Field of Schemes (36 page)

“They’re
our
kids!” the mothers said in unison.

“Darcy!” said the blonde. “I know you like to tease us, but Miss Lortel is being difficult just to be difficult. All she has to do is grade papers with a purple or green pen so the kids aren’t jarred by the sight of red all over their tests.” It took all of my self-restraint not to attack her face with a Wet One. Who wears chalky pink lipstick? It looked as though she’d taken a swig of Pepto-Bismol and hadn’t bothered wiping her mouth afterward. The ad caption should read, “Got Gas?” And what was the deal with the green eye shadow? It looked like two parakeets had crash-landed on her face.

Darcy asked, “You’re afraid the kids will think it’s blood?”

“Very funny,” the helmet of curls said. Her fashion statement was that forty was the new fifty. “Darcy, be serious, what’s so hard about switching ink colors? The study said that some kids were very traumatized by the sight of red ink.”

“Why?” I couldn’t help inserting myself into the conversation.

Neither woman being a devotee of Botox, their foreheads compressed like accordions. Parakeet Eyes said, “They feel as if they’re wrong.”

“Aren’t they?” I asked. “I mean, doesn’t this Miss Lortel only red-mark the wrong answers?”

“You’re missing the point, Claire,” Helmet Curls said. “Their answers may be incorrect—”

“I think the term is validity-challenged,” Darcy interjected.

“Darcy’s the neighborhood comedienne, in case you haven’t noticed,” Helmet Curls told me.

And on and on our debate went about whether Miss Lortel should stand by her red pen or succumb to the pressures of mothers who read an article in
Psychology Today.
At the end of the shift, Darcy wrote their checks in red ink, and smiled as she handed them to the women. “I hope this will help you form positive associations with red ink, ladies.”

How was it that Darcy always ended her disagreements with women with double-cheeked kisses and plans for lunch? I, on the other hand, had been tackled over a jersey, stabbed by John Hancock, and abused by the team manager.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, dear,” a mom said, leaving.

The next group was one I recognized from Rachel’s days in recreational soccer. Kim, the über soccer mom, shocked me when she went R-rated within five minutes of walking in the door. She asked how I was surviving the season with Loud Bobby.

“He’s actually not the worst of them,” I told her.

“Really?”

“He’s not in the normal faction by any means, but there are two or three dads who have him topped.”

“Well, you know what they say?” she asked with a wink. I looked blankly. She finished, “The bigger the mouth, the smaller the pecker.”

Darcy walked by just as that line was being delivered and laughed. “Kim McNamara! Get you away from your kids and you’re a regular potty mouth.”

“How is it on the dark side?” Kim asked.

“Oh, it’s dark,” I replied.

“Are you guys done yet? When does the season even end?” Kim pulled out a chair and seated herself at the center of the table, where the bride would sit if this were her rehearsal dinner.

Darcy placed a plate of beads in front of Kim and answered the question. “It never ends. Season is a misnomer. We’re lifers.”

“Well, Rachel loves it,” I added. “So it’s worth it, but Darcy’s right, it is a huge commitment.”

A few more mothers from the old team trickled in, and after I looked at the table I asked, “Is this the soccer moms shift?”

Darcy nodded. “Also known as opposition research.”

“What?”

“We hear a bunch of stuff on our end, and they’ve got their own rumor mill on rec, so I figured we’d get the two camps together and see what comes up,” Darcy explained.

After about an hour, I realized Darcy was right. We learned not only about soccer, but who had affairs, who had cosmetic surgery, and who was still holding grudges over bidding wars at last year’s school auction. It was all done very skillfully. The women knew that gossip was unseemly, so they packaged it with the pretty paper and bows of concern. As in: “I am so concerned about Felicity’s butt implants. When Petra had them done, they got infected and it was a nightmare.”

Response: “What really concerns me is
why
she’s doing it. I mean, I am totally supportive of a woman’s right to choose, but if she thinks it’s going to keep that dog of a husband home at night, she’s got another think coming.”

New concerned woman: “He really ought to focus on finding a new job already! It’s been a year since he was laid off, and if they don’t get back on their feet soon, they might have to sell the house. My Reeba would be devastated if Uma left Santa Bella.”

Finally, someone suggested they bring casseroles over to the house to help Felicity during her recovery. Ninety-five percent of the people who bring meals to the grieving and recovering do so with only the purest intentions. There are, however, those who use their casserole as a Trojan horse. They stand at the door in a floral print dress, smiling brightly, then they walk into the kitchen, taking copious mental notes to be stockpiled as ammunition.

I also learned that when Drunk Dick told me he was an agent for Tandy and Mariah, he wasn’t kidding. Tandy’s parents paid Dick to get her on the top team at a club. Dick, in turn, gave Mariah’s parents a cut as an incentive to be part of the package deal.

Months ago, Darcy warned me that half of everything one hears about other people is bullshit, but on this day I also discovered that half of what you think about them is also false. “I am so concerned about Tom,” a mom said. “How is he going to manage once Gia starts school again in the fall?”

“He’ll have to get help, that’s all. It’s such a shame, though. I really thought Anne was going to beat this thing, but she’s gotten worse.”

As it turned out, Gia was not Tom’s trophy wife after all. She was his daughter who had taken time off from college to help care for Sapphire and her mother, Anne, as Anne fought her second bout of breast cancer. I felt as if my body were going down a giant drain. All season I’d been sneering at Gia’s ever-present boobs and her ever-absent husband. As it turned out, she had a fiancé who was patiently waiting for her at Long Beach State. And a mother who was at home dying.

Ten days later, Claire Emmett Designs had shipped more than four thousand lira necklaces. And Claire Emmett had learned that there was a lot more going on in Santa Bella than she had originally thought, or given credit for. I wasn’t the only one who had dealt with family loss. I wasn’t the only one who’d come to blows with another mother (though Mimi and I were still legendary at the Soccer Post).

In the height of production, we had a cameo from Barbara, who came wearing her oversized, belted Real Madrid jersey hanging over black knit leggings and black boots. Lil took over as den mother, cooking for us and taking Rachel to her last practices. Even Dave stopped by after he dropped Katie back at her mother’s. He tried to help, but his beefy fingers couldn’t manage the beads or petite cutters. I found it endearing the way he tried to win over my mother, as if he somehow needed her permission to take me to the prom.

“Mother,” I said, rushing past her. “I love you for doing this, but next time you put one of my necklaces on your front cover, you need to give me some advance warning.”

“Consider this it,” Barbara said.

“Consider what
what
?” I asked.

“This. Consider this your warning. I thought since my readers liked your lira necklace so well, we’d go ahead and feature another one this spring. It’s going to have to be something very bold. Bold, colorful, and alive is the new—”

“The new black?” I asked.

“Awww, I was going to say that!” Darcy said, pouting.

I startled, realizing that I’d entirely missed what my mother had said. “You’re putting another one of my necklaces on the
Garb
cover?!”

She nodded. “Make it your best, Claire.”

I lunged into her arms, not realizing how much I needed this. By this, I don’t mean getting back into jewelry design, though that had certainly fulfilled me more than I’d expected. The
this
I needed was my mother’s help. Never before had she used her position at
Garb—
or anywhere—to give me a leg-up in life. She once told me that parents who over-assisted their children were giving them a zero-confidence vote. Though I think she firmly believed it, there was also an element of selfish laziness to it. Even at my age, a little maternal coddling was incredibly comforting.

I managed to make it to the team’s last practice just before winter break. Darcy had things so well under control that we were actually ahead of schedule. For all of their drama, I’d missed attending practices. Since this was the last of the regular season, I wanted to be there. Mostly because I wanted to see everyone and wish them a happy holiday, but also because Darcy and I had been out of the loop of Mimi’s discussions of her Wall Street-style hostile takeover of the team. I was dropped from her email list, and Darcy said she was getting her information from Ron, who was actually able to reconfigure much of his hospital schedule so he could attend practices more regularly. I was hopeful that he was doing this to help Darcy manage Claire Emmett Designs, but she told me not to be naïve. He was doing it to help Ron Greer Self Interests, Inc.

At practice, Mimi didn’t say a word to either Darcy or me as she whisked by the sidelines barking orders at the girls. Gunther glared at her a few times, but this was hardly a deterrent. “Drop, drop!!!” Mimi shouted at Katie. “To who? To who?!” she cried. It was exhausting just listening to her.

“I cannot hear my thinking,” Gunther barked, looking genuinely flustered. He held his temples with his hands and knit his brow as if to trap thoughts from escaping.

“That’s because you’re
not
thinking!” she shot back.

“Oh, snap,” Leo said, nudging the other fathers.

“Give it a rest, Mimi,” I muttered. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite as inaudible as I’d expected.

“Excuse me?” Mimi growled as flames shot from her mouth.

“You just might want to give them a break, that’s all,” I said.

“They’ve basically lost an entire season at the hands of this moron. This is the first real coaching they’ve gotten. If you were around more, you’d know that, Claire.”

Darcy opened her mouth to defend me, but I got the words out first. “I’ve been at most practices, Mimi, and my mother-in-law has brought Rachel to the others, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’ve done your books all season, which is no easy task, let me tell you, with all those hotel room charges and fancy meals.”

Mimi’s eyes shot nervously toward Darcy before she regained her steely composure. “Okay, you’re right. You’ve been helpful, Claire. I apologize. Managing this team has been more stressful than I bargained for. Sorry I took it out on you.”

Darcy and I looked at each other dumbfounded.

“Um, okay, no problem,” I said.

Now smiling at us conspiratorially, Mimi leaned in as if we were all the best of friends. “I do have a special treat for the girls after practice today. I’m taking them all to the Mustang Diner in style,” she reported as if she needn’t bother with getting our consent. The Mustang Diner is one of those cutesy fifties-theme restaurants where the burgers are big and the waitresses’ hair is even bigger. A character reminiscent of Divine roller-skates across the dining room floor. Another Hula Hoops or flashes her ruffled pantaloons while cartwheeling. The cashier has a slicked-back ducktail, wears a black leather jacket and calls customers Daddy-O and Sugar Mama.

When practice ended, a stretch limousine pulled up to the practice field and a chauffeur got out and stood by the door. “Girls! Your chariot awaits you,” Mimi announced grandly. The girls screamed with excitement and started running past the parents toward the limo. Apparently all of the others had been asked beforehand and had agreed because even Darcy seemed to know about the surprise post-practice dinner. No one knew what Mimi had planned—just that it was something special.

As the car pulled away, Darcy stood frozen watching the spot where the limo was parked. “It’s her,” she said to no one in particular.