Page 5 of The Game Is Afoot

“I didn’t…nottell her that.” I laugh and punch his shoulder. “But in my defense, it was more in the spirit ofallparents taking deep breaths. If that’s what they need. Not specifically in reference to your need.”

“So youdothink I have a need then?”

“I mean, don’t we all require oxygen at the end of the day?” He shrugs. “And wait, did she tell you about the impression she did of your breathing? Because I really feel like I’m being unfairly sold out here. She had the class laughing straight through myone-two-three-eyes-on-me with what I think is, for the record, anextremelyexaggerated impression of that huffing thing you do.”

“What do you mean, that huffing thing I do!”

He puts his palms up. “Hey, that’s all I can tell you. What happens in Making Friends With Big Feelings class stays in Making Friends With Big Feelings class.”

“Did you intend for that to sound so cult-y? Because it’s leaning more Children of God than Daniel Tiger. Am I about to be interviewed for a podcast?”

“That reminds me, did I tell you that your dad texted me last night about being a guest on his?”

“Oh no. What—”

A baby lets out a loud squawk next to us, followed by a long squeal of displeasure. And while I need to get more information about why my sixty-something father is soliciting guests for hisLaw & Orderrecap podcast, like, as soon as possible, this is a good reminder that I’m in public at my kid’s school, not just giggling with my boyfriend—as much as I want to be.

“Hello, Mavis! Mr. Cohen! How are you both?” The bearer of the baby is Florence Michaelson—mother to Axel, a boy in Pearl’s second-grade class. She’s wearing a gauzy beige dress with Birkenstock Boston clogs, and her white-blond hair is tucked under a wide-brimmed felt hat. Her daughter is strapped to her chest in one of those fabric wraps that I was always scared to try with Pearl because she was so big and I was sure she would slip right out. Andthisbaby is definitely too big to be in one. Though, I forget how old she is because Florence said something ridiculous like 19.564 months, and I had to use all my mental power not to roll my eyes into the back of my head, so I didn’t actually retain the information.

“Doing well, Mrs. Michaelson.” Jack’s hands quickly drop from my waist, and Florence’s dark, laminated brows raise.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that for me. I just love you two together. We all do!” She reaches forward to squeeze Jack’s arm, and her 19.564-month-old daughter smacks her in displeasure. “I also want to thank you for the good work you’re doing in the Making Friends With Big Feelings classes. Axel helped us all reach the green zone yesterday, and it made him feel so empowered. I told all of my followers about it last night on my Live, and now they all wish they had a Mr. Cohen at their schools, too. Truly, you’re a gift to Knoll.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Thank you,” Jack says, stepping back to subtly remove himself from her grip. “I need to head to my office now, but I’ll see you both later. I hope the kids had fun with Mr. Forest!”

As he waves goodbye, he makes eye contact with me, communicating all the things he can’t say with his fangirl here.We’ll figure this out. I’m here for you.I mouthcultat him and smile in delight at the little snort that escapes when he’s trying to hold in his laugh.

“He is just so wonderful, isn’t he? How lucky you are.”

I mumble something that isn’t exactly identifiable words, but it seems to appease Florence, who smiles beatifically.

“I’m so anxious to hear how this first day went, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. This is Pearl’s first time doing something like this.” I point toward the auditorium, where a crowd of parents are starting to gather.

“Axel, too. He’s extremely selective about who he reveals his full self to, but he’s always had music in his soul. He sings us the most beautiful songs before bedtime each night. And he’s all self-taught! So now I feel like it’s my job as his mama to help him channel his talents and truly connect with others.”

The baby reaches up and smacks Florence again. I wonder if she’s already getting exhausted, too, after 19.564 months of this bullshit.

Florence is…nice. Fine. There’s nothing bad I can really say about her without sounding like an asshole myself. She’s just so…stiff. And smiley. It’s like she’s constantly aware that every moment is a possible thumbnail photo for the perpetual day-in-the-life video that is her existence. And that’s not an exaggeration. She’s one of those moms who’s documented every second of her kids’ lives on Instagram, with saccharine captions like “Making memories!” and “So lucky to be their mama”—and has gained quite a lot of followers doing it. Even now, I can see her fingers twitching as she clutches her phone at her side, getting ready to capture content.

“Yes, um, I hope Pearl also…connects.”

Florence clutches her hands to her heart, flashing me a look she’d probably pair with a long post about sharing this journey called life with other mamas.

God, I wish I convinced my friends Jasmine and Dyvia to sign their kids up for this theater class, too, because I’m already starting to sweat thinking about the long weeks ahead of me dodging this small talk. Maybe I could just wait in my car until thirty seconds before dismissal and then sprint out, grab Pearl, and go. If I wear sunglasses, they can’t catch my eye…

Florence reaches forward and squeezes my arm. So I guess that’s not just a thing she does to Jack, the gift to Knoll. “Oh, and I wanted to check in with you. Do you need any guidance for snack tomorrow? I know it’s your first time.”

Florence is also the team mom for that club soccer program I signed Pearl up for—even though Axel is way more interested in picking the tiny white flowers that grow on the field than kicking the ball. Her team mom duties, from what I can tell, seem to consist of sending out surveys about team colors and then choosing what she wanted all along (aquamarine) and policing thesnacks families bring each Saturday to make sure they’re sugar-, dairy-, gluten-, and fun-free.

“No, I think we’re good. Corey is going to take care of it, actually.” She winces slightly, and I rush to add, “He knows all about Axel’s food sensitivities. And to make sure everything’s organic and has GMO…or, um, no GMO. Whatever the good one is!”

I’m actually not sure he knows all this. Because the extent of our conversation was: “I’ll get the snacks.” “Okay, cool.” But he’s probably not shopping until tonight anyway.

The baby in the carrier turns her head around to look at me, like she just realized I was there. “No. No, no!”

Man, I thought we were on the same side here, baby.

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