A Farewell to Legs by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

never happy with
the way the school system deals with anything, and is therefore a
prime source of information and gripes on any school-related
subject.
    I had to admit, though, that working out had
benefited her greatly. In the slinky unitard she was wearing, it
was clear she’d lost a good 20 pounds in the past year, and was
looking quite fit, for a woman in her early forties, or for that
matter, any other age. I, on the other hand, was wearing a baggy
pair of sweat pants from the Gap and a T-shirt announcing the
upcoming video release of Forrest Gump , so you can imagine
how swell my ensemble was making me look. I nodded in Faith’s
direction, and she smiled the vague smile you get when someone
isn’t exactly sure how they know you.
    “How you doing, Faith?” I said. “Is Estella having a
good school year?”
    Her mind immediately compartmentalized me, and she
knew how to respond. Faith rolled her eyes. “It’s been a
nightmare,” she said. “She’s not being challenged by the curriculum
at all. Gifted children are totally ignored by this school
district.”
    I knew Faith’s daughter Estella from Leah’s Brownie
troop, and the only time she’s actually “gifted” is on the first
night of Chanukah. I let that go, however, and nodded at Faith in a
sympathetic manner.
    “Did you hear about this stink bomb thing?” I asked
as casually as I could. But I did pump a little harder on the
MIT.
    Her eyes practically sprang out of her head, and
since she only had the MIT on level 2 for resistance, I knew I’d
struck a nerve. “It’s a disgrace!” she said loudly enough that a
75-year-old codger on the treadmill halfway across the room took
off his headphones and stared at her. “Some little hooligan thinks
he can ruin three days for a bunch of girls who just want to play
soccer, or close the gym for three whole days, and they’re going to
let him get away with it. Why, Karen Mystroft’s little girl didn’t
even want to go to school the next day, she was so upset.”
    Hooligan ?
    For the moment, I shook the word out of my head and
concentrated on the task at hand, ignoring the fact that Faith
didn’t care if boys couldn’t use the bathroom, because she doesn’t
have a son. “Him? You know who did it?” I asked.
    “Well, it was obviously a boy,” she replied, with
the air of someone explaining that the sky is, indeed, blue. She
also said the word “boy” with the same inflection most people
reserve for “slug.” “A girl wouldn’t have thrown such a projectile
into her own locker room,” she added.
    “Why not? I would have been happy to throw a stink
bomb into my high school locker room if I didn’t have to shower
with Harold Ramiriak for a week.”
    Holy mackerel, did I say that out loud? Worse, could
Faith actually know Harold Ramiriak? The way she was looking
at me, it was possible she ’d actually showered with him, and
believed it to be a more enjoyable experience than she was having
now.
    “Of course,” I added, trying to cover my faux pas,
“I was a boy.”
    Faith chose to ignore me, which is something I’m
used to. “Any way you look at it, it’s the administration’s fault,”
she went on after a stunned pause. “Things just haven’t been the
same since Mr. Ramsey left.”
    Elliot Ramsey, the principal of Buzbee for seven
years before Anne Mignano took over, was the type of self-help
psychologist, crunchy-granola-bar principal that Midland Heights
took to its bosom. I’d met him only once, since my children hadn’t
started yet at Buzbee when he left, but his sneaker-wearing,
benignly smiling demeanor practically begged for New Age music to
be played behind him as a soundtrack. By some parents in the school
district, he was considered to be an appropriate candidate for
sainthood. Thus, one didn’t argue with Mr. Ramsey.
    So I didn’t. I nodded reverently, then adopted the
most confidential tone I could muster, and leaned over toward her.
She almost recoiled, thinking I had