At an elite prep school, the devil wears Lilly Pulitzer pink. When Wade Rouse, who grew up more Hee-Haw than Dynasty, was hired as the director of publicity at the prestigious Tate Academy, he quickly discovered his real job: to make the very pretty, very rich, very mean mommies of the elite students very happy. Enter Wade’s VIP volunteer and perfectly coiffed nightmare, former beauty queen and sports star Katherine Isabelle Ludington—Kitsy to her friends. In between designing Louis Vuitton–inspired reunion invitations, dressing as Ronald Reagan for Halloween, and surviving surprise Botox parties, Wade tries to tame Kitsy and her pink Lilly Pulitzer–clad posse while retaining a shred of self-esteem. Following a year in the life of the super rich and super spoiled, Confessions of a Prep School Mommy Handler is hilarious, heartbreaking, and deliciously catty. “Wade Rouse has a fantastically sharp and snarky voice, and it’s delicious fun to read about his personal misadventures among the wealthy behaving badly.” —Suzanne Hansen, author of You’ll Never Nanny in This Town Again “A treat, a trip, a triumph . Confessions of a Prep School Mommy Handler is a keenly observant and hilariously scathing peek into the entitled, Lilly Pulitzer–clad universe of an elite private school. With pinpoint accuracy, Wade Rouse pricks at this elite universe and comes away with surprising insights and valuable life lessons.” —Josh Kilmer-Purcell, author of I Am Not Myself These Days “Humor and pathos . . . Prada meets Prep.” —Out magazine WADE ROUSE has worked in public relations for some of the nation’s most prestigious private schools, colleges, and universities. He is the author of America’s Boy: A Memoir and a forthcoming book on his return to a simple, rural life—which he discovers is not so simple, especially when wearing high-fashion waders. He lives in Michigan. Everyone in the (Car) Pool! Deep cleansing breath iiiiinnnn . . . Exhaling all the toxins . . . Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Deep cleansing breath iiiinnnn . . . Exhaling all the toxins . . . Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Deep cleansing breath iiiinnnn . . . I am wearing a Kenneth Cole suit, standing in the middle of my old, wide-windowed office at work, chanting and performing yoga breathing exercises. I am trying desperately to hear my inner voice, to hear only birds chirping and the sounds of ocean waves, but I can hear only the ringing of my phone. Blaring for the fourth time in less than two minutes. I separate my hands, which are locked in prayer, and peer through them at the caller ID on my phone. Her again? My knees creak as I sprint out the door, in a semipanic. I’m already running late for afternoon carpool, running late for my mommy. It is the first day of school at Tate Academy, one of the nation’s most historic and revered private schools, where I serve as “the mommy handler,” and working the carpool lane is an essential, occasional, yet ongoing component of my job, kind of like working a streetcorner is to a hooker. In truth, there are real similarities: Each of us doggedly protects our assigned turf and, by end of the day, each of us knows we’re gonna end up screwed. In completely different ways, of course. While my official and politically correct title at Tate Academy is Director of Public Relations, I was told that I was specifically hired to be “the mommy handler.” Those were the odd but “secret” words that were used in my original interview not so long ago by someone who, of course, has since left the school. I know they were used somewhat facetiously, but there is still a ring of truth. And it doesn’t take a linguist to dissect that phrase. I . . . handle . . . mommies. In essence, I am the bug guard on the institutional vehicle; I get whacked and splattered, take the hits, so everyone else riding in the car—the administration, the faculty, the staff, the students—stays clean and unharmed from annoying, stinging insects. Working at a prep school, you see, is akin to being a beekeeper. You get stung enough times—like I have, like all faculty and staff do—and you always make sure to keep your protective gear on and zipped up tight. Frankly, you get a little paranoid. Because just when you are lulled by the sleepy hum of the buzzing or the richness of the honey— BAM!—the bees attack. It’s just the natural order of things here, the way of the colony: I am half worker bee, half eunuch-drone. Today, this first day of school, I am on my way to get stung by the Queen Bee herself: Katherine Isabelle Ludington. Mrs. Ludington is my new liaison to the parent group and alumni group, the two groups whose work I help oversee. She summoned me to meet with her for the first time just a few minutes earlier. The sound of her clipped, every-syllable-is-overenunciated voice this morning set off my yoga-induced chanting, my last-ditch effort to center my mind and body. It didn’t work, and I’m less than a day