Play Dates (46 page)

I like getting a new color belt for passing the tests. It’s like getting a present. And I wanted to make Mommy really proud of me
and take the harder test because she talked to me back in the
winter because Sensei Steve said to her that I needed to work
harder on concentrating and on paying attention when I’m in
class and I can’t make up my own steps during class time. I have
to practice the katas exactly the way he shows them to us.

Mommy was the only one from our family who came to watch
the karate presentation. Daddy told us that he had to work at the
restaurant so he couldn’t come. MiMi and Owen couldn’t come
and Fireman Dennis had to work today. And Granny Tulia and
Grandpa Brendan live far away in Sag Harbor. But they are
coming to the city for my ballet recital and EVERYBODY is coming for my graduation. I didn’t tell Mommy this either. Mrs. Hennepin asked me to write out the program for graduation in script.

She wouldn’t let me write in script all year in class because the
other kids hadn’t learned how yet but she knew I was practicing
at home because on my projects, like on my memorial and on my
city, I would write in script. So, now, FINALLY, I get to write in
script. I want it to be a surprise when Mommy sees it. Mrs. Hennepin is going to tell me everything that is going to happen at
graduation and I will write it all out pretty and she will take it to
be copied at the school office and there will be a program put on

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every chair on graduation day. I can’t wait for Mommy to see it.

It’s SO hard for me to keep it a secret. I think maybe because
school is almost over and Mrs. Hennepin won’t have to teach me
anymore that it makes her happy and so being happy makes her
be nice to me.

I tried to concentrate really hard in the karate demonstration
and to pay really careful attention to when Sensei Steve called the
moves. Sometimes I start to do it before he finishes calling it and
that’s not good so I tried this time to wait until he said it and
then I did it. When it works right everybody does the move at the
same time like the Rockettes. And I pretended that it was just like
a regular class and none of the people were watching me.

After the demonstration, Sensei Steve gave out the new belts to
the students who passed their test to get to the next kyu. I was so
happy when he gave me my green belt, and Mommy was crying
and she took a picture of it, and she said she would put the picture on the computer and e-mail it to Daddy and Granny Tulia
and Grandpa Brendan and MiMi and Fireman Dennis. Fireman
Dennis knows karate, too. We sparred once and he let me knock
him down. He was showing Mommy that karate is self-defense
and how a girl can protect herself even if her opponent is bigger
than her.

Sensei Steve said right in front of Mommy how proud he was
of me. He told Mommy that all the concentrating and listening I
have been working on really showed. And he said that the lessons
I learn in karate are good for the rest of life, too. Sensei Steve told
us that he hoped I would come back to kinder karate after the
summer. I asked Mommy if I could and she said she would think
about it, which is what she says when she really means yes.

What a day! I traded shifts with a museum coworker so I could make it to Zoë’s ballet recital. Miss Gloo obtained a PLAY DATES

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permit from the parks department to stage her year-end presentation in Central Park—but where? The map that Zoë gave me was fanciful at best. It’s not her fault; it was hand-drawn by Miss Gloo, and no matter which way I turn the paper, I think I have a better chance of ending up somewhere in Middle Earth than in the secluded glade that the ballet mistress has chosen as the performance venue for her mini-Isadorables.

I’m running late, and I’m running in heels and I’m running in circles.

I phone my father’s cell and ask him to be a human GPS.

Brendan has a flawless sense of direction and a photographic memory. He talks me over hill and dale, and just as I round the crest of a gentle, grassy, rise, I hear Miss Gloo’s voice over a portable sound system, announcing the program. Zoë had told me that her class’s dance is right near the beginning of the recital, and I know that the piece is only set to run about ten minutes, tops. If I miss it, I might as well have not tried at all.

I hadn’t thought about my shoes when I got dressed this morning. They look very smart at the museum, even though I’m behind a counter all day so no one really sees them, but they were not designed to be taken, quite literally, on field trips. The spike heels are sinking into the soft earth as I race down the slope. I have visions of catching one of them in the damp ground and tumbling, like a nursery-rhyme character, right down into a phalanx of folding chairs.

Almost there. I’m panting, sweating—I need to exercise more. My body isn’t supposed to act like this! I’m still in my twenties! For my own peace of mind, I decide to blame the pointy-toed slingbacks and my narrow skirt—which is certainly a contributing factor as well, in hobbling my momentum and progress.

As I near the rows of chairs and blankets, arranged as if this

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is an impromptu concert at Tanglewood, I see Zoë, dressed like a little wood nymph, stepping onto one of the platforms that form the small raised stage. I can’t tell whether or not she notices where I’m standing when she scans the audience, searching for her family. By now, I’m close enough to see her disappointment, fearing her mommy is not in the house. I raise my hand high above my head and wave to her, a giant sema-phore. The movement catches her eye and she glances in my direction. I hope she realizes it’s me.

Despite the earnestness of the Duncan-esque choreogra-phy, her face breaks into the biggest smile I have ever seen cross her lips. She’s positively glowing. My eyes brim with tears and my heart is ready to leap out of my chest. My baby.

I wonder if she will remember this moment decades from now. I am positive that
I
will never forget it. In fact, I would have walked through fire and crawled though quicksand to see that smile.

I’d been hoping that Zoë’s graduation would be a triumph as well. Along with each child’s diploma, the Thackeray administrators hand them an envelope containing the name of their teacher for the upcoming year. Third grade has a “good teacher” and a “bad teacher,” too. And I had decided to attempt to circumvent a graduation-day disaster by making an appointment with Mr. Kiplinger, during which I intended to make a formal request for Ryan King, the “good teacher.”

Ryan’s a relaxed, sweaters-and-corduroys kind of guy, who sort of reminds me of a younger version of my father. The

“bad” third-grade teacher is a very young woman named Audrey Pennywhistle. Even her name gives me a headache. She’s peppier than Barney the Dinosaur on speed, and in her earnestness to prove—mostly to the parents—that she can handle her job responsibilities despite her extreme youth, in my view she goes overboard and tries too hard. Her reputation PLAY DATES

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for assigning Herculean homework projects has assumed mythical proportions.

Dennis was a sweetheart. When I told him about my mission, he wanted to know if I could use some company.

“You mean some muscle?” I’d teased. “You’re adorable. But since you wouldn’t be appearing in any official capacity, it would probably confound them.”

“Just thought I’d establish a presence is all.”

Wow. I let his words hang in the air for a while, enjoying their weight. Then I said thank you, kissed him, and let the matter drop.

I attended the meeting alone, the upshot of which was that Kiplinger would give me no guarantees, but intimated that he would look forward, with much alacrity, to fewer visits from me in the coming year.

On graduation morning I go to my closet and remove something I haven’t worn in a year. Zoë has specifically requested that I put on the same pink suit I wore to her first-grade graduation. As I slip into the skirt, I realize it’s missing the button on the waistband, then remember that the button had popped off just as I was running out the door last year, and I never did get the chance to stitch it back on. I’m a bit amazed that I can actually recall where I’d put it. I open my jewelry box, locate the pink button, and start to hunt for some thread in a color that won’t clash horrifically.

At the moment, the apartment resembles an open house.

Everyone has begun to gather here before heading over to Thackeray. My parents have arrived, after getting up before dawn to make it into Manhattan this early, and my mother is helping Zoë with her hair. Tulia made the dress that Zoë had so coveted from her storybook, and she resembles a Kate Green-away illustration in a flounced white “frock” with wide pink sash—not yellow, surprisingly—and golden curls. My father is, naturally, checking out my library, remaining unruffled by all

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the commotion around him. I’ve taken a personal day. Mia cleared her calendar weeks ago. Dennis is off work today. And even Owen made sure to keep this morning free of client meetings.

The graduation ceremonies begin at 10 A.M. We leave the house at nine o’clock to walk over to the school. Our little procession somehow reminds me of the village weddings in Jane Austen novels.

“Why do they call them graduation
exercises
?” Zoë wants to know.

“Ask Grandpa Brendan,” I reply, figuring it will give him something both useful and enjoyable to do.

Zoë repeats her question.

“Well,” my father says with such mock authority that
I
know he’s putting her on, even if Zoë doesn’t realize it, “exercises are things you repeat, right? Nobody does just one push-up . . .”

“Yeah . . . ?” She’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, as are we all. I just love to hear the kind of stuff Brendan will come up with. He plays with words like they’re modeling clay.

“And every year you graduate from one grade into another. So it’s an exercise, because you have to repeat the graduation process, year after year.”

“Says you,” Mia sasses under her breath. She and Owen are walking hand in hand. They slow down so he can whisper something to her. She actually blushes. I’m dying to know what he said.

Zoë breaks into a grin. “I don’t believe you!” she says to her grandpa.

“You’re getting too smart for me, kiddo,” he teases.

“Look at this,” Dennis says, nodding at Mia and Owen. He turns to glance at my parents, who still look like they’re in love after over thirty years of marriage. His own arm is slipped around my waist. Zoë has left her grandfather’s side and is now holding Dennis’s other hand.

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Seven truly happy people—some of them
related
—walking up Central Park West and it’s not even Thanksgiving.

Dennis knows what I’m thinking. “Yeah,” he says, agreeing with my unvoiced words. “How cool is that?”

“
Pretty
special,” I nod. “Not only that, I actually found five free minutes to sew on a button this morning!”

Chapter 25

Once we get to the Thackeray auditorium, I ask my family to find us some seats while I take Zoë to join her class. Several rows at the front of the theater have been reserved for the students. Grammar schoolers graduate in the morning, and the afternoon is reserved for the middle and high school students. Back in my day, we only had two graduations: sixth grade and sixth form. I guess graduating each grade is one way of showing parents what they’re paying for. Like Sensei Steve and his revenue rainbow of karate levels and correspond-ing colored belts. After locating Mrs. Hennepin’s section I give Zoë a kiss and wish her good luck.

I look for the rest of the Marsh clan. My mother is standing in the aisle waving her program, although her hat is such a scene-stealer that it would be hard to miss her. “You might want to take that off, so whoever sits behind you can see the stage,” I suggest.

I slide into the row and take the program off my seat, turning to the second grade’s page. I do a double take when I see that the order of events for their commencement exercises is hand-lettered in a penmanship I recognize very well. Mrs. Hennepin, seized by the spirit of something, has finally permitted

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Zoë an outlet in which to show off her cursive writing. I’m amazed and delighted. Maybe she’s visited Oz, where the Wizard gave her a heart. Or had some pre-graduation Scrooge-like epiphany. It’s been a whole year in coming, but better late than never, my mother remarks. I’m so proud of my kid, I’m sure everyone in the auditorium can see me glow.

The lights dim and Mr. Kiplinger strides majestically to the podium, playing his headmaster role to the hilt. He welcomes the teachers, school administrators, students, and their parents and explains the morning’s schedule, as more fully delineated in our printed programs.

We all rise to sing the school song, a creaky old chestnut with Latin lyrics that, for the past hundred and eighteen years of Thackeray history, no one has ever known how to translate properly. Then the grades are graduated, starting with pre-kindergarten, each grade having their chance to climb the four steps to the stage, where the kids line up alphabetically and upon hearing their name announced, receive their diploma from Mr.

Kiplinger. Instead of the traditional scroll, the Thackeray diplomas are flat certificates inserted into elegant burgundy leather folders.

Amid much pomp and a good deal of singing, pre-K, kindergarten, and first grade are graduated. Then it’s time for the second graders to have their place in the sun. On behalf of both second-grade teachers, Mrs. Hennepin approaches the podium and says a few words about the past year. Her speech is intended to be nostalgic and vaguely humorous.