Stepmothers Anonymous

By Ruth E. Griffin

Abbey wasn't always a wicked stepmother. Once upon a time, she was just an average, overweight single mother, whose life revolved around her two daughters. Then the handsome and charming Bradley Mauer came into her life and swept her off her feet. Abbey was ready to live "happily-ever-after" - until reality set in, bringing with it an incorrigib

• Language: English
• Publisher: Studio Griffin
• Release date: Mar 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954818132

Ruth E. Griffin

Ruth E. Griffin began telling stories at a young age, first with pictures, then with words. Even though she always considered herself an artist first, Ruth has been writing since grade school. She penned her first book as a teenager and has continued writing since then. Ruth is now the award-winning author of several books, which center on women's experiences. She is the founder of Studio Griffin, LLC., a full-service hybrid press; as well as a cohost of Authors Up, an internet show that provides a platform for new, established, and aspiring authors. A New Jersey native, Ruth now resides in North Carolina with her husband. They are parents to four adult children. Her books are available at all major online bookstores.

Book preview

Introduction

My name is Abbeygail, and I am a wicked stepmother. Actually, you can just call me Abbey and I wasn't always a wicked stepmother. This isn’t the kind of thing you plan, after all. You don't wake up one morning and decide, Oh, I think I'll become the scorn of all things good and the envy of all things evil. Nope. Somewhere between happily-ever-after and the possibility of facing life in prison comes the day when you realize, regardless of all your good intentions, you are now the most loathsome creature in all the world. 

As of recently, my life has become very complicated. It wasn't always this way, though. Before incorrigible stepchildren and nefarious plots for revenge and world domination, all I wanted was a simple life, a perfect and loving husband, obedient and adoring kids—a fairy tale, if you will. And while you could describe what I got as ‘fairy-tale-ish’, none of it was quite what I had hoped for.

There was a Prince Charming, of course, but he was more of a Frog Prince, with a wart for every issue. The forlorn Princess in need of rescuing was really a mischievous troublemaker, while her Grandmother and Godmother were overly protective busybodies. There were also wolves, dragons, tainted fruit and seven dwarfish men. Oh, and let's not forget about magic; no fairy tale is complete without magic. And not the wimpy-illusion-pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat kind of magic, either. We're talking about the hardcore-potions-and-brew-psychokinetic-shape-shifting-witching-hour type of magic, the kind employed by those with visions of grandeur and ambitions of global domination.

Yep, my life has definitely become complicated, and all without the compulsory 'happily-ever-after' to seal the deal, because what wicked stepmother ever got a happy ending? I guess I'm only reaping what I deserve, though. I crashed the Governor's ball, took him and his distinguished guests hostage and am directly responsible for the destruction of the city and the death of the Governor's daughter. If all that doesn't scream 'wicked', I don't know what does.

Despite my willingness to label myself as ‘wicked’ though, my story actually began very differently. My recent actions may have coincided with Election Night, but my sordid tale actually began some eighteen years ago with a man named Todd Bishop.

Todd was my first love. At the time I thought it was true love, but that was not the case…at least for him. He had a wandering eye and was on his second affair by the time I gave birth to our first daughter, Nicole. To his credit, Todd remained faithful for a time, as Nicole developed into a sweet, smart, little girl; but I just couldn't keep his interest. You see, I am what some might call plus-size (fat, if you're inclined to be politically incorrect); though I've been told I have a pretty face. Still, when your husband is handsome, with baby blue eyes, shaggy brown hair and a killer body that makes women weak at the knees, a pretty face just isn't enough to maintain a marriage.

How I ever attracted his attention is beyond me. I had no beauty routines, nothing that made me stand out in a crowd. I've had the same haircut since high school: chin length, never colored, never curled; my blonde tresses just hanging straight down and framing my 'pretty face'. I didn't wear a whole lot of makeup—a little eyeliner, mascara, and some foundation. And because I'd always had issues with my weight, I wore belts, girdles, and control tops—anything to draw attention away from my amply-shaped body. It wasn't enough for Todd, though, and I did the only thing I knew got his attention before: I got pregnant again. Todd had been a doting father six years earlier with Nicole; certainly, he would be again. But what I didn't know was that he had already decided to leave; and following the birth of our daughter, Zoë, he did just that, taking the car, bankbook, and my self-esteem with him. I got full custody of our daughters and an occasional child-support check.

So much for happy endings.

I was now the breadwinner and sole parent to the two most precious girls in the world, doing whatever necessary to give them the best life possible, with or without a man. I didn't date often and the ones who managed to catch my eye were not worth my time. Meanwhile, my girls got older and wiser. Nicole was always on the principal’s list and always helpful with and protective over Zoë. She was constantly reassuring me we were okay without Todd, but she didn’t have it in her to lie convincingly. I could see the void he left in her and in spite of my best efforts, I couldn't fill it.

Zoë, on the other hand, was my eternal optimist; there was little I found throughout the years that could keep her down. She was always busy and always hungry. And because she had never met her father, she was always on the lookout for an eligible candidate to take his place. I'm sure she was disappointed with the lack of worthy contenders (fat or not, I still have standards).

Then a couple of years ago, we moved to the capital city. It was a welcome change. We found an apartment in a decent neighborhood, I got a job at a downtown law firm as a receptionist and the girls were enrolled in two of the best schools in the county (the Governor's daughter attended Nicole's high school, a raving endorsement in my book). Life was good and I was content. Lonely and longing, but content.

Then Bradley Mauer walked into my life. He was handsome, charming, and he loved my daughters like they were his own. Our story should have ended with 'and we lived happily-ever-after', but it was, in fact, the beginning of all things wicked…

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, in a kingdom not too far away, lived a stoutly (but trying to eat healthy and lose weight) mother who did silly things like join the PTA because she wanted to compensate for the lack of her ex-husband's presence in her daughters’ lives. Not that it mattered: her older daughter Nicole kept to herself and chose to participate in few, if any, PTA-sponsored activities, so the fact that she—I mean I—was a member went unappreciated. I'm not sure what my dues were going towards, but I'm certain we were getting no use out of them.

This was the second PTA meeting of the year. I had missed the first one and was now running late. Any more infractions like this and I was sure to be excused from the association. Sound serious? It was; at least to Lisa Brooks, the current president. This was her third term; and she was an uptight, controlling terror to work with; but when someone like that has the support of all the important people on the food chain, there's not much you can do except show up on time and try to blend into the background. 

Both of which I was failing at miserably.

I rushed to the school and parked in the last available spot in the back of the lot. I tried to quiet my heels as I walked through the empty hallways, but it was a futile effort. The meeting had already begun and Lisa, a brunette with an athletic build and boundless energy to match, was at the podium running through the normal order of business.

All activity stopped as I entered the cafeteria. Lisa shot me an unappreciative look which, no doubt, sealed my future in the PTA. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, as other parents looked around nervously. I tried to look as remorseful as possible and quietly took a seat in the back, so as not to be any more disruptive. Lisa looked back down and picked up where she left off.

I sat back, relieved, and half-listened as she went through the rest of her agenda. My stomach growled; I lay my hand on my mid-section and smoothed out my dress hoping no one heard. I was conscious enough of my weight and how others viewed me; I didn't want to draw any more attention to it. Years of dieting and residual fat from my pregnancies left me with the body I now had, and I had resigned myself to being chubby. I tipped the scale at my heaviest weight and while it wasn't the worst thing in the world, not even my pretty face could mask that.

...and Abbeygail Bishop, Lisa said.

I sat up. Hushed moans were heard, and I realized I had missed something important. I looked around for some indication as to why my name was called, but no one else was moving, nor were they looking at me. Did I need to get up? Bake something? Meet somewhere? 

We start at seven o'clock; those of you whose names I called will need to arrive at six, to be at your stations, Lisa continued, still matter-of-factly and still offering no information as to what I was now party to. The decorating committee is still taking donations. I have lists available for each of you. Are there any questions?

As certain as I was that I wasn't the only clueless parent present, I dared not raise my hand.

Wonderful. It is a pleasure serving you and helping you make a better place for our kids, Lisa gushed. A few more announcements were made before she took her seat and the principal, a little man in a bowtie, came up and thanked everyone for coming out. He closed the meeting, and everyone got up to leave.

I picked up a donation list; in bold letters across the top was written 'Harvest Ball'.

Abbey.

I turned around at the mention of my name and saw my friend, Terri.

Oh, hey, I said and hugged her. She and I had met on orientation night the previous year and became friends, in spite of the fact that we were nothing alike: Terri was thin, scrappy, and loud…everything I wasn't. But she was a single mom like me and that was enough to base our friendship on. She had a son, who was a year older than Nicole. He was a good kid, but he tended to avoid everyone, especially his mother. 

I can't decide if you look tired or lost, she said, taking a seat on one of the benches next to me. She was dressed especially scantily tonight, no doubt having come from her job at the pub downtown where she worked as a bartender. 

"Try tired and lost, I replied. And I just figured out what I was volunteered for," I added and passed her the flyer. 

Yeah, me too. I did have a prior engagement, but I guess I'll just have to change that, Terri said, loudly. Her comment was directed at Lisa, but she was nowhere in the vicinity.

Another date? I asked, though I knew the answer. 

Well, not anymore, since I'll be here, miserable with all the other parents.

Who else has to chaperone?

Terri's face brightened up. As a bartender, she loved gossip. Unfortunately, her sources weren't always reliable. 

Let's see...Karen Morris. Her kid is the geeky looking one in the band, like they're not all geeky, who wears his retainer all the time. She fills in for Denise in the front office, who's her drinking buddy. Tom Vance. He's a contractor, whose son Doug is the starting quarterback for this year's varsity team. Tom moved out of his house last week. Rumor has it he moved in with a 'roommate' —she made quotation marks with her hands— Robin Dulle works for the Senator's office and is having an affair with him. Layla Somethingorother works for the Mayor's office, her kid is failing every class except history because she's sleeping with the teacher and then there's Bradley Mauer, who works for the Governor. His wife was institutionalized years ago for trying to kill their daughter. She doesn't remember that sorry affair and now pretty much runs the school. I don't know about the other two (I was dozing off when Lisa was talking) except David's seen them with the principal a few times.

When I first moved to the capital city, I learned there was no escaping politics. It was mixed in with everyday life. Serving on the same committee with the mayoral or gubernatorial staff was normal. However, it wasn’t so normal that I recognized these people, especially since they didn't attend regular PTA meetings. And despite Terri's enthusiastic chaffer, I still had no more information than I had before.

It's all true, I swear, she said, holding up her right hand, before pulling out a cigarette and sticking it in her mouth. That was my cue to leave. I grabbed my purse as she looked for a lighter.

Listen, darling, I've gotta get home to my girls, I said, standing up.

She stood up as well, still digging through her purse.

Yeah, hopefully my son is home now doing his homework.

Ladies!

I was startled for a second, until I recognized the domineering voice booming at us: it was Lisa Brooks. And I had been hoping to leave without talking to her.

She came up behind us and placed an arm on each of our shoulders. Terri dropped her cigarette.

Thank you so much for coming out tonight and supporting our children. It means so much to me to see how dedicated you are to them and to our school. We are raising the leaders of tomorrow.

I wanted to gag. There had to be some kind of political correctness handbook she was getting this stuff from.

"In the future, please remember to be punctual so we can be good stewards of our time and yours. She bent down, picked up Terri's cigarette and handed it back to her. Let me also remind you that we are now proudly one hundred percent smoke-free, including the parking lot. I'll see you at six o'clock sharp next Friday."

When I got home, Zoë was already bathed, in bed and reading a book. Though she was old enough to stay up a little longer in the evening, she was not a morning person and took more time waking up than getting ready. Admittedly, she was still my baby and there were times I treated her younger than her nine years, but she was the only one of my two who still told me she loved me. Call me sentimental, but watching Nicole transform into a hormonal teenager made me appreciate Zoë more.

Hi Mommy. How was your meeting? Zoë's sweet voice matched her beautiful blue eyes. 

I sat on the edge of her bed.

It was okay, I replied.

What did you talk about?

To be honest, I don't know. I wasn't paying attention.

She feigned shock and said, MOM! Zoë was a natural actress, which scared me to think what she was capable of getting away with.

You know what I get for not paying attention though? I have to chaperone, or watch over, Nicole's dance next Friday, I said, in my 'mommy' voice, the one I reserved for teaching valuable life lessons. It didn't work: Zoë brightened up and asked, Ooh, can I go?

No, baby; it's only for teenagers like Nicole and you know hanging out with her is no fun sometimes. I tried to sound as sympathetic as possible, knowing Zoë would be disappointed. If she was, though, she didn't show it. She sat up with a deliciously wicked expression on her face. 

Can I tell Nicole you're going with her?

As wrong as it was, I couldn't deny her that simple pleasure. I nodded and she yelled, Nicole!

There was no answer.

Nicole! Zoë yelled again, this time louder.

Her sister yelled back, What?!

Mom's going with you to the dance. Zoë looked at me and smiled. I enjoyed moments like these even if it was at the expense of my older child. She was much too serious and overly dramatic at times (like me, I suppose); she really needed to lighten up.

I moved Zoë's hair from her face. She looked like her father, but I always hesitated to mention that, knowing her desire for a 'normal' family and a dad. 

I heard running in the hallway and fifteen-year-old Nicole made her grand entrance. Dramatics aside, she not only acted like me, but she looked like me as well. She was a little chubby, her hair was blonde and eyes brown like mine. On one hand, I was grateful she didn't have to be reminded of her dad each time she looked in the mirror. But with appearances being so important these days, sometimes I wished she had taken after Todd's side of the gene pool.

What? she exclaimed.

Zoë smiled.

Mom is going with you to the dance.

Nicole looked confused for a moment, as she attempted to decipher what Zoë meant.

Like...?

Chaperone, I answered her.

Nicole's face twisted with horror, as she realized I was going to be in the same room as her and her friends.

Mother! You can't do this to me.

I'm not doing anything to you. I was volunteered, I answered calmly, but authoritatively.

Tell them you can't do it, she pleaded, with a whine in her voice.

As much as I'd like to, that's not happening. Just deal with it, I said.

Yeah, piped in Zoë.

Shut up, you little brat, she retorted.

Stop being so melodramatic, Nicole, I said. And be nice to your sister. It's just a dance.

She screamed, because of course 'no one understood her', then stomped off to her room.

Zoë looked at me proudly. I kissed the top of her head and stood up.

Alright, you had your fun. Time to go to sleep; I am not dragging your butt out of bed in the morning. Got it?

She nodded her head and slid down into her bed.

Good night, Mommy.

Good night.

I turned off the lights in her room and closed her door. I walked by Nicole's room, but the door was shut and the music loud enough to drown me out. Teenagers. I shook my head and kept walking. I made my way to my bedroom and dropped into the armchair beside my bed. I was tired and tired of being tired. I didn't want to chaperone this dance. Yet, I hated the thought of giving in to Nicole's demands. Then again, I really didn't want to spend an evening with about four hundred Nicole’s either. She was my limit and even that was too much sometimes. Maybe I could call Lisa and let her know I was unavailable. I wasn't in any condition to go, anyway. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror behind the door. Regardless of what Lisa had me doing, how was I going to spend several hours on my feet when I was out-of-shape? Then again, what else was I going to do? I didn't have a life and I couldn't justify not going.

I sighed and got ready for bed. If I was going to go, I needed something nice to wear and that meant I'd have to go shopping. I could certainly sacrifice an evening for guilt-free shopping.

At the time, I worked downtown at the Martinez Law Firm. I was hired as the receptionist and had been recently promoted to the position of executive assistant, with a stern warning from Eliseo Martinez himself, Don't make me regret this. He was a short man who made up for his limited stature by barking orders and frightening his employees. I wasn't scared of him and this put me in another category altogether. Rather than try to intimidate me, he promoted me. So, my first order of business was to find a suitable replacement for myself (a job more daunting and disheartening than any other task I had undertaken, but I'll get to that in a minute). I was up for the challenge because I actually enjoyed my job; I was close to home, I didn't have to sit in traffic, like other jobs I'd had and I got to discover the many treasures hidden in the downtown area, like the Historic District.

The Historic District was an old neighborhood, just on the south end of the immediate downtown area, with homes and shoppes dating back to the turn of the century. The streets were cobblestone, and though the lighting was modern, the fixtures were fashioned after the lanterns that originally illuminated those streets. There were a couple of restaurants with sidewalk seating, surrounded by rod-iron fencing. The red brick shoppes which lined the street carried everything from the bizarre to the modern, including a print shop and a comedy club (but I ignored those because they seemed out-of-place). The most charming thing about this neighborhood, though, was the open space at the end of the street, with a wooden gazebo surrounded by the most colorful and luscious landscaping. There were days I would come here during my lunch hour, just to sit and relax. 

On this particular day, though, I was there to visit Wit’s End, a curio shoppe in the center of the neighborhood. Although, I had never been to the store, I often window-shopped, admiring the many items on display. There was something magical about the store (in a non-magical kind of way) and the school dance was the perfect excuse to check it out.

The door chimed as I walked in. There was a pleasant odor in the air, fruity almost. The lighting was dim, adding to the ambiance of the place. I looked around for a shop owner but didn't see anyone. I walked around slowly, announcing my presence with each step I took, and admired firsthand what I'd only appreciated from behind a plate-glass window.

There was a beautifully crafted end table with three chairs, made from polished wood. A bed, with high posts, and several thin mattresses stacked up high, covered with woolen blankets. An antique sewing machine and spindle on the other side of the bed, next to a large, golden harp. Some of the smaller pieces included a glass rose, in a case, with a single teardrop hanging from a blood red petal; a beautiful necklace with matching bracelet made from what looked to be spun gold threads, braided, and fastened with a gold clasp; and a hand mirror made of intricately carved wood and polished metal.

There was no rhyme or reason to the items in the shoppe, but everything seemed to fit. The most magnificent piece, though, was the large wall mirror hanging behind the counter. It was made of the same polished metal as the smaller mirror, but in an ornate bronze frame. There was a single spotlight on it, drawing my attention to it. I approached it and could see myself as clear as day, but like the other things, there was something different about it. There was a glow about my reflection, and it seemed as though I was seeing another me, not just staring at my reflection. I reached up to touch the mirror. 

Can I help you find something? I heard behind me.

I quickly withdrew my hand and turned around. Before me stood a woman, not much older than myself (thirty-eight at the time, in case you're wondering). She had shoulder length, black hair and a flawless complexion that was fair and pale. Her features were striking, from her long, curved lashes and big, black eyes, to her naturally red lips. Everything about her was meticulously in place and she carried herself with pride and elegance.

I'm sorry, I was just..., I stuttered, thinking perhaps I had done something wrong, but she only asked, Anything in particular you're looking for? Her voice was friendly and inviting.

Do you carry clothes? I inquired. 

We have some items, she said, looking me up and down as though sizing me up. She held out her hand towards the rear of the store and added, Shall we see?

I followed her lead.

We came to a large, wooden wardrobe cabinet, worn with time, yet still worthy of the purpose it was crafted for. The saleswoman opened the doors and out spilled layers of frilly, silky, and velvety fabrics, in a myriad of colors and designs. It was all costume clothing, from full ballroom gowns (Nicole would really disown me if I wore something like that to the dance) to the gentleman's tunic; nothing, though, appropriate for a high school dance. I browsed through them anyway, imagining myself in the long, flowing garbs, swaying with every move of my hips.

One dress caught my eye. It was an elegant, strapless gown, with a beaded corset-type bodice and accented with a lace-up back. In red. I had always shied away from that color, but this dress made me rethink my aversion.

It's gorgeous, I said, more to myself than the saleswoman.

Do you want to try it on? she asked, holding up the dress. It looks to be your size.

I ran my hand over the fabric. I really liked it, but I couldn't justify getting it. When would I wear it? When I was cleaning the apartment on Saturdays or running errands? Maybe to Sunday Mass? 

No, I said, withdrawing my hand. That's okay.

There's no harm in trying it on, she stated, holding the dress towards me.

She was right about that, and if she didn't mind, why should I?

The saleswoman led me to a dressing room in the back, where I changed into the gown.  The bodice was form-fitting, and the skirt brushed the floor. It was a perfect fit, as if it was made for me. I looked really good.

I stepped out of the dressing room. The woman smiled.

You look lovely, she said. Come see yourself.

She led me back to the front of the store, to the wall mirror that hung behind the counter. I could see how much this dress was indeed fitted for me; it flattered every curve on my body. The saleswoman moved my hair back from my face and turned my head back to my reflection. I don't mind saying, I looked beautiful. The woman staring back at me beamed with pride and joy. It scared me, though; I knew in some strange way, the woman in the mirror wasn't me. It was disconcerting and I just wanted to leave. I turned to the saleswoman.

Thank you for letting me try the dress on, but I really should get going, I apologized and started back towards the dressing room. That’s when I saw them: glass slippers (or glass-like slippers), sparkling in the sunlight. They were transparent and delicate. I picked one up with the utmost care. Blue, purple, and yellow hues ran through the shoe as the light hit it. The heel was modest and narrow. Maybe I couldn't justify getting the dress, but I could get the shoes.

If they fit.

I turned it around, looking for a tag.

Size six.

Oh, they're too small, I said with disappointment. I placed it back on the shelf.

Are you sure? she picked up the slipper again and handed it to me. I looked again. Nine.

I thought..., I began, but shook my head. Six, nine, what difference did it make? I slipped it on and like the dress, it was a fit. I lifted the skirt of the dress and looked down at my leg. Perfect and kind of sexy too. I'd have to get a pedicure though (this dance was turning into a great excuse to pamper myself). I looked up to the saleswoman, who was smiling at me.

Shall I wrap them up for you?

Please.

While she did, I changed back into my clothes. I placed the garment on its hanger and looked at it once more. It was a beautiful gown indeed, but I’d never have need for it. I walked to the counter and handed the dress back to the saleswoman.

She smiled and said, I'll hold it for you should you change your mind.

I was unsure if she was crazy or I was just paranoid, but I argued, Really, I don't think that's necessary.

Nonsense. Every woman needs a gown like this at some point in her life. You just haven’t reached that point yet, that’s all.

Chapter 2

Now as the Executive Assistant for the firm, I was responsible for more tasks than I was physically capable of completing myself, including keeping Eliseo happy. This meant I was slowly drowning in work. I wasn't ready to admit defeat though; I just needed to find a qualified assistant to help me, which, I discovered, was like looking for a needle in a haystack. If the initial candidates were any indication of the market, I was in trouble.

I interviewed one woman who was well into her sixties, which wasn't the issue; her pink hair was and when she trailed off about the meaning behind the art deco flowerpot in our lobby, I knew I wasn't going to call her back for a second interview. 

The second woman was just a few years older than Nicole, who admitted she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life. She had moved here on a whim and decided to give this line of work a try to see if she liked it. If she didn't, she'd find something else. I didn't call her back either.

The last interviewee talked for about an hour about how she was more qualified than me. I smiled politely and told her she'd hear from her recruiter.

After a week of that, I was ready to scream. I was never so glad to see Friday come and for more than one reason: Nicole was driving me crazy, hoping to change my mind about chaperoning. She whined for the first half of the week and when that didn't work, she stopped talking and started grunting. I was ready to pull my hair out, but I was determined to go, and more than that, I was determined to have fun.

I found a modest, but practical dress and made arrangements for our neighbors, Jim, and Jackie, to watch Zoë. They had two sons, Mark, and Jeffrey, who were about Zoë's age and were often in trouble.

That evening, I took Zoë to their apartment at five-thirty.

She'll be fine, Jackie Huntley assured me, her tone soft and confident, but as she spoke, something glass hit the floor and shattered. Jackie left me at the front door as she went to investigate, sending threats ahead of her as she looked for the boys. Jim took her spot, ushered Zoë in and wearily responded, Sorry, Abbey, you know how they are.

Don't worry about it, Jim, I replied, looking at my watch. I guess I'll be back...by midnight? I don't know how long these things last.

No problem; we'll just drop her off in the morning; and if we don't show up, follow the police tape. At least you'll know where to find us, he said jokingly and we both laughed, but I knew as well as he did how likely that scenario was.

I made my way to my car and headed to the school. I knew I was only chaperoning, but I was beginning to feel like I was going to a real party. I just hoped Terri was already there, so I wouldn't have to hang out by myself for too long.

Ugh, I felt like I was fifteen, again.

Unfortunately, I didn't see Terri's car as I pulled into the high-school parking lot. Oh well, I'd just have to act like the adult I was. I slipped off my sneakers and put on the glass slippers.

Perfect.

I stepped out of the car and walked to the gymnasium. The shoes were made of a light material, but they weren't very flexible, and my toes were starting to feel cramped. I probably should have walked in them before I made my purchase, but it was too late now. 

The gymnasium had been transformed into a harvest-toned dance hall. Orange, yellow, and brown streamers hung from the rafters to the bleachers, while similarly colored clumps of balloons were strung to every wall and corner. Confetti was strewn all over the place and chairs were set out against the walls for cliques and weary dancers. There were a couple of tables set up with refreshments and each was covered with orange or brown vinyl table liners. It all had a ‘plasticky’ feel to it; though it was no different than the high school dances I attended twenty years earlier.

I looked around for signs of life. There was a deejay preparing his music and a few teachers scurrying around, but no Lisa.

And I was actually on time, too.

I wandered over to the refreshment table and found a few other parents sitting and wondering how they got roped into chaperoning as well.

It's nice what they've done with the gym, said one mother. I didn't know her name, but I smiled in acknowledgment. I didn't want her to feel like her idle chatter was for naught.

Silence fell between us. Another woman chatted away on her phone, while yet another picked at her nails in boredom. Where were the dads? I wondered. Surely it was more than just moms who signed up for and suffered through these PTA-sponsored events.

Ladies, it's so good to see you here on time.

I turned around and saw Lisa fast approaching us. She had this method of walking and talking, so as to be efficient, that distinguished her from normal people. Oftentimes, you had to run with her just to keep up. Even though she was usually dressed up, tonight Lisa had on jeans, a basic button-down shirt and running shoes, accented with a coaches' whistle around her neck. Had I known the atmosphere was more casual, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of getting a new outfit. But who am I kidding? It was an excuse to go shopping and I didn't mind it at all.

The dance begins sharply in less than an hour. If you will follow me, I'll get everyone to where they need to be, and we'll deal with the stragglers later.

With that, we were off. Lisa was kind enough to explain what she expected of us as she escorted us to our stations. Nail-mom and phone-mom continued their activities as we followed after Lisa, while idle-chatter mom looked relieved to have something to do. More parents arrived, followed lastly by Terri.

Where've you been? I whispered, as we came to a stop.

Phone-mom was asked to monitor the dance floor for inappropriate activities.

I forgot, she replied, shrugging her shoulders. 

Lisa began listing those activities: touching, standing too closely, smoking, drinking, foul language, etc. Phone-mom was still on the phone.

Is your son coming? I asked, still whispering.

No. He thinks I might embarrass him.

Might?

Not intentionally I wouldn't.

And we were walking again. Lisa assigned Terri to the refreshment table, along with Tom, whose son was on the varsity team. Terri looked disappointed. 

Mrs. Bishop, you’ll be monitoring the girls' bathroom/locker room, Lisa said, as we moved away from the dance floor. I followed Lisa into the locker room, the scent of musk, sweat and rubber hitting me like a brick wall. It hardly seemed fair; as much trouble as I had gone through to look nice; and I was going to spend my evening in the bathroom? At least now I knew what Lisa really thought of me.

She left me with instructions and went back to barking orders to the other parents. I walked out to the floor and found an inconspicuous spot by the water fountain. I made myself comfortable in one of the metal chairs that had been left there and braced myself for a long night.

Seven o'clock came with a few kids. They were scrawny and covered in pimples—freshmen. The upperclassmen probably wouldn't be showing up for another hour or so. After all, how cool could you really be if you actually showed up on time to a dance?

Meanwhile, the other parents continued doing what they were doing before Lisa came along (talking on the phone, picking nails, etc.). This was going to be a really long night. 

More teenagers came strolling in at eight o'clock. Few of them were dancing; most were congregating around the punch