Page 7

7 | After-School, Before School SASHA

Nettie is not pleased.

It is School Spirit Day and, although she has had the weekend to process, she is still upset that I was only able to procure her a hoodie in size large.

In her defense, she is swimming in it.

I have tried to convince her multiple times that she looks like Billie Eilish—that it’s an oversize lewk —but, unfortunately, she is not dumb.

Maybe she’s also still not over the fact that she had to wait in the office for over an hour on Friday because her after-school registration got screwed up.

When I got the call that Nettie needed to be picked up that afternoon, I was producing a quickie shoot for a cat clothing line at a loft in lower Manhattan. Creating video content for Do It Furr Fashion’s website, which meant coordinating all the feline talent and then overseeing the shoot itself, wasn’t the greatest thrill of my career, but I’d jumped at the last-minute job since freelance work has been so slow. Luckily, we were already wrapping when my phone rang. As I rushed out the door, DIFF’s owner gifted me a camouflage jacket for our giant cat, Larry, who would kill me in my sleep if I ever tried to make him wear it.

By the time I arrived to grab Nettie, the parent-teacher liaison, Ms. Choi, had left for the day, so I wasn’t able to resolve the mix-up. But the office staff promised me I could find her this Monday morning—the last day to make after-school enrollment changes—and rectify the problem.

Nettie swore she was fine when I arrived to pick her up. “These things happen,” she said mournfully, with a pat on my shoulder. Like she is the grown-up. “Don’t worry about it.”

Someone gave her a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles while she waited, which I imagine went a long way. Her mature response was a relief for me. But she has to be sick of these snafus. Of having a stiff upper lip. I know I am.

I am really missing a step lately.

When I finally collected Nettie from the office and we exited the building, knowing I’d have to return for Bart an hour later, I felt eyes on us. Kaitlin, that mom I knew a little growing up, was scrutinizing us from behind lopsided baked goods. Of course . Of course she would see us now. She always seems to catch my worst moments. I pretended not to see her.

Bart is at least happy this Monday morning, though he has insisted on wearing his new PS421 tee and no jacket despite the windy fall weather, and his lips are turning Smurftastic blue. He is walking tall, chest puffed out, to display his shirt like he’s done something to deserve it. He’s got the spirit in him! Hallelujah!

He’s not the only one. If the families flowing toward school today are a stream, the children, in their green gear, are the algae. The occasional overzealous parent is dressed like the Jolly Green Giant in solidarity. I pass Green Vest VIM in her school earmuffs. Were the parents meant to participate?

One by one, the kids march proudly into the schoolyard to find their teachers. Bart gives the school administrator at the entrance a high-five and doesn’t look back. Even my grumpy third grader allows me to kiss her goodbye atop the head, hurrying toward the entrance with the rest of the kelp. I picture them emerging at the end of the day as salted-seaweed snacks.

She needs to wash her hair. That’s my first thought as I watch Nettie drop her backpack and join her friends. For a moment, I’m transported to when she used to smell like baby. Time moves so fast. Then, as an oversize fifth grader jostles me trying to beat the bell, I remember to haul ass to the school office.

I dodge dogs and parents, rushing toward the school’s main entrance. As I’m smiling at the faces I think I recognize, my eyes land on one I know well: Celeste! She is a vision in not-green. I stop short in front of her.

“Where’s your spirit?” I ask her.

“Floating somewhere above the Maldives.” She grins.

I already wanted to hug her. Now, I want to even more. So I do.

I need the squeeze more than I expect.

“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” I ask as we separate.

“Just thought I’d drop in. Check out the greenery .”

“Oh no,” I say. “That was terrible.”

“It was,” she says, nodding.

Celeste is a rare sight at drop-off and pick-up. She’s the CEO of a very successful interior design firm. And she looks it. Always. Even in jeans and a puffer vest. She has olive skin and wide lips, shiny dark hair piled perfectly atop her head—her Middle Eastern birthright. Her adoring and adorable husband, Jamie, is a stay-at-home dad who shepherds their son, Henry, from place to place.

Her own mother stayed at home, and Celeste felt her mom never got enough credit. She vowed never to repeat that pattern. In fact, she turned it on its head.

“Where’s your sainted other half?” I look from side to side and behind her as if Jamie definitely could be hidden there. He could not. He’s got the build of a linebacker. He is a rare bird—and not just because, as he likes to say, he’s a Black man from Wyoming. He’s also got the patience of a preschool teacher, the tech skills of a creepy IT guy (sans heebie-jeebies) and the baking skills of Paul Hollywood. There is no better human on earth.

“Apparently, even deities need to visit the dentist now and then.”

“Very inconvenient.”

“Indeed,” she sighs. “I had to take the whole morning off! Got time for an impromptu walk?”

“I do,” I say. “Sadly, and happily, I have no pressing work to do.”

We take the first few steps on our stroll before I remember my mission. “Oh, wait! Shoot. I have to run in and handle something at the office. Can you wait? I’ll be super fast.”

“No problem.” She nods, leaning against a parked SUV and pulling out her phone. “I haven’t listened to The Daily today. There is work to be done!”

Inside school, the mood is chill. First-period classes are in session. Officer White, the security guard at the desk, flashes me his always winning smile as he checks my ID and directs me to the main office. Once there, I wait for the administrators to look up, through mostly cat-eye glasses, from their desks.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, thank you. I was hoping to talk to Ms. Choi. My daughter was supposed to be signed up for drama after school on Fridays and somehow she got unenrolled.”

“Oh, right.” The woman nods, gesturing toward a closed door across the hall. “I remember. Ms. Choi is in with another parent currently, but if you have a seat, she should be out soon.”

I sit down. A box of doughnuts for the staff is open on the counter in front of me with a sign that reads, “Take one!” I know they’re not intended for me, but the Boston cream at the top is really calling my name. I’m debating whether I can get away with snagging it when Ms. Choi emerges, which is why, at first, I don’t notice her companion.

“Mom,” the office administrator says to me. “It looks like she’s out of her meeting.”

I pop to standing and turn the corner, just in time to hear that Ethan person saying, “Thank you so much, Ms. Choi.”

Twice in one week? Who is this man?

He is still tall and irritating and now freshly showered standing beside Ms. Choi, who smiles up at him from below heavy bangs.

“No problem,” she is saying. “Happy I could help.”

“Oh, I had one other question—”

“I’m so sorry,” I interrupt. “Hi. I’m just in a bit of a rush. If you don’t mind.” I look at him meaningfully. Remember Friday? I say with my eyes. When I let you go first and you took my hoodie?

“Do you mind, Ethan?” asks Ms. Choi.

Ethan . Why does he get a name?

To be fair, I’ve had limited interaction with her. But I know she is fair, efficient and from Seattle—because, when we chatted once at a first-grade picnic, we had a long conversation about coffee.

And I know her name.

“Of course not.” He shakes his head. “Go right ahead.”

Charmed.

“What’s up, Mom?” Ms. Choi says to me.

I explain the situation with Nettie and after-school. “I’m not sure how she got unenrolled. I have an email confirming her place in drama,” I say, referencing my phone. “I can show you if it will help.”

Ms. Choi bites her lip in a way that spells nothing good, fingering a stack of papers in her hands. She looks from me to Ethan, who is shifting in his perfect beat-up brown leather boots in obvious discomfort.

“Unfortunately,” she begins, as my heart sinks, “when Nettie got unenrolled, the system repopulated as if there was one space left in the class. There’s a record of Nettie’s enrollment, but also of her disenrollment. And Ethan, here, has just secured that open spot for his daughter.”

This fucking man.

“Okay,” I say, propping up my wobbly voice with an emotional matchbook. “But can’t you make space for one more kid? She’s small for her age,” I joke. But nothing is funny here. “I really need to have her in after-school on Fridays. For work.”

“I’m afraid we can’t.” Ms. Choi shakes her head. “There are DOE and building regulations about how many children are allowed at once in certain spaces for certain activities. There was only space left for one more child.”

I look up at Ethan, who is studiously avoiding my gaze, examining some wall-mounted kindergarten scribbles like they are Van Goghs. He clears his throat. Scratches his stubble.

He is not wearing a ring. Shocking that someone divorced him.

I watch his Adam’s apple bop up and down like buoy.

“Is there any chance—?” I begin.

“I can’t!” he barks before I can finish. He turns to Ms. Choi and shakes his head. “I can’t help her.”

“Sasha,” I bark back.

“What?”

“My name is not her . It’s Sasha. I’m standing right here.”

We stare at each other while an uncomfortable number of seconds pass.

“I’ve got to… go somewhere else,” says Ms. Choi, backing away down the hall, papers in the crook of her arm. “But email me, Mom, if you want to get Nettie signed up for a different Friday after-school activity. I believe there’s space left in Mindful Soccer and Intermediate Ukulele.”

I can feel more than imagine my daughter’s cataclysmic disappointment. I am nauseous in anticipation of telling her. She’s been talking about drama class all summer. I wanted so badly to deliver her this. After-school sign-up is basically the Hunger Games. I prepared a ranked cheat sheet; set multiple alerts and alarms at sign-up time; sat at my computer and refreshed until the after-school offerings appeared and, with shaking hands, snagged a spot before everyone else. And yet, I have failed. I feel horrible.

Ms. Choi hurries away until all that remains is the echo of her ballet flats slapping against the floor. Whatever Ethan’s follow-up question was for her, he will have to ask it at another time. Once again, this infuriating man and I have sent onlookers fleeing.

“Of course!” I humph at him, as I turn and storm toward the exit.

I shouldn’t feel horrible! He should .

“How is this my fault?” this Ethan person says, following behind me.

Even Officer White, sitting at the security desk, averts his eyes as we pass.

“How is it not your fault?” I spit. “Apparently, everyone is about pleasing you and you’re more than happy to take, take, take.” Ethan. With a name .

We make it outside the enormous red school doors at the top of the steps and into the crisp air as he says, “Nobody is about ‘pleasing’ me!”

“Oh yeah?” I whip around to face him. He is annoyingly good-looking. I want to smack that cuteness off his head. “Then why do you keep getting what I want?”

He shrugs. “Look, Sasha . Maybe if you were more on top of things?”

The words hit me hard, unleashing a rage flash flood through my body. Now, I am literally vibrating. “ Excuse me? What should I be more on top of?”

“What I mean is—” Ethan begins, my red-hot anger reflected as fear in his deep brown eyes. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. What I’m trying to say is, if you sign up early for things, and, like, prepare, then maybe you won’t wind up getting screwed.”

“Screwed?! Screwed?! The only person screwing me is you !”

If I committed homicide in this moment, would anyone blame me? An all-female jury would surely acquit. But no. Even then, they’d probably take one look at his chiseled jaw and leave me to rot in the clink.

It is too early in the morning to be this pissed. It’s too early to feel this defeated. From the bottom of the stairs, Celeste is staring up at me, eyes wide. I take a moment, weave my fingers together behind my head, look up at the murky sky and exhale. I want to take his stupid messenger bag and shove it up his ass. Instead, I take the high road.

I growl at him, loud enough that he jumps back. Then, I stomp down to the sidewalk, leaving him standing at the top alone.

“Who’s your friend?” Celeste asks when I reach her.

“Satan,” I say.

“He’s kind of cute.” She toggles her head.

“That’s how they get you.”

“He looks familiar.” She narrows her eyes.

“Let’s go.”

I grab her manicured hand with its stackable rings and drag her away toward the coffee shop to get sustenance for our park walk. If he watches us go, I don’t know. I’m sure if I look back, I’ll turn him to stone.