Play Dates (39 page)

“And Lust,” adds Shoshana.

“Lust is not a sin,” says Melissa. She winks at me. There’s a dead silence. “Humor, people, humor.” Melissa and I burst out laughing. I think the woman is wonderful. A true kindred spirit.

I am, however, grateful that my seven-year-old’s attention span, being mercifully short, and easily distracted, relieves me from the necessity of defining the word.

Casey announces that it’s nearly time to put away our jewelry things so we can clear the table and make room for the cake. She and Melissa begin to pack up all the unused and leftover materials that Melissa had purchased for the party.

I remove the store-bought accessories I arrived in and bedeck myself with some of my newly minted ornaments. Blue topaz and antique silver beads.

“Look at all the pretty things you made, Mommy!” Zoë exclaims as I start to sort out my baubles, categorizing them by item: necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. “What are you going to do with them?”

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“Wear them. Maybe save some as birthday gifts for people.”

“MiMi would love the one you made with the orange beads and the thing hanging from it. It would go with what she wore to Granny Tulia’s house on Thanksgiving. Remember?”

“Unh-huh, I do remember. The ‘thing’ is called a medallion.”

Melissa had selected a number of unusual medallions; some had a religious orientation, others were jade or faux tortoise shell and had a very Eastern, Indian feel to them.

Casey comes over to examine the jewelry I’m now wearing.

“You have a real talent for this, Claire. And speed,” she adds with amazement, looking at the number of pieces I’ve made in the past ninety minutes.

“My mommy makes a lot of jewelry from scratch,” Zoë says proudly. “She makes pretty things that are
fun
, too, like she made me an Ariel necklace for Halloween with blue beads and Goldfish crackers. But she put shiny stuff on the Goldfish first so they’ll never go bad or get eaten by bugs, except that
people
can’t eat them anymore, because the shiny stuff is like clear paint.”

“You could probably make a living at this, if you wanted to,”

Casey tells me. “And I’m not just saying that to get a new customer. Though we do have frequent beader discount cards.”

“
I’d
buy one of your designs,” Melissa says. “You were doing something with garnets that was quite stunning, actually. It’s my birthstone, so I always tend to gravitate to them, usually with my mouth hanging open like a salivating dog. Simon says it’s dreadful. I told him he should consider himself lucky I wasn’t born in April.
This
is the diamond month, right?”

I wasn’t sure if Melissa was being sweet or serious. “You’re . . .

kidding, right?” I ask her. “About buying my jewelry?”

She shakes her head. “Not a bit. And I know some other women who might fancy the kind of things you were making today. I’d be happy to introduce you if you’re interested.”

“Melissa’s right. You’re good at this, Claire.
I
liked the peridot earrings with the silver beads,” Shoshana says. “I was watching

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you the whole time. You put us all to shame. I felt like, you know, a normal person who has to play basketball with Michael Jordan.”

I laugh and feel my face grow warm. “You give me
way
too much credit!”

The table is now laid for the birthday treats. Rather than a single sheet cake, Melissa has opted for cupcakes, iced in jewel tones, topped with sprinkles to make them look

“sparkly.” They have been arranged like a giant necklace. The display elicits
ooooooohs
from the little girls. She hands out the crowns, and Zoë practically jumps out of her seat when her yellow “unbirthday” tiara is restored to her little hands. I don’t understand the dark cloud that crosses her face a few moments later.

“What’s the matter, Z?” I whisper to her.

Apparently, Zoë is concerned that Lissa won’t get her birthday wish because there are no candles for her to blow out.

“Oh, God, thanks for reminding me!” Melissa goes to her purse and locates a little bag containing a box of birthday candles. “I always forget something,” she chuckles. “Half the time I think I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on.” At Zoë’s instruction, candles are inserted into nine of the cupcakes—eight plus one to grow on—and Lissa is given the opportunity to make her birthday wish come true.

“Whew!” Zoë says, when her friend extinguishes them on a single breath. My daughter is genuinely superstitious about this kind of thing. And she’s big on rules. In Zoë-land, if the “rule” is that you “have to” have candles on a birthday cake, deviation—

whether for creative or accidental reasons—rankles her. Come to think of it, my mother is very much the same way.

Jennifer Silver-Katz, with Nina Osborne in tow, shows up a few minutes early to claim Ashley. Both women are sporting designer track suits, tennis racquets slung over their shoulders.

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When Jennifer sees all the mommies and little girls wearing their new jewelry, she looks a little jealous. I try very hard not to be pleased about this. Ashley proudly displays her two bracelets to her mother, then drags her over to me to say, “Look what Zoë’s mommy made!”

Jennifer has been eating crow ever since that little incident in the ladies room at the bikram yoga studio. In her embarrass-ment, she’s bent over backwards to try to be nice to me. She inspects my new accessories. “You did that this afternoon? The earrings, too?”

I nod. “I guess I kind of got on a roll.”

“She made zillions of stuff,” Zoë says, holding up my Baggies.

“She could make it even . . . even . . . even more fast than the elves in the hollow tree make cookies!”

“They’re really niiiiice,” Jennifer says, fingering my drop earrings. Her slight nasal whine is the tone in which she customar-ily delivers compliments, so I know she means it.

“They’re real stones, too, aren’t they?” Nina asks, somewhat suspicious.

I nod. “Yes, indeed. They’re not plastic, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

Nina leans toward me with the predatory glance of a woman who believes herself to be the first to have spotted a true bargain. She glances from the semi-precious gems I’m wearing to the colorful horde stashed in the little plastic bags. “Are you selling?” she whispers conspiratorially.

A famous movie line flashes across my brain like a bolt of lightning.
If you build it, they will come
. “Why, yes, I am!” I reply, in the same low tone, aware, in a similar inspirational epiphany, that the Ninas and Jennifers of my world are seduced by the notion of exclusivity. “But not here,” I add, surreptitiously touching my finger to my lips.

“Of course,” she says,
sotto voce
. “I’ll call you.”

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As the party breaks up and all the thank-yous are exchanged, Melissa asks if I have time to wait a few minutes, until the other mommies leave. While the other guests depart, Zoë and I admire the Asian crafts and sculptures that adorn the room. “Sorry you had to wait,” Melissa says apologetically, “but I wanted to ask you something.” She and Casey are completing the task of storing the remaining beads in little plastic-lidded cups. “Look,” she says, “I’ve already paid for all this stuff. And once we unspooled the wire, it can’t be returned, and there’s nothing I plan to do with it, except throw it in a box in case Lissa or Will need it for a homework assignment to counterfeit the Crown Jewels. I’d sort of assumed we’d use up all the beads, and I really don’t relish counting out each one with Casey in order to get a store credit against my initial purchase.

It’s honestly not worth my time to go through all that, and it’s really a bit ridiculous for me to bring it home, when it can go to better use.”

She places the shoe box of extra beads and craft materials into my hands. “Knock yourself silly.” She laughs, for which I am grateful, as it keeps me from bursting into tears. “Just remember the ‘little people’ when Claire Marsh Originals are as valuable as a Miriam Haskell or a Kenneth J. Lane!”

I laugh. “Good God! Their pieces are
vintage
now, so by the time I have the chance to reflect upon my ‘humble beginnings,’

I’ll be about a hundred and ten!”

Annabel Rosenbaum, the baby-sitter, a sweet-faced eleventh-grader whose short brunette locks look like she chops them herself using a butter knife and no mirror, swings by at six o’clock.

She looks like she’s coming to stay for the weekend. “What
is
all that stuff?” I ask.

“SATs,” she moans. “Studying. I took them once already but I think I can do better.” She rolls her eyes. “
My parents
think I can do better, actually. So I’m taking them again in two weeks.” She PLAY DATES

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shrugs the knapsack off her shoulders and looks visibly relieved.

The poor child will have scoliosis by the time she’s eighteen if she carries this kind of weight every day. The bag hits my foyer floor with a resounding thud.

I call Zoë, who comes bounding out of her room dressed like Tinker Bell.

“Hey, Tink!” Annabel immediately starts to applaud. “I do believe in fairies,” she chants. Zoë is enchanted. Words cannot express my sense of relief that these two have instantly bonded. I give Annabel a tour of the apartment, point out the emergency numbers on the dry-erase board in the kitchen, explain what kind of snack Zoë is allowed to have, if she wants one—I’d already fed her dinner—and ask the teen if she would kindly help Zoë with any homework questions she might have. Mrs. Hennepin has been loading on the math lately and Zoë and I didn’t get to finish all of it before the weekend, as Ashley was over here last night and I had to help both of them.

I make it clear to Annabel that Zoë doesn’t
have
to do any homework tonight, but that maybe ten minutes’ worth wouldn’t be a bad idea, since she still has assignments to be completed that are due on Monday.

This is something I don’t understand. The teachers see these seven-year-olds five days a week. Unless the educators are totally clueless, they must realize how short the kids’ attention spans are, particularly for subjects like math which are so rarely made interesting to them, even in a sophisticated curriculum like Thackeray’s. It’s nearly impossible for Zoë to focus on a single task for more than fifteen or twenty minutes without needing a break. Her mind wanders if her body’s not allowed to. She needs to leave the table to get up and jump around, or she disappears into another room to play pirates and princesses for a while, or stages a Barbie fashion show.

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I feel like I’m leaving my little girl in good hands with Annabel. One less thing to be nervous about before my second attempt at a “real” date with Dennis.

Dear Diary:

I have a new friend. Her name is Annabel and she goes to Thackeray too, but she’ll be going to college after next year. She came to
baby-sit me tonight because Mommy and Fireman Dennis went to
a restaurant to have dinner. She has even more homework than
me. She said we could play so we played Peter Pan and I was Tinker Bell and I pretended I was really sick and she clapped her
hands and said she believed in fairies and then I got all better.

And then I wanted to be Peter and I said Annabel had to be Captain Hook and we were fighting with swords but they’re only made
of plastic and they’re not sharp or even really pointy. Mommy got
them at the Disney store. And I won because I was Peter and Peter
always wins and Annabel had to end up in the water with the
crocodile. Annabel is very good at playing pretend. I like her a lot.

Then, after we played, we had a snack and then Annabel said
let’s do homework together. Because she said it wouldn’t be so
yucky if we were both doing it. I said I didn’t like math and
Annabel said we should do the things we don’t like first because
that will get it out of the way so we could do the more fun subjects. I like writing and I like it when we get art projects even if
they’re not for art class with Ms. Bland, like when Mrs. Hennepin
gives us homework that has art things in it like when we had to
do Ireland and I drew the picture and I made the snakes with
Play-Doh. And I like spelling because I’m good at it.

I couldn’t understand my math homework so I didn’t want to
do it anymore. And Annabel asked if she could look at it because
maybe she could help me. So I showed her and said I had 20

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problems to do and I could only figure out some of them. And she
made such a funny face. She said, HOW old are you? And I said
I’m a little bit older than seven and one quarter. And she said she
never had math problems that were so hard when she was in second grade. She didn’t have Mrs. Hennepin. She had a nice
teacher who isn’t there anymore. Annabel said that the nice
teacher got married and she moved away, all the way to California, so the school had to get a new teacher. Annabel is in fifth
form, which is the same as eleventh grade. At school, after sixth
grade, they start calling the grades forms instead of grades but
they start from one all over again. So seventh grade is first form.

We have pre-K and kindergarten and then we have six grades
and then we have six forms. I’m going to be in school forever.

Annabel said my homework was really hard and she said she
already forgot how to do some of the problems. We started with
fractions and I’m stuck and Annabel was having a hard time helping me. She said she felt really bad because she WANTED to help
me. I wished she could help too. I wished it a lot, because if
Annabel doesn’t know how to help me with my homework maybe
Mommy won’t ask her to come to stay with me anymore when she
goes on a date with Fireman Dennis. Annabel is my favorite baby-sitter I ever had even though I haven’t had a lot of baby-sitters.