Separation Anxiety - Laura Zigman Page 0,30

told us? We have a right to know that our kids could be in danger.” I want to poke her but I don’t.

“I’m sorry, Judy, but I’m late for Spanish,” she says, racing now around the big teachers’ table, collecting her things—folders and books and a big ceramic mug of tea that produces so much steam I wonder if it’s full of dry ice. Unlike last week, when she chased me down the hallway and wouldn’t leave me alone, she barely looks at me now.

“I can’t believe there’s been no official word about this extremely disturbing situation. I mean, how many emails went out to parents last year about acceptable brands of organic non-GMO gluten-free pancake mix for the annual pancake breakfast?” When she doesn’t answer, I do. “At least twenty.”

“Accommodating dietary restrictions is something the administration and the school community take very seriously.”

“More than informing parents and protecting children from a potential psychopath-situation?”

She stops and makes a frownie-face by pulling down on both sides of her mouth with her fingers. “Oh, Judy. I can’t believe you’re that kind of parent.”

My mouth drops open. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re totally overreacting. It’s not a ‘situation.’ It’s a small problem that we’re taking very seriously. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”

I make a frownie-face with my mouth, too. “Pardon the pun.”

She doesn’t laugh and neither do I. I get the distinct feeling that she’s hiding something—at the very least she’s minimizing the problem. Willful ignorance and denial seem to be their only strategy.

“Do you know who’s doing it?”

“No. But we’re looking at every single middle-schooler, since they’re the ones with access to this building. Even the quiet kids.” She doesn’t blink. “Especially the quiet kids.”

My stomach drops. I suddenly remember everything I told her that day after my presentation—how worried I was about how introverted Teddy had become. “What does that mean?” I’m so afraid she’s referring to him that I’m tempted to apologize.

“It means, no one is above suspicion.” Grace stops at the glass door before opening it. “Oh, and Judy?” she says, pointing to the sling. “Next time, leave the dog at home. Without an official therapy vest and the accompanying paperwork, pets are not allowed in the school.”

“The dog’s name is Charlotte.”

“I don’t care, Judy.”

“Well you should.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Well that says a lot about why this place is turning to shit. Literally.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

I give her the finger, but only from inside the sling and only after she’s turned around to leave her office.

The Arrival of the People Puppets

The following week, two full-size People Puppets wearing costumes constructed from everyday recycled materials sit across from us in the living room—People Puppets on one couch, humans—and a dog—on the other. The scene is freakish enough, but I’m still unnerved by the creepy encounter with Grace—tempted even, out of an abundance of caution, to cancel the housing-in-exchange-for-tuition-credit deal we’d made. What would stop her from sending the People Puppets into our house with cameras or recording devices to get information on us? (“Someone could be—and probably is!—spying on you right now—with their smartphone”), I’d thought while I tried, and failed, to fall asleep. But I decided not to. Canceling seemed like an escalation, and while I didn’t like her and didn’t trust her, keeping our agreement in place seemed like a de-escalation. That, and the fact that we still needed that stupid tuition credit so that Teddy wouldn’t have to leave school.

“So, I’m Judy, and this is Gary.” I can feel myself break into a big nervous smile.

The puppet on the left answers first. “I’m Phoebra the Zebra. Well, Phoebe in real life. And this is Nick the Llama.”

I repeat the words slowly, and so does Gary—Phoebra. The. Zebra. Then: Nick. The. Llama.—but nothing poetic happens. We exchange glances, afraid we’re already doing it wrong.

“Don’t worry,” the Llama says. “It’s not you. It doesn’t rhyme. But for whatever reason, that’s my name anyway.” He leans in for Gary’s hand, then stops short. “Oops. Let me take my ‘hoof’ off first.” They shake, and then he puts the hoof back on.

Gary looks from one puppet to the other. He’s so confused he doesn’t even know how to form a question, but I know exactly what he’s thinking: let’s leave.

“I thought you were”—he searches for his words—“puppeteers. Like the Muppets.”

“No. We’re the actual puppets.”

“We don’t just hold the puppet,” Phoebe clarifies. “We become the puppet.”

I point to my sling. “Kind of