Something New (9781101612262) Page 15

  She traces a long acrylic-nailed finger down the top page of the file, reading carefully, her face betraying nothing. After a full thirty seconds I start to get antsy, but I recognize this as another attempt to intimidate, so I merely sit there and continue to wait. Finally, she looks up and meets my eyes and all I can think about is how ridiculous her blue contact lenses look. Joanna Rodriguez, as her nameplate announces, could be a stunner if she weren’t trying so hard to stamp out all traces of her heritage. For some reason, this gives me a boost, and not in the “people are mean” kind of way. More in the “this woman must be as insecure as the rest of us” kind of way, which puts us on even footing.

  “You may or may not know,” she begins slowly, “that here at James Meriwether Middle School we have a zero-tolerance policy.”

  “I read the parent handbook,” I say, and although I say it casually, she reacts as if it is a challenge.

  “Then you are aware that any form of contraband is strictly forbidden.”

  Contraband? What the hell does that mean? I envision Connor in the big house, stuffing chewing gum and comic books under his mattress. This is no laughing matter, however, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

  “We do random locker checks here, every week,” Rodriguez continues. “For the protection of our students.”

  Okay, so I know that in this day and age, i.e., the era of Columbine and bully-provoked suicide, schools have to go overboard in order to cover their asses, but something about this edict strikes me as unfair. Yes, I want my kids to be safe, and I know we are talking about twelve-year-olds, but shouldn’t they have some rights, too? Before I can go further with this train of thought, Joanna Rodriguez reaches into her drawer, withdraws a couple of magazines, and slaps them onto the desktop. Suddenly, I am staring at a set of triple-D breasts and a completely shaven twat. Oh dear Jesus.

  “These were found in Connor’s locker this morning,” Rodriguez informs me with just the barest hint of a feral smile.

  I struggle to come up with a reply, but I cannot tear my eyes away from the naked woman on the desk. Her legs are splayed wide and her index finger is pointing to her promised land and her boobs are so large and high they almost obscure her face. I can just make out two cherry red lips and heavily made-up cat eyes behind the enormous manmade mounds of flesh.

  “Mrs. Ivers?”

  My head snaps up and I look at Rodriguez. She wears a knowing expression that says it all: You’re not the first mom whose world I have totally shattered. God, I love my job!

  I have the burning desire to smack that look off her face, but at the moment I am completely paralyzed.

  “That’s not all, Mrs. Ivers,” she says, watching me as though I am a caged animal.

  I feel my pulse quicken. Oh shit, there’s more? What the hell can it be? Condoms? A joint? A Sig Sauer?

  Once again, Rodriguez opens her drawer and pulls something out. It is a single sheet of unlined paper. She peers at it distastefully, then holds it out to me and I feel myself flinch as though it has been tainted with anthrax. I force my hand not to shake as I reach up and take the sheet from Rodriguez’s clawlike grasp, then bring it to my lap and look down.

  What I see unleashes a bastion of conflicting emotions: horror, disillusionment, maternal pride, art appreciation, disbelief. It is a pencil drawing of a naked girl lying on a bed, the sheets around her rumpled and entwined with her bare legs, her arms stretched lazily over her head. She appears to be roughly Connor’s age; her face has that innocent and carefree look of youth and her body is thin, her curves as yet unrealized, her breasts mere buds. I recognize Connor’s style at once, although his usual subject matter until now has been superheroes, supervillains, and supermonsters. And while the sketch shocks me as much as the Hustler magazine on Rodriguez’s desk, I can’t help but admire the raw (or should I say naked) talent of the artist. I realize that Connor has a gift, and I will do everything in my power to nurture that gift. Right after I ground him for the rest of his life.

  “In case you were wondering,” Rodriguez says, interrupting my thoughts, “this girl is also a student at Meriwether. This kind of thing is considered bullying.”

  I give her an incredulous look. “Bullying?”

  “What would you call it, Mrs. Ivers?”

  “Art?” I say lightly, but she is not amused. I get the feeling that this woman wouldn’t appreciate the Venus de Milo if it fell on her head.

  “Do you think this is a joke?” she asks pointedly.

  “No, of course not!” I retort. “But I don’t think it’s bullying either. It’s not like Connor drew handcuffs or a mustache on her. It’s actually a very good rendering.”

  “It’s pornographic!” The principal’s voice is contained, but her nostrils flare angrily. “That girl is twelve years old. Imagine the damage that ‘rendering’ would have done to her psyche had it been circulated throughout the student body.”

  Personally, I think that if a drawing like that of me had circulated through my middle school, I wouldn’t have been lacking for dates to the school dance.

  “I understand your point,” I say in a conciliatory tone, knowing I have to be very diplomatic. Rodriguez could kick Connor out of school for this. The alternatives to James Meriwether Middle School are either a twenty-five-minute commute each way to the public school in the next district or a private school that costs about a zillion dollars a year.

  “So what happens now?” I ask, all humble and beseeching.

  She makes a steeple with her fingers, although the fiery red nail polish makes it look more like the roof of a brothel than the top of a church. She appears to be scrutinizing me, is probably considering the depth of my parental concern. I struggle to look appropriately contrite.

  “Connor is an exemplary student,” she says, then unhinges the steeple and taps a fingernail against the top page of his file. “He has never been in any kind of trouble before today.”

  I nod in agreement but remain silent for fear that anything I say might be misconstrued.

  “I can’t overlook this infraction, obviously. But perhaps we can be lenient this one time. In view of his record.”

  “If you think that’s fair,” I agree, then repeat her words. “In view of his record…”

  “I will have to suspend him for the rest of the day, however. This will give him time to do some hard soul-searching”—is she kidding?—“about the kind of person he wants to grow up to become.”

  I decide not to share with her that Connor wants to be a professional baseball player and if he succeeds he will no longer have to look at magazines or draw pictures of naked women because he’ll be swimming in the real thing after every game.

  “And I trust we won’t be finding any more of these”—she gestures first to the magazines, then to the sketch—“among his possessions in the future.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “And I can assure you, his father and I will give him a stern talking-to.”

  “I suggest that more than a stern talking-to is in order.”

  What does she want me to do? Beat him senseless? Throw away his Wii? (That cost me over two hundred bucks, thank you very much. It is not going in the trash.) Humiliate him and force him to betray his prepubescent urges? At this moment I am confronted with the fact that I have absolutely no idea how I am going to handle this or what I am going to say to Connor. It’s one of those sticky parental situations that requires subtlety and levelheadedness. Fuck, why didn’t I call Jonah?

  I realize that Ms. Rodriguez is glowering at me, and I give her my attention.

  “I will be keeping an eye on your son from now on, Mrs. Ivers. One more infraction and the consequences will be severe.”

  I get to my feet and, grasping the sketch in my right hand, I reach out for the magazines with my left. Before I can grab them, Rodriguez slaps her palm down on the Hustler, her bony fingers partially obscuring the money shot.

  “I will see that these are disposed of properly.”
As she scoops them back into her desk drawer, I swear I see a gleam in her fake blue eyes, and I can’t help but wonder if she might be planning to take the magazines home for an evening of la vida loca and a little self-love. Ah, well. Live and let live.

  She slams the drawer, then flips Connor’s file folder shut with finality. This meeting is definitely over.

  During the car ride home I am as silent as death. Connor sits beside me rather than in the back of the minivan because, by God, anyone who has (or had) porn magazines in his possession is damn well old enough to sit in the front seat. I can feel his eyes dart to me every so often as though he is expecting me to strike at any moment. He is assuming my silence means I am furious, but he is wrong. To describe my state of mind, I must borrow a word I frequently heard spoken by the grandmother of my childhood best friend, Susan Stein: verklempt. The turbulent thoughts swirling around in my brain are making it impossible for me to form sentences. I give myself credit for remaining calm in Herr Rodriguez’s office, but now I am suffering from a kind of posttraumatic stress syndrome.

  I have never harbored illusions that my children are perfect, or that they would somehow remain innocent until they were, say, twenty-five. But I honestly thought I had a few more years with Connor before he made that leap into pseudo-manhood. Although Jonah had The Talk with him when he turned eleven (and explained to Connor that, no, vagina is not a city in Italy), I didn’t expect to be confronted with his biologically fueled urges so soon. He’s twelve, for crying out loud.

  The other thing that’s bothering me is that I know how bright Connor is. He is aware of the locker checks at school. How could he be so stupid as to leave such damning evidence where there is a good chance it will be found? It’s not on the same level as Clinton and Monica-gate, but still! Did my son just assume it would never happen to him? Or was he so attached to the magazines that he thought it was worth the risk? And what does that say about him? Is he some kind of perv in the making because he can’t, just can’t bring himself to dump the twat magazines into the trash?

  I steal a glance at him, and although his posture is defeated—shoulders slouched over and chin resting against his chest—he still looks just like my Connor.

  He catches my glance and turns to face me. “Mom?” His voice is soft and unsure. I return my focus to the road.

  “I’m not ready to talk about this, Connor,” I say.

  “But—”

  “Seriously.”

  My cell phone chirps. Connor quickly bends over and grabs it from my purse then hands it to me. I have no hands-free device—Jonah gave me a Bluetooth once, but it never fit right, and it is not because my ears are misshapen—so I pull over to the curb and punch on my flashers. I check the Caller ID and see Jonah’s name.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey, babe,” comes his excited voice. “You are never going to guess what I got from one of my clients.”

  Lice? Herpes? Diphtheria? “What?” I ask.

  “Tickets to the Blue Man Group!” he says excitedly. “For tonight! Do you believe it? The guy’s wife and kids came down with food poisoning from Grandma’s pork loin, or something. So he can’t use them.” He’s talking in a rush, not giving me time to interject. “The one snafu is that there are only four tickets. But I know how much you hate the Blue Man Group.”

  Loathe would be a better word. I saw the show years ago during a trip to New York and I honestly cannot understand the appeal. All I could think of while watching their painted, shaven heads was blue balls.

  “So I thought I could take the kids. You know, give you the night off.”

  “There’s a slight problem with that,” I say. “Connor is grounded.”

  “Come again?”

  “As we speak, I am on my way home from school with him after having a charming conversation with his principal.”

  “Herr Rodriguez?”

  “The very same.” Again, I can feel Connor’s eyes on me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

  “Is this a joke?” Jonah asks, perplexed. “Connor?”

  “It seems your son has taken up a new hobby. Pornographic magazines.”

  “What?!”

  “Well, Hustler for sure. I’m not certain what the second one was. I never saw the cover.” At this point I do look at my son. He all but shrinks into the seat as I glare at him expectantly.

  “Shaved.” His voice is practically inaudible.

  “Shaved,” I report to Jonah.

  There is a long moment of silence, and I can almost see Jonah’s face. Knowing him as well as I do, I have no doubt that he has a grin on his face and is thinking Atta boy! to himself. The boys’ club strikes again. As long as it’s not guy-on-guy action, he’s okay with it. He will not, however, admit this to me.

  “That sounds pretty serious,” he says.

  “He also made a drawing of one of his…classmates?”

  Connor nods. “Becka.”

  “Becka,” I repeat into the phone. “Naked Becka, I should say.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I reply, knowing that Connor could not hear the question.

  “I know this is serious, Elle, but…”

  “It is serious,” I say for Connor’s benefit.

  “Maybe we could suspend the punishment until tomorrow. I mean, it is Blue Man Group. Connor’s been dying to see it. How often do they come to the Garden Hills Performing Arts Center?”

  “Never,” I admit, knowing that I am going to give in. I can feel it already, and I am annoyed with myself for caving so easily.

  “I’d hate for him to miss it. What do you say I come home early and have a talk with him? I’ll get there before you leave to pick up Matthew and Jessie. He and I can have a good heart-to-heart.”

  I take a deep breath and sigh. If Ms. Rodriguez knew that instead of locking Connor in the basement without food or water, we were taking him to a show he’s always wanted to see, she’d probably call up the department of child and family services to have him removed from our care. Still, Jonah and I have done our best to instill solid values in our children. At some point, they will have to make their own choices as to the kind of people they want to be. I just pray the foundation we have provided inspires them to make the right decisions…and keeps them out of jail.

  “Fine,” I say into the phone, then hang up.

  I turn and face Connor, watching him as he nervously plays with an errant thread on his shirt. He is my baby, my firstborn. When the second and third children come along, life becomes so chaotic that specific events and milestones become hazy, memories fold over each other and become impossible to differentiate. With Matthew, and then Jessie, I cannot recall with clarity when they spoke their first words (although I do know what their first words were: help in Matthew’s case and mine in Jessie’s). I don’t remember the specific date that each took their first steps or cut their first tooth or pooped on the toilet for the first time. But Connor is different. I had him all to myself for almost two years. We were a team, and my memories of holding him in my arms, of nursing him, of carrying him through the aisles of Target in his front-facing carrier so he could see all of the bright colors, of lying on the daybed next to his crib, my fingers intertwined with his through the crib slats, are crystal clear.

  But he is no longer a child. I have to accept that fact, no matter how difficult and painful it is for me. He is growing up. A part of me mourns that little boy who couldn’t fall asleep without me lying by his side. I suppose a part of me always will.

  “Hey,” I call to him, willing him to look at me. When he does, I can almost see the handsome man he will someday be. I hope he keeps his hair short so that his beautiful green eyes will always stand out. Those green eyes of his are sure to melt many hearts.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “The sketch,” I say solemnly. “Did you actually see Becka naked?”

  He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, then forcefully shak
es his head. “No, Mom. I just sort of imagined it.”

  “Good,” I say with an emphatic nod. “Let’s keep it that way for a few years, okay?”

  Eighth Post: March 23, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  BOYS TO MEN

  I am not a boy. I have never been a boy—and you’ll just have to trust me on that. So I cannot begin to imagine what it’s like to have this three-inch piece of flesh dangling between my legs that, for all intents and purposes, dictates (no pun intended) just about every aspect of my life. It’s like a prank, another one of God’s little jokes. I mean, when He was busy creating us, why did He bother to put a brain inside a man’s skull when He was going to put another one down there that would end up overriding every decision the skull-brain makes?

  Now I know the same could be said of women and their hormones, that we are frequently driven by them, but, in our defense, our brains are never completely taken over by hormonal surges. We are consciously aware of it when it happens, like I am sobbing over a Maytag commercial because I am about to get my period or I am throwing away every single pair of underwear in my drawer because I am perimenopausal. Though the action is absurd, rational thought prevails.

  Men are different. When the penis-brain takes over (and let’s be frank, the penis-brain has only one thing in mind), the skull brain simply shuts down. You have to kind of feel sorry for the guys. I mean, let’s take a look at the statistics. If a healthy man has about twenty erections a day, and erections can last anywhere from ten seconds to thirty minutes, by the time he’s forty, the average male has lost days, even weeks, of his life. “Where were you on the night of September 18?” “I have no recollection.” Erection. “What are you doing home in the middle of the workday?” “I have no idea.” Erection. “Honey, where is the remote control?” “I don’t know.” You better believe that if he doesn’t know where the remote control is, it’s due to an erection.

  I was up very late one night putting the finishing touches on one of my children’s school projects. My husband was in his office getting some work done, or so I thought. When I finally trudged into the bedroom, I found him fully clothed on top of the comforter, his fly open, and his hand resting on his thigh. When I asked him what he was doing, he looked at me with glassy eyes and shrugged. When I questioned him as to why he hadn’t gotten into his pajamas or brushed his teeth or turned down the bed, he merely shrugged a second time and said, “I really don’t remember. I don’t even know how I got here.”