People I Want to Punch in the Throat (11 page)

“No, nothing like that,” said Melody. “She just expects the girls to work hard.”

“No problem. We can do that,” I said.

“Well, then it sounds like you’ll be joining us tomorrow morning,” said Lori.

“Right. What do I have to do?”

“We get on line at four
A.M.
,” said Melody.

“Online? What’s the web address?” I asked, dreading getting up so early to log on to my computer.

“No, you misunderstood. On line,” said Rose. “Literally. We line up outside the studio at four
A.M
. Doors open at seven. Ms. Tiffani-Anne takes the first two hundred who make the cut.”

“Who make the cut? So there
is
a tryout,” I said.

“There’s an interview process,” said Melody. “If you line up with us, you’ll be fine.”

That’s how I found myself standing out in the freezing cold at four the next morning. When I arrived, Melody, Rose, and Lori were several people ahead of me. I didn’t even try to join them in
line; I could tell that the women behind us would shiv me if I tried.

I stood there for the next hour trying to will my body not to go into hypothermic shock.

“Excuse me?” asked the woman in front of me, obviously quite offended.

“Huh?” I said.

“Did you just say, ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ ”

“Did I?” I was definitely thinking it. I must have said it out loud.

“You certainly did,” her friend replied.

“You know, there are hundreds of women lined up behind you who would kill for your spot right now, and you’ve got that kind of attitude?”

“Well, I’m freezing. This is so stupid. I can’t believe I’m here,” I whined. “I’ve been lined up in the cold for an hour to get a three-year-old into a dance camp. What is wrong with me?”

“If you’re not committed, you’re never going to make it anyway,” said the woman behind me. “Ms. Tiffani-Anne only wants committed children and mommies. Sounds like you’re not committed.”

“I
should
be committed! I’m fucking crazy. She’s three. Do you know what I did in the summertime when I was three? I swam with floaties and rode my Big Wheel. That’s it. Nope, I’m done. Good luck, ladies.” And with that I stepped out of line and the group surged to fill my hole.

“Jen!” called Melody. “There are only a couple more hours left. I thought you wanted this for Adolpha.”

“Where’s her mental toughness?” whispered Rose.

“She has none. She never danced,” Lori whispered back.

I stepped away and looked at the line snaking through the
parking lot. I wanted to scream:
Why the fuck are we doing this? Are we afraid they’re going to fall behind in the world of dance and soccer and pizza making and miming?
We talk a lot about camps broadening their minds and teaching them things like responsibility and leadership skills, but really I think most moms are using those four hours a day to just be alone. I think we’re afraid of the idea of spending all day with our kids.

I realize parenting is hard and boring at times and a four-hour break would be super, but this is the job we signed up for. Some days it sucks, but most days it’s great. I like my days when my kids are in school, but I also like my summers with them. I like going to the pool and bowling and traveling with them. I also like sending them to their rooms for an hour to read—I’ve got to get my reading time in, too!

So while I might not have the mental tenacity to stand in line for three hours in January, I do have the mental tenacity to get through a summer with my kids.

I’ll admit that when Gomer started kindergarten he was a bit sheltered. Okay, he was
a lot
sheltered. He still let me pick out his clothes every day, I was known as “Mommy,” he slept with a blankie that he called “munga-munga” (don’t ask—I have no idea where that name came from), and his best friend was his baby sister.

(Actually, now that I reread that paragraph, not much has changed now that Gomer is eight. I still pick out his clothes, mostly because he’s too lazy to decide what to wear and/or he would choose shorts every single day regardless of the weather, munga-munga is somewhere in his bed and I’m pretty certain he snuggles with it when no one is watching, and his sister is still his best friend. The part that has changed the most is the fact that I’m no longer “Mommy.” I’d settle for “Mom,” but instead, I’m usually “dude.” WTF?)

He’d been out in the real world for a couple of years at preschool, but preschool, aside from a few potentially racist games, was a sheltering environment, where he was adored, loved, and coddled like a prized calf. That kid was so soft, he would cry out of sympathy if his sister got into trouble.

The Hubs and I knew kindergarten would be a bit of an adjustment for him. We knew that suddenly he would be forced to share space with twenty-plus kids and (gasp) only one teacher. We knew there would be some tough days for him. We just never thought he’d get the shit beaten out of him.

The first week of school, I was putting Gomer to bed and I asked about his day. “It was awful, Mommy,” he sobbed. “I got attacked on the playground!”

“What?” I asked, my mind racing.
Who attacked my precious baby? I’ll kill that kid!
“Who attacked you, Gomer?”

“Agnes,” he whimpered.

Agnes!
Of course! Oh, I knew who Agnes was. I’d been warned about her on the first day of school.

I had just dropped off Gomer in his new classroom when I stopped to say hello to my friend Sandy in the hallway. As I was catching up Sandy on my family’s scintillating summer vacation in Branson (don’t judge—my kids think Branson is just as good as Disney), we saw Agnes dart out of the classroom to grab a drink from the water fountain.

“Hey, Agnes,” the teacher called. “Please come back in here. We don’t leave the room without permission, please.”

“I’m sorry. I was thirsty!” Agnes said, never moving from her position by the water fountain.

The teacher ducked back into the classroom and Agnes stayed put, kicking the wall. Then she reached up and ripped the picture from the
Very Hungry Caterpillar
bulletin board. The caterpillar’s red head drifted to the floor, where Agnes ground it into the carpet with her tennis shoe.

What the hell, kid?
I wondered.
You’d better get your butt back in the classroom before you get in big trouble
.

“Agnes?” The teacher popped her head out again.

Agnes instantly straightened up and smiled while covering the obliterated caterpillar head with her shoe. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Are you coming, dear?”

I thought,
What’s with all the questions? Just tell her to move it
.

“In a minute,” she said.
In a minute? Are you allowed to say that to a teacher now?
Agnes turned her attention back to the bulletin board. She started digging a hole in the cork.

“Oh, it’s a good thing I’m not a teacher,” I mumbled to Sandy. “Can you still spank kids at school?”

Sandy giggled, and the teacher frowned at her. “Excuse me,” Sandy said, looking at her feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Agnes.

“Okay, but hurry up,” the teacher said. She went back in the room.

Sandy and I continued our conversation until we heard a scream from the girls’ room. A girl ran out clutching her bloody mouth.

“What happened?” Sandy asked.

The teacher ran out of the classroom. “What is going on out here?” she demanded as Agnes exited the bathroom and took a real interest in washing her hands in the community sink between both bathrooms. I kept an eye on Agnes as she soaped up.

“She pushed me into the wall and my tooth fell out,” the girl wailed, pointing at Agnes, who continued to scrub up like she was going into surgery.

“Who, me?” Agnes asked innocently. “I didn’t push you. The floor was slippery. I actually slipped earlier. I was going to tell you, but you fell before I could. Good news is, the tooth fairy will come tonight.”

The injured girl actually smiled.
Whoa, this kid is
good.

“I will let the janitor know there is a slick spot in there. Sally, you may go see the nurse. Agnes, are you coming?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was just trying to fix this bulletin board.”

“Oh, you’re such a sweet girl,” the teacher said, giving Sandy and me a smile that said,
Isn’t she precious?

Sandy coughed into her hand, and it sounded a lot like she said, “Devil,” but I can’t be certain.

The teacher said to Agnes, “I worked for hours on that bulletin board. It’s always so sad when they get wrecked. I was hoping it would at least last the week. Oh well, come in now, dear. I’ll stay after school today and fix it.” She went back in the classroom.

“
You
wrecked it,” I said to Agnes as she sauntered past me.

I looked helplessly at Sandy. She coughed again. “Jerk.” This time I heard her clearly.

“No. It was already ripped when I found it. I just brushed into it and then it ripped some more. It was an accident,” Agnes said, looking at me with giant doe eyes. “Especially when this part fell off.” She held up two mangled green construction paper pears.

“Come along, Agnes,” the teacher called.

“Coming, ma’am. This strange lady was talking to me and I was telling her that I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” Agnes said as she ran into the classroom, stuffing construction paper down her skort.

The teacher looked at us sternly. “Ladies, the bell has rung. It might be better to take your conversation to the parking lot so you don’t disturb the students.”

I just got scolded by a teacher!
Are you joking? That kid set me up
.

“I’m not a stranger,” I said. “I’m Gomer’s mother. They’re
classmates. Agnes is treating me like I tried to lure her into my van with candy or a puppy!”

“We take stranger danger very seriously in this school. If she was uncomfortable with your attention, she has every right to say so. And because you are a classmate’s mother, you should know better than to make her afraid,” the teacher replied coldly.

“But she ruined your bulletin board, and I’m pretty sure she pushed that kid,” I tried.

“Excuse me?” the teacher said. “Children fall all the time at school. Bulletin boards get ruined. These are accidents. Agnes is a child. She is not malicious.
She
did nothing wrong. Now,
you
ladies … well, I believe the principal sent out an email asking all of the parents to leave the building by the last bell so that we can start our day of learning.”

“That kid is a mess,” Sandy muttered as we walked toward the lobby of the school.

“Do you know her?” I asked.

“Yeah. Don’t you?” she asked.

“No. I’ve never seen her before. I’ve met her mother at different things, but I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her in action. She’s a bit of a handful, isn’t she?”

“Ha! She’s worse than that. Is that Gomer’s classroom?”

“Yes.”

“Ooh, sorry to hear that. She’s a real pain in the ass, but her mother is delightful—go figure.”

“How do you know her?”

“I told you about her. She’s the biter,” Sandy said.

Last year Agnes was in preschool with Sandy’s daughter, Zara, and she’d had quite a few run-ins with her. She stole her snack for several weeks, and then when Zara finally told on her, she started kicking her on the playground. Sandy set up an appointment
to meet with the school director and the teacher to discuss the problem. They mentioned then that they’d had several complaints about Agnes for kicking, hitting, and pinching but that that no one on staff had ever seen her do anything like that. The teacher went on and on about what a wonderful woman her mother was and how she couldn’t possibly be as bad as everyone claimed. She even suggested that maybe, just maybe, the other kids in the class were jealous of Agnes and were making up stories about her. They basically called Zara a liar. Sandy was livid, but there wasn’t much she could do. She told Zara to stay away from her, but then one day during rest period Agnes bit her. She bit her so hard she bled. Zara woke up and saw it was Agnes clamped down on her arm like a rabid dog, but by the time the staff got there, Agnes was back in her bed pretending to be asleep. Sandy could never prove it was Agnes, but she pulled Zara out of school after that.

The biter. Her?

I thought about Agnes. She was a tiny little thing, barely bigger than my preschooler. But her reputation was
huge
. I had always assumed she was a hulking brute with a skull-and-bones tattoo on her biceps and the rasp of a smoker. This little girl had pigtails, a button nose, and an adorable lisp that was exaggerated by her two missing front teeth.

Sandy wasn’t the only one who’d had problems with Agnes. Although I’d never seen the little terror in person, I’d heard so many stories about kids with broken arms, stitches, or black eyes. There was never enough proof to flat-out blame Agnes, but she was always conveniently close by when a child “accidentally” fell out of a tree house and broke an arm or when her next-door neighbor’s pit bull “escaped” from his enclosure to terrorize the block.