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“Now, now. Someone’s grumpy this morning,” teases my dad from the steering wheel. “Joe, it’s fine,” murmurs my mom quietly to him. “You know he’s going through something.” My dad nods slowly with understanding. “Right. Boy troubles,” he mumbles back, as if I can’t hear every damned word they’re saying.
After we pull into the parking lot, I’m out of the car at once. My eyes survey all the faces gathered outside the church. None of them are the one I want to see. As usual, my parents lead the way and quite deliberately make their rounds greeting the big names, including the McPhersons, Evanses, and even the Whitmans, where I am met by my principal, who gives me an approving look, likely not having seen me dressed up before. I do my part in playing the role of their son they’re so proud of—while distractedly scanning the crowd for Toby, whom I never find.
We’re inside when I spot Mrs. Strong across the lobby. She is in a conversation with some other women, appearing comfortable and pleasant, though the sight of her brings me right back to the night of the Halloween party I totally crashed. I figure the lovely first impression I gave her upstairs was ruined by my actions.
“Something wrong?” asks my mom, eyeing me after wrapping up a short chat with someone else. “You’ve got a look.”
I turn away from Mrs. Strong, annoyed. “It’s nothing.”
She apparently followed my line of sight, because she smirks, pats me on the shoulder, and says, “Don’t worry about her. I doubt her mayoral race will last much longer come the spring.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story here in Spruce among all the rich ladies. Vying for power. Cattiness. Backstabbing. Really, the whole situation will deal with itself, and Mayor Raymond will get what he wants.” Upon my confused expression, she leans in and asks me, “What’s better than one catty rich lady running for mayor?” She smirks and answers herself: “Two catty rich ladies.”
I’m unsettled at once. “What did you do, Mom?”
“It took a simple call to Cissy McPherson to convince her. And with just a nudge, Spruce’s latest bombshell will be the news that Mrs. McPherson is throwing her hat in as well.” My mom smiles, proud of herself. “And when Nadine and Cissy claw at each other long enough, digging up dirt, fighting to be the better candidate to oppose the mayor—while soiling one another’s campaigns—it’ll be obvious in the end who the best choice for mayor is: the only one who has a proven history of keeping this town afloat—and his hands free of drama. Yep,” she finishes with a nod. “We’ve got this one in the bag. Mayor Raymond will see his money invested in us was well spent, every last dollar.”
I stare at her in shock, then peer across the lobby again. Mrs. Strong, oblivious to this evil plan of my mother’s, is still merrily busy chatting away with her friends. I watch her laugh at a joke and put a hand to her chest. Then her husband finds her, she gives him a small kiss, then wiggles her long ring-adorned fingers at her friends for a goodbye before heading into the main chapel, arm-in-arm with Mr. Strong.
“Wow,” I mutter, deflated. “That’s …”
“Impressive?” suggests my mom with a soft chuckle. “No. It’s just predictable small-town politics. I grew up here after all, don’t forget. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small—”
I don’t even let her finish it. “I didn’t realize you thought so little of other women.”
“Hmm? How do you mean?” Her eyes are still on the crowd, as if seeking someone else out important enough to greet.
“That you think women are just catty and vindictive and can’t work together, cooperate, or support each other’s endeavors. That you think so little of Nadine and Cissy that all you have to do is pit them against each other and watch them tear each other down. That, in whatever warped vision you have for the future of Spruce, your idea you’re so proud of is taking down two strong women to keep some old straight man in power. How so very feminist of you, Mom. Note my bleeding sarcasm.”
She turns her eyes onto me, dumbfounded by my words.
“And he’s not just an old straight man,” I go on. “Did you see the piece of lobster that hung in his beard the whole night we ate with him at Nadine’s? And the beads of butter running down his arms to the elbow? I did.” With a mocking tsk-tsk-tsk, I say, “That, I daresay, is his worst offense: Raymond Porter is a messy eater.”
“I can’t believe you just spoke to me like that,” she starts, her voice quiet, yet wounded. “Talking to me of … of … of feminism … and acting as if I’m nothing but a—”
