Free Blessed Is the Busybody by Emilie Richards

century or earlier—a historical period not known for enlightened thinking—that we were Unitarians in case he’d forgotten, and that even our good friend Father Greg wouldn’t make a case for a bar stool at Don’t Go There as a substitute for the confessional booth.
    Of course, I should know better than to argue theology with Ed. My brain didn’t function normally again until the next morning.
    The odds were against the old neurons firing then, as well, considering what came next. After breakfast Deena conducted a ghost tour of the grounds for her best friends, eight of them, at least.
    I’m not sure how my daughter became the center of a group of girls who can only be described by that dreaded word popular . I hope she’s conducting a private sociological study complete with statistical analysis and charts, but I’m beginning to fear the worst.
    The girls call themselves the Green Meanies, a name that came with them, fortunately, and was not a product of Deena’s vivid imagination. The title is more or less appropriate. Most of them are good kids, but a couple are borderline psychopaths—or possibly just a few months ahead of Deena in the hormone game.
    At this point Deena doesn’t seem to care that these are the girls who in middle school will ask her to do things my best friends only read about in purloined copies of Jacqueline Susann’s novels. These are the high school cheerleaders who will choose the alpha males of their graduating class to father their children, then divorce them when better providers appear. These are the future society matrons who will star in our biannual “Broadway” show to benefit Emerald Springs General, who will chair the Christmas dance at Meadowlands Country Club, who will follow Deena’s career as a world-famous anthropologist or a specialist in rare tropical diseases, and wonder why she didn’t marry Quentin Quarterback and settle into life in Emerald Estates.
    And, of course, I am not projecting. I am not terrified.
    I served orange juice and doughnuts after the tour, watching helplessly as the girls streamed through my kitchen door chattering about dead bodies. I counted the uses of gross and creepy and noted who was showing off newly developing breasts and who was wishing.
    Carlene O’Grady was the first to address me. She looked at the platter of doughnuts and pitcher of orange juice as if these were the weapons that had killed poor Jennifer Marina.
    “Carbs. Wow, that’s more carbs than I’ve seen in one place before.” Carlene giggled. I’ll try to omit the giggling from this point on. It’s standard punctuation for eleven-year-old girls.
    Carlene is rail thin. Her mother, Crystal, is thinner. I’ve gotten evil looks from Crystal for serving carrot and celery sticks and herbal tea when she and the other Green Meanie mothers visit. Crystal will only be happy when I serve air and spring water with a flourish.
    I put two doughnuts on a plate and handed them to Carlene with a brimming glass of juice. “I’ve read this particular combination promotes a healthy complexion.”
    Carlene shook her blond head—her mother is blonder—as she grabbed the plate. “My mother says you’re a free spirit.”
    This was possibly the kindest thing Crystal had ever said about me. To forestall less pleasant revelations, I mingled and chatted with the other girls as I passed out the carbs.
    Next to Maddie Frankel, who was out of town today, Tara Norton is my favorite Meanie. She and Deena are in gifted classes together, and Tara keeps Deena on her intellectual toes. Like Deena, I’m not quite sure how Tara got into the group. Her dark hair is a mass of dense, frizzy curls. She wears glasses with black cat’s-eye frames, which sit on a nose she may yet grow into. Her body is short-waisted and compact, and that will probably only intensify with age. It’s a testament to the better qualities of Meaniehood that the girls see Tara’s intelligence, keen sense of humor, and