Free The Underdogs by Sara Hammel

What’s his problem?” Lisa squeaked as he slouched off into the lobby.
    â€œWhat do you think his problem is?” Mom quizzed her. “We’re all upset, Lisa. You’re the only one pretending nothing’s happened.”
    Lisa shrugged. “I’m as upset as anyone,” she said. “But people are acting like she was this perfect angel when she was—and I’m sorry, but it’s true—a snob . She thought she was better than everyone else. You’re all afraid to say it, but I’m not.”
    My mom grimaced while Evie, sitting next to us, was turning purple with anger. “That’s not fair, Lisa,” my mom said, tucking some curls behind her left ear. “You ever heard of karma? You keep saying stuff like that and you might find yourself in some trouble of your own. The universe has a way of evening things out.”
    Evie glared at Lisa, who was now doodling over the dead chicken-slash-artichoke.
    Mom asked, “Have you cried yet? Even once?”
    Lisa’s pen froze. Then her face morphed from bitter to, well, kind of sad. My mom saw this and closed her eyes for a second. I guess she’d underestimated Lisa, which was funny because Mom also avoided letting her real emotions show around the club. She’d done her crying at home—and there had been a lot of tears for Annabel, and “for all the violence of the world,” as she put it between blowing into her Kleenex.
    Lisa said, “I guess not. I guess I’m evil, right? Mean old Lisa. Never as sweet or pretty as the rich St. Claire princesses.”
    My mom closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was surely thinking what I was: Lisa lived in the less affluent Margot, two towns away, and had what Gene called “a troubled home life.” Hers made Evie’s situation with Lucky look like a trip to Disneyland. “I’m sure you’re grieving in your own way, but you need to be careful about what you say.”
    Come to think of it, there hadn’t been a lot of dramatic displays of grief around here in the days since Annabel died. Goran would come in with red-rimmed eyes. Nicholas, for his part, hadn’t been seen since that first day. Only Gene and Harmony were happy to let the tears flow. Everyone else seemed to be in a state of suspended shock. Also, most of them were irritable as heck—when they weren’t terrified about a possible serial killer on the loose. A few members had stopped coming altogether and demanded full refunds, which Gene would refuse, then look up to the heavens and moan that giving back even half a year’s membership could kill his profit margin.
    We sat quietly for a moment—and then suddenly I felt a chill in the air. There was a big-time member walking through the front door. Joe Marbury, fifty-something, ruddy faced, slightly sinister. He was rich, hideously unattractive, and basically leered at every female under forty. He set off my creep-o-meter something fierce.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mr. Marbury,” Lisa said with a big smile. “How are you today?” I guessed she hadn’t gotten the memo about how icky Joe Marbury was.
    â€œSpecial delivery,” he said in his gravelly voice that sounded like he smoked five packs of cigarettes a day. He threw a folded newspaper down on the desk in front of my mom. It was the St. Claire Bee , our twice-weekly afternoon paper. My mom gave Joe a tight, fake smile and flicked the rubber band off the paper.
    Joe put one meaty palm on the granite and told Lisa in that raspy voice, “I’m hearing members are asking for refunds.” He smirked at my mom. “That’s gotta be bad for business.”
    I watched my mom’s expression as Joe lumbered toward the men’s locker room, his khaki pants sagging and revealing a part of his rear end I did not need to see. Anyway, something had dawned on my mom, and on me, and by the look on