Free Life After Coffee by Virginia Franken Page A

Damn, I can’t remember her name. There are two of them working in Billy’s classroom and they both have red hair, for goodness’ sake.
    “Hey,” Billy says.
    “So, those are the colors of the Swedish flag?” she asks, getting out her phone to take his picture for the wall. She must have figured out how to print photos from her phone. I haven’t held a physical photo that I’ve snapped myself this century. There’s a huge chart on the wall with all the kids’ names on it, alongside the nationality they’ve chosen to represent for the day. By “Billy O’Hara,” it says “Sweden.”
    “Actually, we checked with my father and Billy’s great-grandfather was Armenian!” I say chirpily. I’m always surprised by how easily I am able to tell a lie. I deserve to be haunted by the entire clan of Janssons for at least the next six months of my life for denying my Nordic roots in the name of convenience.
    “Your ancestry is Armenian?” she says, flicking a meaningful look over my and Billy’s white-blond hair.
    “Yup. Armenian,” I say, and gaze over to her chart. She grudgingly picks up a thick marker and runs a big black line through “Sweden” and writes “Armenia” in its place. The chart is ruined.
    From out in the corridor comes the urgent slam and scrape of a busy woman wearing heels. I turn around to see another Cheerful Cheetah mom in full office garb blazing through the front door. She looks exhausted, a little tense, perfectly groomed. Her daughter is wearing a beautiful patchwork dress of green, red, and white.
    “Nice dress,” I say before I can stop myself. I generally try to limit my interactions with the other moms. It always just ends with me finding out information that I really didn’t want to know, like there’s a special orange folder that Billy’s supposed to take home every day that’s stuffed with homework that hasn’t been done for three weeks, or that we’re zoned for an elementary school so low in the ratings that we’re either going to have to go private or move.
    “Thanks. Regina’s grandma made it for her. The colors are for the flag of Italy.” She smiles, and some of the tension leaves her face. She’s pretty when you remove the first layer of stress. She’s carrying a cloth bag brimming over with what I can see are party favors. Damn it. The party favors. Why is it that I can instantly recall which roasting recipes work best for eighty different types of bean at any waking moment but can’t remember something as simple as bringing twenty-four nationality-themed party favors to preschool?
    “So I forgot the party favors I was supposed to bring,” I say in the general direction of Billy’s teacher. I really wish I could remember her name. “I can run to Target now and drop them off in about an hour if that’s okay?” Billy looks up at me from where he’s constructing some kind of epic tower from Lego. It’s a look that’s both embarrassed and scornful. If I wasn’t already feeling like the C-minus adult in the room, I surely do now.
    “No need,” says Regina’s mom. “I always bring extra ’cause someone always forgets.” She flashes me a genuine smile to show me she’s not being Judgment Mom. “We’re all so busy, aren’t we?”
    Finally. Someone who gets it. I’m just starting to think about a nonstalkerish way of asking her if she’d be down for our kids having a playdate sometime when there’s the sound of a smashing Lego tower. We all turn around to see Regina and Billy on the floor fighting. Regina stands up and starts punching Billy hard on the arm; Billy’s still down, but he’s kicking out at her legs with everything he’s got. We all swoop in, but before we get there Billy lands the ultimate one: he bites her, right on the fleshy part of her hand. I go for Billy and pull him out from under Regina. Regina immediately stops fighting and runs to her mother. Billy continues to lash out and smacks me square in the face.
    One second