Read Online Death of a PTA Goddess by Leslie O'Kane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie O'Kane
Tags: Fiction
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Patty’s death, Chad.”
“Me, too,” he said, his voice choked.
“I know you two were close friends.”
He made no reply, and the silence was heavy. As a less-somber conversation starter, I said, “Well. Two hours on the bus. With a group of young teenagers. Oh, boy.”
Chad’s deep-set eyes were now red-rimmed and appeared to be almost sunken into his skull. He said forlornly, “Patty used to lead us in song the whole way. She knew so many . . . great songs for groups. The only one I know is ‘A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ ”
“That’s quite a crowd pleaser. Wouldn’t be appropriate now, though. Besides, I keep forgetting the lyrics.”
He furrowed his brow. “It goes: ‘A hundred bottles of beer—’ ”
“I was kidding, Chad.”
“Oh. Of course.” He sighed. “I seem to have lost my sense of humor lately. Not that there’s much to smile about anymore, anyway.”
“Patty would have been the first one to say not to let our”—I stopped at the sight of Kelly Birch, shuffling toward the bus, her head down. Her father gave her a wave, then drove off—“spirits sink,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.
She was carrying skis and a boot bag, and Chad leaped at the opportunity to help her out by loading her equipment into a parent’s minivan. By the time she returned to the bus, she was the last on my list and walking side by side with Chad. “Glad you could make it, Kelly,” I said, feeling that this was the wrong time for saying anything substantive.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered into her shoes as she stomped up the stairs of the bus.
Chad sighed and shook his head. He gestured for me to go ahead of him. “After you, Mu—Mo—, er, ma’am.”
“Molly.”
On that note, we were off.
Having lived in Colorado for several years, I found that this eastern ski range made for an interesting switch in terms of overall skiing experience. The steepest run on this mountain would be the bunny hill at Vail. On the other hand, at the Colorado ski resorts, they have snow. At the Adirondack resorts, they have ice. To execute a turn when skiing on ice, one must possess: a) young and strong quadriceps, b) natural grace and coordination, and c) newly tuned skis with edges sharp enough to slice through an overripe tomato. Ignoring a and b so as not to sink into depression, the trouble with c for me was that it required getting off one’s fanny before
it
turned into an overripe tomato, going to a ski store, and having one’s skis tuned. Mine had last been tuned in 1982— assuming that the original manufacturer had tuned them prior to shipping them to the store.
After helping the kids get their skis, poles, and boots from the rental shop at the lodge—where they did indeed have skis with actual edges—Karen, Nathan, and I got on the chairlift. This lift featured two-seater chairs, resembling slightly padded metal benches that are fastened onto a thick, continuous cable overhead. We rode up, got off without incident, and Karen waited for Nathan and me at the top of the run. When we reached her, Nathan looked at me and asked, “Ready, Mom?”
I shook my head, looking down at the illuminated ski run. Despite the relative lack of altitude compared with the Rockies, it would be a long way to fall. If only my pants, jacket, and hat were equipped with air bags. “I’m going to start out as slow as possible. You’ll have to wait for me at the bottom.”
“Okay, but can I go right back up and meet you after my second run?” Nathan asked. “That’ll take about the same amount of time.”
“No.”
He pushed off, and soon the top of his head in its bright blue helmet was all that could be seen from my vantage point as he effortlessly whooshed down the slope. I glanced over at Karen in her yellow helmet, wishing not for the first time that I had purchased one of those for myself. Which I easily could have done while having my skis tuned.
“Want to go down with me?” Karen
“Me, too,” he said, his voice choked.
“I know you two were close friends.”
He made no reply, and the silence was heavy. As a less-somber conversation starter, I said, “Well. Two hours on the bus. With a group of young teenagers. Oh, boy.”
Chad’s deep-set eyes were now red-rimmed and appeared to be almost sunken into his skull. He said forlornly, “Patty used to lead us in song the whole way. She knew so many . . . great songs for groups. The only one I know is ‘A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ ”
“That’s quite a crowd pleaser. Wouldn’t be appropriate now, though. Besides, I keep forgetting the lyrics.”
He furrowed his brow. “It goes: ‘A hundred bottles of beer—’ ”
“I was kidding, Chad.”
“Oh. Of course.” He sighed. “I seem to have lost my sense of humor lately. Not that there’s much to smile about anymore, anyway.”
“Patty would have been the first one to say not to let our”—I stopped at the sight of Kelly Birch, shuffling toward the bus, her head down. Her father gave her a wave, then drove off—“spirits sink,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.
She was carrying skis and a boot bag, and Chad leaped at the opportunity to help her out by loading her equipment into a parent’s minivan. By the time she returned to the bus, she was the last on my list and walking side by side with Chad. “Glad you could make it, Kelly,” I said, feeling that this was the wrong time for saying anything substantive.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered into her shoes as she stomped up the stairs of the bus.
Chad sighed and shook his head. He gestured for me to go ahead of him. “After you, Mu—Mo—, er, ma’am.”
“Molly.”
On that note, we were off.
Having lived in Colorado for several years, I found that this eastern ski range made for an interesting switch in terms of overall skiing experience. The steepest run on this mountain would be the bunny hill at Vail. On the other hand, at the Colorado ski resorts, they have snow. At the Adirondack resorts, they have ice. To execute a turn when skiing on ice, one must possess: a) young and strong quadriceps, b) natural grace and coordination, and c) newly tuned skis with edges sharp enough to slice through an overripe tomato. Ignoring a and b so as not to sink into depression, the trouble with c for me was that it required getting off one’s fanny before
it
turned into an overripe tomato, going to a ski store, and having one’s skis tuned. Mine had last been tuned in 1982— assuming that the original manufacturer had tuned them prior to shipping them to the store.
After helping the kids get their skis, poles, and boots from the rental shop at the lodge—where they did indeed have skis with actual edges—Karen, Nathan, and I got on the chairlift. This lift featured two-seater chairs, resembling slightly padded metal benches that are fastened onto a thick, continuous cable overhead. We rode up, got off without incident, and Karen waited for Nathan and me at the top of the run. When we reached her, Nathan looked at me and asked, “Ready, Mom?”
I shook my head, looking down at the illuminated ski run. Despite the relative lack of altitude compared with the Rockies, it would be a long way to fall. If only my pants, jacket, and hat were equipped with air bags. “I’m going to start out as slow as possible. You’ll have to wait for me at the bottom.”
“Okay, but can I go right back up and meet you after my second run?” Nathan asked. “That’ll take about the same amount of time.”
“No.”
He pushed off, and soon the top of his head in its bright blue helmet was all that could be seen from my vantage point as he effortlessly whooshed down the slope. I glanced over at Karen in her yellow helmet, wishing not for the first time that I had purchased one of those for myself. Which I easily could have done while having my skis tuned.
“Want to go down with me?” Karen
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