Page 23 of Such a Good Wife

“Yeah. Your hair would look beautiful like that.”

“Do you know how to do it?” she asks, hopefully.

“I bet I could figure it out,” I say, getting up and sitting behind her. I’ve braided her hair for years, and I always love this time with her. Just us, without her glued to her phone or rolling her eyes at the burden of having to speak to us because we are so uncool.

“There’re auditions tomorrow for Grease.”

“Grease? You’re trying out for a musical? Honey, that’s great.”

I’m surprised. She’s never shown interest before.

“Katie is trying out for Sandy, but I just want to be one of the dancers in the back.”

She wants to do everything her friend Katie does, so this makes more sense now.

“I love it. They’d be crazy not to make you one of the dancers.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I see the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile as I section her hair to braid.

“Katie has to get Sandy. It’s the biggest role,” she says with tension in her voice. Then she lets out a sigh.

“There are probably a lot of girls trying out for that.”

“Mom. She has to.” Her voice breaks.

“Why’s that, hon?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer right away. I hear her sigh, and her head droops down. “What’s wrong?”

“Her dad’s been screwing Ms. Mendez.”

“What?”

“So she has to get the part.”

I don’t understand the correlation, but I’m still trying to figure out what she’s telling me.

“The gym teacher?”

“Yeah, and the whole school knows. Her mom left and she’s trying to pull Katie out and send her to some school wherever she moved to. It’s, like, twenty miles away.”

I can’t believe I haven’t heard about this. Stuff like this doesn’t stay quiet in this town, but I’ve been so preoccupied. I should tell her not to say the word screwing, but I stop braiding and give her a confused look, unable to think of a response.

“So she has to get the role of Sandy?” I don’t know what she’s getting at.

“Yeah, we have a plan to fix everything. If she gets the lead, her mom won’t be able to take her out of school. Her mom wouldn’t do that to her ’cause it’s, like, a big part. Plus, maybe kids will stop making fun of her if she’s the star.”

“The kids make fun of her?” I ask, fixated on this part.

“Everyone says Ms. Mendez is illegal and doesn’t have papers. They say Katie is probably her kid if her dad is screwing her.”

Again, I resist the urge to scold her for the language. She keeps going.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

“Doesn’t need to,” she adds. “They say she looks more like Ms. Mendez than her mom and that she should go back to Mexico.”

“Jesus!” I blurt out.

“Yeah. Someone spray-painted ‘build the wall’ on her locker.” She looks down at her hands. I hate that she even knows about these adult things. A few years back, our neighbor Judy Ainsley’s daughter, Mary, was spotted in the cafeteria with a spot of blood on the back of her white jeans. The kids called her “Bloody Mary” for the rest of the year and left tampons in her locker. They were relentless. An Instagram account was created by some anonymous classmate, dedicated to humiliating her with all things menstrual. Mary was hospitalized after a suicide attempt, and the family had to move. They left the state altogether. Rachel was younger then. Mary was in high school, so I don’t know if she’s heard the story. I hope not.

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