Have you got an appointment?

Hannah was in Maisie's kindergarten class. She made an impression on me the first day, showing up in lipstick, a short, snug pink skirt and black leather boots. Interesting choice for her mother to have made, I thought to myself then, but was impressed by the kid's confidence and didn't mind when Maisie sought her out. As the year passed, Maisie was invited for a few play dates with Hannah; her mother was nice: insecure, liberal, into her kids--just my type. One day I went to pick Maisie up at Hannah's house and met the whole family, including older sister, Brenna, who--right in front of me--backhanded the nanny and sent her flying against the stairs. Hannah's Mom witnessed it, but said nothing, nor did the nanny say anything. Which, to me, meant that this was not unusual behavior, and it was the last time I allowed Maisie to play with Hannah.

Things between the two of them got chilly. I told Maisie that it would pass. It did--when the school year ended and they spent the next two years in different classrooms.

This year, alas, Hannah is in the class right next to Maisie's, and the dividing wall slides open on occasion. Now that Hannah is a mature lass of 8, she wears fishnet stockings to school, more makeup, knit elbow gloves with her fingers jutting through the ends. You get the idea. She tags kids: "Get some style," she tosses off, and walks away. She has accumulated a following, too, and the girls move about in a band, and--we remember this shit, right?--you're either in the band or you're a victim of it. Maisie rides the fence.

"She's so pretty, Mom," she tells me tonight. "She's the prettiest girl in school." Hannah pulled Maisie aside earlier in the week and told her they were secret friends, and Maisie warmed to her like butter on a bun. The next day when Maisie approached her, one of Hannah's chicks asked, "Have you got an appointment with Hannah?" Seriously. Later on Maisie cornered Hannah and reminded her of their secret friendship. (Oh, Maisie.) Hannah tosses off, "Well, I don't think that's going to work out." This kills me. How do you teach an 8-yr old to hold back: to not rush in, to not pursue.

I reminded her of that line in Mean Girls: people don't like her; they fear her. Stay away from Hannah, I tell her. Hang out with kids who are nice to you--not the ones who slap you with words. She nods, but I'm not the one wandering into that nest every day, and I know what wandering bands of middle school girls are like, and how hard it is to deal with them.

Big, fat, fucking sigh.