Free Play Dates by Leslie Carroll Page B

parent-teacher conference room. After an awkward few minutes, during which neither one of us feels the slightest inclination to indulge in small talk, the principal enters the room with Mr.
    Mendel, the guidance counselor and school psychologist. Mrs.
    Hennepin cedes her chair to Mr. Kiplinger, a tweed-and-elbow-patches type who gratifies his vanity by preferring to be referred to as “Headmaster.” Thackeray Academy is steeped in an-glophilic pretensions. As another example, they refer to grades seven through twelve the way the English do—as “forms” one through six.
    “So, what seems to be the fuss?” Kiplinger asks. His British affectation has grown more pronounced over the years. I happen to know he grew up in the Northeast Bronx. We rehash today’s Playground Incident. You would think we were discussing the Bay of Pigs. “Well,” the headmaster says, shooting his cuffs, “if

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    Leslie Carroll
    Regina Hennepin found it an imperative to speak with you regarding your daughter’s conduct, and she feels there’s a question of morals to be addressed as regards behavior you seem to find acceptable from Zoë, I must accede to her judgment. She is, after all, your daughter’s teacher. She sees Zoë every day—”
    “And I don’t?!” I’m ready to explode, although I fear my fighting Thackeray’s equivalent of City Hall may do my daughter more lasting harm than good.
    “Mrs. Hennepin is a valued member of the faculty, of the Thackeray family. She has decades of experience in evaluating the appropriateness of a six-year-old’s behavior.” Kiplinger insists on going to the mat for his teacher, as—I suppose, objec-tively speaking—he should. I resist the impulse to suggest that Mrs. Hennepin has been at it for so long that creeping senility may be a factor here. The headmaster gives the floor to Mr.
    Mendel, a balding, bespectacled nebbish in his mid-thirties.
    “Ms. Marsh, are there problems at home?”
    I blink a couple of times. “What do you mean?”
    “Well, there’s no way to put this delicately, but your family has gone through a sea change since last semester. Your daughter comes from a broken home—”
    This is too much. How dare this little creep! “Look, Mr. Mendel, I don’t know where you come off trying to psychoanalyze my life.
    Zoë is a perfectly normal, if somewhat precocious, little girl. She’s not the problem child, here. Why aren’t you asking Nina Osborne why her son has such a violent temper? Why he throws sand?
    Every toddler knows it’s wrong to throw sand at another child!”
    “But they do it just the same,” Mr. Mendel says, peering at me through his thick lenses. “And boys will be boys.”
    “Is that all you can say?” I’m appalled. And, evidently, friend-less in this room. “How many of my tuition dollars go toward your salary?” I demand of Mr. Mendel. “So you can spout . . .
    aphorisms . . . instead of dealing with the situation at hand?” So much for Thackeray’s attention to discipline. I look Mr. Mendel PLAY DATES
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    right in the myopic eyes. “So. The way you see things, I’m an unfit mother with questionable morals because my daughter happens to have an advanced vocabulary for her age, while the class bully was just ‘being a little boy.’ Have I understood you correctly?”
    “Ms. Marsh, there’s no reason to become upset,” Mr.
    Kiplinger soothes, ineffectually playing the peacemaker.
    I turn on the three of them. “I don’t want you to tell me what I’m doing wrong as a parent. I want you to tell me what you’re going to do to keep a genuinely disruptive child in line. My daughter uses a big word. Xander Osborne throws sand at her.
    He could ha
    blinded
    ve
    Zoë, for God’s sake!”
    The educators exchange glances and the two men rise.
    “You’re very emotional right now,” Mr. Mendel tells me in the kind of voice one would use when speaking to a mental patient.
    “Why don’t you go home and think about our discussion,