“Hi,” she says to deafening silence. No one’s about to make this easier on her. She can’t blame them. “I wanted to apologize to everyone for making it seem like Bodhi was dealing with—like we were handling all this, you know, pediatric Renfield’s and whatnot, no problem, when we weren’t having to deal with it at all, really.” She twists the bracelets around her wrist and tries to keep looking up and out instead of down at her sandaled feet.
“You used us as an opportunity to help your business.” She didn’t expect Megan to be the first to speak up. That stings.
“We felt like we were some kind of negligent parents if we weren’t totally fine with getting our blood sucked because you made it sound like we should be,” adds Robin. “Like you were so cool with it. Perfectly natural. You walk around like you’re better than us because you read the labels and don’t give your son Happy Meals ever, apparently.”
Rhea nods. “I know. And that definitely wasn’t right.” At this point, she doesn’t even know which she started lying for more—her business or her reputation as a mother. They became so tightly braided along the way and Rhea has never kept fingernails long or sharp enough to untangle them. She can’t miss the three or four not-so-subtle eye rolls from some of the other mothers—even Lena. Damn. She might swear the air-conditioning in the multipurpose room has gone on the fritz. Her kingdom for a bit of circulation. “I get it, okay?” she says. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I mean, for real, I’ve been feeding Bodhi McDonald’s on a regular basis. For weeks now. I don’t know.”
“This from the woman who packs purple cauliflower for lunch?” Maggie’s mother, Roxy, scoffs, then looks around, soaking in the approval of the other parents, for once on the inside. “That’s rich.”
What did that brand consultant advise Rhea to be? That’s right: effortless, aspirational, less folksy. Well, how about exhausted, disorganized, and messy as hell?
“I deserve that, I guess.” Rhea shrugs. She’s doing what she came here to do. and by the time she leaves, she needs to make it so that she can show her face again. And maybe, just maybe, even rebuild a shred of Terrene, but that’s secondary. “Everyone wants to be seen as a good mother. I mean, seriously. Do y’all remember what they did to Britney Spears when she held a kid on her lap in the car for all of two seconds? I’m just trying to hang with all you moms who are really good at organizing playdates and coming up with cutesy party favors that say thanks for popping by on bubbles. That’s not my bag, but it looks really grown-up from where I’m standing. So I used a different bag and made sure it was made from reusable water bottles.” No one laughs. “It is what it is, but I still—”
Tamar’s mother rises to her feet, making Rhea shut up. “Sometimes I’m so tired.” She swipes dark bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t brush my teeth at night.”
Roxy snickers from a few seats over, then looks around again for some of that approval, but Megan shushes her and says, “I listen to audiobooks in my headphones while I give my kids baths. I don’t even talk to them.”
“My nanny is way better at playing with my kids than I am,” adds Chelsea.
“Oh my god, mine, too.” Tamar’s mom drops back into her chair. “I tell my college-aged nanny she can’t be on her phone while taking care of the kids, but the truth is when I’m with them I’m on the phone all the time. And it’s not important stuff either. I’m talking Instagram and TikTok.”
“At the pediatrician’s office, I always circle the option that says George gets three to four servings of vegetables a day,” says his mother, Charlotte. “But honestly, I’m lucky if he gets that in a week.”
Robin raises her hand. “I’ve forgotten to give money for the last two years for the end-of-year gift, but I still put my name on it.”
Chelsea gently slaps her wife on the arm and gives her the evil eye.
“I still haven’t gotten my youngest swimming lessons. I mean to every summer, but I never even put him in one of those baby classes to splash around,” says Lena.
“Maggie threw up in her bed in the middle of the night a few weeks ago and I just balled up the sheets and made her sleep on the bare mattress.” Roxy slaps her hands over her mouth, her shoulders hiking up over her ears.
“I’m even worse. Last semester, I sent Bex to school a couple hours after she threw up because I had a lunch date with friends I didn’t want to miss.”
“We gave up on sleep training in two days and I’m pretty sure that’s why they’re all terrible sleepers,” says Asher’s dad about his kids.
“I feel like going to the grocery store alone is a vacation,” adds Megan. “I eat every bit of mac ’n’ cheese left on my kids’ plates even if I’ve already eaten dinner.”
“I let George watch a full hour of television every single morning before I even get up.”
A wave of murmurs grows as everyone adds their two cents, one over the next. Someone hasn’t kept a photo album of her second kid. Someone else never got around to planning a birthday party. Another one only bathes her child twice a week. The list goes on. A lock clicks open in Rhea’s chest. Maybe this is what Mary Beth’s been prattling on about all this time. Perhaps there’s something to be said for community.
Where is Mary Beth, by the way? And Darby?
Rhea takes a deep breath and raises her hands, quieting everyone before someone confesses to feeding their child Purina Puppy Chow or something gross like that. If she were going to admit that she also solved the mystery of Poodini now would be the time. She hesitates.
The silver A is the weight of a pebble at the bottom of her pocket. Somebody else in here hasn’t been telling the truth either. And now it’s time to figure out who that is, no matter what it means for Rhea. The truth’s got to come out sometime.
With the charm halfway out of her pocket, she stops. “Does anyone else hear that? Listen.” They do. They listen—the sound of sirens rolling up on Little Academy after dark.
FORTY-TWO
Darby’s phone battery was at 3 percent when she arrived at school with the intention of joining the meeting in the multipurpose room and revealing to everyone what she learned.
Only an hour ago, she sat across from Marcus at a round coffee shop table not quite meant for two and asked with grave seriousness, “Are you sure?”
Earlier, she told Griff—she did not ask—to pick up the kids from Little at the end of the day. She’d fill him in later; it’s been a day and it’s not even over.
“I’m sure,” Marcus told her, but he went through it again, explaining the numbers slowly, the profits and losses and what they meant. He told her that he was reasonably certain that someone, based on the figures, was embezzling money from the church and that Rhea had a strong suspicion that someone was Erin Ollie, née Nierling. “She thought, given everything with Lola, that you should be the first to know.”
Darby got a sticky lump in her throat. “I’m really not a crier,” she said, which is a bald-faced lie.