Page 15

15 | Orange You Glad? KAITLIN

Celeste is too tall to talk to. Not that she wants to talk to me anyway.

That’s my first thought when she shows up at pick-up today like it’s perfectly natural for her to be here, like it’s not the first time this whole year. She’s wearing some incredible rust-colored jumpsuit that would make the rest of us look like inmates.

Even I know it’s the color of the season. All the momfluencers I follow are hawking terra-cotta turtlenecks and amber BabyBjorns. But what’s with her and Sasha being all glammed up this week? I roll my eyes. I don’t even care. At least I don’t want to.

It’s Friday, which means I’m hawking PS421 gear at our makeshift kiosk to raise funds for the school’s new media system. I sometimes let other parents handle minutiae like this, but it’s important for me to stay involved. That’s also the only way things get done right—in the only arena I can still control.

It’s not like my time is so precious anyway. Yesterday, I spent forty-five minutes trying to take one decent selfie. Even with all the Facetuning and filters, I can’t hide my haggard state.

Celeste is a few minutes early to pick-up, so she wanders over to check out my wares. I suddenly feel like an idiot standing behind a folding table wearing a school-branded scarf. I pull out and apply my new lip balm. Like that’s going to make the difference.

I am spiraling.

She sorts through the T-shirts and mugs, her fingers long and graceful like a journeying daddy longlegs. I scan her for flaws. High cheekbones. Perfect understated manicure. Large antique diamond ring. Not a hair out of place. Golden tan coloring that never dulls. She looks up at me.

That’s when I notice that her eyeliner is smudged on one side. Almost like she’s been crying. Her nose is just slightly pink in an adorable way. Something is up. Interesting .

“Hey, sorry—how much is the pencil case?” she asks.

“It’s twenty dollars. And it comes with cute PS421 pencils and an eraser inside.” I pick one up and unzip it to show her. Like I’m on QVC. Which, lately, I’ve been staying up watching because I don’t sleep.

“Oh, adorable! I don’t even think I knew the school mascot was a chipmunk!”

Shocking that Celeste is not in-the-know.

“I’m sure Henry would love it,” I say. “Isn’t he into animals?”

She looks up at me wide-eyed. She’s surprised that I know her son’s name. But of course I do. I remember everything. “He is. Yes. Good memory!”

“I remember from his first-grade birthday party… at the zoo.” It was the only one of Henry’s birthday parties that we’d attended. They invited the whole class to watch a woman in a khaki jumpsuit take reptiles out of cages and let the kids pet and hold them.

I also remember that Nettie declined to touch any of the creatures. “I’m more of a mammal person,” she said, always precocious. It made Sasha and Celeste laugh and laugh.

Celeste pays, then tucks the pencil case away in her snakeskin embossed tote. No standard off-white canvas for her.

“Have you volunteered for Monster’s Ball this weekend?” I ask. “Or is that more of your husband’s thing?”

She twitches, as if stung. “Actually, I already volunteered to work the photo booth. With Sasha. You know, Nettie’s mom?”

For some reason this drives me insane—her telling me who Sasha is. Like she doesn’t remember that Sasha and I knew each other long before she was in the picture.

“Great!” I force a smile.

“Oh, here come the kids!” Celeste says. “Better run.”

I nod. “Bye, Celeste.”

She looks back at me as she hustles away, and, by the panic in her eyes, I can tell she can’t recall my name.

“Thank you…! Um. Good to see you. Bye!”

Just as the first teachers begin to lead the kids out of school to stand against the gate, Sasha jogs across the street, waving to the crossing guard. She looks distracted, worried.

What’s bothering you, Sasha?

But when she spots Celeste, her furrowed brow releases into an unfettered grin. The two women embrace.

“Twice in one week!” Sasha exclaims like she’s won the lottery, joining the stream of parents flowing down the block to where the third graders stand. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Jamie’s terrible teeth again? I don’t want to wish root canals on the man, but if I get to see you…”

Celeste laughs. It sounds like church bells chiming. It takes everything in my power not to gag.

Lisa scurries up next to me, follows my gaze to Celeste and Sasha. “You know,” she says, “I have an orange jumpsuit just like that one! I got it at Target. I wonder if it’s the same one.”

I look from Lisa—in her floral fleece—to Celeste. They are different species. But Lisa is blessed not to know.

“Maybe,” I mutter. Then I turn with a smile to the next parent in line.