“Katherine, I’ll get back to you,” she said, snapping the phone shut. “See, phone’s off. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” Christy smiled at her.
“Hrmmmph,” the woman snorted as she disappeared down the hall.
Christy waited a few more minutes and checked her watch. Why hadn’t she brought work with her? Surely, that wouldn’t be against the rules. Watching the girls walk by as they changed classes, Christy noticed that there wasn’t an extra pound or pimple in the bunch. Whatever happened to knobby knees, headgears, braces, and geeky glasses? she wondered. Every one of these girls looked like she could star in her own show on the Disney Channel. Christy wondered why that was. Was it the result of some manner of upper-class natural selection? Rich men mating with beautiful women who bear them equally gorgeous children? Maybe this isn’t such a good place for Renata, she thought. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed, so she knocked on Brownie’s door once more.
Parent-volunteer secretary stuck her head out again. “Yes?”
“Do you know how much longer this’ll be?” Christy asked. “I need to get to work.”
“It could be a while,” she said. “We’re having a minor crisis.” She lowered her voice. “A hundred and forty-eighty dollars is missing from the PTA treasury.”
“Gosh, that’s bad,” Christy said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Maybe I should reschedule,” Christy suggested.
“That depends. What’s more important to you, your daughter or your job?”
“Obviously, my child,” Christy said, even though that wasn’t technically true at the moment. “It’s just that I’m in the middle of a crisis today.”
The woman sighed. “Let me get Brownie’s calendar.” She closed the door, then returned a few minutes later with a black Day-Timer. “I can give you something four weeks from tomorrow, same time.”
“But I’m meeting all the volunteers today. I have to see her first.”
“Brownie’s a busy woman.”
Christy thought for a moment. She reached into her purse and counted out four fifty-dollar bills. “Here. Here’s two hundred dollars for the treasury. Problem solved. Now can I meet with Brownie?”
“Mrs. Drummond, it’s not the money. Any one of us could replace that. It’s the fact that it’s missing. We need to know what happened. Was it stolen? Was it never paid? Was it accounted for incorrectly? Was it lost? That’s what we need to get to the bottom of.”
“And the world can’t go on until this is handled?” Christy asked, amused in spite of the fact that her own world was crashing down.
“I’m afraid it can’t. You just be patient and we’ll get to you as soon as we can. I’ll tell Brownie you’re in a hurry.” She shut the door.
Christy went back to the chair and checked her messages, using her bag to cover her cell phone. Rick Slotnik had called. Alan Hooper from the Financial Journal. Bill Ritter, the business reporter from the New York Times. Michael had called. “Fuuuuck,” Christy moaned.
“Excuse me!”
Christy looked up. Busted again. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
After half an hour, parent-volunteer secretary opened the door and invited Christy to enter Brownie’s magnificent digs. With million-dollar views of Park Avenue, the room was filled with antiques, Oriental rugs, and more oil paintings of important nineteenth-century dead people. Christy could see that the office was a beehive of activity. But as soon as she walked in, Brownie dismissed the other volunteer-workers. They obeyed as though Brownie was the queen.
“Christy, how good to see you.” Even though her suit was yellow, Brownie still gave the impression of being a formidable woman. Surprisingly, her lumpish body and un-made-up face added to her majestic vibe rather than diminished it. You just knew that if you crossed her, she’d come at you with that stinger she kept tucked in her Playtex girdle.
Christy reached out to shake her hand, but Brownie didn’t return the gesture. “May I sit?” she asked, figuring this was appropriate etiquette for meeting the queen.
“Be my guest.”
Christy sat on the needlepoint cushion on the French provincial chair across from Brownie. She pulled a notebook and pen from her bag. “So, we’re here to talk about graduation.”
“Yes,” Brownie said, putting on a pair of power reading glasses. “But before we get into that, there are a few ground rules you need to know about working with the Colby PTA.”
“Of course.”
“As you know, I’m the president. That means I call the shots. Here’s a directory of the PTA representatives and their numbers. That’s where we recruit our army of volunteers.” Brownie handed Christy a thick notebook. “In the back, there’s a highly confidential list of all the Colby families, their ENW, the father’s occupation, the amount they’ve contributed to the school each year, and any major celebrity or professional sports connections we know they have. That should help you with commencement speakers.”
“Why don’t we list the mother’s occupation?” Christy asked.
Brownie scoffed. “In the families that matter, the mother doesn’t work, trust me.”
“Right,” Christy said, her face burning. “And what’s the ENW?”
“Their estimated net worth.”
“We know that?” Christy opened the book to the page listing her and Michael. It was as though the PTA had seen their tax returns.
“The development office makes it a point to find out what families are worth.”
“Why would a family’s net worth matter? I’m in charge of graduation.”
Brownie gave Christy that what Greyhound bus did you just ride in on look. “Everything we do at Colby is a fundraiser. You’ll solicit donations in honor of each of the twenty-four graduates.”
“Oh, I see,” Christy said.
“Last year’s class raised one hundred and eight thousand dollars for the fifth grade gift. Your goal is to raise one-fifty. Questions?”
“With twenty-four girls in the grade, that’s over six thousand dollars a family. Is that realistic?”
“Of course. The girls are listed in the program from highest donation to lowest, with the amount given in their honor next to their name. Everyone wants her daughter to be at the top of the giving tree.”
“What about the girls on scholarship?”
“They’ll be at the bottom, of course.”
“Naturally,”
