Free Play Dates by Leslie Carroll Page A

time. She is universally beloved, cheerfully aware that scads of kids over the decades have faked illnesses—particularly during gym classes—
    just to enjoy her tender ministrations (we loved it when she put wintergreen-scented towels on our stiff necks), her soothing voice (more like a chirp, actually, as though there was no problem too big for her to solve), and her affable companion-ship. I briefly wonder if she still smells like cinnamon-flavored Dentyne.
    “What kind of morals do you have and what sort of words are you teaching your daughter?” Mrs. Hennepin wants to know.
    “Where does Zoë hear words like ‘elope’? And more to the point, how does she happen to understand them?”
    “Oh, in my family, we’re very big on only using words we

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    Leslie Carroll
    comprehend the meanings of,” I assure the teacher. “And when we don’t know the meaning, we either ask or look it up in the dictionary. My guess is that Zoë first heard the word elope when she asked her father and me to tell her all about how we met and got married. And if you’re interested in getting into a discussion of morals, you’ll have to excuse me, but I have better things to do with my time.”
    Mrs. Hennepin’s face turns ashy gray. “You Marsh girls have always been a handful,” she says, her voice constricted. “And, clearly, the past eighteen years has changed nothing. This is not a joke. Xander Osborne ran away from the class and climbed a tree. We had to call for the shop teacher, Mr. Spiros, to come coax him down.”
    I don’t quite follow the logic, if indeed there is any, of calling for the wood shop teacher, other than that he probably knows more about trees than any of them, with the exception of the grade-school science teacher, Mrs. Peabo. “Mrs. Hennepin, are you telling me that my daughter’s use of the word ‘elope’ is the cause of another child’s misbehavior? Because I refuse to accept that. I’ve met the boy in question, and in my experience, he’s not exactly what you’d call a model child. Did you scold Nina Osborne for being a bad parent, too?”
    “It is my responsibility, whenever there is an incident that involves my students, to speak with their parents individually,”
    Mrs. Hennepin sighs. “But we appear to be going in circles. I’ve said my piece and can only hope that you’ll speak with Zoë about what kind of behavior and vocabulary are appropriate to a second-grade classroom setting.”
    She starts to rise, as if she’s just made the decision that this little tête-à-tête is fini , but I stop her with my voice. “Hey! Zoë didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t say anything vulgar or anything weird, except that the word elope is probably not on your second-grade vocabulary list. And I’m proud that my daughter is verbally proficient. Now, if Xander Osborne PLAY DATES
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    freaked out, that’s his problem, not Zoë’s. And his mother’s issues, not mine.”
    Mrs. Hennepin smiles. My argument is having no good effect.
    “You’re entitled to your opinions on how other parents may see fit to raise their offspring, but I strongly advise you to look to your own actions, Ms. Marsh. To teach Zoë what is appropriate behavior and what is inappropriate for a second-grade student.”
    She sounds like a broken record. “This is ridiculous!” I slam my hand on the sofa cushion and become momentarily distracted by the resultant motes trapped in a sunbeam streaming through the mullioned window. I have to go over Hennepin’s head on this one. “I want to discuss this with Mr. Kiplinger,” I say.
    “Mr. Kiplinger is a very busy man, Ms. Marsh.”
    I point to the phone on the credenza. “No doubt. Nevertheless, I want you to ring him and tell him to take ten minutes out of his hectic fundraising schedule to speak to an alumna and the mother of one of his students.”
    Reluctantly, Mrs. Hennepin dials two extensions in succes-sion, requesting each party to join her ASAP in the