DREAMS
THE CRANBERRIES
JORDAN
PTA parents are crazy.
They’re animals. Opportunistic scavengers.
A little… scary if I'm completely honest. From the moment they all arrived at the farm, there’s been a parade of parents with differing opinions on how the games should go, who should be in charge of concessions, timing, the petting zoo, and most notably, the graduation proceedings.
Call me crazy, but I never thought the wild world of fifth grade was so intense or that the need for a formal graduation ceremony and proceeding party would be absolutely necessary.
But here I am, anyway, settling a dispute between two women who have both sworn their child was predetermined, at an earlier date, to lead the graduation procession.
“Tommy has the highest GPA in the class,” one of the mothers argues, pulling poor Tommy in front of her. The kid picks his nose and studies what he’s found at the tip of his finger, so I find it unlikely he’s the best Honey Hill Elementary has to offer.
The other parent, a woman who’s told me her role in the governing body of the PTA—secretary, if you were wondering—but has never told me her name, whips out a color-coded, three ring binder that’s as thick as twenty years’ worth of records for King Gus.
“It clearly states right here”—she opens the binder and points to a page with ineligible scribbles and highlighter markings—“that Cohen held the highest GPA for the majority of his elementary career, and therefore, should be the leader of the fifth-grade procession.”
I want to ask what these kids have even done to compete for GPA placement, given some of them haven’t even reached their tenth birthday yet.
I doubt they’re doing much more than basic arithmetic and phonics.
But I also remember that my fifth- to sixth-grade transition included something along the lines of a handwritten certificate, a push popsicle from my teacher, Mrs. Arnold, and an “atta boy” on the last day.
There were no festivals or ceremonies to speak of.
“Why don’t we just pick a different kid completely,” I offer. “Like Molly.”
Molly’s dressed in an adorable, white sundress.
It has yellow daisies printed across it, which match the yellow ribbon Emory tied into her hair this morning.
She’s so pretty and smart, I want to cry.
Which is new territory for me. I don’t care what her GPA is, I guarantee Molly would be a better line leader than nose-picker or that Cohen kid.
“Oh,” Madame Secretary says, putting a hand on her hip. The first sign that I’ve said something wrong. “You think Molly Nelson would be a good choice, do you?”
“Yeah?” I mean, she’s not rolling around in a field covered in alpaca poo right now like her kid is, so she seems to be a top-notch option to me.
The other mother rolls her eyes and speaks across me to her former enemy, now newfound ally. “Of course, he’d say that. It’s his kid.”
“No,” the other corrects. “He’s dating her mother. The president.”
I do not like the way she said mother and president like they’re swear words, but the thought of Molly being mine brings a roar of pride to my chest.
“So typical…” Nose-picker’s mom sneers.
The other nods her head in agreement. “But did you have those lavender brownies?”
Her frenemy shrugs. “Too weird for me. I prefer cookies.”
I’m gearing up to uphold my girlfriend’s honor, and her brownies, when I’m saved by the last person on earth I expect a rescue from. Trey.
“Ladies,” Trey says, stretching his hands towards their respective waists and managing to creep both women out—thereby sealing their newfound alliance in hatred of the male specimens before them.
“I believe the kids are fixin’ to line up at the house.
Emory asked me to gather the troops so we can get this show on the road. ”
A quick glance at the porch has me doing a double take, seeing Emory descend the stairs barefoot, wearing a sunshine yellow dress that compliments Molly’s perfectly.
Something about the little strappy things holding up the dress against her bare, freckled shoulders, and the way every feminine curve she has is highlighted so beautifully in a single piece of fabric, makes me want to twirl her in a field of lavender all day until she’s just dizzy and disoriented enough to marry me in that exact dress, without thinking too much about it.
She sees me ogling and smiles wide, mouthing, You’re welcome, when the wolves, I narrowly escape, give up the fight.
She taps her wrist, where she’s not wearing a watch, to remind me it’s almost time for the big shebang.
There must be a hidden pocket in that stunning dress of hers, though, because no way is she walking around without her phone and the thirty alarms she’ll need to get through the day.
“That was a close one, buddy,” Trey says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Ya gotta watch out for the mother hens. Some of them are more aggressive than others.”
I have no way to respond to that, since I kind of get where he’s coming from, but also don’t want to live in a world where Trey Asscroft and I agree on anything other than golf and Jesus.
The only two commonalities I’ve found in our short acquaintance…
unless you count the fact that we’re both attracted to the same woman.
But I won, buddy. Big time.
“I’d put Molly out, front and center, if it were me,” he says, chuckling and holding his waist like he’s holding his pants upright. I gotta say, maybe good ol’ You’ve Got Trey is just a little misunderstood, because he’s suddenly making sense.
“Agreed.” We watch as Molly and a few of her friends skip rocks across the pond at the bottom of the pasture. She’s a pro now, demonstrating to her friends the proper way to hold the rock in their hands before dashing it across the water.
“And I think we’d both agree”—he nudges me with his elbow, inclining his head towards the porch—“her mama should always be front and center. Especially in that—”
Trey doesn’t get to finish his thought, when my elbow accidentally slips into his gut. “Oh man, my bad Asscroft.”
“It’s Ashcroft,” he groans, rubbing his belly.
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” I wave him off and forget all about Trey when Molly races up from the pond towards me.
“Ace!”
“Whoa, what is it kiddo?” I pause her, hands on her shoulders. “You’re supposed to be getting set up for the ceremony. Mornin’, Theo,” I greet the kid who’s been following Molly around all morning. He immediately shoots his hand out to shake mine.
“Morning, sir.”
Nope. I refuse to like him.
Molly’s out of breath but still gives me the stink eye when I point two fingers at my eyes, then at Theo.
I’m watching you.
Theo echoes the motion. Which, if he were any other kid, I think I’d respect. But today, I don’t like his attitude.
Both wearing ring pops on significant fingers, Molly laces her hand with Theo’s, using her other to point down the pasture.
And I do a great job of not mentally spiraling over how to keep a few degrees of separation between these two for the next ten to twenty years.
“We found a nest down at the pond, but it looks abandoned. I think it’s ducks. ”
“Okay,” I say, looking towards the water. We don’t have time to assess it right now, but giving it time isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If the mother comes back, we’ll know. “What makes you think it’s abandoned?”
“There aren’t any feathers on top. Just like you told me.”
I nod, unable to hold back my smile. We’ve been studying the nests and dens of local animals so Molly will know what to do if she comes across any on the farm.
Her love of animals comes so naturally, and the fact that it’s something both her dad and I shared has made it so much sweeter to also share with her.
She’s so smart and driven when she’s passionate about something.
She should totally be in the front of the procession today. “Right. And did you feel any of them?”
“Yup,” she says proudly. “They’re cold. I don’t think they’ve been incubated in a while.”
Giving the end of her strawberry hair a tug, I rub my finger over her cheek. “Good work, Little Red. We’ll check after everything this afternoon. Maybe mama duck got nervous with all the mayhem around here. Give her today to get her bearings, and if not, we’ll see about those ducklings, okay?”
“But what if it’s too late?”
“A few hours won’t make much of a difference, and we really do have to be sure before we take eggs away from a nest that might be active. I’ll keep watch. Promise.”
“Yes!” She high fives Theo, who looks just as excited for her excitement that I’m nearly not annoyed at his presence here.
“Now, go find your mama on the porch with all your friends so we can get to the party part. Theo”—he pops to attention—“you’re with me.”
Theo and I find our seats on the lawn where Dinah and Jack, Jack’s parents, my folks—and what feels like every other Honey Hill resident—are all waiting to cheer on Molly.
I’m so glad they’ve had this support system for so long.
I wish I’d been a part of it when I should have, but I’m certain, here and in this moment, one of the most important things I’ll ever do will be to cheer them both on, today and for the rest of our lives.
Molly doesn’t lead the line. Though, if you ask me, she would have nailed it. Instead, that lactose intolerant kid from the grocery store does. He’s decent, but his mom is unbearable, giving directions from the front row like he’s on the stage for a major performance.
“Big smiles, Garthy. Look here…” She’s crouched in front of all the kids, as the designated photographer for the event, but I’m gonna go ahead and assume Garth will be prominently featured in all of her work here today.