Free Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan by Paula Marantz Cohen Page A

disadvantages of being a stay-at-home mother that any failure to keep abreast of the myriad of details attached to the children’s lives seemed like an unconscionable breach of responsibility. A twinge of guilt took hold as she peeked out from the corner of her eye at a pile of papers near the foot of her daughter’s bed. One was inscribed in bold print with the message MARK YOUR CALENDARS: NEW DATE FOR BACK-TO-SCHOOL NIGHT.
    â€œIsn’t that the sheet?” asked Carla, motioning accusingly toward the paper.
    â€œWhat?” said Stephanie. It was hard to say whether her attention was more engaged by the sound of the cantor’s voice on the tape or the need to hold the curling iron in one hand while balancing the French book in the other.
    â€œWould you turn that thing off?” said Carla in exasperation.
    â€œYou don’t have to yell!” Stephanie used the phrase “you don’t have to yell” as a catch-all in any situation in which she felt herself the object of criticism. Carla generally failed to deflect this strategic move and would become caught up, before she knew it, in a pointless quarrel about tone of voice.
    â€œI said”—Carla kept her voice as steady as she could—“that I didn’t know tonight was Back-to-School Night. If I hadn’t run into Mrs. Gupta in the supermarket on the way home from seeing Aunt Margot, I would never have known.”

    â€œSorrreee,” said Stephanie in an unapologetic tone. “I thought you did.” She picked up the sheet at the foot of her bed and held it out. “Here.”
    â€œIt doesn’t do me much good now.”
    â€œI said I was sorry.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know how we’re going to handle this,” said Carla with annoyance. “Your father is at an important medical meeting, and I have an appointment with Dr. Samuels. It takes months to get an appointment with him, so I can’t cancel.”
    â€œHave Grandma go,” suggested Stephanie with a shrug. “She’s nice and the teachers would like her.” (The implication was that Carla was not nice and the teachers would not like her. Stephanie was adept at this sort of oblique insult.)
    â€œI don’t think that your grandmother is really in any shape for it right now,” said Carla. “You know how strangely she’s been behaving lately.”
    â€œOh, my teachers wouldn’t mind,” observed Stephanie. “Most of them are so out of it, they wouldn’t even notice. Besides, the weird words would go over big with my English teacher, Mr. Pearson. He likes weird old words. He’s the one who makes us memorize all that Shakespeare.”
    Carla nodded in recollection. There had been something of a fracas early in the term regarding this teacher’s requirement for memorization. At first, Stephanie had reacted violently in opposition: “He’s like back in the Dark Ages. No one expects you to memorize poetry anymore; it’s a waste of time. I could be learning capitals for Mr. Perrone.” (Mr. Perrone taught cultural geography and was forever assigning them capitals of countries that kept changing.) “Can’t Daddy write a note saying that I have some kind of dyslexia with memorizing stuff?” (Mark, as a physician, had been prevailed upon in the past to write notes to get Stephanie out of gym class for such dubious complaints as an ingrown toenail, sprained pinky, or heat rash.)
    In this instance, however, Mark dug in his heels and took the
side of the teacher. He happened to have had a positive experience in the sixth grade memorizing “The Cremation of Sam McGee” and could still remember raising his voice and shaking his fist during the key scene of McGee’s incineration. “Best educational experience of my life,” he pronounced. “Wish I’d done more of it.”
    As it turned out, Stephanie’s opposition to memorizing