Page 3 of Summer Skate

We are joined by the moms wearing pleated skirts and wielding tennis rackets. The tennis moms. They’re closing in on me.

“Jess! I was thinking that we might be able to get your help with the book fair this year . . . Since you’re a writer and all . . . ”

“Yeah . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“The book fair is such an important part of the curriculum! It really enriches the children’s—”

I look around, as if scanning for surveillance cameras. “Where are we right now that we have to pretend to like the book fair?” We’re outside! Nobody can hear us!

And then I smile because I think this is funny, but judging by their looks, they are horrified.

They’ll turn to each other once I’m gone and say: “That bitch.” But I don’t think it was particularly bitchy.

I think I showed a great deal of restraint.

I could have said, “Thanks, but I’d rather slit my own throat. ”

I keep walking. Maybe my behavior at drop-off is a detriment to my daughter and her social life at school, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Once I make it to the corner, I am free, and there’s nothing quite like it. That post-drop-off bliss. Wind in your hair. Freedom coursing through your veins. What can’t I do?

One of the dads catches up to me. He’s doing his part to avoid the crowd by hoisting a scooter over his head.

He once told me that he finds if he carries the scooter over his head and looks pained, people will generally leave him alone.

Gosh, this thing is awfully weighty. I couldn’t possibly chitchat .

He’s six foot three and was once a star wrestler at Cornell, but yes, he’s being conquered by a three-pound scooter.

Dads can get away with so much. Nobody even looks at him.

He meets me on the corner, and we agree to walk to the subway together.

“Why do they keep telling us to put the kids in sneakers?” he asks.

“I know. Is somebody sending their child to school in cowboy boots?”

Fifth Avenue is bathed in sun. The sidewalks are empty but for a few joggers, construction workers waiting to be let into buildings, other parents dragging their children along.

We pass by the Guggenheim, then the Met, each empty and bracing for the day.

We walk behind a group of girls in plaid uniforms. We comment on how the misuse of the word literal is rampant among the youth of today.

We complain about how the school is always sending the kids home with 107-degree fevers.

And then at home, magically, their fevers go away.

“They’re so annoying on the phone,” I say.

“Yeah, and if you don’t answer the calls, they’re even worse.”

I laugh. Doesn’t answer the calls! I have such admiration for this man. How has this never occurred to me?

They have a hard job, we decide. Kids go from totally fine to exorcism to totally fine in the span of one day.

Like, I’ll wake up one morning thinking I’m going to have a banner day and instead I end up at the pediatrician’s office, dedicating an entire day to ear wax.

Is it an ear infection or not? Three doctors must weigh in.

After the third, I’ll start to feel a bit of fluid in my own ears.

“What’s the deal with the playdate later?” I ask the dad.

“No idea. Text our nanny with whatever you want to happen.”

“Can it be at your house?”

“No. Please. Yours.”

“I’ll do it next time, I swear.”

“I’m going to have Leo tell Penny about the existence of Legoland.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh yes. It’s happening.”

“Fuck me. Fine. My place.”

He holds his hand up in the air, backing away, victorious, as we head to our separate subway platforms.

And then I’m off.

I go downtown in order to concentrate, in order to feel like myself again. I head to the Village, where I share an office with two other writers and one psychiatrist. Yup. Three writers and one psychiatrist to give us all the pills and comfort we need to sustain life as writers.

I put on headphones and listen to music as the train rattles beneath me.

This is when my day really begins. I’m lucky to have this arrangement. A coffee shop is too noisy and distracting. A library is too quiet. Can’t bring coffee or eat a handful of cashews? Give me a break. Librarians . Put them in charge of the book fair.

I get to work. I sit down at my computer.

I say to my brain: Okay, it’s time! Let’s do it!

But then I end up spending a good portion of the morning opening invitations to children’s birthday parties.

Let’s Get Ready to Tumble! Do we have to?

A spa birthday party for Sloane! Oh good.

My five-year-old has been dying for a detox.

These parties are brutal. Sometimes they try to make it fun for the parents.

But a children’s birthday party will never be fun for adults.

Because there are children there. Occasionally, something amusing will happen, like the magician will ask the birthday boy what he wants to be when he grows up and he’ll say, “A doorman!” And the parents will die of public humiliation and that’ll be somewhat worth the price of admission.

As I mark my calendar, a bunch of texts come through on the parent group chain.

Why don’t we start a letter-writing campaign, and the kids can write each other letters all summer?!

I LOVE this idea, Rebecca! How did you even think of it??

How do they come up with these things? Sometimes I’m tempted, late at night, to start drunk texting the group: You guys up?

My phone dings again and again. I turn in the chair and then push away from the desk, flinging myself on wheels across the room. A text from the scooter dad: It always feels like we’re on a date. And it’s going well .

The man is smitten. I decide to play naive. What? Seriously? Whatever do you mean? But he calls my bluff. I say: I know. I know. I just wanted to hear you elaborate .

He smiles, I presume. No. I know. He’s definitely smiling. He says: I wish we were in some dark bar with finished drinks between us, feeling woozy .

I write it all down. Keep texting. Squeeze the lemon for every drop.

I start editing the conversation on the page, perfecting the dialogue, changing the situation.

I put the words into the mouth of a character that starts off like him but ends up nothing like him at all.

But I have nowhere to go with this. I throw my phone across the room.

Then I go back to it. I start calling my friends, pumping them for information.

“Is your divorce final yet?”

“Whatever happened to your brother-in-law . . . in the . . . hospital?”

“Remember that trip to Thailand . . . where you got food poisoning?”

I call my more rebellious friends, people I know from shows.

“What happened at that protest again?”

“Did they end up pressing charges?”

“And you were faking orgasms for this entire relationship?”

“All right,” one says, finally. “I’ll confess this to you. But don’t put it in your book.”

“Absolutely,” I say, typing.

I can’t help it. I will turn over everyone I know and shake every last penny out of their pockets.

Once I’m off the phone, I go for a walk around Washington Square Park, circling and circling, until I get hungry.

I stop on MacDougal Street at a place that makes “authentic Indian cart food.” It is right next to a shop that specializes in oatmeal, and across from a store that sells exclusively popcorn. God, I love New York.

And then I return to my Word document and do important work like making sure that everything on my desk is symmetrical. Still nothing on the page.

It’s two P.M . Time to get on the subway to pick my daughter up at school. My workday is over.

In the pickup line, I make a vow. I am going to be patient. I am going to be kind. I am going to play Candy Land like I mean it .

I am also listening, waiting, for somebody to say something interesting.

But everyone is talking about the summer.

They are discussing how hard it is to pack up a family of four for a European vacation.

It’s no joke , they say. I am not going to Europe, but the herd mentality is kicking in and I’m feeling the need to go to Europe. Is it too late?

One mom is going to Ibiza. Another is headed to Saint-Tropez. The moms with older children are giddy about sleepaway camp. They are counting the days until they can put their kids on the bus to Maine.

“And then I’ll have twenty-seven days to myself before visiting day!”

Yup. Twenty-seven days of uninterrupted exercise classes, shopping, and cosmetic procedures! Botox from head to pinky toe .

The teacher opens the door. I take my daughter’s snack out of my bag, with no small amount of trepidation. The snack must be transferred within two-point-three seconds of her leaving school. If I stumble, if I fall, there will be frustration. Yelling. Tears.

She emerges from the building.

The transfer is made.

“I want to sit on the couch and slouch,” she says, as she walks down Park Avenue, hand in her fruit snacks.

“You mean lounge?”

“Oh. Lounge .”

A good sign. Watch TV. Eat sugar. Shoot up. Just please let me get some work done .

When we get home, I put on The Lion King , then The Lion King 2 , then some TV show dedicated to The Lion King but with real lions.

I sit in bed with my laptop on my stomach and try to come to grips with the fact that I haven’t written anything all day—in months, to be clear.

My agent keeps calling, and I silence the phone.

My son is with our nanny, building something with blocks, occasionally pulling down a lamp. My daughter comes into my bedroom every fifteen seconds to talk to me about a wide variety of topics, like bubblegum—how it works, how old you have to be to chew it.

“I can get you some,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not ready.”