Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

I bring my glass to the sink and rinse it out. “Fine,” I say slowly. “Well, here’s my plan. I sent off that letter to the Parents’ Association asking if they’d consider making my position full-time in the fall. Six plays every semester should be a full-time job.”

“You want to be a drama teacher full-time?” asks William.

“I want us to be able to send our kids to college.”

William crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Caroline’s right. You should start running again. It would be good for you.”

“You seem to be doing okay with Caroline.”

“I’d rather run with you,” he says.

He’s lying. I wonder if Researcher 101 is a runner.

“What?” he asks.

“What do you mean ‘what’?”

“You had this strange look on your face.”

I stack my glass in the dishwasher and slam the door shut. “That’s just the way I look when I’m leaving you alone so you can figure things out.”

“California geese, we’re unforgettable. Goslings, gaggles, ganders on top. White feathers so soft you’ll want to pet us. Honk, honk, honk honk. Honk, honk, honk honk.”

Ganders on top. You’ll want to pet us? What was I thinking? I’m standing in the wings of the stage at Kentwood Elementary, second-guessing my decision to have the geese do a parody of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” as the closing number for Charlotte’s Web . The lavender wigs I got at the costume store make the geese look slutty (as does their prancing and hip-wiggling) and judging by the jealous faces of Wilbur and Charlotte and the rest of the cast, I’m pretty sure I went too far in my attempt to make up for the geese having no lines. It seemed like such a brilliant idea at three in the morning when I was mucking around on YouTube and convinced myself that Katy Perry naked, draped in nothing but a cloud covering her ass, was a post-postfeminist statement.

I start thinking up excuses for why I have to leave before the play is over. For some reason, they are all tooth-related. I was eating caramels and my crown just fell off. I was eating a bagel and a piece of crust impaled my gum.

I can hear twitters and whispers coming from the parents as the geese wind up their number, which includes lining up like the Rockettes, arms slung around each other and seductively blowing kisses to the audience. The geese finish their song, adding a cheeky little butt swivel. Limp applause and the geese prance off the stage. Oh, Jesus, God. Helicopmama is right; I have been doing this for far too long. Then I see the boy who played Wilbur holding a bouquet of carnations. Next I am pushed onstage, where the bouquet is shoved in my arms. I turn to face an audience of mostly disapproving faces, except for three: the mothers of the geese, one of whom is a beaming Mrs. Norman, who seems to have forgiven me for accusing her of being a pothead.

“Well,” I say, “ Charlotte’s Web . Always a favorite. And didn’t we have a wonderful Charlotte this year? You might think Charlotte’s Web is a bit inappropriate-Charlotte dying in the end and all-but in my experience the theater is a safe place to experiment with difficult issues like death. And what it feels like. What death feels like.”

It feels like this.

“I want to thank you for trusting me to look after your children. It’s not always easy being a drama teacher. Life isn’t fair. We aren’t all equal. Somebody has to have the bit part. And somebody has to be the star. I know we live in a time where we try and pretend this isn’t true.”

Parents are packing up their video cameras and leaving.

“We try and shield our kids from disappointment. From seeing things they shouldn’t see before their time. But we must be realistic. There are bad things out there. Especially on the Internet. Why, just the other day my son-my point is you can’t let them watch a movie and then fast-forward through the scary parts. Am I right?”

The auditorium is nearly empty now. Mrs. Norman waves at me from the front row.

“Okay, so thank you all for coming. Um-have a great summer and see you next year!”

“When will the DVD be available?” asks Mrs. Norman. “We’re so proud of Carisa. Who knew she was such a little dancer? I’d like to order three copies.”

“The DVD?” I ask.

“Of the play,” she says. “You did have it professionally taped, didn’t you?”

She can’t be serious. “I saw lots of parents taping the performance. I’m sure somebody will be happy to send you a copy of the tape.”

She shakes her head gravely. “Carisa, go get your backpack. I’ll meet you out front.”

We both watch as Carisa sashays away.

“That wig was a mistake, I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about? The geese stole the show,” says Mrs. Norman. “The wigs were brilliant. As was the song choice.”

“You didn’t think it was a bit-mature?”

Mrs. Norman shrugs. “It’s a new world. Eight is the new thirteen. Girls are getting breasts in fourth grade. She’s already begging me for a bra. They make them in very small sizes, you know. Tiny. Padded. So cute. So, look, I want to apologize for what happened the other week. You took me by surprise. I wanted to thank you. I’m very grateful you did what you did.”

Finally, some gratitude!

“You’re very welcome. I’m sure any mother would have done the same thing had they been in my shoes.”

“So where and when can I meet you? I know we shouldn’t do this at school.”

“I think we’re okay,” I say. The auditorium is empty. “Nobody can hear us.”

“You want to do this now? You’ve been carrying it around? In your purse,” she points to my shoulder bag. “Great!” She holds out her hand and then retracts it quickly. “Maybe we should go backstage.”

This woman thinks I still have her pot? “Uh, Mrs. Norman? I don’t have your- stuff . I got rid of it. The day I called you about it, in fact.”

“You threw it away? That was nearly a thousand dollars’ worth!”

I look at her indignant, entitled moon face and I think of Researcher 101, which gives me confidence to speak plainly.

“Mrs. Norman, I’ve had a very difficult day. It was wrong of me to have the girls perform ‘California Geese.’ I apologize for that and really, really hope you don’t buy Carisa a bra. She’s far too young and as far as I can see has no breasts whatsoever. Perhaps you should have a conversation with your daughter about the trauma she incurred in finding your stash of illicit drugs instead of talking with me about how you can get it back. She’s a really sweet kid, and she’s confused.”

“What gives you the right?” Mrs. Norman hisses.

“Tell her something. Anything. Just address it. She won’t forget about it. Believe me.”

Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk , says Mrs. Norman, meaning “you piece-of-crap teacher.”

Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk , I say, meaning “you pothead mother, goodbye.”

I play my music at top volume in the car to calm myself down, but I dream a dream of days gone by doesn’t work today. When I get home I’m still amped up from the afternoon’s events, so I do something I know will likely only add to my anxiety: I steal into Zoe’s room to check the Hostess product inventory, something I do every week in hopes it will bring me some understanding as to how my daughter can consume thousands of Ding Dong calories a week and never gain an ounce.

“I don’t think she’s bulimic,” says Caroline, poking her head into the room. “You’d know if she were purging.”

“Yes, well, there are two Yodels missing,” I say.

“You’ve been counting them?”

“And I always hear the water running in the bathroom when she’s in there.”