Veronica leans against the wall as we wait and taps her foot incessantly. It’s her nervous tell.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Ver. The material’s not that hard, and you were fine when we studied last night.”
“Yeah, but you know Pilcher. He likes to throw extra shit on there that we didn’t really learn all the way or was ages ago or whatever. Plus, I suck at tests.”
I hold back the sigh I want to release and plaster a fake smile on my face. Happiness is something that eludes me most of the time, except when I’m with Trent. “You’ll do fine. Even the other stuff, you knew it.”
She opens her mouth to talk, but that’s when Mr. Pilcher comes running up and unlocks the door. “Sorry I’m late! Sorry. Sorry. Come in. Come in.”
Those of us already here file in before the bell rings, finding our seats and preparing for the test.
The second my test lands in front of me, that feeling that sits deep in my chest returns in full force. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s the one I get anytime I have the overwhelming need to be perfect, to do well, to be seen.
I don’t have it often, but it’s there when tests come around. It’s when I feel the need to impress somebody.
Mostly, it’s the times when I can’t be my true self. The person everybody justthinksis perfect.
Chapter 3
Present Day
Thatfeelinghastakenroot in my chest again. Even after more than a decade, I still get it. Mostly in regards to the PTA and other things I’ve signed myself up for. But thinking about high school, there it is, loud and clear.
Trent and I got into things early when we got back together. I’m twenty-eight with a seven year old. We didn’t exactly wait to start having kids or even get married. He claimed he wanted to make up for lost time.
It means I never really got to use my business major. I got pregnant before I had a chance to graduate. Which is fine with me, because I wasn’t sure where I was going to end up anyway.
But that practice, the schooling, it comes in handy now with the PTA.
“We’re near the end of the year, but I think we could throw one more fundraiser in there. Get a few extra dollars toward the end to put toward the fifth grade moving up celebration and end of year parties.” The PTA chair, Deb, is standing at the front of the long table. Her blonde hair is set in a perfect bob.
“I agree, Deb. What about a food related one? I bet we could call Tony’s for pizzas and get a percentage? Or Tammy’s for subs and sandwiches. Pitch the whole not needing to cook thing. I know those are my favorite nights, am I right?” The ladies around me giggle and nod in agreement.
Tonight’s just another routine night for me. Every other Tuesday is PTA night, starting at six and going until almost eight. The coffee is always brought by Candace and is always terrible. She insists on making it herself, but the girl just does not know how to make a good pot. We’re all too nice to tell her it’s awful, so we choke it down.
Since we’re nearing the end of the school year, we’re discussing end of year things and needs. Money is always a hot topic. There’s never enough to do everything we want to do both for the teachers and kids.
As the PTA, it’s our job to reward the teachers for a job well done with little extras, like teacher appreciation week and various other 'thank yous.' For the students, it’s giving back to the classroom, trips, and parties. It’s one of the things I have to pretend that I love to do.
Don’t get me wrong. I do love helping out my kids and their school. But, PTA is just not for me. I do it to add another checkmark on the things that I should do as a stay-at-home parent so it appears I do something with my time. Just like class mom, which is its own headache. Three kids means three classes and three sets of schedules—on top of those for my family—to keep track of.
“Okay. So, do we want to set that up for this week or next?” Deb’s voice pulls me from my trainwreck of thoughts.
I clear my throat before I speak to get an extra second to collect myself. “I think if we wait a week or two it’s a good idea. It lets us get the word out now, but people can plan and prep for it. I know I hate it if I go grocery shopping and have the week planned but something comes up I forgot about.”
“You? You’re too perfect and on point to forget anything.” And there it is. The nod to my perfection, the reality of which is anything but.
I’m not exactly sure what kind of aura I give off, but it seems to be one that everybody sees and associates the same.
When my kids were babies, I had spit up on my shirt just like every other mom. My hair was a mess, I hadn’t slept in days, and it showed. But still somehow people said I was doing it perfectly. Some even said I did it better than they did. How being covered in baby substances with no sleep and not having showered in days is better than anybody else, I’ll never understand.
Don’t they realize it’s all an act? That anybody can be like me? A mom who doesn’t actually have anything together and is faking her way through each and every day. If they walked into my house right now, surely they’d see a sexy husband with three wild children, likely overpowering him and watching something ridiculous while eating ice cream—all past their bedtimes. There are dishes in the sink, toys all over the living room and bedrooms, and piles upon piles of laundry both clean and dirty. The key is remembering which is which.
There’s nothing about me that’s perfect. So where does this stigma come from?
And how do I get rid of it?
Chapter 4
