Wife 22. Melanie Gideon

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      5

      It occurs to me that I am the Frank Potter of my own small world. Not the social-climbing Frank Potter, but the in-charge Frank Potter—I am the chief drama officer of Kentwood Elementary. The anxious Alice Buckle that showed up at William’s vodka launch is not the Alice Buckle who is currently sitting on a bench out on the playground while a fourth-grader stands behind her and attempts in vain to style her hair.

      “Sorry, Mrs. Buckle, but I can’t do anything with this,” says Harriet. “Maybe if you combed it once in a while.”

      “If you combed my hair it would be nothing but frizz. It’d be a rat’s nest.”

      Harriet gathers up my thick brown hair and then releases it. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like a rat’s nest now. Actually, it looks more like a dandelion.”

      Harriet Morse’s bluntness is a typical fourth-grade girl trait. I pray she won’t outgrow it by the time she gets to middle school. Most girls do. Myself, I like nothing better than a girl who says what she thinks.

      “Maybe you should straighten it,” she suggests. “My mother does. She can even go out in the rain without it curling up.”

      “And that’s why she looks so glamorous,” I say, as I see Mrs. Morse trotting toward us.

      “Alice, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, bending down to give me a hug. Harriet is the fourth of Mrs. Morse’s children to have cycled through my drama classes. Her oldest is now at the Oakland School for Performing Arts. I like to think I might have had something to do with that.

      “It’s only 3:20. You’re fine,” I say. There are still at least two dozen kids scattered on the playground awaiting their rides.

      “The traffic was horrible,” says Mrs. Morse. “Harriet, what in the world are you doing to Mrs. Buckle’s hair?”

      “She’s a very good hairdresser, actually. I’m afraid it’s my hair that’s the problem.”

      “Sorry,” Mrs. Morse mouths silently to me, as she digs in her handbag for a hair tie. She holds it out to Harriet. “Honey, don’t you think Mrs. Buckle would look great with a ponytail?”

      Harriet comes around from the back of the bench and surveys me solemnly. She lifts my hair back from my temples. “You should wear earrings,” she pronounces. “Especially if you put your hair up.” She takes the hair tie from her mother and then reassumes her position behind the bench.

      “So what can I do to help out this semester?” asks Mrs. Morse. “Do you want me to organize the party? I could help the kids run lines.”

      Kentwood Elementary is filled with parents like Mrs. Morse: parents who volunteer before they’re even asked and who believe fervently in the importance of a drama program. In fact it’s the Parents’ Association at Kentwood that pays my part-time salary. The Oakland public school system has been on the verge of bankruptcy for years. Art and music programs were the first to go. Without the PA, I wouldn’t have a job.

      There’s always some grade that has a cluster of high-maintenance parents who complain and are unhappy—this year it’s the third—but most of the time I consider the parents co-teachers. I couldn’t do my job without them.

      “That looks lovely,” says Mrs. Morse, after a few minutes of Harriet pulling and tugging on my head. “I like the way you’ve given Mrs. Buckle a little pouf at the crown.”

      Harriet chews her lip. The pouf was not intentional.

      “I feel very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I say, as Carisa Norman comes flying across the playground and hurls herself on my lap.

      “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, stroking my hand.

      “What a coincidence. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, as she snuggles into my arms.

      “Call me,” says Mrs. Morse, holding a pretend phone up to her ear as she and Harriet leave.

      I take Carisa inside to the teacher’s lounge and buy her a granola bar from the vending machine, then we go sit on the bench again and talk about important things like Barbies and the fact that she’s embarrassed that she still has training wheels on her bike.

      At 4:00 when her mother pulls up to the curb and beeps, I watch with a clenched heart as Carisa runs across the playground. She seems so vulnerable. She’s eight years old and small for her age; from the back she could pass for six. Mrs. Norman waves from the car. I wave back. This is our ritual at least a few days every week. Each of us pretending there’s nothing out of the ordinary about her being forty-five minutes late to pick up her daughter.