Sweet Venom
Page 71
“Excuse me,” Veronica says, obviously annoyed.
She has no talent for disguising her true feelings. While that kind of open-book honesty might be refreshing, it won’t serve her well in a society that operates on a smile-to-your-face-and-stab-you-in-the-back principle. Poor thing.
“I would like the committee to consider—”
I cut her off before it goes too far. “We have already discussed the ice sculpture.” Ad nauseam. I can’t let her turn this meeting into a circus, with an ice sculpture in the center ring.
She stands, her chair legs squeaking across the hardwood floor. In her ragged graphic tee and worn-and-torn jeans, she looks like a perfect thrift-store match for her starving-artist boyfriend. She does not, however, look like Immaculate Heart alumnae material. Nor does she sound like one.
“There should be a vote,” she whines. “It’s not official unless there is an accounted vote.”
We have a brief stare-down across the conference table. After the weekend I’ve had, I’m in no mood for a debate. My patience meter is at zero. Time to end this patronize-the-arts campaign once and for all.
“Fine,” I say, turning my attention to the rest of the committee. “Veronica proposes we have a hideous melting ice sculpture of a dragon—”
“Greer,” she complains.
“—on the buffet table. All in favor.”
If the other committee members know what’s good for their social standing, they will read the correct answer in my piercing silver glare.
Only Veronica raises her hand.
“All opposed.”
Every hand in the room—except Veronica’s—shoots up.
“The matter is decided.”
“But—”
“This meeting is over.” I gather my paperwork into the Alumnae Tea binder. “We will meet here again next Monday at the same time, for our final planning session before the tea on Saturday.”
Veronica, I’m sure, is ready to explode. I could care. Actually, I couldn’t. Let her explode, preferably somewhere brilliantly public and reputation damaging.
Sliding the binder into my grass-green Coach satchel, I turn and walk from the room before she starts begging or crying or some embarrassing combination of the two.
“Hey Greer,” Annalise calls out, jogging to catch up with me. “Rory and I are going to drive down to Santa Cruz for the afternoon. Want to come?”
Normally, I would relish the chance to head down the coast and spend a few hours on the sand. Just me, my friends, a giant towel, and generous amounts of high-SPF sunscreen. But today my mind is racing too much to relax. I would be terrible company. I should really be alone.
“Not today,” I say. “I have a ten-page report for Huffington due tomorrow.”
It’s not a fib. Only I left out the part where I’ve had the paper finished since last weekend. A little lie of omission is a small price to pay for the solo time I need at the moment.
“Okay,” she says with a bright grin. “Next time.”
“Definitely,” I say, as she hurries down the hall.
As I slowly make my way through the empty school to the main entrance, the only person I see is the janitor, quietly mopping scuffs and dirt off the tile floor. Everyone else has vanished.
As I pass by, I turn to nod. Only I don’t see Harold, our kindly school janitor. Instead, I see a giant spider, rubbing the mop back and forth across the tile.
It takes the last little bits of my control to not freak out completely and run screaming from the building. What, did the spider eat Harold and take over his job, so no one will know? Harold’s been at Immaculate Heart for decades. Everyone loves him. He’s an integral part of the school. How dare that . . . thing eat Harold.
I will not just stand by and let the spider monster get away with this tragedy. I’m not certain what I can do, but I have to do something.
“Good night, Miss Greer,” the spider says as I start marching in its direction. “You be careful of that wet tile there.”
I jerk back.
Harold? The spider is Harold? Harold is the spider? What—? How—? I don’t think my brain can handle this information. Insanity overload.
I mumble a quick good-bye and burst out into the open air.
What is happening to my carefully constructed world? A week ago, everything was perfect. Simple. Understandable. I was simply Greer Morgenthal, daughter of Elliot and Helen Morgenthal, most popular girl in the junior class, if not the entire school, and girlfriend of the most popular boy at St. Stephen. Future CEO, Junior Leaguer, and—if my plans work out right—first female president. Now, suddenly, I’m adopted, I have triplet sisters, and I see mythological monsters around every single corner!
I think my brain is imploding.
Without thinking about where I’m going, I walk right past the bus stop and head toward Fillmore, to the one place that always makes me feel in control of my world.
Before I know it, I’m pushing open the door and a tiny bell is tinkling to announce my presence. I collapse into one of the four hot-pink armchairs in the center of the space. As my satchel hits the floor, Kelly Anne emerges from the back room, a beaming smile on her face.
“Greer,” she squeals with delight. “Darling, it’s been weeks.”
“I know,” I reply, welcoming her hug as she leans down to give me a quick squeeze. “I’ve been busy.”
She laughs. “I was beginning to think you joined Shoe-aholics Anonymous.”
She has no talent for disguising her true feelings. While that kind of open-book honesty might be refreshing, it won’t serve her well in a society that operates on a smile-to-your-face-and-stab-you-in-the-back principle. Poor thing.
“I would like the committee to consider—”
I cut her off before it goes too far. “We have already discussed the ice sculpture.” Ad nauseam. I can’t let her turn this meeting into a circus, with an ice sculpture in the center ring.
She stands, her chair legs squeaking across the hardwood floor. In her ragged graphic tee and worn-and-torn jeans, she looks like a perfect thrift-store match for her starving-artist boyfriend. She does not, however, look like Immaculate Heart alumnae material. Nor does she sound like one.
“There should be a vote,” she whines. “It’s not official unless there is an accounted vote.”
We have a brief stare-down across the conference table. After the weekend I’ve had, I’m in no mood for a debate. My patience meter is at zero. Time to end this patronize-the-arts campaign once and for all.
“Fine,” I say, turning my attention to the rest of the committee. “Veronica proposes we have a hideous melting ice sculpture of a dragon—”
“Greer,” she complains.
“—on the buffet table. All in favor.”
If the other committee members know what’s good for their social standing, they will read the correct answer in my piercing silver glare.
Only Veronica raises her hand.
“All opposed.”
Every hand in the room—except Veronica’s—shoots up.
“The matter is decided.”
“But—”
“This meeting is over.” I gather my paperwork into the Alumnae Tea binder. “We will meet here again next Monday at the same time, for our final planning session before the tea on Saturday.”
Veronica, I’m sure, is ready to explode. I could care. Actually, I couldn’t. Let her explode, preferably somewhere brilliantly public and reputation damaging.
Sliding the binder into my grass-green Coach satchel, I turn and walk from the room before she starts begging or crying or some embarrassing combination of the two.
“Hey Greer,” Annalise calls out, jogging to catch up with me. “Rory and I are going to drive down to Santa Cruz for the afternoon. Want to come?”
Normally, I would relish the chance to head down the coast and spend a few hours on the sand. Just me, my friends, a giant towel, and generous amounts of high-SPF sunscreen. But today my mind is racing too much to relax. I would be terrible company. I should really be alone.
“Not today,” I say. “I have a ten-page report for Huffington due tomorrow.”
It’s not a fib. Only I left out the part where I’ve had the paper finished since last weekend. A little lie of omission is a small price to pay for the solo time I need at the moment.
“Okay,” she says with a bright grin. “Next time.”
“Definitely,” I say, as she hurries down the hall.
As I slowly make my way through the empty school to the main entrance, the only person I see is the janitor, quietly mopping scuffs and dirt off the tile floor. Everyone else has vanished.
As I pass by, I turn to nod. Only I don’t see Harold, our kindly school janitor. Instead, I see a giant spider, rubbing the mop back and forth across the tile.
It takes the last little bits of my control to not freak out completely and run screaming from the building. What, did the spider eat Harold and take over his job, so no one will know? Harold’s been at Immaculate Heart for decades. Everyone loves him. He’s an integral part of the school. How dare that . . . thing eat Harold.
I will not just stand by and let the spider monster get away with this tragedy. I’m not certain what I can do, but I have to do something.
“Good night, Miss Greer,” the spider says as I start marching in its direction. “You be careful of that wet tile there.”
I jerk back.
Harold? The spider is Harold? Harold is the spider? What—? How—? I don’t think my brain can handle this information. Insanity overload.
I mumble a quick good-bye and burst out into the open air.
What is happening to my carefully constructed world? A week ago, everything was perfect. Simple. Understandable. I was simply Greer Morgenthal, daughter of Elliot and Helen Morgenthal, most popular girl in the junior class, if not the entire school, and girlfriend of the most popular boy at St. Stephen. Future CEO, Junior Leaguer, and—if my plans work out right—first female president. Now, suddenly, I’m adopted, I have triplet sisters, and I see mythological monsters around every single corner!
I think my brain is imploding.
Without thinking about where I’m going, I walk right past the bus stop and head toward Fillmore, to the one place that always makes me feel in control of my world.
Before I know it, I’m pushing open the door and a tiny bell is tinkling to announce my presence. I collapse into one of the four hot-pink armchairs in the center of the space. As my satchel hits the floor, Kelly Anne emerges from the back room, a beaming smile on her face.
“Greer,” she squeals with delight. “Darling, it’s been weeks.”
“I know,” I reply, welcoming her hug as she leans down to give me a quick squeeze. “I’ve been busy.”
She laughs. “I was beginning to think you joined Shoe-aholics Anonymous.”
