“SHHHHHH!!” I spit all over Leo’s jacket lapels. I swear Maggie Tilman, mother of triplet girls in fifth grade, turned to look at us. That woman understands pregnancy surprises. “I don’t want to have to discipline you for talking out of turn.”
“Or maybe you can. I’ll stop by the principal’s office after the concert to find out my punishment.”
As much as I’d love to stay by Leo’s side and role play in a gym packed with folks who pay my salary, I wiggle myself loose of his hands and head to the stage to kick off our winter concert. I’m sure the first song will spark a handful of emails in my inbox by day’s end.
Turns out, the majority of families know the chorus fa la la la la la la la la and sing carols with gusto. The crooked bow ties on the kindergarten boys make my heart melt, as do the second-grade men whose pants are more reminiscent of clam diggers than full-length slacks, the sort their parents hope will last ONE. MORE. SEASON. For thirty-two minutes time will stand still, adults of all races and religions will revel in the unjaded souls of children, and all will feel right with the world. I look over to Leo, hoping to catch his glance. I want him to see me at the top of my profession. The mistress of ceremonies at the happiest show in town.
“If you were the head of a Catholic school, do you think you would have a Black baby Jesus in the nativity scene?” Jared whispers in my ear, taking me by surprise. My bliss bubble of appreciation for our collective community has popped twelve minutes into the concert. Jared’s hubris and random moment of Black solidarity simultaneously impress and irritate me.
“Why in the world would you ask me that?” I whisper through my smile as the third graders exit the stage and the fourth graders rise to shuffle up the steps. I’m trying to telepath to Frieda Solano to stop picking her nose before she hits the bright lights of public humiliation.
“Curiosity. I didn’t take you for the religious type until this concert, but now I suspect you have more God than gangster in you.” It occurs to me that Jared, too, was schooled in a generation that only sang audience-neutral songs like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “You Are My Sunshine.” I never considered he would issue my first concert complaint.
“Speaking of curiosity, I noticed you and Winn were quite chummy at the basketball game last night.” I’m keeping my body loose and voice low, so I don’t come across as stressed by their fraternizing.
“Yeah, Winn’s a good dude. We have a lot in common.”
I choke hearing that statement. Luckily, it comes out as a seasonal cough and no one notices. I let some silence hang in the air to consider my next move. I’ve been holding on to the fact that I know Jared lied to me and called in sick to go to man camp with Winn to use in my favor when the time is right. I’m debating if this is that time.
“Yes, it seems you two share a real affinity for basketball.” I decide to leave it at that, letting Jared wonder if I know about the camp. I can use my knowledge as an uncomfortable drip over time.
“Yeah, he’s trying to make me a Lakers fan, but I’m true to the Clippers through thick and thin. Can’t turn on a dime.” Either it’s not registering that I may know about his playing hooky, or the guy really doesn’t care. “We’ve been having a good time together checking out the public school games and the youth league season. Winn feeds me some good grub, and I find where the dopest kids comin’ up are playing around LA. He’s also included me in his pickup games. Those old guys are slow, but they still got it. Also, I’m killing it networking on and off the court.”
While their friendship is growing more curious by the minute, Jared checking out the Greater LA youth basketball scene makes sense. Many of our teachers who coach for Royal-Hawkins also coach club sports for extra income. Jared’s probably trolling for a plum coaching job with older kids to balance out the low level of play that often plagues private school teams. What’s in it for Winn remains a mystery. I’m actually impressed by Jared’s ingenuity and fortitude—he clearly does love the idea of coaching teenagers.
“Winn’s become a mentor to me.”
“What the fu . . .” I bite down hard on my last syllable. Luckily, the fourth graders are crescendoing to the end of their song, and neither Jared nor the audience members hear me almost throw out what would be, under any other circumstances, an appropriately placed f-bomb.
“I’m definitely impressed with how you’re easing yourself into the Royal-Hawkins community, Jared.” I need to tie up this chat and head to the stage to introduce the middle school so the sixth graders can have their chance to share their musical mediocrity.
“Yeah, the parents have been great, not what I was expecting actually.” Jared gives me a wink and a light elbow nudge to my arm. I know the implication behind that wink and nudge: Who knew rich White people could be so cool?
“Happy holidays to you, Jared. I hope you have a nice vacation.” I’m full up on Jared for this calendar year and hoping our interactions improve in the next.
“Yeah, you, too, Nina. Enjoy your break.” Jared flashes his high-voltage smile that has his middle school students swooning on the daily. I notice for the first time his red corduroy pants have tiny white snowflakes on them, and he has paired them perfectly with a crisp pink button-down and fresh white leather sneakers. I recognize Jared looks sharp and has swagger in a manner only a Black man like he and Graham can pull off. I peek over at Leo in his conservative pinstripe suit. It’s not that I’m embarrassed of Leo, but looking back and forth between these two men, even I would assume the Black woman in the room was paired up with Jared before I would bet on Leo. And I know I’m not alone in that assumption.
Though he can rub me wrong, I give Jared’s arm a motherly pat. I do like the on-point style of this young joker, even when I suspect he ain’t playin’ it straight.
Dad and I are seated in front of cups of tea at the kitchen table, staring at a letter that arrived today from Pemberley. Xandra’s in her room, I assume lost in a haze of YouTube videos, blissfully unaware that her elders have gathered to read her fate. Dad’s sitting on his hands fighting his instinct to rip the Band-Aid and expose whatever wound lies in that letter so he can go right to fixing it. And me? The official-looking post sends a shiver through my body. I imagine what’s inside is akin to a parenting report card, and I know I’ve failed the last pop quiz.
“Dad, you want extra hot water?” I ask, more as a stalling tactic than an offering.
“I’ll take some more hot water,” Dad agrees, holding up his cup, “but jeezum pees, Nina, I could be six feet under before you get to reading that letter.” Fitzroy reaches to the middle of the table to nab the envelope while I’m filling his mug.
“Hey! It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail,” I remind, grabbing Dad’s wrist. “I should read it first.”
“Read it out loud, then,” Dad insists, impatient with me.
Here goes everything . . .
Dear Parents of Xandra Clarke,
Xandra is a student of great talent in the classroom and a treasured member of the Pemberley community, but so far in the drama production of Wonderful Town, she has been noticeably dissatisfied with the role she earned as an underclassman. She consistently shows up late to rehearsals and is struggling to memorize her lines and stage direction in preparation for opening night. In the end, I hope her performance will be of high quality, but the journey to get there has been a difficult one for the entire cast, me included.