True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

“They tore down the old Stratford Junior High where you went to school.” Barbara points at a vacant lot with a Conrad Contractors sign sticking out of the ground. “The city sold the property to a developer.” Barbara shakes her head. “That’s prime real estate. I heard he’s gonna cram a bunch of huge houses on that lot and sell them for millions. And people are buying them as fast as he can build them.”

I nod and gaze at the empty lot. If I squint my eyes, I can see ghosts of the past milling about the phantom buildings—the lockers, the old concrete basketball court. All gone now. Not that I’m nostalgic over it. In fact, it makes it a little easier to take Sarah to a different school. It just makes me realize how much Stratford has changed in my absence.

Barbara merges into traffic on Jewell Avenue. “It’s a long haul out to the new school, but Sarah can ride the bus with Mary Grace. They pick them up right outside the house.”

I glance back at Sarah, who is staring out the window as Mary Grace hums a little tune.

“The kids at school are mean,” says Mary Grace.

Barbara adjusts the rearview mirror toward the back seat. “What kind of thing is that to say on Sarah’s first day, missy?”

“It’s the truth, Mama.”

The school sits behind a tall brick wall with a wrought-iron gate. The two-story, early American architecture is unlike any public school I’ve ever seen; certainly a far cry from the concrete block, one-story institutions with open-to-the-element corridors that the county constructed when I went to junior high.

“We have arrived,” says Barbara.

And how.

She pulls into a parking space, then leads the way to the reception desk, just inside the front door like a sentry guarding the main hall. Anyone who wishes access to Stratford Middle School must first gain entrance.

The gatekeeper, a fine-boned woman with short dark hair, regards me suspiciously until Barbara introduces me.

Her name is Judy. She’s the school office manager. I have a feeling nothing gets by Judy.

Mary Grace hugs her mother and Sarah goodbye and kind of half waves at me, then heads to class.

“Have a good day, M.G. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Barbara laughs. “M.G.?”

“Yeah,” says Sarah. “She likes me to call her that.”

“Well, I think that’s just great.”

Sarah wanders over to look at some teacher photos hanging on the wall across from the desk.

The place still smells new—that freshly built smell of construction, paint and floor wax co-mingling with simmering school lunch. There’s a trophy case to the right down the hall a bit; on the left is a set of double doors with a brass plaque that says Library. At the end of the long main hall is an elaborate staircase with swarms of teenagers traveling up and down.

The place buzzes with snatches of conversation and laughter, movement and the sound of the glass front doors opening and shutting, letting in intermittent clips of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn. People are everywhere—kids hanging out and talking; adults who I assume are teachers rush about with purpose; a group of four blond women each wearing large diamond rings and expensive-looking tennis outfits.

My God, they all look alike. How do they do that?

Barbara follows my gaze to the women. “Oh, I see you’ve located the Stratford Wives.”

I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “The Stratford Wives? Oh my God, that’s perfect. Who are they?”

“They think they’re the queens of the universe, if that tells you anything. In reality, they’re just a clique of spoiled rich men’s wives who don’t realize high school ended more years ago than they can probably count.”

“Barbara!” I am completely taken aback by this side of her. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”

Stratford Park was full of old money when I was growing up here, but we never had Stratford Wives. My, my, how things have changed.

“Oh, honey, stick with me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Oh! Oh, that one over there.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially and nods to a heavyset mousy woman with brown hair and glasses who is logging something into a notebook on a table under a Volunteer banner. “That’s Connie Claxton, archenemy of the Stratford Wives and anybody else who dares look crosswise at her precious little brat.”

“Claxton? Any relation to the Claxton fruitcake empire?”

“No, I believe the Claxton company is actually named after the city in Georgia. But Connie Claxton is a fruitcake all right. Oh, and Chloe’s a seventh grader, you’d best warn Sarah to steer clear. She’ll probably try to glom onto her. She doesn’t have any friends.”

I raise my eyebrows at her and try to keep my voice light. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

Barbara raises her eyebrows back at me. “Chloe and Connie are like pit bulls, they seem nice and maybe even playful at first, but they turn on you in a heartbeat. Believe you me, I am the first one to stand up for a child, but Connie and Chloe are a piece of work. The rules apply to everyone but them, but she’s the first to scream if she thinks she’s been wronged. I’ve had my share of Connie encounters and she got Anastasia Deveraux, the little neighbor girl who lives across the street, called down to the principal’s office claiming the girl was a threat to her daughter’s safety. You know once anyone raises the safety flag the principal has a duty to act on it. Ana may be a little full of herself because she’s a popular girl, but she’s no more a threat to anyone’s safety than you are. Her mother, Elizabeth, was mad as a wet cat. It turns out it was all over Anastasia not wanting to sit with Chloe in study hall. Anastasia simply doesn’t like that child because she’s a mean, spoiled little brat who always has to have her way. From what I understand, very few of the kids like her because of how she treats them. Her mother doesn’t help matters. Connie thinks she can bully her way to making people like Chloe. It’s really sad. Oh, God, here she comes.”

Barbara turns and busies herself, but Connie marches right up to her.

“Barbara, I need a word with you.”

I actually see Barbara bristle.

“Connie Claxton. What can I do for you?”

Connie pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You can get your daughter under control.”

Barbara cuts her gaze to me for an I-told-you-so moment then looks back at Connie. “What, pray tell, is Mary Grace doing that needs to be controlled?”

Barbara’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and I don’t know whether to laugh or turn and walk away, the scene is that unbelievable.

“She was laughing at Chloe in the library. If I didn’t know better, I might think this was harassment. But considering the source, I suppose that would be silly.”

My jaw drops at this dig at Mary Grace’s disability. I’m sure Barbara is seething.

“She’s a child, Connie. Children laugh. Laughter does not hurt anyone.”

“I know that. She’s a special child, she’s not capable of physically hurting anyone. What I’m saying, Barbara, is there’s no reason you can’t teach her some manners.”

For a second I fear Barbara is going to slug her. I want to slug her. I can’t believe someone could be so low.

“Why don’t you set the example and teach your little Chloe some manners? Maybe it will help her get along better, bless her little heart.”

Connie huffs off.

“So there you go,” says Barbara. “That’s Connie Claxton.”

I start the paperwork to enroll Sarah. But there’s a slight snag when Judy asks for an official document to prove that I reside in the school zone.

“Don’t you have a lease agreement or an electricity bill?” Judy says. “Something that shows you’re official?”

“Certainly not,” Barbara snaps. “I will not charge my niece rent to live with me. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”