Mrs. Perfect Read online

  While Monica’s off grilling the new dad, Kate, Patti, and I make an effort to mingle. I’m not a big fan of mingling. All that chitchat is exhausting, but the point of the Welcome Coffee is to make new and returning families feel welcome, so that’s what I do. Mingle, shake hands, kiss cheeks, and effusively greet. Patti and I work the room in opposite directions so we’re near each other as we come full circle. I have no one left to greet, but Patti is still talking to a very petite, very thin brunette in a gray dress and black knee-high boots.

  Patti waves me over. “Come meet Amelia,” she says. “They transferred into Points this year, and she’ll have a kindergartner here next year. Her daughter and Tori might be in the same class.”

  “Wonderful,” I say. “Where did you move from?”

  “Not far. Just the Plateau. We decided we couldn’t handle the traffic any longer.” She smiles a very small smile. “And you? Are you a native Washingtonian?”

  “No. I’m a California girl, although I’ve lived here thirteen years now.”

  Amelia’s expression is curious. “Where did you go to school?”

  “USC.”

  “No way. So did I.”

  “Were you in a sorority?” I ask.

  “For a year,” she answers, nose scrunching, “but then I dropped out. Hated it. So fake.” She pauses. “Were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  Patti feels the sudden awkwardness, too, and she rushes to fill the silence. “Amelia’s an actress.”

  I smile stiffly. “How did you get up here, then?”

  “My husband was offered a job here, and we thought it’d be good for the family to get out of L.A. It’s hard to raise children there, hard to be normal when everyone’s trying to make it in the industry.”

  I nod as if this is every woman’s problem. “Where does your husband work?”

  “For the McKee family.”

  My ears perk up. “Mine does, too.”

  “Who is your husband?”

  “Nathan Young.”

  Amelia frowns, thinks, shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He works for the holding company.” I hesitate and then delicately drop in, “He’s a vice president.”

  Amelia’s brow furrows more deeply. “So is mine. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of him. I’ll have to ask Christopher.”

  There’s something about her tone that makes me feel defensive. I smile more broadly, do my best to nod graciously. “I’ll ask Nathan about Christopher.” And then, turning away, I spy Monica. She’s heading toward us and walking like a lioness who has just taken down a kill. Patti and I meet her halfway across the room.

  “His name is Leon,” Monica announces coolly. “His wife’s a neurosurgeon, and he’s Mr. Mommy now. They moved from Philadelphia, he’s an avid cyclist and marathoner, although he’s recently discovered yoga. Best of all, he’s going to co-chair Fun Day with me this year.”

  Patti arches her eyebrows. “Wow. Impressive. That’s quick work.”

  Monica laughs, giving her once dark hair that’s now full of honey highlights another small toss. “It’s not every day we get new blood in the PTA. What should I have done? Let him get away?”

  The first week of school goes as smoothly as a new school year can. The girls don’t have too much homework, just the usual getting-to-know-you essay assignment stuff. I help Brooke with hers—she can’t really write yet—and stay on Jemma until she gets four paragraphs completed. Jemma’s not much of a writer, and it’s always a struggle to convince her that a paragraph must be three sentences long.

  On Thursday, I’m in the school office making photocopies for the next auction committee meeting when I happen across a sheet of paper with the volunteers for each class this year.

  I skim the sheet—Taylor Young, head room mom for Miss Johnson’s second-grade class—and then I check to see who will be working with me in Mrs. Osborne’s class. But when I check Mrs. Osborne’s class, it’s not my name there.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and for a moment, I think I have it wrong:

  “Fifth Grade, Mrs. Osborne, Head Room Mom, Marta Zinsser.”

  Marta Zinsser?

  I’m beyond shocked. That can’t be right. I must have read the wrong class or the wrong name. I check again, but no, it still reads, “Fifth Grade, Mrs. Osborne, Head Room Mom, Marta Zinsser.”

  Dropping the paper on the corner table, I stand there stupefied. Marta Zinsser is going to be the head room mom for Jemma’s class?

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  Marta Zinsser doesn’t even know where Yarrow Points Elementary cafeteria is. How can she be not just a room mom, but head room mom?

  That’s like making SpongeBob SquarePants president of the United States.

  Marta isn’t just seriously unqualified, she’s weird. She makes me feel weird, as though there’s something wrong with me and I just don’t know it. But the fact is, she’s the one who doesn’t fit in. She’s the one who wears totally inappropriate clothes for a woman her age. She wears her hair down to her butt. She likes stiletto heels and/or clogs, depending on her outfit. It’s so obvious she doesn’t care what others think of her, and she doesn’t even try to get along with others. Marta comes late to school meetings, leaves early, sits at the back, and although she doesn’t exactly sit there filing her nails, she does look damn bored.

  Oh. Just thinking about her makes me crazy. She makes me crazy.

  I start the copy machine and then head to the front where the secretaries sit poised to deal with tardies and lunches and the principal’s requests.

  “Alice,” I say, approaching Alice Dunlop, the secretary with most seniority, “I saw the room parent assignment sheet—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Taylor, that’s not public yet.”

  Well, good, if it’s not public yet, it’s not too late to make some changes. I’m already feeling better about things. I lean on the counter, smile hopefully. “I think there was a typo.”

  “Really?” Alice looks up at me, brows furrowed. We’ve worked together over the years and have an excellent relationship.

  “It has what I’m thinking is a typo. Marta Zinsser, head room mom, fifth grade?”

  Alice’s expression doesn’t change. “No, that’s correct.”

  “Really?” I’m back to just being stunned. I can’t fathom how this has happened. What did Marta do, waltz into Mrs. Osborne’s class and announce she wanted to be in charge? I honestly don’t understand. “Does she know?”

  “I’m calling all the new room moms today.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I believe you’re the head room parent for Miss Johnson’s class. She requested you.”

  “And Mrs. Osborne didn’t?”

  Mrs. Dunlop, being the model of professional diplomacy, reveals nothing. “As you know, it’s important to involve as many parents as we can.”

  “Yes, but who made the decision to choose Marta Zinsser instead of me?”

  Alice Dunlop smiles kindly. “I really don’t know, Taylor. I wasn’t involved in the selection process. And I know you need your copies. Were you able to make them, or did the machine jam again?”

  Chapter Four

  Later that afternoon, I’m sitting at the dining room table giving Brooke her spelling words, but I’m unable to concentrate.

  I’m still angry about Marta being chosen as head room mom for Mrs. Osborne’s class. It’s not just that I’m more qualified and better suited to the job, but the decision is also unfair.

  Marta hasn’t even paid her dues. She never donates to the auction, doesn’t attend, doesn’t spend, doesn’t support the school financially the way Nathan and I do.

  I don’t see how Marta can just waltz in at the last minute and announce that she’d like to be a head room mom, and presto, that’s that.

  I work hard at the school. I read with the kids who need support. I put in hours in the computer lab when there aren’t enough parents wil
ling to volunteer. I do recess duty and supervise at lunch. Movie night? I organize. Big class project? I implement.

  “What’s the next word, Mom?”

  It’s not that I’m looking for a blue ribbon or a tangible reward, but it doesn’t seem right that someone who has never cared enough to sign up to bring anything but paper goods for the class party should now be the mom in charge of everything.

  “Mommy.”

  I look up. Brooke’s chewing on the ends of her ponytail. “Is that all?” she asks. “Only six words?”

  Glancing back down, I see there are at least fourteen more. “No. Lots more.”

  She groans, her elbow sliding across the table. “I hate spelling!”

  Not as much as I’m going to hate working with Marta Zinsser.

  It’s nine-thirty and the girls are in bed, hopefully asleep. I’m in the bathroom, washing my face with my special antioxidant foam wash and then applying the antiaging serum from collarbones to hairline and finally smoothing on a layer of moisturizer. But even as I spread the lotions, I find I can’t stop thinking about Marta. I know it’s shallow and unkind, but I don’t want her on my auction committee, and I don’t want her to be head room mom.

  Leaving the bathroom mirror, I walk into the bedroom, where Nathan’s climbing into bed. “I don’t know what to do about her, Nathan, but she’s making me crazy—”

  “Because you’re letting her make you crazy,” he answers, reaching for the hardcover book on his bedside table and turning on his reading light. “You don’t even know Marta very well. She might be a very nice person.”

  I glare glumly at Nathan. He’s too nice, especially when it comes to women. “Have you seen the way she dresses?” I don’t even wait for him to answer. “She wears smocks, Nathan. Full-on smocks and painted clogs, and have you seen her hair?”

  Nathan gives me an apologetic look over the top of his book. He loves reading in bed. He does this every night and has since we were first married. “I actually don’t have any idea who we’re talking about.”

  “I know. Because if you did, you’d see why I can’t have her on the auction committee—”

  “Why would she be on the auction committee if she’s just head room mom?”

  “Because she’ll be responsible for the fifth-grade class project. And that means she’ll be working with me. And I can’t. I can’t work with her, not this closely, not talking every day.”

  “Then don’t talk every day.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “I have to communicate.”

  “Use e-mail,” he answers, picking up his book again.

  I stare at the spine of his book. Another nonfiction historical battle book. Why Nathan loves reading about war is beyond me. “Isn’t that the book you were reading last Christmas in Sun Valley?”

  “It’s the sequel.”

  “Oh.” I return to the bathroom, where I study my face and neck in the mirror. Small, fine lines at my eyes, a deeper line between my eyebrows, and creases in my forehead. Probably time to get more Botox. Last year I did it only twice, but this year I might need it more. “Speaking of Sun Valley, if we’re going this year, we should make our reservations. The airfare only goes up the closer we get to December.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  I rub lotion into my hands and up my arms, paying special attention to my elbows. “Remember how last year we waited to the last minute and we paid almost six hundred dollars for our tickets? That’s the same price you’d pay for Hawaii over the holidays.” I squeeze more lotion into my hand and begin smoothing it over my legs and bare feet. “Ridiculous when you think about it, since Sun Valley is just a twelve-hour drive and Hawaii is, what? Five thousand miles?”

  “About twenty-six hundred,” he answers from behind his book.

  Reaching for more lotion, I catch a glimpse of my profile and the skin near my nose. I lean toward the mirror, peer more closely at my reflection. My pores are getting bigger. How is that possible? And I’m beginning to find the odd straggling hair on my upper lip and chin. Scary. “Should we let the girls invite a friend this year, or would it be better to just keep it us?”

  I hear a heavy sigh in the bedroom, and then Nathan closes his book with a thud. “What if we didn’t go to Sun Valley this year?”

  I lean back and look around the bathroom door. “What?”

  “What if we did something else?” he repeats patiently. “Something . . . closer to home.”

  “But we always do Sun Valley—”

  “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “But all our friends go. It’s what our friends do.”

  “And don’t we see enough of them without having to go on every vacation with them? Wouldn’t it be nice to just do things with the five of us?”

  I stand there and think about it for a second before shaking my head. “No. It wouldn’t be as fun. I like our friends, and I like the dinners and the cocktail parties. I like how you dads go skiing early and my friends meet up at Java before we go skiing—”

  “Or shopping,” he interrupts flatly.

  I shrug and return to the bathroom, where I pick up my jar of La Mer eye cream and take out a small dollop with my fingertip to pat gently below my eyes and then above on the brow bone. “The point is, it’s fun—”

  “And expensive. Dinner for just the two of us each night is at least three hundred dollars, and that’s not including the baby-sitting or feeding the girls.”

  Maybe I need to buy the La Mer cream for my throat. “Okay, it’s expensive, but it’s fun, and you know it. You love getting drinks at the Roosevelt, and you’re the first one on the slopes every day.”

  “But maybe this is the year we take a break and try to conserve. Protect our finances.”

  I lean back around the door. “Are our finances in trouble?”

  His chest rises and falls, and I notice for the first time that he’s not quite as muscular as he used to be. “We took a pretty hard hit in the stock market.”

  “How hard?”

  He shrugs. “Enough that we can’t afford to pull out. We’ve just got to ride it out and hope for the best, and stocks are cyclical. They’ll turn around. They always do. It just might take a couple of years.”

  A couple of years?

  I purse my lips. “You’re saying we can’t go on vacation for a couple of years?”

  “Of course we can go on vacation. We just have to be careful, that’s all.”

  “So we can go to Sun Valley.”

  His heavy sigh doesn’t escape me. “If you can find a way to do it for free.”

  Monday morning, I’m at Tully’s for the first auction meeting with the new head room moms. Patti and I met with the auctioneer earlier in the summer, and he had such great insights into making the live auction as interesting and effective as possible that I want all the new moms to learn what we learned.

  Unfortunately, Patti isn’t attending this meeting, and I’d hoped to have this one—since it’s so important—at the school in the library. But the library is being renovated, so Tully’s on Points Drive it is.

  Tully’s is great, though. It sits on a little triangle lot between Medina, Yarrow Point, and Clyde Hill and has plenty of parking as well as a huge lobby with a conference table, fireplace, leather club chairs, and dozens of tables. And then there’s the staff. They take such good care of everybody. I love them all, especially Joel. He knows my drink and always has a smile for me, which honestly helps.

  I pull together a few round tables since the conference table in the corner is already filled with men and their computers. Once the tables are together, I get organized, stacking the binders and folders so that I’m ready for everyone, even as I dread the moment Marta Zinsser arrives.

  I force her out of my mind, and having nothing else to do, I sit down with my iced coffee and check my BlackBerry. No voice-mail messages. No text messages. I cross my legs, check my e-mail. An e-vite for our wine group and a notice of a secret sale for special custo
mers at Neiman Marcus.

  I’m so on top of things that I just have to sit back and relax, something that is hard for type A’s to do.

  I like being prepared. I’m always prepared.

  If you looked at my appointment book, you’d see that I schedule my hair appointments six months out, color every four weeks and cut every eight weeks.

  I get my eyebrows waxed the same day I do my hair and have a pedicure and manicure every two to three weeks, depending on if I have a special event coming up or not.

  I’ll hire a new nanny two months before my current one’s contract is up.

  Our vacations are always booked four to six months in advance.

  Not having anything else to do, I study the woman at the window. She has a small coffee and bagged bakery items, and as I watch, she pulls a thick slice of pound cake from the paper bag and places it in the middle of a napkin. Using a wood coffee stirrer as a knife, the woman carefully cuts her slice of cake in half and then carefully cuts one of the halves again into excruciatingly small squares before sliding the second half into the paper bag to take home.

  Once the second half is bagged, she begins to eat each minuscule bite of cake from the first half until there’s nothing left.

  My insides squirm as she licks every crumb off the napkin with a moistened fingertip and then every crumb from her improvised knife and then a few off the table itself.

  I want to tell her to just eat the other half of cake.

  I want to tell her that it’s okay to eat a slice of pound cake at one sitting, but who am I to tell her anything? Until recently, I still kept a journal where I wrote down every morsel—every calorie—that passed between my lips.

  The front doors open. The first of the room moms have arrived.

  The doors open again, and there she is. Marta Zinsser. Her long dark hair is loose, and she’s wearing black jeans, biker boots, and a gauzy orange smock that reaches her thighs. Of course. Why would Marta attend a parent meeting in anything else?

  It takes everyone a few minutes to settle with their coffees and teas at the tables, and I do my best to ignore Marta, who has taken a seat almost directly across from me, which puts her in my line of vision no matter where I look.