The Single Undead Moms(85)
“And I’m sure you told him to stay put, give me more time, while you figured out how to best take advantage of my talent.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he protested.
“Oh, no, I think I’ve got a pretty good grasp of the situation,” I growled at him, getting up and yanking the battered hotel-room door open. “You stay away from me. And you tell my father . . .”
The unfamiliar word seemed to choke me, solidifying in my throat like a stone.
“What do you want me to tell him?” Finn asked, his voice so soft and gentle it broke my heart. “I’ll do anything you ask of me, Libby, just please, listen to me.”
“Tell my father he’s about thirty years too late.”
12
It’s important to carve out time in your schedule to volunteer at your child’s school and extracurricular activities whenever possible, if for no other reason than to remind the other children that your child’s parent can definitely beat up their parent.
—My Mommy Has Fangs: A Guide to Post-Vampiric Parenting
There was a very short pirate standing in my living room. He was wearing a black tricorn hat, a puffy white shirt, and a little vest with skulls on the lapels, but no pants. He adjusted his eye patch over his left eye, which was difficult, considering that he was holding his plastic sword.
“I’m ready for the Pumpkin Patch Party, Mom,” Danny announced while I was packing the last of the party supplies into my shoulder bag, including two extra bottles of HemoBoost. I would not suffer another emergency feeding situation in front of the PTA.
“You look great, Captain Danny,” I said, giving a jaunty little salute.
“Thank you.”
“Could I persuade you to put on pants?” I asked, waving in the general direction of his Underoos.
Danny pulled an indifferent face. “I don’t know if I feel like it.”
“It’s an important part of the costume. And what is with your sudden aversion to pants? This is the third night in a row we’ve had this conversation.”
“Did pirates wear pants?” he asked, climbing onto the couch.
“Pretty much full-time.”
“OK.” He sighed, sounding very put-upon as he padded up the stairs in his little pirate boots. “Is Mamaw going to be there tonight?”
“I’m pretty sure she will be. And Harley, too. And I am one hundred percent sure he will be wearing pants. You guys will be hanging out with Braylen and Kerrianne while Mom and Mr. Wade run the games. And then we’re coming back here for The Great Pumpkin and hot cocoa.”
“Sounds good!” he called. After a few minutes, he yelled, “Hey, Mom, did pirates wear sweatpants?”
“I can’t help but think this conversation is going to be the highlight of my evening,” I grumbled to myself as I carted the bag of party stuff out to the van. “Also, I don’t know if I should let my child spend so much time with Dick Cheney.”
Like the biblical plagues of old, the Pumpkin Patch Party was finally upon us. I guessed I should be grateful that because of bursting-into-flames issues, I didn’t have to help with setup. By the time I arrived, the games were set up, the popcorn was popped, and the inflatables were . . . inflated. Chelsea Harbaker and the other moms had done a remarkable job strategically placing hay bales and pumpkins so the front of the school actually looked like a place people would come to sort out their fall harvests. The actual pumpkin patch, run by Marnie Whitehead and provided by McDonough’s Tree Farm, was spread out over the front lawn. At the end of the night, each participating kid could buy a pumpkin for a dollar, a ridiculously low price for their future jack-o’-lanterns, but McDonough’s was happy to get rid of some of its “irregular” specimens.
Wade had been busy helping some of the other dads put together the dunking booth and the ring toss and other carnival games that were actually designed to allow the children to win. As for me, I’d been wrapping up all of the raffle issues, including redesigning the tickets at the last minute because it turned out the state had some scary, heretofore unknown laws about charity-related gambling and what was supposed to be printed on the tickets. I was not going to jail for the Pumpkin Patch Party.
Danny ran ahead of me, eager to find Harley among the kids whose parents had arrived early to volunteer. The air smelled, frankly, repugnant, between the popcorn and the caramel apples and the mulled cider. I was sure it smelled heavenly to the humans, but it was like walking through a Wicks & Things where all of the candles were garbage-scented.
It was nice, but somehow a little disturbing, that this Pumpkin Patch Party looked almost exactly like the Pumpkin Patch Parties I’d attended as an HMHES student. The same booth banners, the same games, the same families milling around, seeking good old-fashioned entertainment.