Keep it cool, she tells herself. It’ll be okay. Mom’s usually quite the charmer in public — except when she isn’t

They wait in line with throngs of others dressed to the hilt. It’s the evening of the play of the year, to benefit a leading community organization.

Mom had seen the ad and hung it on the fridge. “An evening out; my daughter and I,” she’d said last week when Aviva came, clasping her hands together.

Pathos and drama, as usual. But also, excitement.

Aviva didn’t protest. She knew how quickly Mom could go from theatrical excitement to guilt-tripping.

And besides, it’s on a Tuesday, when she visits Mom anyway.

They’re here now, and the line becomes a surge. Aviva notices that all the people around them have ticket printouts, or are holding their phones out.

“Were we supposed to buy tickets online?” she asks Mom.

“Could be.” Mom shrugs. ”I’m sure we can get them at the door.”

Aviva peers over people’s heads. “I don’t know.” Up ahead, girls in green T-shirts are manning the doors, scanning tickets. “We need the desk, not the doors.”

She tries to steer them out of the huge shuffle of people. The show attracts a crowd from every self-respecting community in New York. A part of her is glad about that. She’s not in the mood to meet anyone they know, and in a crowd like this, it’s not likely they will.

Keep it cool, she tells herself. It’ll be okay. Mom’s usually quite the charmer in public — except when she isn’t.