The Best of Enemies Read Free

new recruits to do my bidding.
    Between the Oldsters, the Career Barbies, and the Momorexics (those ultra-ripped, exercise-obsessed, untenably selfish women who’d rather spend their entire day at North Shore Spa & Fitness than monitor the playground for bullying,
ahem
, Merritt Wilhelm) there aren’t nearly enough proper stay-at-homers for my purposes. What I wouldn’t give to have a few polygamous families move to town!
Big Love?
More like big help! Thank God Illinois passed the same-sex marriage act. That should bring me an influx of fabulously involved gay daddies in the next few years, but for now, I’ve got to work with what I have.
    Has Ashley minion potential?
    Let’s discuss.
    On the one hand, Ashley thought it was okay to feed children Hawaiian Punch and Fritos for a snack, because apparently she couldn’t get her hands on any Mexican black tar heroin. And yet she
volunteered
for the job of Snack Mom, which is a distinct selling point.
    Of course, I wouldn’t have to consider converting Ashley if Betsy had been content to get her MRS and not her MBA way back when. Not only would she be the best parent EVAH, but with her business acumen and my ability to organize, our students would have the highest test scores in the state. Mean it.
    I guess the investment banking world’s gain was Lakeside’s loss and I’m forced to manage the dregs.
    But
if
I wanted to, how might I bring Ashley around?
    Physically, we’d need to dial her whole look back a few (thousand) notches. Her hair’s all kinds of wrong. Much too white-blond. Ash-blond, not platinum, sweetie. Never platinum. (Yes, Kassie’s hair is that exact color, but she’s a natural towhead.) And those extensions? Gots to go, girl. No one could possibly do an entire blowout and still be out of the house early enough to take the kids to Li’l Dippers Summer Sunrise Saturday Swim Club.
    Burning all the Forever 21s to the ground should help us with the wardrobe dilemma, but really, everything’s going to hinge on how malleable she is.
    My brilliant older sister, Kelly, says to never discount anyone because they might be useful later down the line. So I believe a trial balloon is in order.
    I wrap an arm around Ashley’s narrow shoulders in a conspiratorial manner. “Of course you didn’t do anything wrong, Ashley! It’s just that some of our Littles’ mommies are a tad rigid in terms of their children’s diets. Loosen up, be more spontaneous, I always say! These gals should be more ‘Carrie’ and less ‘Charlotte,’ am I right?” I don’t wait for her answer, because it suddenly occurs to me that
she
was in second grade when
Sex and the City
debuted. “I assume you received the treatise on the evils of nut butter?”
    Ashley nods and begins to chew at the cuticle around her thumbnail. Either she doesn’t understand the word “treatise,” or she’s waiting for me to admonish her, but because I’m following Kelly’s dictates, I won’t take that route.
    Too obvious. Too little return on investment.
    I continue. “Humorless, right? Peanut butter’s not a hate crime!”
    Ashley perks up. “Right? When did that happen? We lived on jars of Jif when I was a kid.”
    This morning, then?
    She says, “I tried to give one of Barry Jr.’s friends a PBJ Saturday at soccer practice and his mom literally slapped it out of my hands?”
    I nod. “Lacey Churchill.”
    “Yes!” she exclaims, eyes widening. “How’d you know?”
    “Lacey tried to have all of North Shore declared a nut-free zone in 2009.” I lean in and whisper, “Her son’s not even allergic—she’s just afraid of how densely caloric peanut butter is. Doesn’t want Jeremiah to chunk out.”
    Ashley nervously twirls one of her extensions as we speak. “Is it me, or is that, like, cray-cray?”
    “Bona fide cray-cray,” I agree.
    Okay, not afraid to make fun of the parents I dislike.
    One point for Ashley.
    I explain, “The key with kids is to provide proper nutrition