Page 75 of Ella Gets the D
“Oh, you know! Camps and planning fall activities.” The cheer in her voice dwindles to a level that no longer matches the tangerine radiating from her sundress. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”
“It is back to school night.”
Jackson’s school always hosts the event during the first week. There are activities to say goodbye to summer and volunteers to watch the kids while the grown-ups have private conversationswith teachers about the upcoming year. Ms. Rindheart took in the news of our family transition with warmth and the promise to maintain communication should school resources for socio-emotional support be necessary. Jackson doesn’t jump to voice his feelings like Haile does. He’s my quiet boy with a big heart, and I want him to feel supported and be able to express his thoughts.
Louise is a true gift. Rose’s partner is a retired mental health counselor who worked with kids his age in DC public schools, and she is still certified to meet with families. We meet weekly on Fridays at Bright Spot so Haile and Jackson can have a safe space to talk about their feelings as we navigate our new normal.
It’s not the easiest to grab my son from Virginia now that school started back up, but I would walk through traffic on the beltway to ensure my babies have what they need to thrive. The sibling duo is currently immersed in an ice cream social on the back lawn at the a mini carnival the mastermind in front of me planned.
“You really outdid yourself, Amy,” I say. “This is a wonderful event.”
She shoos away the compliment and smiles. “Thanks! We’re wrapping up soon and are heading to Cara’s for wine. You should come.”
“I’m sure she has to get back to her side of the beltway.”
Tiffany Hearst doesn’t need a general election to win Queen B status—emphasis on theB. She wears it with pride and ice in her pale blue eyes.
Her nude pumps scrape across the floor until she’s a foot away. I straighten my black framed glasses with my thumb and middle finger. The latter pops up first.
Every mean-girl school mom gives me the stink eye for breathing. And that was before I left my ex, back when I tried to play nice and they wondered what Charles ever saw in me, why Iwas ever granted access to their kingdom. It’s one of the reasons Idostay on my side of the beltway.
“We should go if we don’t want to be late,” she says to Amy. Her eyes cut back to me, unable to hide the stench of her attitude.
“Don’t let me keep you. I have plans myself.” I look at my watch. “You should get going, Tiff, before someone conjures you up to star in their next nightmare.”
Queen B spins on her heel with aharrumphand leaves her so-called friend behind, along with a layer of perfume that sears our nostrils. Amy might swing from ceilings, but her allegiance to Tiffany is why there’s distance between us. Life is hard enough without looking over your shoulder to make sure someone in your corner isn’t about to stab you.
Amy’s pleading eyes lift to mine. “Talk to you later,” I say. I’m not mad. It is what it is.
I also do have somewhere to be.
“Date night?” Katharine all but choked on her tea when I told her I was on my way to a date with myself. She had a million questions but held them in with a softness in her features for the woman before her reclaiming Friday nights.
A standing appointment at the end of every week is now on the color-coded calendar keeping my life in order. Uninterrupted me time while my kids are away for the weekend.
Summer was a shuffle between Jackson’s camp and the one we ran at Bright Spot, along with our regular programming. Now that school is back in session, a full-time job has been an adjustment, but we’re handling our business.
Today couldn’t come soon enough, though.
The twenty-minute ride back to DC through the musk of humid air whipping my curls led me to a red brick building with a black awning on a street away from the thriving congestion of Georgetown nightlife. Every week, I choose a restaurant at random to try new dishes with a cocktail.
The verdict is in: I’ve fallen in love with a savory noodle soup.
Swigs is not what I expected. The dive bar setting had me skeptical at first, but the Filipino dishes are award-winning. Morgan and I have seen and tasted our fair share of gentrified cuisine—like the time we got generic pork rinds out a bag masquerading aschicharrónes.
Cooking might not be my ministry, but the tongue doesn’t lie. My taste buds have shimmied since the first bite of an empanada I didn’t expect to see on the menu. Karen better not put raisins in the potato salad, but they work as a filling alongside peas, ground meat, potatoes, and veggies.
Warm broth softens beef over noodles and slices of hard-boiled egg. Garlic and ginger blend with cinnamon notes, tempting me to slurp down the bowl and lick it clean.
“Room for dessert?” Tala, the server, drops a billfold into the black apron over her jeans.
My eyes are bigger than my stomach, but that’s why the person who invented drawstring shorts has a special place in heaven. “As a matter of fact, yes. The banana cue, please.”
Nutmeg eyes beam with the promise of caramelized goodness. “It’s my favorite.”
I smile and pass the menu I kept by my side all evening. “Then I have to try it.”
Eating out by myself took time, but it got easier. I no longer hide behind my phone to distract from the fact that I’m out alone. Sometimes I bring a book. On other nights, I get lost in live music and people-watching.
