Say Never (15 page)

“Now, hold on, Miss Monroe.”

“That’s
Ms.”
I tell him.

“Of course, pardon me. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What exactly seems to be the problem?”

“My luggage is the problem. More specifically, the fact that I don’t
have
my luggage. Because while I was flying your airline to California, it seems that my luggage was flying to God-knows-where.”

“Oh dear, I’m very sorry to hear that.” Dale sounds contrite but not overly concerned. “I will do everything I can to make this situation right, Miss—uh—Miz Monroe. Can I just get a little more information from you?”

Fifteen minutes and two airline employees later, I hang up the phone and resist the urge to throw it against the wall. I have been assured that my luggage will be on my doorstep by the end of the day today, or tomorrow morning, at the latest, or possibly, but not probably by tomorrow afternoon…unless it’s overseas, in which case we might be looking at Thursday or Friday, but more likely this afternoon.
Right.

The final notes of the second Dora the Explorer episode ring in the air. I look down at myself and shudder. A trip to Bloomingdales or Macy’s is a necessity now. But I certainly can’t go looking like this. Mall security would run my AC/DC-wearing ass right out of there, and I wouldn’t blame them one bit. And Danny is too tall for me to be able to make a go of the
Annie Hall
thing with his clothing. Which means…
crap
.

“Come on, McKenna,” I call, rising from the dining room table and shuffling to the foyer. “Time to get dressed. For both of us.”

My niece emerges from the living room, dragging her heels and frowning at me.

“Do you want me to help you pick out your outfit?” I know this is one area in which I have expertise in spades. But McKenna shakes her head vehemently.

“I can get dressed all by myself!” she states.

I gaze at her mismatched pajamas, but keep my derogatory comment to myself.

Nine

Meg:
Wait, so, you and your wife are depressed because your daughter didn’t get into any of the schools she applied to?

Barry:
That’s right. We’re just beside ourselves. If Lorelei doesn’t get into a decent preschool, I don’t know what we’ll do.

Meg:
Preschool. Wow. And the homeless think they have it bad.

* * *

McKenna goes to Alexander J. Dumas Primary School. My brother needn’t have left directions since it’s the very same school that he and I attended as children. Although I’ve tried hard to forget much of my childhood, I will never be able to expunge from my brain the memories of my time at “Dumbass” Elementary.

Divorce was prevalent when I was growing up, but maternal abandonment, not so much. And this was before all the new-agey parenting styles came into being, before adults were told they had to be sensitive to their children and careful with how they spoke. Back when parents said pretty much anything to their kids and conversed freely around them, never imagining that little Buster was soaking up every word that came out of their mouths like a sponge.

I’m certain my family situation was a topic of conversation in most households in the neighborhood, therefore all of my peers knew my mother had left. And kids being simple creatures with simplistic reasoning, who come up with the simplest explanations for things, they all just figured that Melanie left because my brother and I were total shits. Suffice it to say that during my formative years I was shunned, made fun of, and given a wide berth just in case I was contagious.

Danny never suffered as much as I did. He had the ability to diffuse tense situations with charm and humor and that easy
dopey
grin of his. But I was a different story. I didn’t have an easy grin, nor was I charming in any way. I wasn’t ugly or fat, but then, I didn’t need to be. When the world is aware of the fact that your mother ran off with a plumber, you don’t need a harelip or a stutter or a club foot to earn public humiliation. All you have to do is show up.

When kids would harass me, or make obnoxious comments about me, unlike Danny, all I could do was stammer and blush and high-tail it in the opposite direction. Only afterwards, when my antagonists were long gone, was I able to concoct appropriately harsh and castigating rejoinders. I berated myself for not being able to fight back in the moment. I spent a good portion of my free time rehearsing for confrontations, practicing my scathing comebacks for any number of insults I might receive.
(
i.e.:
Them:
You’re a loser!
Me:
I am, yes, I
lost
the biggest moron award to
you.) By the time I reached junior high, after years of practice, I was better prepared for verbal battle, my mind worked faster, my vocabulary had improved, and my ability to be mean was more finely honed. But elementary school pretty much sucked all the way around.

I pull the Camaro to the curb at exactly ten fifty, as instructed by my brother in his dissertation on parenting, which I left on the counter next to the phone even though he ‘suggested’ I take it with me wherever I go. That we made it here on time is a miracle, because although Danny had already put the car seats in the Camaro, it took me fifteen minutes to safely strap the kids in.

I’m wearing Caroline’s clothing—under protest. After some serious digging in her closet, I was lucky to find some brand new workout togs hidden on an upper shelf (obviously reserved for when my sister-in-law gets back into a size six which will be on the twelfth of freaking never). I pull at the black Lycra leggings and roll my eyes, knowing I have to get out of the car and walk McKenna to the gate (another of Danny’s instructions, and a stupid one if you ask me).

Through the windshield, I see moms and a few dads scurry toward the single-story red brick building, hand in hand with their offspring. Most of the moms wear uniforms of sweats and jackets, their uncombed hair and makeup-free faces hidden beneath baseball caps. The last time I saw so many attractive women wearing baseball caps was at a mixer in Central Park hosted by Corona Cerveza where the beer company was handing out hats with their logo stitched into the brim. At this elementary school, behind the Orange Curtain, there are no alcohol-related logos in sight. Nike, Reebok, Angels, Dodgers, and some little league logos, but no Corona. I wonder if any of these mothers will head home for a breakfast of Bloody Marys. (If I had a kid in kindergarten, I certainly would.)

A fresh-faced woman of about twenty-three stands at the gate of the kindergarten playground, smiling and greeting each child as they pass through.

“Okay, McKenna, we’re here.”

“Yay!” she says with surprising enthusiasm. “And there’s my teacher, Miss Livingston!”

“Is she nice?” ask.

“Nicer than you,” McKenna answers without hesitation. And even though I’m slightly offended, I have to give her credit for her quick comeback. Oh, yeah. She’ll do just fine in elementary school.

“Of course Miss Livingston’s nice,” I tell my niece. “She’s
young.
Just give her time.”

McKenna has no idea what I’m talking about. She shrugs, then starts trying to unclasp the safety belt, which is threaded through her car seat. Tebow seems uncharacteristically subdued. He gazes out the side window and rhythmically chews on his pacifier.

Just as I reach for the door handle, my cell phone rings. I grab it from my purse and answer the call. “Meg Monroe.”

“This is Janine Jones with KTOC,” comes a monotone voice. “Please hold for Ms. Buchanan.” Three seconds later, I hear a click followed by the booming contralto of Eileen Buchanan, station manager of KTOC. I’ve talked to her twice before, and each time, including this one, she sounds as though her
breakfast of choice is a pack of Marlboro reds.

“Meg Monroe! Welcome to Southern California! You made it safely, I assume?”

“Yes, thanks, Eileen.”

“Great, terrific. So, when can we set up a meeting? I know you just got here, but we should really plan for some time over the next few days. Next week is Thanksgiving, you know, so a lot of people will be out from Monday on.”

“This week is fine,” I reply. “But not today. Today I’m booked.”
As in, getting some clothes to tide me over until my luggage arrives.

“No problem. How about tomorrow?” Eileen asks. “No, wait. Thursday. No…shit. This damn Google calendar system is a pain in my derrière. I long for the days of the desk calendar and a simple pen or pencil.” She cackles in my ear for a good ten seconds.

I know Danny works a half day on Friday—he made a note in the section of his childcare to me with the moment-to-moment schedule of the next ten days. So unless Eileen Buchanan has a great sense of humor and doesn’t mind having a drooling toddler eating Cheerios next to her during lunch, it cannot be tomorrow or Thursday.

“Friday would be better for me, actually,” I tell her, even though Friday was not one of my choices. “I’m free after twelve, depending on where we meet. I’m down in Orange County.”

Eileen says nothing, and I’m half afraid she is going to dismiss me. Not that I really care. I don’t want the job, I only want the leverage.

“No problem, no problem at all,” she finally says. “We’ll find a restaurant in the middle and email you with the particulars. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Aunt Meg!” McKenna shouts at me. “I’m gonna get a turdy!”

Oh, God, does she have to make a poop? I glare at McKenna and press my finger to my lips.

“What was that, Meg?”

“Sorry, Eileen, that was radio. I really have to go, but I look forward to Friday.”

“Excellent. I’ll be in touch.” The line goes dead.

“Do you seriously have to make a turdy?” I ask McKenna.

“No,
turdy
! Late!”

“Tardy! Right.”
Thank God.

I glance through the windshield and see that most of the parents are getting back into their cars and driving away. I hustle out of the Camaro, then yank and pull and tear at the straps of the car seat until McKenna comes free. I set her on the ground, slam the door shut and start heading toward the school.

“You can’t leave Tebow in the car!” McKenna cries.

“We’re just going over there,” I tell her, jerking a thumb at the gate, literally twenty feet away.

“It’s ‘gainst the law.” She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a stony look.

“Fine!”

I hurry around to the other side of the car and try to get my nephew out of his restraints, but his car seat is locked tighter than a strait jacket.

“God damn it!”

Two moms linger by the gate, chit-chatting about something. When I glance over at them I see that they are looking at me with horror.

“Gosh darn it!” I amend.

“I’m turdy, I’m turdy!” McKenna says, biting her lower lip. At last, I get the clasp undone. I pry Tebow from the seat and tuck him under my arm, then grab McKenna’s hand and yank her across the parking lot. When we reach the gate, Miss Livingston is about to snap shut the padlock.

“Oh, McKenna!” she says and smiles down at my niece. “Good morning!” She unclasps the lock and pulls the gate open and my niece slips through and disappears into the building without so much as a backward glance. When Miss Livingston looks up at me, her smile is conspicuously absent.

“You must be Mr. Monroe’s sister?” Her tone is cool and I have to wonder if she has received a call from Caroline.

“That’s correct,” I reply, immediately on the defense.

“Shlabanzerg!” Tebow babbles. I’m holding him at such an angle that he’s staring at the pavement. I look down and see a squashed bug next to my right foot.
Ah. Shlabanzerg
. A nice fat stream of drool slides out his mouth around the pacifier and lands on my—Caroline’s—sneaker. I shudder.

“I know this is all new for you, Ms. Monroe, but punctuality is very important.”

Her patronizing tone makes me want to slap her silly. “Right. We wouldn’t want them to be late for their lesson on brain surgery.”

“That’s very humorous. From now on, please be on time.”

“I was on time, Miss Livingston. But I had a very important phone call.”

“Of course you did,” she says. “But unless it was from the President of the United States, I dare say it was not as important as getting your child to school on time.”

I don’t want to slap her silly. I want to
strangle
her.
I count to ten and try to breathe normally.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get inside. And remember that pickup for Later Gators is two-thirty. Sharp.”

“I’ll be here.”
Bitch.