everything.

“Mommy.”