The Best of Enemies (3 page)

I nod encouragingly.
The good news is we’ll save scads of time because she doesn’t have to delve too deep into the archives to remember her childhood preferences.
I mean, when was she in grade school?
Last week?

Ooh, Bets, I am
on fire
!

“I remember one summer vacay, me and my brothers drank nothing but Hawaiian Punch?
We had those funny red mustaches for three months!”
Ashley tells me.
Her eyes are bright and shimmering and there’s a light spray of freckles across the bridge of her alabaster nose, making her look even younger than she actually is.

So, pretty much embryonic.

“What a charming story!”
I gush.
I’m famous within Lakeside for my enthusiasm.
Because of me, the school board revoked term limits on the PTO presidency and I’ve served four consecutive terms thus far.
I’m basically their FDR.
And if certain board members received free ZOOM!
Whitening treatments in exchange for their votes?

Well, it’s
for the children
.

“What a treat!
Isn’t it darling that all the Littles have those same cute mustaches right now?”

I have to stop myself from sighing.
Every day, calling my babies “Littles” feels less and less appropriate.
I mean, Kord’s now a high school freshman and Konnor’s started middle school.
Sunrise, sunset, eh?
Kassie’s only in second grade, but I worry that I’ll blink and she’ll suddenly be slut-shaming sisters in her own sorority house.
Tear!

I’d really love to have more kids, particularly since we started so young.
Dr.
K was in only his second year of dental school when Kord was born.
(Related note, the failure rate for birth control pills is six percent.
Ask me how I know.) As is, we’ll be empty nesters in ten years!
I always wonder aloud what we’ll do with all that time, while Dr.
K replies, “What
won’t
we do?”

I’ve been on a campaign to convince him we should have another child, but he’s resolute.
On paper, the decision to be finished makes sense, yet I hate the idea I’ll never breathe in my own newborn babies’ scent again, which smells like the sweetest vanilla powdered sugar doughnuts you could imagine.
(My husband insists he prefers a new car smell.) Plus, what happens in a few years when Kassie finishes at Lakeside?
Who’ll run the PTO then?
Merritt Wilhelm, mother to the nose-picking-est brood to ever attend Lakeside?

I don’t
think
so.

Ashley beams at me and that’s when I notice the gap between her Maxillary Central Incisors.
Why would Barry pour all that cash into a skating rink of an engagement ring before fixing Ashley up with a couple of veneers?
Everyone knows a bright smile is the best accessory.
Priorities, people!

I realize I’m not paying Ashley proper attention, having been distracted by baby fever, so I refocus.
After all, being present in the moment is on the Carricoe Family’s Always Always list.

“Right?”
Ashley says, referring to the little red mustaches.
She’s clearly delighted that I seem to be taking her side.

Seem to be
is the operative term here.

“Hawaiian Punch was a creative and exotic choice for the beverage portion of snack time!
The Littles went bananas!
Why, do you realize that many of the children in the class have
never even tasted
anything made with high fructose corn syrup or Red Dye number forty?”

Ashley’s (imperfect) smile falters.
“Did . . .
did I make a mistake?”

Hold the phone, what’s this?

Do I detect a glimmer of self-awareness beneath all that body shimmer?

I honestly didn’t predict that outcome.
I’m so used to having to argue with these ninnies, particularly Brooke Birchbaum.
Her husband’s a senior VP for a certain processed-foods company and she won’t shut up about how corn syrup is “just like table sugar!”
Oh, honey—is that what you have to tell yourself every time you spend your sweet, sweet blood money on yet another exotic vacation or new Berber carpeting for your McMansion?

I appraise Ashley.
Yes, she’s in her twenties, but by that same token, she possesses a youthful exuberance sorely lacking in so many of the other mothers in Kassie’s class.

Maybe I shouldn’t be quite so quick to dismiss her.
I could use some youthful exuberance up in here.
Why did so many of these women wait until their mid-forties to procreate?
Eggs come with an expiration date for a reason!
(Trust me, I can
feel
them starting to go rogue down there.) I mean, one of the Midlife Mommies wouldn’t even work the bake sale when summoned—said her bunions hurt too much to stand for any period of time.
Bunions!
Of all things.
My ninety-year-old
Gammy Rosemarie
has bunions.

Don’t even
start
me on the working mothers.
They’re an entirely different breed of nightmare.
“Sorry, Kitty, I can’t possibly help with the fund-raising calls; I have to depose a witness that day!”
Sure, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, that’s fine.
But when we can’t buy new beakers for the science lab and your daughter’s lack of a STEM education leads her to a life as a Hooters waitress, don’t cry to me about chicken wings.

Unfortunately, a good portion of the mothers in this school are useless, particularly those with second graders.

I need fresh blood.

I need new recruits to do my bidding.

Between the Oldsters, the Career Barbies, and the Momorexics (those ultra-ripped, exercise-obsessed, untenably selfish women who’d rather spend their entire day at North Shore Spa & Fitness than monitor the playground for bullying,
ahem
, Merritt Wilhelm) there aren’t nearly enough proper stay-at-homers for my purposes.
What I wouldn’t give to have a few polygamous families move to town!
Big Love?
More like big help!
Thank God Illinois passed the same-sex marriage act.
That should bring me an influx of fabulously involved gay daddies in the next few years, but for now, I’ve got to work with what I have.

Has Ashley minion potential?

Let’s discuss.

On the one hand, Ashley thought it was okay to feed children Hawaiian Punch and Fritos for a snack, because apparently she couldn’t get her hands on any Mexican black tar heroin.
And yet she
volunteered
for the job of Snack Mom, which is a distinct selling point.

Of course, I wouldn’t have to consider converting Ashley if Betsy had been content to get her MRS and not her MBA way back when.
Not only would she be the best parent EVAH, but with her business acumen and my ability to organize, our students would have the highest test scores in the state.
Mean it.

I guess the investment banking world’s gain was Lakeside’s loss and I’m forced to manage the dregs.

But
if
I wanted to, how might I bring Ashley around?

Physically, we’d need to dial her whole look back a few (thousand) notches.
Her hair’s all kinds of wrong.
Much too white-blond.
Ash-blond, not platinum, sweetie.
Never platinum.
(Yes, Kassie’s hair is that exact color, but she’s a natural towhead.) And those extensions?
Gots to go, girl.
No one could possibly do an entire blowout and still be out of the house early enough to take the kids to Li’l Dippers Summer Sunrise Saturday Swim Club.

Burning all the Forever 21s to the ground should help us with the wardrobe dilemma, but really, everything’s going to hinge on how malleable she is.

My brilliant older sister, Kelly, says to never discount anyone because they might be useful later down the line.
So I believe a trial balloon is in order.

I wrap an arm around Ashley’s narrow shoulders in a conspiratorial manner.
“Of course you didn’t do anything wrong, Ashley!
It’s just that some of our Littles’ mommies are a tad rigid in terms of their children’s diets.
Loosen up, be more spontaneous, I always say!
These gals should be more ‘Carrie’ and less ‘Charlotte,’ am I right?”
I don’t wait for her answer, because it suddenly occurs to me that
she
was in second grade when
Sex and the City
debuted.
“I assume you received the treatise on the evils of nut butter?”

Ashley nods and begins to chew at the cuticle around her thumbnail.
Either she doesn’t understand the word “treatise,” or she’s waiting for me to admonish her, but because I’m following Kelly’s dictates, I won’t take that route.

Too obvious.
Too little return on investment.

I continue.
“Humorless, right?
Peanut butter’s not a hate crime!”

Ashley perks up.
“Right?
When did that happen?
We lived on jars of Jif when I was a kid.”

This morning, then?

She says, “I tried to give one of Barry Jr.’s friends a PBJ Saturday at soccer practice and his mom literally slapped it out of my hands?”

I nod.
“Lacey Churchill.”

“Yes!”
she exclaims, eyes widening.
“How’d you know?”

“Lacey tried to have all of North Shore declared a nut-free zone in 2009.”
I lean in and whisper, “Her son’s not even allergic—she’s just afraid of how densely caloric peanut butter is.
Doesn’t want Jeremiah to chunk out.”

Ashley nervously twirls one of her extensions as we speak.
“Is it me, or is that, like, cray-cray?”

“Bona fide cray-cray,” I agree.

Okay, not afraid to make fun of the parents I dislike.

One point for Ashley.

I explain, “The key with kids is to provide proper nutrition without a lot of conversation.
You
ask
them to eat their spinach and you end up arguing until you’re prematurely gray.
Here’s the thing—you don’t negotiate.
Listen to me—You.
Do.
Not.
Negotiate.”

I say all of this while I look directly into Ashley’s aquamarine eyes, lined in far too much lavender kohl.
I expect to see the telltale sign of colored contact lenses around the periphery of her irises, but as she gazes and blinks, I can’t detect anything.

Wait, her stunning tropical-ocean eye color is
real
?

Crap.

Does that mean the gravity-defying, free-range boobs are God-given, too?
And what of her small bottom, as flawlessly rounded as a fresh peach?
I don’t even want to contemplate anyone having come out of the box this perfect.
(Save for a small front-tooth gap.)

As I need Ashley to understand how important a healthy, balanced diet is to developing children, I keep my gaze steady, despite noticing she has no dark roots or visible glued-in hair strands.

Damn
it.
Likely also real.

I continue.
“You’re the parent, you’re in charge.
The trick is . . .”
I move in for the kill, delighted to be sharing my hard-won knowledge.
Yeah,
she
may have the bod of a Victoria’s Secret model, but
I
make sure my family takes in plenty of niacin.
“If you toss a couple of handfuls of spinach into a smoothie and call it a milk shake, the Littles love it, they drink it, they don’t get rickets, and everyone wins.”

Ashley gazes up at me with her big doe eyes, framed in heavy, dark (false?) eyelashes.
She blinks slowly a couple of times before she finally speaks.
“That is the most smart thing I’ve ever heard.”

Two points for Ashley.

She looks over both of her tawny bare shoulders before she says, “Like, Ms.
Bevin said that kids are ‘sentient beings’ and should choose their own path, but I think she’s kind of an old hippie with the Ms.
business?
And maybe she doesn’t make the best choices herself?”

Three points for Ashley!!

“Do you have any other hints for me?”
she asks.
“I’m thinking maybe I should be giving the kids something other than frozen pizza for dinner.
Like, nutritious salads?
Don’t they have vitamins and niacin and things?”