“I’m just getting my Thomas engine,” Tristan explains, as he pulls his Thomas the Tank Engine toy from the toy box in the living room.
“Tristan!” I call to him. “Come meet April Masterson, our new neighbor.”
He hesitates for a moment, then comes over to the kitchen table, clutching his blue train. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Masterson.”
April throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my, so polite! You can call me April, Tristan.”
Tristan looks to me for approval, and I nod in my head. “Okay,” he says.
“Have a cookie!” She pushes the plate of chocolate chip cookies in his direction. “They’re chocolate chip.”
I frown. I don’t like the fact that April offered my son a cookie without asking me if it was okay. The convention is you always ask the parents first, isn’t it? Then again, I hate to be the cookie police. And it’s hard for me to throw stones, considering I’ve eaten half a dozen cookies myself. They’re addictive.
Tristan again looks at me for approval. I nod, and he reaches for a cookie. “Can I take it up to my room, Mommy?”
“Yes. As long as you don’t make crumbs.”
Tristan takes a paper towel and gently rests his cookie on top of it. Then he goes upstairs to his room with his train and his cookie.
After he’s gone, April looks at me with an expression I could only describe as curious amusement. “What a well-behaved child!”
It sounds like a compliment, but somehow there’s an edge to her voice. Like she’s silently judging me. “Thank you,” I say anyway.
“I must introduce you to everyone in our playgroup,” she says. “You’ll love it.”
I look at her blankly. “Playgroup?”
She laughs. “For the kids. They play together, and we moms… we drink wine.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”
This is going to be my life now. Playgroups for adults.
I miss putting people in jail.
“Also,” April says, “in March, you’re going to want to put in your application for Sunshine preschool. It’s the best one around. Very selective.”
I frown. “Tristan is at Rosa’s Preschool. I think they’re really good.”
“No, no, no.” She puts her hand on mine—I’m shocked by how smooth her palms are. “You must get Leo into Sunshine. It’s too late for Tristan, but trust me on this.”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
She beams at me again. That edge has vanished, and her face is warm and open. “I’m just so happy to have met you, Julie. I know we’re going to be great friends.”
_____
Six months later, April and I are carpooling together to Sunshine Preschool.
No, we haven’t gotten in yet. But the applications are due today. Unlike other preschools, there’s no waiting list for Sunshine. You have to show up on March first and hand in your application, and then they decide whether or not you get in. God knows what sort of qualifications they’re looking for in a three-year-old child. It makes me sick to my stomach to think Leo might not pass muster.
Then I feel like a fool for being so worked up over what preschool my kid gets into. What have I become?
April is fiddling with the radio from the driver’s seat. She has, as she predicted, somehow become my best friend. The first close friend I’ve ever had. I always wanted friends, but I found it hard to get close to people. Everyone thought I seemed aloof, and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
But April wanted my friendship—badly. My husband Keith sometimes jokes, “She acts like she’s campaigning to be your best friend. I keep expecting her to show up with buttons that say ‘April and Julie forever.’”
I always defend April: “She’s really nice.”
“Sure,” he would say. “She just needs to cut her caffeine intake by about fifty percent.”
There are, unfortunately, some strange rumors about April. One of my neighbors told me there was a whole mess about six months before I moved here when April’s husband’s assistant killed herself. The poor girl, Courtney Burns, apparently took a bunch of pills. But the rumor mill claimed that Courtney had been having an affair with April’s handsome husband.
There are quite a few people in the neighborhood who think Courtney’s suicide was a little fishy. A little too convenient for April.
But of course, that’s insane. I know from my years in the courthouse that anyone can end up being a murderer, but I know April very well now. The idea that she might have tried to harm someone is out of the question. Anyway, the whole mess had died down by the time I moved to the neighborhood.
I have both our applications to Sunshine piled in my lap. The application was nearly an inch thick, but paperwork is something I’m great at, so I helped April with hers. I even wrote her essay for her. Yes, the application included an essay. I’m so embarrassed.
Five minutes later, April has pulled up in front of Sunshine Preschool. I have to admit, it’s a darling little school. It’s painted with bright colors that make it look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Even though I find the whole thing a little ridiculous, at this moment, I desperately want Leo to be at this school.
Before we go in, April pulls a compact out of her purse and gives herself a once over. April always wants to look perfect. While she’s doing that, I take my phone out of my purse. To my surprise, there’s a text message on the screen. It’s from a detective I used to work with pretty closely, Riley Hanrahan.
Are you coming back to work soon? It’s hell without you.
I get a rush of nostalgia, thinking about the good old days. But no. I made this choice for my family. I type in: Sorry, no. But I do miss it.
Three bubbles appear on the screen for a few seconds before I see Riley’s response. I miss you.
I suck in a breath. I quickly delete the text messages, then smile over at April. “You ready to go in?”
“Yes, let’s go!”
I recognize Heidi at the front desk from when I picked up the applications for me and April. She flashes me a tight-lipped smile that gets on my nerves. You would think a preschool would have somebody friendlier at the front desk, not this sour-faced woman.
“Hello!” April says. “My name is April. I was hoping to drop off my application for the preschool.”
And then I see a genuine smile from Heidi. “Of course! Hand it right here!”
April beams. “You must be Heidi. I think we talked on the phone.”
“Yes! We did!”
And then April spends the next several minutes charming Heidi. I’m impressed and even a little jealous. How is she so good at that? God, I hope it helps.
We finally walk back outside together, sans applications. I start to walk to April’s car, but then she puts her hand on my arm. “No,” she says. “Wait.”
After a few minutes, a car pulls up in front of the preschool. A woman with a three-year-old strapped into the back of the car as well as a newborn comes out of the car, looking overwhelmed at the idea of getting both of her kids free. But before she can attempt it, April approaches her.
“Hi!” April says. “You can drop your application off right here! I can take that for you.”