Em's Awful Good Fortune by Marcie Maxfield

Author:Marcie Maxfield
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2021-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

So there I was, summoned to the headmistress’s office, feeling awkwardly like my teenage self, like I’d gotten caught smoking in the john or talking back in class. V was smiling. She had this perpetual smile, a red slash, like it was painted on; she was wearing a tweed pencil skirt, pumps, and a creamy, silky blouse with one too many buttons undone—a little too revealing for primary school, if you ask me, but this was Paris and it was I who was underdressed. Sloppywood. Jeans, sneakers, and a moto jacket. Outplayed from the get-go.

She smiled, so I smiled.

She crossed her legs, and I crossed mine.

She mentioned Columbine, and I lost the battle. Right there. Had to apologize for my son’s taking a protractor to the park, hiding it in his sweatshirt pocket so he and Andy could dig a tunnel from Paris to China. Of course, she didn’t actually mention Columbine or Sandy Hook or Parkland or any school shooting. She didn’t have to—it’s there, in the ether, when you talk schoolyard aggression in an international environment, and I was willing to fall on that sword. I get it. How the world views us. How, in my second-grade, American boy’s hands, a protractor could be seen as a weapon. But she wasn’t willing to leave it at that.

“Sometimes,” she said, “when children have a hard time adjusting, it reflects a deeper problem. How are things at home?” she wanted to know, and then, not waiting for an answer, she followed up with a second query. “How are you doing, Emma?”

“I’m fine,” I lied, shifting in my seat. No wonder the kids were intimidated by her. I searched her office for something to diffuse the tension—framed family photos or student art projects. Then I spotted a pair of boots and a whip in the corner.

“Do you ride?” I asked her. Of course she did—she was British. I could easily visualize her astride a quarter horse, making it do figure eights, holding the reins tight, slapping it with the crop.

“I’ve been headmistress here for some years now,” she responded, ignoring my question, her smile unchanged, her hands poised in her lap, recrossing her legs for emphasis.

Is “headmistress” one word or two? I wondered, still imagining her in those boots with the whip. Maybe it’s hyphenated.

“And,” V continued, “the children who struggle most are often the ones whose mothers gave up satisfying jobs to follow their husband’s careers overseas.”

Boom. She zeroed in on me.

“Did you work, Emma? Yes, of course you did.” She answered her own question, using the past tense. “Rio tells me you worked at the zoo.”

“Marketing director,” I confirmed, feeling the need to defend myself with a professional title. “Worked at the zoo” was too vague; the kids used to tell their teachers that Mommy took care of the sick animals. Even after Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, when Ruby sat on the floor in my office, coloring, while I typed on the computer, she still told people I took care of baby animals.

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