Page 2 of A Lot Like Lavender

I don’t want to be a part of any of this, really, but I love my kid. So I show up, do my duties when I have to, and then go about the rest of my life, rarely pondering PTA matters until I see the upcoming meeting marked on one of my calendars.

Between farming, running a mostly failing business, and being a single mom, the debate over whether we should allow foods with dyes at snack time or whether the Christmas parties should be called “Holiday” parties each year doesn’t necessarily take precedence in the grand scheme of things for me. I’m not hating on those parents who care deeply about the hills they come to die on, they just aren’t mine.

Is Molly safe?

Is Molly healthy?

Is Molly happy?

Those are my hills. That’s who I’ll go to battle for. Her and my younger sister, Dinah. But Dinah has her own warrior husband, now, and her own daughter to fight for. She doesn’t need me anymore. But Molly, that kid is never getting rid of me.

So when good ol’ Trey is surrounded by not twowomen, but twopacksof women ready to assert their dominance just before a feeding frenzy, and announces, “I nominate Emory Nelson for the presidency,” I’m all but ready to feed him to the wolves. The man has no sense. He deserves what’s coming to him.

The mindless prey walked straight into the female trap. Defenseless and outnumbered, he will deservedly succumb to his fate as the marsupial devils crush his bones with their incredibly strong jaws until nothing of the foolish animal remains.

I graciously decline thehonor, but no one seems to hear over the animalistic cries of both packs claiming their territory and fiercely closing ranks around their respective alphas.

“This is Bree’s board!” a second-grade mom shouts, her pointer finger raised in the air in indignation.

One of Simone’s goonies plants her hands on her hips and argues, “Look at Garth. Bree can’t guarantee her own child’s success… How can she guarantee ours?”

Woof. A bit of a low blow, but I will not engage.

One of my fellow fifth-grade moms, Tisha—who hasn’t been tainted by either side of the aisle—claps her hands like a kindergarten teacher calling her class to attention, and wonder of wonders, every eye turns to her. She’s never spoken in a meeting before, but I hope she’s about to throw her name into the hat for president. I’d vote for her. Especially if it means we can leave soon.

“Parents,” Tisha says, so soft and sugary sweet, I just know she has corralled children before, though her cheeks fill with a flush of embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Trey is right about Emory.”

Trey and I both scoff. The audacity.

“Emory has been a faithful member ofthis body since she and Molly moved to Honey Hill,” Tisha continues, her Southern drawl growing more pronounced as her gumption grows.

I can’t say that I like it very much.

I wobbly stand, unfortunately drawing more attention to myself and the now scathing eyes of both women vying for this role. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not interested in leading?—”

“Which is exactly why you should,” Tisha interrupts. She circles the room slowly, her voice lifting. She’s suddenly a Southern Baptist preacher, driving home her point. “Emory arrives on time, volunteers at every opportunity, and always bakes those yummy little brownies for the school bake sales.”

Well someone has to, Tisha.

“She’s always got herself together,” Tisha says, oblivious to my enthusiastic head-shaking or the fact that I just stress-guzzled my very hot coffee, only after spilling some on my previously crisp, white tee. “Not only does she run a successful business, but I think we can all agree that Emory’s daughter, Molly, is a sweetheart.”

Mollyisamazeballs. But that does not mean I’m qualified to lead a pride of catty mothers… and Trey.

Two other parents begin nodding along with Tisha’s rousing speech. I think I’m zoning out, though, because all I hear is the warbled, adult, “wop, womp, wah” voices from Charlie Brown and, somewhere in my bag, my phone alarm yelling that I do not in fact have it all together. Because if I don’t leave right now, I will be late for an important meeting. A meeting to discuss my drowning business.

Trey, bless him, nods his head along with Tisha and begins a slow clap, waiting for the others to follow suit. One thing is for certain, Trey’s name won’t be written down for avote today. “I agree wholeheartedly,” he declares, then winks at me in a way that tells me Trey thinks he’s doing me a favor. It's uncomfortably similar to the time he showed up at my farm uninvited and offered to provide a “man’s touch” on the day-to-day operations. Trey tries to slip his hand around the small of my back, but I manage to evade his touch with a quick spin move and fall into a chair, safely out of his reach.

The man is seemingly undeterred. “We all believe in you, Emory. You’ll make a beautiful president. And, with great power comes great responsibility.”

“Did you just quoteSpiderman?”I ask, the first coherent sentence I’ve strung together in a few minutes.

Trey looks absolutely baffled. “No, I uh…” He pulls his silent phone from his belt and lifts it to his ear, holding up the pointer finger of his other hand. “You’ve got Trey.”

Super. We’ve now entered the circle of theInfernowhere self-important men answer their phone like that. Cool, cool, cool... cucumbers.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I begin, finally gaining my bearings. “I don’t want to cause a fuss or replace anyone. I think we should all just take a step back and maybe revisit this issue at a later date. Bree, didn’t you say we needed to come up with a location for some sort of fifth-grade dance thingy?”

Clearly, I’ve been paying attention.