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The living room was not bad for a gaggle of ten-and eleven-year-old girls. Pizza crusts on most of the tables, popcorn on the floor, glitter from who knew what makeup experiment, some nail polish where it shouldn't be, clothes scattered everywhere from an impromptu fashion show.
Could've been a lot worse.
Arriving at the house last night, Maggie had been pure celeb, red-carpet celeb. Whatever other clubs were part of the social structure of Pacific Heights, the Secrets Sisters ruled.
And, Dance had been pleased to learn (one of the reasons for the pizza and pajama party at her place), the girls were all quite nice. Yes, Bethany would probably someday be an inside-the-Beltway force that no one would want to argue with from across the aisle. Heaven help Leigh's husband. And Cara could write code that impressed even Jon Boling. But the girls were uniformly polite, generous, funny.
Edie Dance had stayed the night too and would cater the breakfast--making her daughter's signature hybrids: panfles or wafcakes--then get the girls ready for pickup by their parents. Because of the show last night, the school had a delayed opening today.
Now, dressed for work, Dance said, "Thanks, Mom." She hugged her. "Don't you dare clean up. I'll do that when I'm home."
"Bye, dear."
As Dance was heading for the door, Bethany appeared, wearing Hello Kitty PJs. There was definitely an insidious aspect to the cartoon feline, Dance had decided long ago.
"Yes, Bethany?"
"Mrs. Dance, I have something to talk to you about." Dead serious.
Dance turned to her and nodded, concentrating. "What is it?"
"We all talked about it last night and we decided that you can be
in the Secrets Club."
"Really?"
"Yes, we like you. You're actually pretty cool. But you have to tell us a secret to get in. That's what, you know--"
"--makes it the Secrets Club."
"Uh-huh."
Dance played along. "An important secret?"
"Any secret."
Dance happened to be looking at a picture of her and Jon Boling, taken by the waiter at a wine tasting on a weekend away in Napa not long ago.
No.
A glance into the kitchen.
"Okay, I've got one."
"What is it?" The freckled girl's eyes went wide.
"When I was your age, at dinner, I'd put butter on the broccoli and feed it to our dog when my mother wasn't looking."
"Her?" Bethany glanced at Edie Dance, in the other room.
"Her. Now, I'm trusting you. You won't tell."
"No. I won't tell. I don't like broccoli either."
Dance said, "Pretty much sucks, doesn't it?"
The girl nodded as if considering a litigant's petition. Then passed judgment: "That's a good secret. We'll vote you in." She turned and trotted back to the den where the other girls were waking.
