“Sorry? If you were that sorry you’d have voted the right way. But no, you vote with Erica. President’s pet, that’s what you’re turning into. You don’t have a mind of your own.”
Even I could be pushed only so far. I put the tape recorder into the bag, then stood, surprisingly calm. For years I’d held insults and slurs tight in my stomach, letting them color my days and nights with a dull gray. Tonight her words didn’t touch me. Was it possible I was finally growing up?
I looked Claudia full in her flushed face and my mouth went dry. Possible, but not probable. I smiled and shrugged. “Looks like we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
“No way am I agreeing with you on anything.” Claudia’s hands had turned into fists. “You can bet your last dollar that I’ll never vote for anything you want. Ever!” She tossed her nose in the air and stomped out of the room.
My hands trembled slightly as I watched her go. From now on Claudia would do her best to make PTA meetings miserable for me. I hated being miserable.
Erica buttoned her coat, chuckling. “President’s pet? Nice alliteration. Shall I have a name tag made up?”
I summoned a smile. “Choosing the color would be too hard. I need to be color-coordinated at all times.”
“Black on white,” Erica said. “Goes with everything.”
“Please. Those colors would look atrocious against my sleeveless silver lame gown.” I shuddered.
Erica laughed. “Wear it to the dance.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Wonder what Claudia is going to wear.” She laughed again, hefted her briefcase, and walked out.
Which left two people in the room—me and the woman whose name I couldn’t remember. Awkward situation number two, coming right up.
She carried a light blue ski jacket that, though it carried the logo of an expensive manufacturer, looked as if it had seen a lot of winters. Her jeans were scuffed at the bottom hems, but that didn’t mean anything. I’d recently discovered that the worn look was considered cool, even for adults. So either she was trendy or she didn’t have a lot of money to spend on clothes. Or maybe she was like me and cared about clothes as much as she cared about the current price for a share of Berkshire Hathaway stock.
“Hi, Beth,” she said. “I don’t know if you remember me. Summer Lang?” She lifted the ends of her sentences, making everything she said sound like a question.
“Hello, Summer.” I slid a glance at my watch. “What can I do for you?” If I knew my best friend, right now Marina would be shooting baskets with the kids. She was the worst basketball player ever, but that didn’t stop her from having a good time. I could just hear her: “She shoots! She misses for the three hundred and thirty-seventh time!”
Since I was the second worst basketball player in the world, and since I didn’t find nearly as much fun as Marina did in playing horribly, it didn’t tweak my mom guilt too much to let them play on without me.
Summer dropped a glove, picked it up, then dropped it again. “I just wanted to say how much I admire you for standing up to Claudia like that. That took real courage.”
I blinked. “Courage?” Laughter burbled up inside me, but the earnest look on her face made me lock it inside. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how much I wanted to let Claudia have the vote.”
Summer dropped another glove. “If you wanted to back down but didn’t, that makes you even braver.”
I didn’t agree, but she was entitled to her opinion. “Well, thanks.”
We stood there in silence, and I came to the sudden realization that we were both feeling the same thing. Awkward.
“So,” I said, “it seems as if we’re having a dance. Do you have much left to do?”
“Oh, gosh, yes. I’m in charge of food. Lots of food to buy and bake. Which reminds me . . .” She plopped her purse on the table and pulled out a multifolded piece of paper and a pen. “Muffin papers,” she said, writing. “Can’t forget. Sorry, but I have to make a list if there are four things we need at the grocery store.”
“It’s three for me.” I laughed. “Do you title your lists?”
In answer, she handed me her sheet of paper. At the top in block letters she’d written “PTA Dance Grocery List.”
I dug into the diaper bag and showed her a sheet of yellow paper I’d torn off the legal pad at work. Its title: “Tentative Thanksgiving Menu.”
“Nice title,” Summer said. “Wonder what else we have in common?”
I felt the stirrings of friendship. “How do you feel about politics?”
She shrugged. “Ignore them as much as I can. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, except for an occasional cup of decaf with dessert.”
She nodded. “I love movies with intermissions.”
“Books with illustrations.”
“Swing dancing.”
I held out my hand and she shook it firmly. “Speaking of dancing,” I said, “does the committee need any help?”
She fished into her purse for another piece of paper. “Let me look at the master list.” She scanned the page. “As long as everyone does what they’ve promised to do, we’re all set.” The paper went back into her purse. “Is this dance really the best moneymaker the PTA has?”
“Yup. Something about dancing with their little girls gets the dads to fork over wads of cash.” I smiled. “If the moms were around to keep the wallets in the pockets, we’d make a lot less money, but it usually turns into a contest.”
Her eyebrows drew close together. “What do you mean?”
“They wind up seeing who can hand over the biggest cash donation.”
“Huh. Must be a guy thing. What’s the next best fund-raiser?”
“Let me think. We try to hold an event every month of the school year.” I ticked off the months on my fingers. “September is the Relay for Tarver. October is the Spook House. November is this dance. February is the mother- son dance. March is the carnival. April is the Spring Fling and May is the Fun Run.
“Plus,” I went on, “we’re going to work on the senior story project this spring and present it in June.” At least that was my general plan. One of these days I had to get going on a real schedule. Names. Dates. All that. But there’d be plenty of time after Christmas. Lots of time.
“How about January?” Summer asked.
“Um . . .” Did we have a January event? For me that month was a blur of postholiday recovery and store inventory. “I don’t think there is anything.”
“Do we want to do anything?”
I looked at her. The question was astute. Summer might be young, but she knew her way around a PTA. “We always want to do more projects,” I said, “and projects cost money. Do you have something in mind?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out another piece of paper. “Since you mentioned it, yes.”
Where the other papers had been white, this one was pink. I wondered if she had a color-coded system for her lists, but decided not to ask. Envy wasn’t an attractive trait, and list envy was even worse. I plucked the paper from her hand and read the loopy handwriting.
“Summer,” I said, “this will have to be run by the board, but I think you have a winner.”
Marina and the kids and I walked the three blocks to her house. The kids, as usual, were running half a block ahead. A couple of weeks ago, during the dedication of the new Agnes Mephisto Memorial Ice Arena, we’d enjoyed unseasonable warmth. Blue skies, calm winds, light jackets and no gloves. Those days were long gone. Now the wind whistled through the naked trees, rattling the branches against each other in a rhythm that sounded almost like speech.
I wondered what trees would say to each other. Did they discuss us humans? Did they wish they had our freedom of movement, or did they pity us? “Poor humans,” said the trees. “They have such a narrow range of comfort.”
“What’s so funny?” Marina asked. Even in the sporadic light cast by streetlights and porch lights, she’d seen my smile.
“Oh, nothing.” Best friend she might be, but she’d hoot at my whimsical thoughts. She opened her mouth,
