The Single Undead Moms(31)

“I know.” She sighed. “And personally, I’m a little uncomfortable with the word ‘solicitation.’ ”

“I can still say no,” I insisted. “I can use my scary vampire powers and tell them I’m unavailable this year.”

“Your scary vampire power is getting out of volunteer ‘opportunities’? I’m not sure if that’s lame or awesome.”

I giggled, spitting a dribble of blood over my chin.

“Whoops, party foul. Don’t waste good blood, hon,” Kerrianne said, shaking her head. “Don’t be that girl.”

“I think we’re going to get along fine,” I said, holding my bottle up.

Smiling, she clinked her mug against my bottle. “Just fine.”


Danny adjusted to the move, Kerrianne’s presence, and his first day of school like he did all things: quickly and with enthusiasm. He loved his new room in the Victorian’s “tower,” his new big-boy planet-themed sheets, and sliding down the stairs on his butt. He also insisted that it was the perfect place for us to live because a Bigfoot lived in the backyard.

“I’ve been watching it for the last couple of nights through my bedroom window,” he told me solemnly. “I could see him, clear as anything. Last night, he waved at me!”

This claim might have seemed like cause for some concern for the average mom, but this was not the first time my Bigfoot-obsessed son had sworn he’d seen a hominid creature from a distance. His insistence that he’d seen a Sasquatch while camping with his grandpa the previous summer led to Les insisting that “the boy needs less reading and more man’s work.” My response was to buy Danny a children’s book on cryptids and a “Caution: Bigfoot Crossing” sign for his bedroom door.

But there were other adjustments that weren’t so easy. Danny didn’t understand why I couldn’t spend more time with him now that I was “feeling better.” As much as he liked Kerrianne and her daughter, Braylen, he didn’t understand why they drove him to school in the mornings instead of me. He missed baking with me, a B.C. activity we’d both enjoyed thoroughly, but I was too afraid of how the food smells might affect me to give it a try. And I was even more afraid of explaining it all to him for fear of scaring him.

Danny was a sunny kid, so it was difficult to suss out when something was bothering him. But it didn’t shock me to find him on the porch a few nights later, staring at fireflies dancing in our new front yard one evening, instead of sitting at the kitchen table with Braylen, practicing his math flash cards like usual. Kerrianne was at the stove, her dark hair wound into a high, loose bun as she stirred something that involved neither wheatballs nor tofu. This alone would make her Danny’s favorite sitter ever.

I shuffled into the kitchen with the Knight’s Castle monthly financials under my arm, desperately seeking a caffeinated blood blend called Plasmaspresso. It was the only thing that brought me up to Danny’s level first thing in the evening.

“He’s out on the front porch, Miss Libby,” Braylen told me, her big brown doe eyes solemn. Braylen was a sweet girl, tall for her age, with a cute overbite that she would eventually grow into. “He did not have a good day at school. You should ask him about lunch.”

“He was on a four today,” Kerrianne added. I drew my lips back in a wince. The kids’ daily behavior was rated on a scale of one to five, pushing up their rating with the severity of their disruption. One meant no problems. Five meant a call home from the principal’s office. Danny had never been past a two.

“Wow,” I marveled. “What did he do?”

Braylen pinched her lips together, as if she couldn’t bear to tattle.

“Honey, I need to know what I’m walking into here,” I told her, my tone gentle.

“He may have thrown a cup of applesauce at Mrs. McGee when the class was getting ready for snack time.”

“That is . . . What?” I stormed out to the porch. “Daniel Robert Stratton, what on earth?”

But I stopped in my tracks when I saw the tears streaking down his cheeks. My son did not cry unless something was bothering him deeply. Though my crazed, angry “Hulk Mom” instincts demanded that I track down the source of those tears and SMASHSMASHSMASH it out of existence, I dialed down my righteous (irrational) mom anger and plopped down on the step next to him.

“Danny, what happened at school today?”

Danny tucked his face against his knees and shook his head.

“Danny, why did you throw applesauce at Mrs. McGee?” I asked gently.

Mrs. McGee was a grandparent volunteer who had been lurking around the building since I was in elementary school. She wasn’t exactly a cuddly, cheerful soul. And she didn’t seem to like children all that much. Her own grandkids had graduated from high school years before. I wasn’t sure why she even bothered volunteering, other than to fill her empty hours. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded tossing an applesauce at her myself a time or two, but I was sure that wasn’t the most responsible thing to tell one’s delinquent son.