Well, perhaps it is new information, you think, freshly acquired knowledge that you are not privy to, something you simply do not have time to keep on top of. You thought you could write the goddamn book on Jean Seberg. You thought you knew all there was to know about Jean Seberg. How on earth did I not know that? You thought you knew everything about Jean Seberg. You drum your fingers on the table and look at your watch. The stuff about her poetry is particularly interesting.”
“Well,” his teacher says, “you must read his project. “Did you really? My dissertation was on Jean Seberg.” “He did a project on Jean Seberg?” you reply, turning to him. “His project on Jean Seberg,” she says, smiling, “is really excellent work.” “Because he is doing fantastic.” You give his wrist a little squeeze. “Well, it must run in the family,” she replies. “I work in corporate marketing,” you tell her, “but I studied film and media in college.” You meet his final teacher of the evening, his media studies teacher. “You are so handsome,” you say, squeezing his cheek with your thumb and forefinger. “Plus the dishwasher isn’t going to fix itself.” Last night, he made you a lasagna, looming in the arched entrance of your kitchen, in your rose print apron and oven gloves. “I thought I’d just hang out with you this weekend,” he says. “My treat.” He yawns, removing his arm from yours. “What are you doing this weekend, pal? Why don’t you go to the cinema?” You slip him a twenty pound note. You cross the playground, looping an arm through his. You think if you were to hold his hand, at this moment in time, you would break every bone in it, crushing them down to sawdust. Light that needs splitting and refracting to burn even brighter. “He is just as bright as a button.” You look at him, you look at his face, his big dopey face, the light of it, the captured, amber light. “He is a bright kid,” his biology teacher tells you. “Look at what Matilda’s holding!” He forces them back into your hands. They see him holding your bag, your quilted bag, with its glossy oversized clasp and your printed silk scarf. A group of young men walk by, giggling and chatting, as involved as Christmas elves. You remove your coat, ripping it from your arms he holds your purse and scarf as you fan yourself wildly.
“Aren’t you going to say hello?” He mumbles something, staring at his feet, scratching his chin. “Isn’t that Christian?” you ask, nodding in his direction. You recognize a boy with a strained, scattered beard. You have lipstick literally all over your teeth.” “I said, we’ve got ourselves a real David Hockney, if you know what I mean.” He wrinkles his face. “Got ourselves a real David Hockney,” you nudge your son. You nod to a student in a cravat and beret. This giant bratty creature, preponderating your house, bounding across the living room, as playful as a kitten. “He’s a very quiet boy.” You look at your son and think: Quiet? This gangly, leaping thing.
His English teacher clears her throat, shuffling papers across the table. You wish you were wearing something lower cut.
You look at the other mothers you see how they regard you, a sinister rogue agent, with small, sharp teeth and a face full of makeup. A thin whisper of grey splinters his forehead, a crease of skin, like a loose sock, sags at the curve of his nose. “Your husband couldn’t make it?” asks his geography teacher. You’re concerned maybe they don’t read Cosmo. You’re concerned no one here really gets your outfit. You slip it into your mouth, chewing with a precision that makes you feel capable and wise. You remove a wasabi pea from a crackling packet within your coat pocket. You hair swishes in a high ponytail, a slack whip, grazing your neck and shoulders, your horn-rimmed glasses kick queasy angles above your cheeks. A whistling nebula of Optrex and espresso, of barely contained hysteria, you arrive late, smoothing your wool skirt, plucking bobbles from your cardigan.