”Friend”

She knew she shouldn’t have come.

She’d been dreading this day from the moment she saw the little envelope taped to the wall above Winston’s backpack hook. “Friend” it read. She knew what it was. She hadn’t seen one in a while, ever, maybe.

But she wanted Winston to belong, really wanted him to fit in like she hadn’t, so she called the little number at the bottom.

“Kayla” answered cheerfully and expressed a performative amount of excitement when she told her they’d be there. The enthusiastic voice just knew having “Friend” there would really make her daughter’s day extra special.

She helped Winston hand make a card and pick out a present. She dressed up, kinda, showered at least and now here she was, standing in the middle of— in between and under — a 15 foot tall metal pole and net jungle gym, surrounded by the sounds of sugared-up children shouting, laughing and shrieking from all angles, along with the flashing lights and beeping of arcades and, worse yet, the chit chat of other parents.

She stared out towards the playground, up through the split and zip-tied pool noodle guards and dingy safety netting, searching for the only person she trusted, but she couldn’t find him, even in his bright yellow SpongeBob shirt. She felt like the lost child.

She hoped he was having fun.

She stood with her back to the dining area, where the birthday party affiliated crowd had gathered among a sea of neon green and orange tables, grazing mindlessly on each others public thoughts and opinions. Small talk. She shuddered.

She hoped to hint at her lack of interest in socializing with her posture, and with her tie-dye shirt, which was meant to serve the same purpose as bright colors on poisonous flowers and frogs.

Her attempts at self-preservation — or isolation— failed, however, as a sea of silky hair and bronze faces swarmed her, kindly, and insisted she identify herself and recite her origins as they smiled and nodded along in unison, seemingly in line with every syllable that she spoke. She imagined it was customary in their culture to greet newcomers with a series of questions, comments, and compliments heavy handed in both directions: They seemed to like her patchwork purse. They couldn’t believe she made it herself.

The talk stayed small.

This was a new school in a new town they’d just moved to when she got her new job, she was the odd fish, so she played along, expressing untrue interests, like tennis and other agreeable topics. She was grateful no one brought politics.

The other mothers didn’t talk about work because, she assumed, they didn’t know much about work outside the house. They called their husbands by their first names without introduction, like the others were supposed to know who they meant. “Jimmy.” “Mason.” “Mike.” All of them career men, none of the aware of how to properly utilize a laundry basket, according to the discussion.

“Where’s your husband?” One asked outright.

“Dead.” She answered.

He wasn’t. Not physically anyway. But it made for a more favorable scenario in her mind, in this situation.

They tucked their veneers beneath their heavily-filled, perfectly-lined lips and tried to flex their forehead muscles to form sympathy.

“It’s been a while since his passing,” she smiled a slightly off-white grin to break the unintentional tension.

And their teeth reappeared as they went back to competitive bragging. She had no idea who Hadley was, but she knew that he (she?) had been reading since she was 6 months old.

Or something.

She didn’t care.

She was relieved when the announcement rang out over the loudspeaker, to call them back to the private party room.

“Help yourself!” “Kayla” — identified by her sharpie name tag she’d required everyone to wear — insisted… then looked on surprised when she did, her lip perched up like Elvis as she watched her devour it in a few big bites.

Carbs. Dairy. Grease. The highlight.

She looked to Winston, sat smiling among friends, and knew she’d done the right thing. She’d never do it again, though. Jack was going to have to rise from the dead for the next party.

And she wished she could see their faces when he did. But on the other hand, she was more than happy not to.

She couldn’t wait to try the cake next.