Page 45 of The Game Is Afoot

She swats my hand back playfully. “You still need to get a professional! But in the meantime, I need you to google the Nap Ministry—”

“Oh, Dyvia, I was hoping I’d find you here!” Mrs. Tennison glides into the PTA workroom (where, for the record, Dyvia can be found every day). Mrs. Tennison is in her early fifties, with dyed-black hair and shrewd, dark eyes that can lock in on the exact moment a seven-year-old pulls a contraband container ofslime from their backpack and give a silent, but effective, warning to put it away. She’s wearing a denim overall dress and a primary-color-striped shirt, like the patron saint of all elementary school teachers. She doesn’t have Pearl, or any of the other kids in her class, trailing after her, so it must be recess.

“Can you help me with something?” she asks, clutching her wooden-beaded lanyard. And then she launches into her plea before Dyvia can even nod. “I’m just having the hardest time finding a new room mom. As you know, I no longer have one because of mine…being banned from the premises. And well, I really need some help planning the class pizza party, grading the spelling tests, doing stuff like this.” She gestures to our project. “It’ll be Valentine’s Day in just over two weeks, and I don’t have any hearts cut out to put around the room.”

“That must be so difficult. I’m so sorry!” Dyvia says, hand to her chest like she can really feel Mrs. Tennison’s pain. This is why she’s so good at this job. “Have you emailed the parents?”

“None of them have responded,” she says tightly, and it feels like a spotlight just hit me. I am one of those parents.

“Now I know Trisha was quite…passionate and made some…unconventional choices.” That’s one way to put it, lady. And it’s clear in her long pause, as she wrings her hands, what she’s leaving unspoken: thatI’mthe one who brought light to thoseunconventional choices. “But,” she finally continues, “shedidcut out a mean heart. And she wouldalwaysvolunteer to drive to Costco for the cheaper pizza!”

Mrs. Tennison frowns, and the spotlight gets brighter, nearly blinding me. I feel a drop of sweat roll down my back from the heat of its focus.

And I know exactly what to say to make that frown shift into a smile. To make her happy with me—and, most importantly, Pearl.

“Mrs. Tennison—” Dyvia starts, but I cut her off.

“I can do it.”

There’s a clattering as Dyvia accidentally knocks the markers off the table, and I steadily avoid her glare.

“Great!” Mrs. Tennison claps her hands. “I’ll go get the construction paper now. I trust you have a good pair of scissors—I just need two hundred or so cut out. And can you add some positive, encouraging messages on a few of them? Like conversation hearts? You can send me your rough ideas, if you need feedback. Oh! And I also need a new George Washington costume for the Presidents’ Day skit we do next month. The last one…well, it was a particularly bad flu season. Do you sew?”

She’s out the door before I can confirm or deny.

I sigh, returning to the poster in front of me. “Okay, so is Claudette Colvin going in the fifth-grade hallway or the fourth? You know what, I might have to reprint this picture.”

Dyvia is silent, so I’m forced to look at her, even though I already know what’s waiting for me there: bemusement and an exasperated delight, with just a dash of horror.

“Mavis, did you really just take onanotherresponsibility when we were talking about unapologetically doing less, like…five seconds ago?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a work in progress.” I pose with my face in my hands, beaming my most ridiculous grin at her until she’s forced to laugh. “But wait, can we go back to how Ruth and Felicia are trying to Jim Crow–ify the PTA? Because I feel like I didn’t give that the attention it deserves.”

—

I end up taking anap in the afternoon, Dyvia’s orders, but it’s restless and sweaty and filled with hazy, panicked dreams about Cole’s body hitting the field. So I don’t feel likeI’ve taken a nap at all when I finally head back to Knoll to pick up Pearl.

I start to wonder if I’mstilldreaming, though, when I see Corey at the front gate, a few steps back from the usual crowd of moms, with his arms crossed and sunglasses on.Why is he here?

He tilts his head to the side when he sees me, probably thinking the same question.

“It’s Wednesday,” he says when I reach him.

“Okay…” Annoyance flares immediately because Iamaware of the day of the week. Most of the time.

“And I always pick up Pearl on Wednesdays because you stay later to do that mentor training.” He sucks his teeth, realization hitting. “Except not anymore because…your sabbatical.”

We both look at each other, deciding whether to make it a thing, but he shrugs before I can give in to my petty instincts. “She’ll be really happy to see both of us.”

I smile, imagining her smile. “She will.”

“I’m almost done with the goody bags, by the way. And all the candy’s organic—I double-checked.” His dimple makes an appearance. “Even found these little Shrek figurines at that tiny party store down on Orizaba? He has three of those—what are they even? Horns? Tentacles? But I don’t think they’ll notice.”

“Thank you for doing that.” A wave of tenderness takes me by surprise because he didn’t even question it when I told him about this last-minute party. He just asked for half of my to-do list. It was nice to have someone I could lean on without guilt, because I know he wants to make Pearl happy just as much as I do.

“I was thinking about getting her a keyboard and microphone set for my present, since she’s been so into singing lately. That good with you?”

“Yeah, I think she’ll like that.”

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