The Single Undead Moms Club by Harper Molly

Author:Harper, Molly [Harper, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2015-10-27T04:00:00+00:00

Of all the places I’d expected support, Miss Steele was startling, to say the least. Snickering, I caught up to Kerrianne in the hallway. She looked tired but bemused as she linked her arm through mine.

“How’s Danny doing?”

“Talkative, occasionally threatening to his classmates, but intellectually salvageable. How was your conference?” I asked.

Kerrianne smirked. “Oh, the usual. Braylen’s a joy to have in class, but could I please do something about her reading those Percy Jackson books tucked inside her grammar textbook while the rest of the class is diagramming sentences?”

“You would think the teacher would be happy that Braylen is reading, instead of, say, diagramming obscene sentences on her desk with a scented marker.”

Kerrianne snorted. “Well, the other students can see Braylen doing it, which is openly challenging Mrs. Morgan’s authority. Also, it’s disrespectful, even if Braylen is doing well in the class. So we’re going to have to talk about it.”

We paused as another woman shouted, “He drew what on another boy’s face in Sharpie?” from a nearby classroom.

“It could be worse,” Kerrianne conceded.

Nodding, I agreed. “It could be worse.”

As we approached the bake-sale table, I couldn’t help but notice that my brookies were still piled up on the worktable, not set out for sale. In fact, they were piled up next to the crumpled masking tape and table decorations, as if Chelsea and Casey were about to toss my contribution out with the trash.

Really?

I’d spent—hell, Jane had spent—the better part of two hours baking those damn brookies, and they couldn’t be bothered to set them out? When the rest of the table was damn near empty? I’d known some of these vipers for years. Years. And now they wouldn’t take my damn bake-sale contributions? Because I was a vampire? Were they afraid I’d slipped something into the brownie batter? Or was it just my general condition that “contaminated” the food?

“Hold my purse,” I told Kerrianne, striding toward the table.

“Nothing good ever followed that statement,” Kerrianne whispered harshly.

“Chelsea, Casey, is there a reason my brookies are on the back table, instead of being set out for sale?” I asked sweetly. “It seems like you’ve sold just about everything else.”

Chelsea was about to speak, but Casey interjected, “I guess no one’s in the mood for brownies tonight.”

A few heads turned our way. Parents gathered in the entryway, who had been muttering to themselves about their kids’ progress reports, were now staring at the spectacle of Libby Stratton getting her brookies thrown back in her face. I was grateful, for once, that I was incapable of blushing, because my face would be on fire.

I glanced down at the platter to the left labeled “Brownies,” which was practically decimated. “Mmm-hmm.”

“We can bag them up so you can take them home,” Casey offered.

Now, under normal circumstances, in a normal town, that comment probably wouldn’t have stung. But here in the Hollow, bake sales were a big fund-raising business. Why? Because no treat was left behind. If a male Hollow resident saw that his

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