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“Thanks for meeting me, Ms. Lemon-Chros,” Jess says. It’s always interesting to meet your students’ parents, because you really see where they get their stuff. Sometimes that stuff is bad stuff, and you think, “Everything makes sense now!” And sometimes it’s good stuff, and you think, “Aha! That’s what good parenting looks like!” Today, it’s not really good stuff or bad stuff, more just sad stuff.
“It’s just Lemon. But you can call me Liz. Or Lemon. Or Liz Lemon. I’ll answer to any of them, really,” the woman sitting across the table tells Jess. “Do you hold all of your parent-teacher conferences in bars, or did I merit special treatment?”
“Oh, well, I’m the vice principal and a teacher actually, and it’s just that the whole school is undergoing fumigation right now - there was this really bad cockroach infestation, they said it was because I brought too many cupcakes, but I think it’s the mystery meat.” Only after this tumbles out of her does Jess realize it might not be the most encouraging thing for a parent to hear. Also, she actually does hold all of her parent-teacher conferences in the bar, or at least as many as possible, because it removes most of parents’ anxiety. If they had bad school experiences, they get really weird in conferences at school. She keeps having to invent new reasons for having the conferences in the bar though. Some people might think bringing your students’ parents to a bar is inappropriate, but Jess thinks it’s innovative.
“Excuse me. Did you just say the place where my children spend more than 50% of their waking hours both is being fumigated and feeds them mystery meat?” Liz Lemon, who will now only be called by her full name in Jess’s mind, has a bit of a scary edge to her voice when she asks the question.
“They waited to start the fumigation until after the kids left. It’ll be all cleared up by Monday. And I think the mystery meat is actually tofu, so it’s probably good for the kids. Don’t Terry and Janet bring their lunches, anyway?” Jess knows she’s seen them carry matching vintage-looking Star Wars lunch boxes around.
“They have to have cafeteria lunch at least once a week. Criss says it builds character, and I don’t care enough to fight about it. And did I also hear you mention cupcakes?” The scary edge in Liz Lemon’s voice is totally gone now. She’s got more of a starving-and-hopeful waver in it this time.
“You did. And I happen to have some, right here.” Jess takes a not-Tupperware container that holds a half dozen cupcakes off of the booth bench and sets it on the table. She always brings cupcakes to parent-teacher conferences. It puts parents in a good mood. It works even better than her standard “I know we all want what’s best for [your kid’s name here]” line. The one-two punch of providing cupcakes and actually caring about their kids leaves most parents like putty in her capable educator hands. Anxious putty, but still. Putty. You could pick newsprint up with these parents by the time Jess is done with them. “And did you want a drink?” she asks as she opens the container. “The bartender is a friend of mine, so…”
“Which one? The gorgeous supermodel, or the beflanneled curmudgeon?” Liz Lemon sure seems to know a lot about this bar.
“Both. Have you been here before?” She delicately places a cupcake on one of the bar napkins Nick was kind enough to “loan” her. (Will he want them back? He might. He’s so weird. Damn his being weird and awesome. It’s really giving her trouble. Being broken up with him is really hard.) Then she slides the cupcake-and-napkin assemblage across the table to Liz Lemon.
“Just once. Criss - he’s my husband, Terry and Janet’s dad - drives an organic hot dog food truck and sometimes parks it across the street.” Liz - maybe Jess can drop the Lemon from her name, now that they’re getting to know each other better - unwraps the cupcake and promptly devours it in two bites. Her eyes grow wide as she chews it. “Ehrmygrdthssmzing,” she says, impressively managing to keep from spewing crumbs everywhere.
“Thank you. It’s always nice to meet a fellow dessert aficionado. Now, about Terry and Janet-”
“I’m about to ask you a weird question. And after I ask I’ll explain it, but just let me ask first, okay?” Liz Lemon (yeah, she’s still Liz Lemon, they’re not on a first-name basis after all) interrupts.
“Okay.” She’s definitely beginning to see where Terry and Janet get some of their more unique behaviors.
“Will you be my friend? We just moved to LA a couple months ago, and in New York I used to only have friends who worked with me, except that one time I had friends in a fight club, and I’m trying to grow as a person and I want to make friends who aren’t coworkers so will-you-be-my-friend?” Liz reaches into the not-Tupperware and grabs the next cupcake without waiting to be served, then starts to chow down.
Jess feels her eyes grow wide. A parent has never asked to be her friend before. But it can’t be any worse than when she dated Russell, right? And new friends are always good. Plus, Liz is older than she is, so maybe she has some sage advice to offer. She seems to be happily married and pretty solid in her career. She could be a mentor. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m having some friends over for crochet night tomorrow. Do you want to join us?”
Liz swallows the last bit of her second cupcake with a big gulp. “Crochet? I don’t know. I keep learning to knit. Then I stop and forget how and start over.”
“Crochet is way easier than knitting,” Jess assures her. “One hook instead of two needles. And so easy to unravel if you mess something up. It’s truly the lowest-risk needlecraft.”
“Okay yeah. But I can’t stay out too late. I have to be home by eleven to work on my night cheese.” Liz wipes frosting off the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater, then licks the sweater. They’re definitely down with first names now.
“Oh, I hear that. If mama doesn’t have her night peanuts, she gets cranky,” Jess says, pointing at herself. She gets her phone out of her purse. “Here, put your phone number in here. I’ll text you my address.”
“Okay.” Liz checks her watch. “Blerg! I have to go in a couple minutes. What did you want to say about Terry and Janet?”
“Oh - don’t worry about it. We can talk about it tomorrow.” When you meet the parents, you figure out the kids’ stuff. And now she knows why Terry and Janet seemed to be having trouble adjusting to the move to LA - why they don’t have any friends more than a month into the school year. Because a lonely workaholic mom and a mostly-stay-at-home-occasional-food-truck-driver dad can’t set a good example of ideal socialization.
“Here’s your phone back. See you tomorrow!” Liz grabs a cupcake to go and dashes out of the bar. Jess watches her go, smiling. If you want healthy plants, you have to feed the soil. And Jess is going to help Terry and Janet grow strong by feeding the soil they come from - the metaphorical soil, them being adopted and all - by feeding it - her - cupcakes, friendship, crochet, and night cheese-and/or-peanuts.
And maybe by teaching her some new dance moves, because that high-fiving-a-million-angels thing Jess watches her doing (presumably to celebrate their new friendship) through the bar’s window seems a little dangerous, actually.
Oh. And splat goes the cupcake. LA’s ants are in for a feast tonight.