Curse of the PTA Read Online Free Page B

feeling
     that—”
    “That Claudia had loaded her with the question? That Claudia’s obviously fake cough
     was a cue for her to ask it? Why, yes, Virginia, there was a plot afoot. Clear as
     the freckles on your pretty little face.”
    “I do not have freckles.”
    “In summer you do. And unless the fall equinox has been moved to a different date,
     it is still summer. Which doesn’t seem fair, really, since school has started. No
     child should have to be stuck in a classroom when it’s still summer, is what I say.”
    She rambled on, but I wasn’t really listening. I was busy thinking about the implications
     of Claudia seeding the audience with her questions. Why on earth would she do that?
     Why wouldn’t she just ask them herself? What was the advantage to—
    “Earth to Beth.” Marina snapped her fingers in front of my face.
    I lurched back. “I hate it when you do that.”
    “And I hate it when you get that polite look when I’m talking.”
    Fair enough. “What does Earth want with Beth?”
    She looked left, then right, then leaned in close. “What did you do with the ballots?”
    Over her shoulder, I saw Randy stump back into the room. Behind him came Carol and
     Nick, who were in a friendly argument about what was better, thin-crust or deep-dish
     pizza. Behind them more PTA members were starting to return. I glanced at the clock.
     A few more minutes. “For secretary?” I asked.
    “No, the ballots for the 1852 presidential election.” She looked at the ceiling. “How
     can someone so smart be so stupid? Of course the secretary ballots.”
    “They’re in my bag.”
    “Well, tell me.” She patted her hands on the table in a quiet imitation of a drumroll.
     “I’m dying to know.”
    “What part of secret ballot don’t you understand?”
    “What I understand is that you know more than I do, and I can’t stand it.”
    “Summer won. And that reminds me.” I reached into my bag and retrieved the ballots.
     Just out of her reach, I worked on tearing each one into tiny pieces.
    “Aw, you’re such a spoilsport.”
    She made a halfhearted attempt to snatch the ballots out of my hands, but I held them
     away and kept ripping and ripping until the bits of paper were small enough that it
     would have taken a team of CSI experts two full episodes to reassemble them.
    “You are no fun.” Marina slumped in her chair. “I hope this president thing isn’t
     going to your head.”
    “So you’re saying that if I’d still been secretary I would have handed over a pile
     of secret ballots?”
    She heaved a theatrical sigh. “Your overly developed sense of right and wrong would
     have kept you from doing that, but you might have squeaked me a little information.”
    I snorted. “Again, what part of ‘secret ballot’ don’t you get?”
    “There’s secret and then there’s, you know, secret.”
    This explanation should be good. “How’s that, exactly?”
    “Sit and listen, my child, and you will learn. Look into my crystal ball. Look closely;
     look deep.” She adjusted an invisible head scarf and cupped her hands around an imaginary
     crystal ball. “Listen well. There are three kinds of secrets.”
    “According to . . . ?” I tilted my head.
    “Do you want to hear this or not? Three kinds.” She held up her index finger. “One
     is the not-very-secret secret. What you’re getting someone for their birthday or Christmas.”
     Her middle finger went up. “Two is the midlevel secret. Secret enough that it should
     stay a secret to most people, but not so ultra-important that it can’t be shared with
     certain responsible people.” She half closed her eyes at me. “That’s what this vote
     was. A level-two secret.”
    There was a certain logic to this. And maybe in a thousand years I’d tell her so.
     “Level three?” I asked.
    “Ah, level three.” She hitched a teensy bit closer, making our conversation a little
     more confidential, a little more . . . secret. “A