The Single Undead Moms(56)

Casey Sparks and Chelsea Harbaker were manning the table, wearing their bright blue “HMH Howler Mom” T-shirts and matching hair bows. They were all bright smiles and welcoming faces until they turned around and saw me standing there.

“Oh, Libby, hiiiiii,” Casey drawled, barely able to refrain from flinching. She looked to Chelsea, who had a better poker face.

“Hi. I brought some brookies for the sale, bagged and priced,” I said, putting my bags on the table. “I’ve got to duck into Miss Steele’s class for my conference.”

Casey shook her head, biting her lip. She glanced around, though I wasn’t sure whether it was to look for moral support from the other mothers or some handy pair of decorative pinking shears she could improvise into a weapon. “Well, I—”

“I’m sure they’ll be just fine,” Chelsea said, taking the bagged brookies and moving them to the worktable behind her. “Thanks, Libby.”

“Anything to help the kids,” I said, smiling sweetly. It wasn’t my fault that my fangs slipped out just the tiniest bit when I did it.

OK, maybe it was. But Casey’s skittishness was pissing me off.

Miss Steele was waiting for me in her classroom, of course. And she checked her watch as I walked in, even though I was precisely on time for our 6:55 appointment. That was Miss Steele’s way. She wanted to make sure you knew you were being monitored and measured, so you worked your butt off to avoid a failing grade. She was one of the few teachers who attended every monthly PTA meeting and special session, as if she didn’t trust us to behave properly during the meetings and get the necessary tasks accomplished without supervision. If Chelsea Harbaker had strayed from the agenda the least little bit, I had no doubt that Miss Steele would have whacked her on the knuckles with a ruler. (Kentucky’s laws against corporal punishment didn’t hold much sway with Miss Steele.)

“Mrs. Stratton.” She sniffed. “It’s good to see you up and about. I’ve never believed in long-term convalescing. Too much lying about leaves the body weak and soft.”

“I will try to remember that the next time I’m diagnosed with a terminal illness,” I told her.

She didn’t bother with even a courtesy smile, gesturing to the child-sized chair in front of her little grading table, because sitting in that wouldn’t be humiliating at all. She’d used the same antique sewing desk as a grading table since I was a kid. It had ornate wrought-iron legs with flourishes of shells and feathers. It had surface area for only so many stacks of paper, so Miss Steele graded tests quickly to make room. There was no hope for a delay in grading if you thought you’d done poorly.

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Steele. How is Danny doing?”

“As well as one could expect, in this world of video games and tablets and instant gratification. His reading and math skills are above-average, though every child is considered above-average these days. If you stopped to consider the math involved there, you would scream.”

It was more difficult than I expected to keep a straight face in light of this little diatribe. This was a far cry from the Back-to-School Night of the previous year. Danny’s teacher, Mrs. Dodge, had practically given a PowerPoint presentation overflowing with praise about Danny’s progress over the past month, including penmanship, coloring accuracy, and number of days without a bathroom accident.

“I’m sure he told you that he and his friend, young Mr. Tucker, had to be separated.”

I pinched my lips together. “No, he did not.”

“Well, their frequent chats in class proved to be a distraction, for the two of them and their classmates. Mr. Tucker now sits in the front row nearest the door. Your son sits farthest from the door.”

I cleared my throat, hoping that I was not, in fact, smiling in response to this news. I didn’t think Miss Steele would appreciate that. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

Miss Steele waved a dismissive hand. “To be frank, I’m more concerned about a conversation he had with young Mr. Ramos last week. Mr. Ramos told Danny that his dad could beat up Danny’s dad if Danny’s dad wasn’t already dead. Before I could point out the inappropriateness of such a statement, Danny responded that you could sneak into Mr. Ramos’s house while they were sleeping and bite his whole family.”

My mouth dropped open. Oh, Danny.

“I never—I don’t even know where he got such an idea,” I spluttered. “Why didn’t you call me? Or at least send a note home? I think a death threat to another kid’s family merits a note.”