Free Curse of the PTA by Laura Alden Page B

sobs, and
     her quiet sniffs were enough to make me want to cry.
    I went to her side. “Sara,” I said softly. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nuh-nuh-nothing.”
    Had I been this dramatic when I was her age? Sadly, I was sure I had been. “Sara,
     please tell me what’s bothering you.” I hesitated, then put my arm around her shoulders
     and gave her a hug. “Please let me help. I want to, you know.”
    “But . . . don’t . . . you see?” she huffed out between her tears. “That’s the problem!”
    I didn’t see. Not at all. But it didn’t do to point out logic to someone in emotional
     distress. And if men could learn that simple fact, marriages all over the world would
     improve.
    “If you want,” I said, “come into my office. We can sit down and talk about whatever
     it is that’s troubling you.”
    She drew in a long breath and stepped back. “Um, thanks, but I’m fine.” She rubbed
     her face and her hands came away wet with tears. “Really, I’m fine.” To prove it,
     she smiled wide, a grimace that didn’t carry an ounce of happiness. “I’m just tired;
     that’s all.”
    “Tired,” I said. “You’re sure about that?”
    Her shoulders came back up. She looked at me straight on. “Honest, Mrs. Kennedy. I
     really am just tired. I’ll catch up on sleep this weekend.”
    I nodded and let her get back to work, watching the top of her blond head bob between
     the shelves as she went to help a customer. She’d sounded like she was telling the
     truth. But was she? I watched her greet the woman, saw her manufactured smile, and
     wondered.
    •   •   •
    The next morning was Friday, the day I’d recently decided was perfect for delivering
     books to the local schools. For years I’d made it a point to personally drop off books
     that teachers had special ordered. It cost me two hours of time almost every week,
     but it generated a tremendous amount of loyalty, and that was beyond price.
    Plus it gave me an opportunity to peek in on my son. Not Jenna, though, not now that
     she was in middle school. She’d made me promise with a triple cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-my-eye
     that I wouldn’t come anywhere near any of her classrooms.
    “I will die,” she said. “Just die. Middle school is different, Mom.”
    She was right, but in spite of my promise, I’d found it difficult almost beyond bearing
     to walk in and out of the middle school without seeing her. So close to my daughter,
     yet so far. But Oliver would be at Tarver for two more years, so I had two more years
     of happy kid-peeking.
    I plopped the box of books on the counter of the front office. “Good morning, Lindsay.
     How are you this fine day?”
    Lindsay, six feet tall and skinny as a runway model, was as competent a school secretary
     as you could imagine. Teachers, parents, and the rest of the school staff continued
     to be amazed that she’d choose to work at the school instead of finding a higher-paying
     job at some fancy office in Madison. We all wanted her to stay forever, and since
     we couldn’t do anything about the size of her paycheck, the parents had banded together
     and made a quiet schedule for presenting her with gifts of chocolate, cookies, and
     muffins.
    “Getting fat,” she said, thumping her bony hips. “Put on almost a pound since school
     started.”
    I looked at her.
    “Gotta nip that stuff in the bud, you know.” She grinned. “Want a chocolate-chip scone?
     Mrs. Eberhard gave me a plateful.”
    “Did I hear you say scones?” A round-faced woman stood in the doorway that led to
     the back offices. “Chocolate chip?” She spoke with the soft-edged tones of someone
     from the South. Charleston, South Carolina, to be specific.
    “Morning, Millie.” I smiled at the school psychologist. “I’ll split one with you.”
    “Oh, my dear.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I like you very much, but scones are
     not to be split and shared.”
    “Especially Mrs.