MOM OF THE YEAR

Chapter One

Rows of big hair and bold makeup, sideburns, and wide lapels filled the Westview Elementary School auditorium for the Kindergarten Class of 1980 production of "The Four Seasons." Fathers adjusted their cameras as grandparents waved and called greetings to each other, the clamor and motion adding to everyone's excitement. 

Backstage, jumpy snowflakes, trees, suns, and flowers pulled at their costumes while moms pinned, zipped, and tucked. 

All except for Janie: still in her t-shirt and jeans, the five-yearold clutched the crepe orange and yellow leaves attached to her unitard and anxiously surveyed the room. She glanced at Sally with her mom, and Danny with his, then swallowed hard, her brown eyes darting back to the stage door. 

Everyone has a mom, she thought. Wait, there's Bryce. No mom! Bryce stood stiff as a statue on the other side of several dozen writhing little bodies.

At least I'm not the only one. She took a slow deep breath. Clipboard in hand, Ms. Mayfield, the play coordinator, rustled in. "Three minutes!" she called, tapping her pen. She peered over her glasses at the colorful scene before her. 

Janie heard Sally's mom sigh. "You'd think we were on Broadway," she muttered, giving another tug. 

The crowd of moms began to part like the Red Sea. Janie tried to catch Bryce's eye, to signal we're-in-this-together. In that instant, however, she realized they weren't. His mother, who must have been making a final adjustment, sprang to her feet, thread and needle in hand. "Phew!" she gasped. "You have a lot of extra room in those pants there, punkin."

Bryce turned three shades of red. He still didn't look at Janie. Not that it would have mattered. Janie stared at the backstage door, willing it to open. "Let's line up!" Ms. Mayfield bellowed. Snowflakes in shimmery chiffon with aluminum-foil crowns on their heads shuffled into place, followed by golden-yellow suns and many-petaled flowers flailing their green arms as they giggled.

"There," declared Sally's mom, smiling. She gave Sally's shoulders a little shake. "Snug as a bug in a rug." She kissed Sally on the cheek and, turning, noticed Janie. "Janie, is your mom coming?" 

Fighting back tears, Janie nodded. "Oka-a-ay," Sally's mom said, following the other mothers hesitantly. Janie's teacher spoke calmly. "Come on, my little stars. Time to line up." The trees took their places.

Guess I'm on my own, Janie thought. She kicked off her jeans, rolled the unitard the way she'd seen the mothers doing, struggled to stick one foot through, then tumbled over. Her eyes stung as she righted herself. She could hear giggles all around her. If only she were a real tree. A big oak that could swing its branches low to the ground and knock over ... 

"I need my trees!" Ms. Mayfield yelled. Janie saw her teacher lead the class to the side of the stage. Yanking her costume over her tiny frame, she rushed to the end of the line. The unitard swallowed her. Its neck gaped below her collarbone, the sleeves nearly covered her tiny hands—one of which she now raised behind her neck to grasp the unitard's leafy collar and keep it from slipping to her elbows. 

Tapping a beat on the clipboard with her pen, Ms. Mayfield loudly whispered the final countdown: "Five, four, three ..." Janie's teacher gently nudged the first tree onto the stage. The others followed stiffly. Still offstage and last in line, Janie trudged forward. No matter what she did, her costume sagged around her. She was sure she looked more like a stump than a tree. A silly, unloved, lumpy stump at that. Maybe her teacher would step in— she must have some safety pins in that oversized jacket of hers. 

Shaking, Janie felt she would throw up, cry, or both. "My costume's not—"  "It's fine, dear," her teacher said. "Go on." The curtain rose. Janie's teacher nudged her onto the stage. The audience applauded. 

Onstage, the trees extended their arms to carefully space themselves and then gazed out at the full house of eager faces in front of them. All the backstage bravado disappeared. Eyes grew wide with panic. The faces in front of them continued to beam with encouragement: look how cute, look how little. Stiff and expressionless, the first tree stepped forward and said her line: "Fall is here."

Tree number two followed, a little louder, "It's back to school." "The heat is gone," shouted tree number three, to the clip of cameras. "It's nice and cool," number four hooted, with more confidence. "Our leaves change colors," said number five, jumping in place. "Some red, some brown," said number six. Number seven clapped his hands and said, "Get out your rakes!" And number eight declared, "They fall to the ground!" 

A net near the ceiling dumped colorful leaves onto the kids, who twirled with their arms outstretched, just as they had in rehearsal. The audience laughed and cheered. The children beamed. 

From the wings, Janie's teacher and Ms. Mayfield called, "Pssst," and four of the trees ran to them to grab the child-sized plastic rakes they held out. 

Janie gripped the back of her droopy costume as she rushed to get her rake and return to the stage. With great relief, the other trees skipped off, leaving the rakers to do their job. Proud parents whistled and applauded the brilliant performance.

Almost done, Janie thought, relaxing a little. Not so bad. Absentmindedly, she released her hold on her costume to get a better grip on her rake. The collar snagged on her fingernails and tore. Before Janie realized what had happened, the unitard had slid down to her waist. The audience gasped. In another second, it had sagged to her knees. The gasps grew louder. And then her costume plummeted to the floor of the stage.

There was silence. 

Janie stared in awe out at the blinding lights, then looked down—ugh—at her Wonder Woman Underoos. The audience couldn't hold back their giggles. The giggles turned to chuckles, which escalated to belly laughs. Janie froze, blinded by the lights, the laughs, and the terror. Her chin quivered, and tears streamed down her face.