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ONE

MARA

SEPTEMBER

“Are you sure you don’t want a sample? They’re really delicious.”

The man in front of me hadn’t accepted my first dozen times I said no to tasting his damn walnut paste bars. I am patient, and I generally am kind. But no means no, even if it’s something as trivial as tasting a food.

Tasting food was part of my job. A grocery buyer decides what goes on shelves in stores. Amateurs, like Mr. Walnut Bar, assumed I had to actually enjoy the food. I couldn’t have cared less. I just needed sales data and evidence of traction.

Sure, sometimes I ate the samples. Who’s going to turn down free food? But if I didn’t want to or was risking a reaction by eating it, I just wasn’t having it.

Even though I wasn’t technically allergic to his walnut bars, I maintained a delicate balance of how much histamine I could eat at a time. If I was going to induce accidental anaphylaxis, it was going to be over something good: an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, a highly ketchupped fried food, or saag paneer.

Not a walnut paste bar.

“I’m sure they are.” My phone ringing cut off my baker’s dozenth denial.

Saved by the bell.

Until I saw what number it was. There were three calls I didn’t like to receive:

1. Calls from my ex-husband from his spiritual time away in Nepal

2. Calls from my daughter Hazel’s daycare

3. Calls from my son Aspen’s school

This call was from number three: Aspen’s school.

I winced. “Sorry, I’m going to have to take this.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can wait,” the man said, barely batting an eye.

“Great!” I chirped, when I really wanted this jackwad to leave effective immediately. I was out of time to politely throw him out, as I only had one more ring before my call went to voicemail. Then they’d call my ex-husband and interrupt his savasana serenity. The fucker.

“This is Mara.”

“Hi! Mrs. Canton?”

“It’s O’Connell, actually. Miss O’Connell. How can I help you?”

“Oh.” I could almost hear the woman on the other end’s brain computer chips beep-booping into place. “Well, your son got into trouble with Harper. We need you and Harper’s parents to come in immediately to meet with Serena’s parents.”

Since when did Harper and Aspen get into trouble? Aspen had always been a sensitive, sweet kid, and Harper didn’t seem like she was out starting wars over nothing. Harper’s mom was a bit of a piece of work, and I’d only ever seen her dad in passing.

Maybe I should have pulled Aspen out of hockey when Bryce left. Bryce played when we were in college in Boulder, so he was the first to encourage Aspen to follow in his footsteps. I didn’t particularly want him to because of the more obvious downsides of the sport: violence, head trauma, and you know, turning out like Bryce where you’re constantly obsessing about a goal you never achieved.

But mom guilt made me keep Aspen in hockey, not wanting to change too much of his routine when his dad decided his spiritual awakening was more important than being a father. Was I now reaping the consequences of that decision?

I glanced at my calendar. Mr. Walnut Bar was the sixth in a series of category review meetings I had that day. This was a marathon day of vetting vendors and products, deciding which ones ended up on our grocery store’s shelves. Some of these vendors had been counting on these meetings for months. I turned in my desk chair, peering out onto my office’s scenic parking lot view. “Oh. Um. Now?”

“Yes. The other parents have been notified.”

“I’m sorry. Is Aspen hurt?” I asked.

“No blood, no bones,” the woman deadpanned.

I blinked hard, struggling to stifle my temper that wanted to both reach through the phone and bop that woman and also sucker punch Mr. Walnut Bar still sitting behind me. Wait, was I the one with the violence problem? “And I have to be there now?”

“Well, someone does. He’s going to be suspended.”

I coughed, the air itself seeming toxic. “Suspended?”

“Yes, and his girlfriend too.”

“She’s not his girlfriend,” I said, grinding my teeth. I hated when people tried to “ship” opposite-sex child friends. Why did people insist on sexualizing children? Couldn’t they just be kids who are friends? They’re in kindergarten. Let them be kids.

“So, are you coming to get him?”

“Wh-what? Uh, yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I rose slowly, a necessary precaution with my combination of ailments. I scooped my keys off the desk and bid adieu to Mr. Walnut Bar. “Just leave your samples and sell sheet and we’ll get back to you!”