Read Online Best Kept Secret by Debra Moffitt - Free Book Online Page B

ready to let it go.
    â€œThat’s great, Piper,” Kate said. “So I guess you’re sort of apologizing to Jemma?”
    â€œYes. I guess so. Sort of,” Piper said. “It’s just over and it’s no big deal and we need to move on.”
    It was a big deal to me. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it, so I did what any normal person would do. I changed the subject.
    â€œSo what’s the next question?”
    Piper paused for a moment and then restarted. “Question 4: ‘My mom bought me one bra and now my dog has eaten it. Signed: Braless and mad at Buckeye.’ ”
    â€œOh, I’ll take that one,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s your advice going to be?” Kate asked, smiling and about to burst with laughter.
    â€œSwitch to a cat. My cat would never eat my bra,” I said.
    But I had more. “Do you think Buckeye the dog ate all the bra in one sitting or snacked on it throughout the day? Maybe he had a cup at lunch, then another at dinner?”
    â€œIf it had been my bra, he’d be really full,” Piper said.
    â€œYeah, he’d be burping up bra all afternoon,” Kate added.
    The thought of that dog chowing down had us all laughing now. I imagined the U of an underwire in his mouth, like a double smile.
    It felt good to be part of a conversation with Kate and Piper that didn’t involve Forrest and didn’t give me that tight, twisty feeling in my stomach. So I continued.
    â€œMight I recommend my bra if Buckeye is looking for the perfect after-school snack. Or appetizer. Ruff! Ruff!”
    So amused were we that we didn’t notice how our laughter rose above our usual volume level. That day’s creepy threat should have made us all the more cautious. There was an even more threatening message later in the queue. But we never got that far. We were so lost in our “dog eats bra” story that we didn’t hear a thing.
    Not the door opening at the top of the stairs.
    Or the clomp-clomp-clomp of someone coming down.
    One minute we were laughing uncontrollably, and the next minute, there she was—Ms. Russo.
    We swallowed hard, shaken by the sight of a teacher in our midst.
    â€œAre you going to tell on us?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I’m going to help you. If you want my help, that is,” she said.
    Ms. Russo found a folding chair against the cinder-block wall and opened it with a squeak. She sat down with a “Phew,” the way you do after you’ve been on your feet all day.
    â€œWhere to begin, girls? Where to begin?”
    Ms. Russo said she had met an actual former Pink Locker Lady. This source, who had to remain anonymous, said there was a lot we needed to know about the history of the Pink Locker Ladies.
    â€œShe’s a cagey one,” Ms. Russo said, with a laugh. “And she knows who all of you are.
    â€œJust yesterday, she sent me this in the school’s interoffice mail. A note said to give it to you, Jemma.”
    Ms. Russo pulled out a brown envelope, the flap fastened by a red string wrapped around a pink disk. She unwound the string, opened the flap, and extended the envelope to me. I put my hand inside and pulled out what could have been a dry cleaning receipt or a restaurant check, but it was neither one. It was a folded and fragile square of paper bearing the number 261. It was a race number, the kind a runner would wear. But this race number looked worn and delicate, definitely old. It bore an autograph, too: “K. Switzer.”
    â€œWho’s K. Switzer?” Kate asked.
    â€œI don’t know myself,” Ms. Russo.
    â€œWho is your Pink Locker Lady? We promise we won’t tell,” Piper said.
    â€œIs it Edith?” I said.
    â€œWho’s Edith?” Ms. Russo said.
    â€œNobody,” I said.
    Relieved that we now had someone to help us, I told Ms. Russo about the threatening messages we’d been receiving. She smiled as I spoke, which I