1. Let’s Go Crazy #2
“She’s always got herself together,” Tisha says, oblivious to my enthusiastic head-shaking or the fact that I just stress-guzzled my very hot coffee, only after spilling some on my previously crisp, white tee.
“Not only does she run a successful business, but I think we can all agree that Emory’s daughter, Molly, is a sweetheart. ”
Molly is amazeballs. But that does not mean I’m qualified to lead a pride of catty mothers… and Trey.
Two other parents begin nodding along with Tisha’s rousing speech.
I think I’m zoning out, though, because all I hear is the warbled, adult, “wop, womp, wah” voices from Charlie Brown and, somewhere in my bag, my phone alarm yelling that I do not in fact have it all together.
Because if I don’t leave right now, I will be late for an important meeting.
A meeting to discuss my drowning business.
Trey, bless him, nods his head along with Tisha and begins a slow clap, waiting for the others to follow suit.
One thing is for certain, Trey’s name won’t be written down for a vote today.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he declares, then winks at me in a way that tells me Trey thinks he’s doing me a favor.
It's uncomfortably similar to the time he showed up at my farm uninvited and offered to provide a “man’s touch” on the day-to-day operations.
Trey tries to slip his hand around the small of my back, but I manage to evade his touch with a quick spin move and fall into a chair, safely out of his reach.
The man is seemingly undeterred. “We all believe in you, Emory. You’ll make a beautiful president. And, with great power comes great responsibility.”
“Did you just quote Spiderman?” I ask, the first coherent sentence I’ve strung together in a few minutes.
Trey looks absolutely baffled. “No, I uh…” He pulls his silent phone from his belt and lifts it to his ear, holding up the pointer finger of his other hand. “You’ve got Trey.”
Super. We’ve now entered the circle of the Inferno where self-important men answer their phone like that. Cool, cool, cool... cucumbers.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I begin, finally gaining my bearings.
“I don’t want to cause a fuss or replace anyone.
I think we should all just take a step back and maybe revisit this issue at a later date.
Bree, didn’t you say we needed to come up with a location for some sort of fifth-grade dance thingy? ”
Clearly, I’ve been paying attention.
Bree’s low, throat growl deserves its own Animal Planet special. “The Fifth-Grade Father-Daughter Dance. It’s a time-honored tradition in Honey Hill, and it will be held in my parents’ garden, as it has been since many of us were in grade school here, Emory.”
Shoot. I wish this wasn’t a topic I actually have big feelings on.
I raise my hand to speak. We are in the school, after all, and I’m nothing if not a respectful student.
Simone calls upon me with an annoyed wave of her hand. The mega, million-carat diamond on her ring finger winks at me in the morning light, momentarily blinding me in the process.
“Uh… thank you.” I stand back up, feeling a bit too much like a child being reprimanded by the women presiding over me. “Don’t we think father-daughter dances might be… I dunno… outdated and maybe exclusionary?”
“Not at all. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable in your…
situation,” Bree answers. “We just can’t simply cater to your family, Emory, and neglect the rest of the daughters who have been looking forward to a dance with their fathers since they started here.
Molly is welcome to find another escort…
I’m sure Jackson Jones would be happy to take her. ”
“And I’m sure my brother-in-law would just love you speaking on his behalf, but he is not her father, Bree. I know I am not the only single parent represented here, and my daughter is not the only child in the student body without a father present in their life.”
I can’t be sure, as I’ve now begun to pace the rows against my better judgement, but I think Tisha just let out a “whoop whoop” somewhere at my back. The crowd begins to murmur, and suddenly I’m on a roll and climbing the hill that I am, in fact, ready to die on.
“Furthermore,” I say, slapping my hand on the front table and lifting my voice, my righteous indignation rising right along with it, “why not include the entire class in the end-of-year event? I’m sure our young men would love a celebration as equally as the young women.
I say we change the event completely. Let this be the moment a new tradition is founded. ”
“Change the event?” Simone is simply aghast.
“Yes!” I raise my fist in the air. Wow. This has become quite the revolution. Tisha raises hers in the back and—yup—Trey has rejoined the fray, tilting an invisible cowboy hat my way. “We should have a carnival!”
A few of the women perk up in their seats. I randomly start spouting off ideas, “With a ferris wheel and performers and a bearded guy…” I don’t know where exactly I’m going with that, but I regroup quickly and declare, “There will be brownies!”
Another soft cheer echoes through the library. Brownies will be our battle cry.
“Where would we hold an event of that magnitude?” Tisha asks, and I think I see pride shining in her eyes.
My next alarm blares from my bag in the back of the library—the one saying, You better get your butt to your appointment if you don’t want to lose your life’s work, unfortunately set to “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa—doing little to drain the air from my sails.
“Oh, baby baby. Oh, baby baby,” zips across the air as I all but assert my shaky dominance over the pack of wolves, every single one desperate for a leader.
So, it's Salt-N-Pepa that I blame for racing out of the meeting, forty-five minutes later, as the official host for the first annual Honey Hill Fifth-Grade Class Carnival and the brand-spankin’-new president of the Parent Teacher Association.
PTA is a jungle, and I’m suddenly the queen.