Page 8

Mona, the PTA mom

I grab the only open spot in the closer parking lot, making a little whelp that the universe seems to be rooting for me. Not that I’m some proponent of manifesting or anything. If I was, I would have gotten on the 9:00 a.m. ferry with my family, willing Cassie to become a bigger person. I wouldn’t be here, alone with a folder’s worth of evidence to deploy against her. Cassie may be a vegan, electric-car-driving crusader, but she’s always been a total bitch to me and my husband. She isn’t exactly going to back down from PO president simply because I ask nicely. Let’s be real, she’s only gunning for it because it’s mine. Because she knows it will hurt me. I reach over and tap the folder on the passenger seat, certain I’m doing the right thing.

It didn’t have to come to this. I mean, Cassie’s always had this holier-than-thou, ice-queen vibe. I understood it, though. Respected it, even. I’m a girl’s girl. Pro women. And Cassie is one of the OG girlbosses. She took Bent—it’s a little off brand, antifeminist, giving her company her married name, but whatever; it still totally slays—from an Etsy shop that sold silk-screened jeans to an eco-friendly fashion empire. To be clear, we need more visionaries like Cassie Bent. Women who don’t apologize for the space they take up. I used to be one of these women. No, I am one of these women. While president of the Parents Organization may be unpaid, it’s a full-time job that demands resolute leadership. All this is to say, I know the armor you need to wear to succeed as a woman in business. I’ve never, not once, begrudged Cassie keeping her distance. I know the other mothers think I’m salty because she never wanted to be my friend. Our daughters are besties, so it would be nice if we could meet for happy hour and movie dates with our girlies. But I have plenty of friends. I don’t need Cassie Bent. No, it never would have come to this if Cassie hadn’t tried to silence me. To punish me for speaking truth to power. I swoop up the folder and hug it to my chest. I was right to go back for it. This isn’t something I can leave up to chance. Or Cassie’s goodwill.

Most of the time, Wyatt’s fascination with pit stops is a total pain in the ass. Any drive longer than ten minutes requires at least one bathroom stop. The problem is, you never know when he actually needs to go, when it’s some power game. You can’t exactly deny him a bathroom break unless you’re also okay with a pee-drenched car seat and a screaming child forced to sit in it. And Wyatt will spite-pee. Trust me, I’ve seen him do it. So I always tack on an extra half hour to any drive on the likely chance he’ll make us stop, which, thankfully for me, this morning, he did.

On my first drive to Ventura, before I returned home for the folder, he was so excited to see the sea lions that he raced through his pee, pulling up his pants midstream. His pant leg was soaked. Eager to get to the boat, Wyatt hardly noticed. That could have been that. The pee would have dried, we would have kept driving to the harbor, and I wouldn’t have realized that I didn’t have the folder until it was too late to turn back.

But Sawyer, having perfected the cruel older-sister act, pointed and laughed. She told Wyatt that all the third-grade boys on the trip would see how much of a baby he was. Cue the waterworks. Cue the feet stomping and the screaming that he needed new pants. Cue my comment to Sawyer, “Was that really necessary?” Cue her snicker, promising it was. And so, I dug through the bags to retrieve Wyatt’s backpack.

If Wyatt’s backpack hadn’t been buried in the back of the trunk, if I hadn’t had to remove all the other bags to get to it, I might not have noticed that my Marc Jacobs tote bag—the one that says The Tote Bag on the face—was missing, along with the file tucked away inside, until it was too late.

“Have you seen my tote?” I asked Brady, who was helping Wyatt into his spare pants.

“Your purse one? I put it in your closet before we left.”

“But I set it aside with my backpack.”

“You wanted to bring it camping?”

“Why else would I put it in the foyer next to my backpack?”

I started pacing. My frustration over this was real, although if I’m being totally honest, everything Brady does right now drives me insane. He’s the reason we’re in this mess, why I needed to go back for that folder in the first place. Because it’s not just that Cassie is trying to steal my rightful place as PO president. It’s what she’ll discover when she takes over.

I whipped out my phone and opened the Uber app. We can’t afford seventy-five dollars on an Uber, something I wouldn’t have blinked at two months ago, but I wasn’t about to abandon my plan at the first hiccup.

“Okay, Joey T. will be here in four minutes,” I said as I helped Wyatt into his car seat.

“Moan, you’re serious? What was in there that’s so important you need to go back for it?”

I didn’t attempt to explain my plan to him because he would have tried to talk me out of it. To insist that he could handle it. We’d seen what happened when Brady tried to handle things.

I’m generally good at thinking on my feet. I had to do it all the time as a real estate agent, now as the PO president.

“My first aid kit.”

“I’d be willing to bet the doctors or Javi’s mom will have one.” He begged me with that puppy dog face to get back in the car.

“But I told Yoo-Jin and the other PO moms I’d bring mine so they didn’t have to go out and buy one. You know how delicate everything is with PO.”

A red 4Runner pulled into the gas station, the Uber light blaring from the front.

“Moan,” Brady pleaded.

“I’ll be on the next boat. You won’t even notice I’m gone.” I hoisted my day pack from the ground and winked at Wyatt as I tapped the door shut. I offered my husband a quick peck on the cheek. “I love you,” I said as I hopped into my Uber, because I do love him and because he looked like he needed to hear it. Despite this total dumpster fire he’s put us in, the very real threat of jail time, I love Brady. It’s why I’m now getting out of the car with a folder full of evidence to protect him.

The next boat leaves in fifteen minutes, which doesn’t give me much time. The other campers are already lined along the sidewalk, waiting for the crew to let them down the ramp to the dock. I slip the folder into my day pack and head to the office to change my ticket. The Channel Islands are a thin strip on the horizon. Somewhere in the vast blue of the ocean is my family. The guilt hits me that I’m not with them, the dread at the gossip I’ve most definitely instigated by not being there. Immediately, I shake it off. This is me doing whatever it takes to protect my family. I’d move mountains for them.

Inside, there’s a line for the ferry company, Island Packers, six people deep. I stand at the end, check my watch, the seconds ticking away on my wrist. The other mothers would be surprised to see my practical Casio watch. They’d be surprised to discover that my hiking boots—currently on the boat with Brady—are well worn, that camping is in my blood, something I’ve loved since I was a little girl. My gaze shifts between my watch and the unmoving line ahead, the boat’s departure time inching into single digits away.

When I finally can’t take it anymore, I step out of line to see if there’s a third employee who might be able to help check people in. I startle myself mid-step when I recognize the man talking to the girl at the counter. Covertly, I pull my Patagonia trucker hat low on my face and dart outside. I tiptoe around the side of the building, leaning my body against the office’s blue stucco, where I remain out of sight. What the fuck is he doing here?

I pull out my phone and call Brady. His voicemail picks up right away. They must still be on the water, too far from the island’s pier to get service.

“Call me as soon as you get this,” I say into his voicemail. It’s too much to explain in a message, and I want to control Brady’s response before he unknowingly blows up my plans.

I poke my head around in the direction of the dock and see the man head down the ramp to the boat, which is now boarding. Even his walk is menacing, but I’ve never backed down from a bully. At the end of the day, that’s what he is. That and more. I ball my fists, amping myself up to charge onto that boat and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing here. I will make a scene. I will make sure the boat doesn’t take off with him on it. I squeeze my bag to my chest. If necessary, I will threaten him.