A Lot Like Lavender (Happy in Honey Hill #3)

1. Let’s Go Crazy

LET’S GO CRAZY

PRINCE

EMORY

PTA moms are crazy.

I’m not quite sure how I got roped into this PTA gig in the first place, but I vaguely remember being guilt-tripped on day one of Molly’s Honey Hill Elementary education.

A woman in a perfectly pressed linen pantsuit and a french bun handed me a plate of freshly baked welcome brownies and gave me a, frankly, inspiring speech about shaping my daughter’s future with my voice and my presence.

I don’t know what sort of witchcraft she put in those brownies, but I remember feeling energized. And powerful. And filled with gooey, warm, melt-in-my-mouth chocolate. After that, it’s all a bit of a blur.

Taking Molly’s education into my proverbial hands and showing the world what a single mom was capable of while in the midst of a chocolate-induced haze, I vaguely remember signing my name and life away on that dotted line five years ago and have faithfully shown my face, biweekly, for this vast wasteland they call a PTA meeting ever since.

And never once have I seen those brownies, or any other chocolate baked goods, at a meeting again.

PTA is a lie.

Either way, apparently sitting at the back table of the library, sipping my coffee as if there’s a miracle drug at the bottom that will teleport me out of this place, and silently voting when the occasion arises is not an option for today.

The drama squad showed up in full force this morning, and they mean business.

Simone Bridges and Bree Taylor, fourth- and fifth-grade moms, respectively, have been rage-baiting one another all year.

Beginning with glamoured, sweet Southern concerns like, “Oh, Bree, I love how your Garth is such a simple young man. Do you think he’ll be able to move on to middle school next year?

” And, “I noticed Ima’s cheeks are a little fuller recently, Simone.

I do hope everything is okay with her health. ”

In recent weeks, they’ve left empty platitudes behind for open smear campaigns and triangulation, gathering parents and unsuspecting teachers with little knowledge of the dark and deceptive political happenings of the Honey Hill Parent Teacher Association.

Lines have been drawn. Alliances formed. It’s all very cutthroat but in an oddly hospitable way that only someone connected to their Southern heritage could fully understand.

The first time Simone spoke to me about her precious, perfect angel of a daughter, I said something along the lines of, “Ima need you to tell me where you came up with that name.”

She was not amused and definitely didn’t invite me to join her followers.

She also clearly referenced the same bad-baby-name, Google search her arch nemesis did. Because Bree’s son, Garth, who according to my child should have been named Gassy, has siblings named Gretel, Gregor, Germaneigh, and Ghessika.

I wish I were kidding. And—low-key—wish Bree and her husband, Brendan, weren’t so busy. Something Simone and I happen to have in common, as she has voiced this sentiment aloud and often.

But what Bree and Simone don’t know is that while they’ve waged war against one another with clipped insults on their respective spouses and snide remarks on the way their jeans are looking a bit tighter these days, Gassy Garth and Angel Ima have fallen into elementary puppy love.

Complete with passed notes and stolen, kissed cheeks tucked inside the yellow, loopy slide on the fourth- and fifth-grade playground.

It’s all very scandalous according to the parents who are in the know, but Molly says it’s open source in the elementary crowd.

Though I’m not the romantic sort, I’m cheering for the little weirdos.

Maybe their prospective in-laws will find common ground in their love for the children.

It’s doubtful, though, given the way Bree has been pacing the designated speaker space of the library this morning like an animal ready to pounce.

She reminds me so much of one of those documentaries Molly’s obsessed with where someone, usually David Attenborough or Morgan Freeman, paints illustrious images of carnivorous, fanged creatures, like the Tasmanian devil or an African wild dog, to make them seem more like loving but ferocious mothers, protecting their young at all costs.

Simone, opposite of Bree, commands the attention of the room, lifting her hands as if calling the parental congregation to stand. “I think it’s time, as a concerned parent and active member of this body, that I implore you to vote for a change in our leadership.”

Oh, someone’s been practicing this little speech in her spare time.

I bet she’d be horrified to know the polish on her right index fingernail has chipped, but with the fire in Simone’s eyes, I won’t be the one to tell her.

She continues her sales pitch, staging a run-of-the-mill, Monday morning coup.

“Please raise your hand if you are in agreement that a change in our sacred presidency is necessary and would like to discuss the matter further.”

I clench my to-go mug, close my eyes, and pray that the magic juice sloshing around within will take me to a place far, far away from here. A day spa, perhaps. Or an all-inclusive resort, where silence is mandatory and brownies are plentiful.

When I open them, I see quickly that, nope, I’m still stuck in the third circle of Dante’s Inferno.

The same place where people who decorate their cars for Christmas with antlers and Rudolph noses and those who record children singing “clean” versions of adult songs are sent to be tortured forever and all eternity. It’s bleak here. And there are no brownies.

Half the room is filled with raised hands. Simone’s soldiers, prepared for battle. The rest of the crowd erupts into a cacophony of murmurs and whispers at the impromptu vote, and poor, wild-eyed Bree screeches—exactly like the female Tasmanian devil when she feels threatened.

Nature is a scary Mama Jama.

Because he just can’t seem to help himself, the one and only single dad on this board, Trey, stands at attention and holsters his cellphone into the clip attached to the belt holding up his pleated khaki dress pants.

He puts his hands out, as if to calm the two women he stands between, and says, “Ladies, ladies ladies… I think you both need to calm down.”

The fool.

Correction: PTA parents are crazy. We’re equally opportunistic around here.

I don’t want to be a part of any of this, really, but I love my kid. So I show up, do my duties when I have to, and then go about the rest of my life, rarely pondering PTA matters until I see the upcoming meeting marked on one of my calendars.

Between farming, running a mostly failing business, and being a single mom, the debate over whether we should allow foods with dyes at snack time or whether the Christmas parties should be called “Holiday” parties each year doesn’t necessarily take precedence in the grand scheme of things for me.

I’m not hating on those parents who care deeply about the hills they come to die on, they just aren’t mine.

Is Molly safe?

Is Molly healthy?

Is Molly happy?

Those are my hills. That’s who I’ll go to battle for. Her and my younger sister, Dinah. But Dinah has her own warrior husband, now, and her own daughter to fight for. She doesn’t need me anymore. But Molly, that kid is never getting rid of me.

So when good ol’ Trey is surrounded by not two women, but two packs of women ready to assert their dominance just before a feeding frenzy, and announces, “I nominate Emory Nelson for the presidency,” I’m all but ready to feed him to the wolves.

The man has no sense. He deserves what’s coming to him.

The mindless prey walked straight into the female trap. Defenseless and outnumbered, he will deservedly succumb to his fate as the marsupial devils crush his bones with their incredibly strong jaws until nothing of the foolish animal remains.

I graciously decline the honor, but no one seems to hear over the animalistic cries of both packs claiming their territory and fiercely closing ranks around their respective alphas.

“This is Bree’s board!” a second-grade mom shouts, her pointer finger raised in the air in indignation.

One of Simone’s goonies plants her hands on her hips and argues, “Look at Garth. Bree can’t guarantee her own child’s success… How can she guarantee ours?”

Woof. A bit of a low blow, but I will not engage.

One of my fellow fifth-grade moms, Tisha—who hasn’t been tainted by either side of the aisle—claps her hands like a kindergarten teacher calling her class to attention, and wonder of wonders, every eye turns to her.

She’s never spoken in a meeting before, but I hope she’s about to throw her name into the hat for president.

I’d vote for her. Especially if it means we can leave soon.

“Parents,” Tisha says, so soft and sugary sweet, I just know she has corralled children before, though her cheeks fill with a flush of embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Trey is right about Emory.”

Trey and I both scoff. The audacity.

“Emory has been a faithful member of this body since she and Molly moved to Honey Hill,” Tisha continues, her Southern drawl growing more pronounced as her gumption grows.

I can’t say that I like it very much.

I wobbly stand, unfortunately drawing more attention to myself and the now scathing eyes of both women vying for this role. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not interested in leading—”

“Which is exactly why you should,” Tisha interrupts. She circles the room slowly, her voice lifting. She’s suddenly a Southern Baptist preacher, driving home her point. “Emory arrives on time, volunteers at every opportunity, and always bakes those yummy little brownies for the school bake sales.”

Well someone has to, Tisha.