Mrs

Mrs

By four, we idle in our cars, engines on, waiting for our children to come out better than they went in. Meera, Latha, Kavita, and I watch as the Kumon parking lot fills with doors opening and closing.

She is already there.

Across the parking lot, she unfolds a metal chair on the soccer field. Coffee in one hand, sunglasses shoved into her blond hair, she stretches her legs into the grass. Her son bursts across the field, kicking up dust behind him. Thud. Thud. Thud. The ball strikes the curb.

We walk over to the field to pass time. Our phones buzz. Someone says the gifted program applications close next Tuesday. 

Kavita says, “Last year they only took kids in the top five percent.” Mine lags in math. Six days left before applications close. 

I tap the group chat. Our names show up as Mrs. Raman, Mrs. Arun, Mrs. Shailesh. In person, we use our first names.

She taps the side of her cup with her long fingernail, tracks her son with her eyes, shifting when he slows. I wonder if she knows we are watching.

Maybe she just heats frozen ravioli at home. Or maybe I want her to. No worksheets across the dining table, no curry simmering on the stove, no clock ticking down to bedtime the way ours does.

She looks over. Meera pretends to adjust her dupatta; Kavita checks her phone. I try a smile. 

The field lights flicker on slowly, casting long shadows across the grass. Parents drop into chairs as car doors slam and soccer cleats strike pavement. 

Kavita pulls a stainless-steel box of cut guavas from her handbag and passes it around, the slices dusted with red chili powder and chaat masala. She used to teach biochemistry at a university in Chennai. She never mentions it here. We don’t sit. We eat standing by the fence, watching the field, checking the time between bites. 

She shouts, “Nice pass!” Her son grabs the ball and runs. She jogs after him once, laughing when he dribbles past, the ball skipping ahead of them across the grass.

The ball skids to the fence and stops at my feet. For a second, I don’t pick it up. Then, I pick it up, the leather warm from the sun. She jogs over, slowing as she reaches me. 

“Thank you,” she says, slightly out of breath.

“Busy day?” I ask. I almost ask her name.

“Yes,” she says, eyes still scanning for her son. “I wish he liked math as much as he likes soccer.” She pulls out her phone, glances at it. "Finally submitted the gifted application this evening. You never know with these things."

Damp strands cling to her temples; she pushes them back. A small brown stain shows on her sleeve.  Across the field, someone calls out.

“Mrs. Carter!”

She lifts her hand. I look at my empty hand, the ball gone.

Another Mrs.

The first name buried. 

For a moment, I miss something I can’t name.