Essie commented. “This looks great.”
“Carmen knows her way around the kitchen, that’s for sure.” Dahlia tossed Carmen an efficient nod. “Gracias.” She poured herself coffee and whipped out the familiar Montblanc pen and leather notepad.
“Yes,” added Essie, looking up at Carmen. “Thank you.”
“So, how’s the class?” Her voice had the musical tone of someone who was being polite, but taking mental notes. Lots of them.
“They’re a…spirited lot, that’s for sure. It’s not hard to see where the nickname came from.”
That got a look from Dahlia. “I’ve never liked the nickname myself. I believe children rise to the expectations you set for them. Call them doom, you’ll get doom. I’ve never been asked to teach the class myself, but I can’t imagine that all that energy can’t be channeled with the right techniques.”
Essie had heard some version of that speech dozens of times in her teaching career. The women’s-magazine-TV-talk-show lingo of the enlightened parent. The parent who didn’t believe in “C” s. Who felt that defiant children simply “weren’t being challenged.” The kind of mom who would never let their child mix cookie dough with their fingers or roll down a hill that might cause grass stains, but signed them up for French lessons when they were five. The parents who inserted their children—whatever their shape—into neat, successful, boxes chock-full of brilliant potential.
“Seven-year-old boys are bundles of energy.” It was a poor response, but it was all Essie could think of to say. Last week Stanton had pushed up the tip of his nose with his finger and made pig sounds through the entire reading of the Bible story. She wasn’t sure “the proper channel” had anything to do with that kind of behavior.
“Well, Stanton certainly is high-spirited.”
Ah, there it was. That phrase. “High-spirited” was one of Essie’s favorite euphemisms. Kids weren’t bouncy or hyper or fidgety anymore, they were “high-spirited.” As if the inability to sit still for thirty seconds was an early symptom of visionary thinking.
“I hope you’re not finding him too challenging.” There was an edge to Dahlia’s voice. Not quite a challenge, but not quite an actual question, either.
Essie had long since learned that such a remark was a cue to gush about a child’s outstanding class behavior. Anything else would be viewed as a deficiency in one’s teaching skills. In her high school career, this remark—or anything close to it—was a parental “weather balloon.” Something lofted by a parent to see if Essie was up to the challenge of their brilliant but slightly misunderstood progeny. Evidently, it was no different with the younger set.
Taking a sip of coffee, Essie did what was expected. She launched an enthusiastic rendition of Stanton’s admirable qualities, concluding with, “Those papers you sent over didn’t surprise me one bit.” Okay, not exactly the truth—it floored her that Dahlia’d done what she did—but it was optimistic. Sort of.
They played this verbal game for the next twenty minutes, taking turns identifying Stanton’s strengths and talents. Here and there each of them cited the lengthy paper, using the data as the springboard to a compliment. It was a taxing, almost choreographed conversation. Essie was used to it, but mostly involving the complexities and large-scale behaviors of teenagers. Trying to make the case for Stanton’s often-violent obsession with being first in line as a precursor to leadership skills, well, that took a little more verbal agility. It was always a precarious knife edge on which to balance a conversation; when to be direct, when to hint at a problem, when to tell the parent what they wanted to hear. Essie was exhausted by the end of her third cup of admittedly excellent decaf. Come on, Josh, wake up and give me a diaper change to catch my breath here.
“What does the class need, in your opinion?”
Sedatives, Essie thought before she could stop it. Instead, she attempted a braver course. “In all honesty,” Essie ventured, “another set of hands would make things much easier.”
Dahlia didn’t even recognize the veiled request for her time. “Well, yes, of course,” she said, as though it were obvious that it should be someone’s—but clearly someone else’s—job to take care of such details. “It’s church policy to have two teachers. I’m sorry your co-teacher moved on such short notice and we’ve not yet found a replacement. I was thinking, though, more in the way of equipment, materials, that sort of thing.” In other words, what can I buy you? Because I have no intention of coming in there and helping you myself. Nope, no surprises here. “I am very busy with coordinating the Celebration, of course, but I do want to do my part in helping out the class.”
No, you don’t, thought Essie, you want me to give you an out. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you think Carmen could whip up some of these goodies for the Harvest of Witnesses event in a few weeks?”
Bingo. She’d hit the target. Dahlia fairly beamed. “Why, of course. Something a tad more nutritious, of course, but goodies nonetheless.”
“That’d be great. And I know we need someone to make up little baskets—nothing too girly, but still creative—for the class to use that day.” The children had an event where they went around the church “harvesting” goodies and information about great figures of the church. A few years ago, at Mark-o’s suggestion, a group of moms had created this event—a combination of scavenger hunting and gift-giving on the first day of November. It had become one of the things the church was known for, one of those things that drew new families to the church. Essie had always considered it one of the coolest things her pastor brother had ever done. “Can you think of someone who’s got those kind of talents?”
Dahlia’s pen bobbed again. “Oh, I’ve just the person. Vicki Faber—Alex’s new stepmother? She has a decorating business. She’s redone the house beautifully. I’m sure she’s got someone who could whip together just what you need.”
Alex Faber’s stepmother. Icky Vicki. Vicki and Alex’s dad had been one of the class’s invisible sets of parents. Alex’s older sister Sharon—the one who’d come up with the “Icky Vicki” moniker—always collected Alex from class.
“Here’re her numbers, why don’t you ring her up?” Dahlia said, handing her a thick card with the heading “From the desk of Dahlia H. Mannington” across the top. Pouring more coffee, her voice took on an “I don’t mean to be unkind” tone. “She is a bit younger than you, but I do think you might enjoy getting to know each other.”
I’ll just bet she’s “a bit” younger than me, Essie’s thoughts replied. And probably looks like she walked off the set of Baywatch. What am I doing with these people?
“I think Vicki has had difficulty adjusting to her new role. It was a nasty divorce, really. Vicki’s had her hands full trying to smooth things over. I imagine she’d welcome a little project to do for the class— I’m sure she knows loads of designers who could whip up a dozen or so perfectly manly baskets. I’d try the cell phone number first—Vicki is out and about most of the time.”
“Thanks, I’ll call her.”
Dahlia closed her organizer and notepad. Again on perfect cue, Carmen appeared in the French doors with a small white bakery box. “I had Carmen pack up a few of these rolls for you to take home. They’re far too good for me to keep in the house without gaining a dozen pounds, and I wonder if that husband of yours can help finish them off?”
Dahlia
