"My pie is delicious, but does it have to come out of my oven?"
"I don't get it."
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and explained my proposition for the third time. "We don't have to bake the pies ourselves. We could buy them at a store and resell them at the fundraiser for more than they cost."
"But it's a Bake Sale," Harper's mom replied from the stage in the school's auditorium during the last minutes of the endless PTA meeting. "We're selling brownies and cakes and cookies and pies." She nodded at Liam's dad, one of the few men in the room, who was standing next to her.
"Our customers are buying them because they are homemade," he said, looking down at me from his elevated position.
"What if I order a bunch of petit fours from the patisserie next door, have them sent to my house, toss some rainbow sprinkles on top, and bring them here?" I crossed my arms in the plastic theater seat. "Would that count?"
As Liam's dad exchanged confused whispers and frantic gestures with Harper's mom, I heard a snicker from the back of the room, followed by a, "Jeez Louise."
Thankfully, Chasen's mom, the head of the PTA, adjourned the meeting, and the rest of us parents swiftly dispersed.
"If we ordered a baker's dozen of them, wouldn't the patisserie's petit fours cost a dollar each?"
My work bag in hand, I turned around to see who was talking to me.
"We could list them at two for five dollars," the tall woman continued, "and the kids would eat them up. Aren't you Riley's mom?"
"Outside of this educational institution, I go by Jax." I shook her hand.
"Good reminder." She shook back. "I'm Amber."
"Cory's mom?" I teased.
"See, it's not so easy to maintain an independent identity."
"I suggested name tags at first meeting of the semester, but Harper's mom insisted that 'we're like family here, and you don't give your family tags.' First of all, I would love to label my family, so I stop calling my daughter by my son's name. Second, it's been two months, and I still call her Harper's mom to her face."
Amber pushed back her wavy brown hair and scanned the room. "Which one's Harper's mom? Is it that guy?"
"That's Zoey's dad," I laughed. "He is a man."
"All these parents look alike to me. It's my first year at this school," Amber said, "and everyone has been pleasant but not super welcoming."
"Same here. I've heard it gets better. Once you have been here for a while, they can trust you."
"Sounds like prison."
"Public school, Attica, potato, potato." I started walking toward the exit, hoping Amber would follow.
She did. "You think that patisserie is still open?"
"Are you craving portable French desserts?"
"Considering it's dinner time, and they don't serve ample refreshments at these meetings-"
"Another item I brought up," I held the auditorium door open, "promptly dismissed by Liam's dad."
"I'm in the mood for something savory and something sweet."
"Like a slice of apple pie topped with cheddar cheese?"
Amber looked disgusted. "Who would eat that?"
"Other Americans who are not me." I checked my phone. "The restaurant closes in two hours."
"Want to tag along? The first petit four is on me."
...
"I dreamed of working as a backup dancer for a girl band or a boy band, but you actually did both." I swallowed my cake, basking in Amber's accomplishments.
"What was stopping you?" Amber sat across from me in the Parisian themed café, alternating between bites of cheesy gougères and fruit tart.
"Talent. I was good, but I didn't have enough passion to take me to the next level. I figured I could find another way to travel the world."
"Going on international tours with platinum-selling musicians was fun while it lasted. Now I'm a Mom with a capital M," she sighed.
"You're a successful businesswoman," I corrected, stuffing my face with more frosting. "And I'm right here with you, except my life doesn't revolve around working out every day, like yours does."
"I'm a personal trainer, it's my job."
"It's a cool job."
"Less glamorous than you'd think." Amber stirred her tea. "This is nice."
"I agree," I replied, sipping my water. "I might have to purchase my own box of petit fours for personal use."
"Yes, and," she pointed to each of us, "having a conversation with another adult. One I like."
"I like you, too!" I held up my hand for a high-five.
She slapped my palm. "Sweet."
"I would think a nifty lady like you has tons of friends."
"Nope, I'm a terrible person," she said with a straight face. "Honestly, I am really nice, but I've found that doesn't always translate into other women wanting to hang out with me. Sometimes men, though."
"I could see that," I said, regarding her cover girl face and action heroine physique. "Male admirers throwing themselves at you."
She chuckled. "Throwing is a bit far, but luckily, the occasional fellow checking me out amuses my husband, instead of making him jealous."
"Ditto for me, but vice versa."
