Everyone has come today, and I squeeze in next to another car, hoping I’m not so close that I’ll get the Lexus’s paint chipped. I’m proud of my Lexus. I’ve had it two years, and it still looks brand new.

We hustle across the parking lot and enter one of the outside buildings where the second-grade classes are held. Brooke has one of the new teachers, a Miss Johnson, and from what I understand, Miss Johnson is young and inexperienced. I believe this is her first year teaching, although I don’t know why the school district would hire such a green teacher for Points Elementary. Living in Yarrow Point, we pay a fortune in property taxes. The girls deserve a great education, and I’m determined they’ll get that education. That’s one reason I volunteer as much as I do, and of course I’m volunteering as a room parent for Jemma’s and Brooke’s classes again.

I’ve already e-mailed both teachers, letting them know I’m available and interested in helping them out. I do this every year in August as soon as the class rosters are posted, and it works. Teachers have a lot to deal with at the beginning of the year, and they shouldn’t have to worry about managing all the parent volunteers.

In my e-mail (I saved it in my Outlook box a couple of years ago so it’s easy to resend every summer), I tell the teacher a little about myself and explain why I’m so qualified.

First, I’m experienced. I’ve done this every year since Jemma started kindergarten, and I know what needs to be done.

Second, I’m a full-time mom, and I’ve dedicated myself completely to my kids’ future.

Third, I’m committed. When I say I’ll do something, I do it.

Fourth, I’m good. Every class that has me as head room parent has a great year, guaranteed. They have the best parties, the best field trips, the best class projects for the school auction. But I don’t help just with the fun stuff. I’m there in the classroom helping out, too. I read with the children, I photocopy handouts, I sort homework, I help with bulletin boards.

In the past, teachers have always been so grateful for my assistance (well, except for Mr. Smythe, the PE teacher, but he’s not a normal teacher, he’s a retired marine), and I love making a difference in my children’s education.

It’s important that I know what they’re learning, whom they’re playing with, what’s going on at school. Nathan once said I should have become a teacher myself and brought home a paycheck since I spend so much time at school, but that’s just him teasing me. He’s proud of me, proud of all I do.

In Brooke’s first-grade class, I greet Miss Johnson, a cute young blond teacher who looks just like what she is, a corn-fed midwesterner. She lights up on hearing my name.

“Thank you so much for your e-mail,” she says warmly. “That was wonderful, and I definitely welcome all the help I can get.”

She’s going to be my kind of teacher. “You’ve got my e-mail and phone number. Call me if you need anything this week.”

I wave farewell, leave a small welcome gift on her desk, and walk with Jemma to her class. The first bell has already rung, and the second bell will ring any second.

I spot Mrs. Osborne at the front of the class, and it’s not until I’m hurrying forward that I see she’s talking to another mother, one with long loose dark brown hair, wearing jeans and flip-flops and a faded black T-shirt. Marta Zinsser.

I stiffen, my spine straightening as I glance around the room until my gaze settles on a thin girl with thick black hair cut in a chic bob, but the stylish cut does little to hide the mouth that looks too big for her face.

“Her hair’s longer,” I say to Jemma.

“It’s a good cut,” Jemma answers grudgingly.

“Kind of Katie Holmes Cruise–like.”

I give Jemma a quick kiss good-bye. “I’m just going to say hello to Mrs. Osborne and then I’m out of here. Have a good day.”

Marta leaves as I approach.