The Best of Enemies Page 2

  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?”

  Ah, yes, Kelly was right. Ashley will do. This girl will learn.

  Because I’ll teach her.

  “You mean, do I have an entire lifestyle blog where I post recipes about hiding veggies in deceptively delicious meals called SecretSquash.com?”

  Ashley gasps. “Ohmigod! No way! Like Jerry Seinfeld’s wife does? I saw her on Oprah a few years ago! Are you going to publish a cookbook? Are you going to be famous?”

  I explain, “I’m not in it for the glory. Doing right by children is all that matters to me.”

  Well, doing right and the occasional page view. How would everyone see how hard I’m killing the mom game without sharing my success on social media?

 
Although I’m still flashing my show-stopping smile, I notice I’m clenching my fists. Fine, maybe I’d have enjoyed more of my well-earned glory if Mrs. Famous Pants hadn’t stolen my idea and beaten me to market.

  Damn it, I was the one who first hid broccoli inside of chicken nuggets!

  Not her, me!

  I find myself gritting my teeth as I grin, which is problematic. If Dr. K was here, he’d make me put in my mouth guard right now. Clenching is the enemy of healthy molars. True story.

  I take a couple of deep yoga breaths to calm myself. Whoosh in, whoosh out. There, that’s better. I can’t continue to be frustrated by Jessica Seinfeld, as it’s possible she came up with the idea on her own, too. Surely I’m not the first one to figure out how to properly nourish her children.

  Granted, some days it feels like that, but it can’t actually be true.

  I inhale through my nose and exhale from my mouth. There. Getting better. Being able to maintain my cool in a crisis is precisely why I’m such an outstanding PTO president. When everyone else is losing their heads, I’m the one who maintains a laserlike focus. That’s why my number’s at the top of the phone tree.

  Betsy believes I’d have been running a Fortune 500 company by now if I hadn’t opted for the mommy track. Yet at this point, I can barely even remember what my PR job was like, save for all the cosmos we used to drink after work. And really, it’s not as though writing press releases about a new brand of antiperspirant for teens could compare to, you know, creating baby humans!

  I do recall having fun crafting the client pitches, and the day we landed the fragrance division of Calvin Klein as a client was amazing. They sent over so much free perfume! But about a minute later, I got pregnant with Kord, so now I always associate the smell of my old favorite Obsession with barfing in a metal office trash can.

  Definitely no longer obsessed with Obsession.

  I breathe in one last time and I am Zen again.

  “I don’t know how you’re so calm,” Ashley tells me, wrapping an extension (?) around her French-manicured digit. “If someone famous swooped in on my million-dollar idea, I would be batshit? You are amazeballs for not, like, hating her?”

  I’m very strict with the Littles about the “H” word in our home. It’s simply not something we say, ergo it’s on the Never Never list. Plus, I don’t hate Jessica Seinfeld. I’m simply disappointed to not have been first to market. If only I’d known about blogging back then I could have staked my claim! Yet what really matters is that my children are thriving because they’re properly parented. That I have way more pins than Mrs. Not Shoshanna on Pinterest is an added bonus. (My coco-loco energy balls did make me a household name in the blogosphere. Fact.) Plus, it’s against my policy to hate people, even Nana Baba, my overbearing MIL. I don’t hate anyone except for those who truly need hating.

  Like Jack Jordan, for example.

  But that’s a story for another day.

  I appraise Ashley one last time. Time to turn Ashley into an asset. “Sweetie, have you ever heard of a wonderful clothing store called Talbots?”

  “Um . . . no?”

  I hook my arm through hers and guide her down the hall, away from the second grade classroom. “Then do I have a treat for you!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GIRL O’ WAR: A MEMOIR CUSTOMER REVIEWS

  * * * * * ARE YOU FLIPPING KIDDING ME?

  By: BestSmileEVAH, April 21, 2013

  Format: Kindle

  Amazon Verified Purchase

  I wish I could give this book zero stars. I’m sorry, but how is anyone impressed with this navel-gazing piece of yellow journalism? A “new American classic”? Please. Beth Harbison’s Shoe Addicts Anonymous is a million times more classic than this could ever possibly be.

  Seriously, are we supposed to buy that Jack Jordan is some kind of saint for donning a flak jacket and traipsing around the Middle East, sharing her Very Important Feelings about the state of the world? Well, I have news for you, Ms. Jordan—some of us do important jobs every single day by raising the kind of children who will eliminate the need for war when they’re adults.

  So put that in your peace pipe and smoke it!

  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  March 2014

  I hate girls.

  I do. Can’t stand ’em.

  I hate how petty girls are. I hate how they’ll smile so kindly to your face while they’re mentally tearing you to shreds, for committing no transgression other than wearing the wrong shoes.

  I hate how girls pass judgment as easily as they’d hand out Halloween candy. I hate how they’re more concerned about the content of your closet than the content of your character. Although a few reporters mentioned Margaret Thatcher’s power suits when she died last year, Iron Maggie’s legacy is that of changing Britain, not changing hemlines.

  Margaret Thatcher was young once, but I guarantee she was never a girl.

  I can’t stand the way girls giggle for no good reason. Or all the shrieking, which is as grating as the whispering. Or their inability to use the bathroom alone. What’s the story behind that? I’ve yet to require an escort to the latrine and I live under the near-constant threat of live fire.

  Girls are superficial. Artificial. Plastic, not fantastic.

  Girls escalate the smallest conflicts until they become epic in scope. Molehills become mountains and tiny skirmishes morph into great wars.

  Or, what they believe are great wars.

  Honestly, it’s offensive. I understand the implications of war. I’ve been a foreign correspondent for twelve years. Trust me, I know what real conflict is. So, raging over who has dibs on wearing fuchsia to the prom or who borrowed your Nine Inch Nails CD without permission or who hid broccoli in a chicken nugget first?

  Well, it ain’t exactly Kandahar.

  There are no girls on the front line. Marines are stationed here as part of the FET (Female Engagement Team) but they’re women. They’re soldiers. Warriors. They do not engage in slap-fights over who looked sideways at someone else’s crush. They’re tough and competent and I’m not referring to them when I say I hate girls.

  That’s why I eschew most female friendships, save for Sars. But she’s half a world away right now. Wish I were better about keeping in touch when I’m abroad, but between her grueling travel schedule for W3 and the ten-hour time difference, we don’t often connect. When I’m not filing a story, I’m in my tiny Kabul apartment, researching my next assignment, so my time’s limited and my focus specific.

  Sars understands, though. She’s always been a good egg. I’m so proud of her work with W3. I hope in some small way I inspired her with my stories of how hard life is for those without access to clean water. After she and Trip made Chandler Financial Group into the premiere wealth management firm, she could have been content to stay home and push out babies, the pampered wife of a wealthy man. Instead, she’s been funneling all her time and resources over the past few years to create and manage a nonprofit that builds wells in the third world. I can’t imagine a better use of her considerable talent and resources.

  Sars and I became friends the day my family bought the house across from hers in grade school. Moving to a new state was overwhelming on top of the other circumstances, but Sars eased the transition.

  I remember sitting on the porch swing, watching the movers haul in furniture, when this tiny, birdlike person flew up the stairs to sit next to me, a ball of frenetic energy, eyes enormous behind glasses that even I knew were nerdy. And in one breath, she said, “Hi, you’re the new girl! I live across the street. My ma says we’re gonna be in the same class. I hear Miss Meyer is pretty nice, even though her spelling tests are supposed to be hard. I don’t love spelling. My pa says computers are going to do all the spelling for you in the future, so why bother learning how? Math’s my favorite subject. I can divide fractions in my head, no
fooling! Someday I wanna be a banker. I already have a savings account where I put all my money from losing my baby teeth. My ma’s actually the tooth fairy, but I pretend like she’s not. I got two bucks for each front tooth!! We should be friends.”

  Before I could say a thing, she went on. “There are no girl kids in this neighborhood. Wait, my cousins live down the block. They can drive and they’re kinda mean. They made fun of me for liking Growing Pains because they say Kirk Cameron’s a tool, so I pretend that I don’t watch even though I do. He’s not a tool, but his friend Boner is. Is Boner a dirty word? Everyone laughs at me when I ask. Did I say one of my cousins can drive? Big whoop. Cilla and Gracie think they’re so rad because they got to see Dirty Dancing. They’re in love with Patrick Swayze, but he’s, like, seventy years old. Ugh.”

  She looked at me expectantly. I understood the conversation ball was in my court, yet I had no idea how to respond. I’d already learned more about her in thirty seconds than I did playing Peewee hockey with my old neighbor Jason for two years.

  Actually, all of my buddies in Saint Louis were male. Without a female influence for the past few years, I’d become a full-fledged tomboy. I have early recollections of tea parties and lace-trimmed dresses with shiny, buckled church shoes, but at this point, I wonder if I haven’t somehow co-opted Sars’s memories.

  So, I was in the dark about how to address this exotic, bespectacled creature perched next to me, with two elaborate braids hanging halfway down her back, secured with big plaid bows. Noticing her pristine white cotton shirt buttoned halfway down and then tied at the waist like Jennifer Grey in the Dirty Dancing movie trailer, I suddenly felt self-conscious in my brother Bobby’s old Cardinals tee.

  She grinned at me. “You wanna play Barbies?” she asked.

  Before I even realized what I was saying, I responded, “Nah, I hate dolls.” I instantly regretted my answer, assuming I’d blown my shot at my first real female friendship. Thing was, I didn’t hate Barbies—I just didn’t know what to do with them. When my mom was still with us, I had a few dolls. I don’t remember playing with them, though. Mostly I recall my brothers and I just threw them at one another.