Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan by Paula Marantz Cohen

trotted from the room, full of anticipation of iambic flirting with Kyle Chapin, and of using the new styling mousse to create tendrils that Juliet would no doubt have worn for the occasion.
    Since that initial practice session, Jessie had been called upon again and again to help Stephanie memorize portions of Shakespeare. Carla had noted, listening as she often did at the door, that her mother quickly grew at ease with Shakespeare’s language, which was rather surprising for a woman of seventy-two who hadn’t gone beyond the tenth grade. Obviously, Jessie had an affinity for this sort of material that had never been tapped.
    It now occurred to Carla that these sessions might have been responsible for precipitating her mother’s Shakespeare delusion—though it was hard to see how they could have sparked something so detailed and elaborate.
    â€œSo he’s a good teacher, this Mr. Pearson?” Carla returned to the subject at hand: Back-to-School Night and Stephanie’s English teacher.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Stephanie, drawing back at this effort to enlist her on the side of an adult value judgment. “He’s cool, I guess.”
    â€œHe’s young?” asked Carla

    â€œI suppose.” Stephanie now appeared doubtful. “Not that young. Not as young as me—but not as old as you.”
    â€œThanks for clarifying that,” said Carla dryly.
    â€œBut he’s not married,” added Stephanie. “Pam asked him. He’d be good for Aunt Margot—he’s probably about her age—but she’d never go out with him.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œSince when would she go out with a seventh-grade English teacher?”
    â€œYou have a point there. But you think he’d be good for her?”
    â€œSure,” said Stephanie. “He’s so into poetry—it means he can feel things. And he’s kind of cute, even if he’s not Abercrombie.”
    â€œWell, you’ve sold me,” said Carla, feeling a wave of affection for her daughter. She took a breath and stepped into the room, hearing something plastic crunch under her foot but ignoring it. She reached out and hugged Stephanie, who seemed surprised at the gesture, but did not resist. In point of fact, Stephanie found her mother as unpredictable in her responses as her mother found her: She was never sure whether Carla might yell at her or praise her for something. Her friends appeared to have the same problem with their mothers, which they put down to what they’d deduced from various TV specials to be the symptoms of perimenopause.
    â€œI think we should send Grandma to Back-to-School Night and tell her to check out your English teacher for Aunt Margot,” said Carla, after they’d hugged.
    â€œSure,” said Stephanie, losing interest in the subject and focusing her attention on the curling iron.
    Carla began to back out of the room, automatically picking up the crumpled tissues and the empty bottle of Snapple as she went.
    â€œDon’t touch anything!” warned Stephanie, holding the curling iron aloft in the manner of a drawn sword.
    â€œBut it’s a mess in here!” Carla had lost control of her squint and made the mistake of surveying the room. “It’s a pigsty!” she
pronounced now as this fact came forcibly home to her. “I can’t understand how a girl your age can stand living this way!”
    â€œThat’s because you’re not a girl my age!”
    â€œIt’s disgusting, young lady, disgusting. I want you to clean it up!”
    â€œYou don’t have to yell!”
    And so it went, until Carla realized that it was six-thirty and if she was going to drop Jessie off at the school and make it to her seven P.M. appointment with Dr. Samuels, she would have to save the rest of the fight for another time.

Chapter Fourteen
    â€œ S o, sweetheart,” SAID DR. SAMUELS, PEERING IN AVUNCULAR fashion at