Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “That would be Charlene, and we’ve managed to talk her out of that one. I know Charlene thinks her end is near, but that cat’s pushing fourteen, so it would be bad juju all round.”

  “Do all of you Smith girls try to leave inheritances to their cats, or just your poker buddies?”

  Ann grins as she watches Elise’s face turn purple, the decision whether or not to explode flashing in clear signals beneath her skin. “I’m going to ignore that, Annie, since you made me brownies.” She places them firmly down on the counter and pulls off those ridiculous oven mitts. “But unless you spiked them with some pot then you better not make a dig like that again.”

  “Alas, only one of us has a penchant for illegal substances, I’m afraid, so the brownies are most definitely not spiked.”

  Elise rolls her eyes. “You need to get that stick out of your ass before it gets stuck.”

  “Been there for years, now, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.” She sits down on a wooden chair, leaning back and resisting the urge to throw her feet up on the table next to the brownies. She used to be able to stay on her feet all day at work and then come home and chase four kids around without a problem, now, after one shift at the soup kitchen, her ankle swelled up to the size of bowling balls.

  “Glad you’re here, despite your pissy attitude. I’ve been worried about you, seems like you haven’t left that house in ages.”

  “I’ve been going to the soup kitchen every day since I’ve retired.”

  “And every day before you retired, too, I get it. But have you been doing anything fun? Like, for example, spending time with your only sister?”

  “I’m fine.” Ann gives her what she hopes passes for a convincing smile.

  Elise places her hands on the table and leans over, doing her best to make all one hundred and twenty pounds look as intimidating as possible, and gazes into Ann’s face. “Are you lying to me? Because you don’t look like you’re fine.”

  “No. I’m just” –she tosses back her head and makes a small circling motion with her hand- “tired, I suppose.”

  “Alright. But don’t ever lie to me, Annie. You never have before, and I don’t want you to start now.”

  Ann’s chest tightens as she smiles at her sister, her very best friend, and lies, “Never.”

  Chapter 2

  A Bad Boy, A Naughty Girl

  Dear Miss Behave,

  My elderly mother keeps stealing my clothes to wear to the senior center. Whenever I come home from work, I find them strewn about the laundry room smelling of peppermint. What do I do?

  -Malcontent

  Dear Malcontent,

  Oh darling! Are you telling me that you never “borrowed” any of her clothes when you were younger? Payback, as they say, is a bitch.

  If you insist on making a scene, try talking with her about asking before she raids your closet. Word on the street has it that communication is the key to any good mother-daughter relationship. Love and Margaritas!

  -Miss Behave

  I wrap my new purple scarf around my neck as I park the car and head into work. The Bowman Building is an ugly, rectangular concrete slab that houses a dentist, a Reiki healer, the water authority, and our newspaper. The big gray block is stuck through with skinny, needle-like windows that make the place about as inviting as a rash.

  Each and every morning I’m greeted by a wave of dry heat and the smell of ammonia. That stench has roughly the same effect as a triple shot of espresso, only not nearly as pleasant.

  Three right turns and one left and I’m pulling open the cold metal door and entering into the comforting hum of the newsroom. Newsrooms are not nearly as sexy as I thought they would be when I was younger. I always envisioned banks of desks buzzing with reporters and shouts of excitement going up when someone finds something juicy on the wire.

  “Hildy, can you cover Brookes Jewelers feature? I need Jack on the Fuego’s Taco scandal.” The news editor, Abigail, doesn’t let her eyes leave the screen of her computer. I swear the woman is a cyborg. Normally, I wouldn’t assume such a thing, but I’ve never seen anyone stay so focused for so long. She’s super-skinny, oblivious to fashion, single, and I’ve never seen her eat anything other than protein shakes and chocolate candy.

  Hildy, a large, John-Deere tractor of a woman, responds, “Can’t. Friday I have the interview with the prison guard from the Shapiro case. Morning, Piper.”

  “Piper!” Abigail looks up for two seconds, acknowledges me with the barest twitch of an eyeball. “You’re on it, Piper. I want full coverage, get to know the Brookes family, what they do for the town now, what they plan to do in the future.”

  I set down my coffee on my slip of a desk, brushing aside the pile of post-its that have accumulated since yesterday’s workday.

  “Don’t the Brookes own the paper?” I ask, “Is this going to be like an advertorial, because I don’t know if-“

  “Have morals on someone else’s time. Make it look real.”

  My neck warms. I want be taken seriously by the Chicago Sentinel and I’m having to do-

  “Hey, get your head out of your ass.” Abigail bangs on my desk, sending a rain of colorful post it notes fluttering down to the ground. Like sickly neon butterflies. “Start with an interview tomorrow with Mrs. Brookes. She wants you to meet her at the gun range. Then you can hit the exposition at the store front on Friday.”

  “At the gun range?”

  “Make me repeat myself and you’ll be covering the middle school spelling bee.”

  I swallow. Dear God, not the spelling bee. Seeing a bunch of little munchkins sweating buckets and spelling words that even my computer doesn’t know isn’t my idea of a good time.

  Hunter’s going to be at the jewelry expo, almost definitely. Oh my, the thought sends something of a thrill racing through my bloodstream.

  “Piper, there’s some guy who’s called here like three times looking for you holding on line two.” Gennifer calls to me as Abigail walks away on stiff legs that have a sort of perpetual tremble.

  “Tell him to leave a message.” I pull the first post-it into my line of vision. Another story about domestic violence. Running my hands up over my eyes, I add, “It looks like it’s going to be a long day, I’ll get to him when I can.”

  I pull the second green post it off my desk and get to work.

  After lunch, Gennifer strides over and drops a package on my desk. “Who do you love?”

  “You, of course. What’s this?”

  “You know how you were late to your aunt’s birthday dinner last week because I made you cover that council meeting for me? Well, now we’re square.”

  She grins and I carefully unwrap the package and see a wrestling logo. My Aunt Elise is a wrestling fiend. I’d swear she would have joined WWE herself if she weighed more that ninety pounds. “Oh my gosh! She’s going to love it!”

  “It’s a Bruno Sammartino signed program, a true wrestling legend. Grandpa had like six of them. Give Elise a kiss for me.”

  Gennifer met Aunt Elise once when Aunt Elise had to hold her weekly poker game at my house because her roof was being redone. It was love at first bet.

  I text Elise and let her know I have something for her and then get back to work. These articles on staffing decisions at the town office aren’t going to write themselves.

  6 Bee Pond Lane

  Pendleton Falls, CT 06510

  Mr. Tom Applebaum

  Deputy Managing Editor

  Chicago Sentinel

  435 N. Michigan Ave.

  Chicago, IL 60611

  Dear Mr. Applebaum,

  I am writing to inquire-

  I stop. Is dear not appropriate? It’s not like I know him. What if dear is considered sexist these days? I used dear to the New York Times and to the St. Louis Dispatch and they both sent me form rejections.

  To Mr. Applebaum,

  No, that just sounds impersonal, doesn’t it? Why does this have to be so hard?

  Esteemed Mr
. Applebaum,

  Is esteemed too stuffy? Sounds kind of Downton Abbey-ish.

  Whatever, I’m going with it. Best to get a draft down and then I can edit.

  Esteemed Mr. Applebaum,

  Having developed something of a fascination with Chicago over the years, written for a daily newspaper in which I run an extremely popular bi-weekly column, served as assistant editor of University of Massachusetts Oakville’s student news, and developed strong interpersonal and multimedia skills, I am writing to apply for the posted position of journalist at your fine institution.

  That’s great! They don’t need to know that my fascination with Chicago comes to a full stop if it goes a smidge beyond that delicious deep-dish pizza or that my popular feature is my Miss Behave column.

  My God, I actually make myself sound rather good. Wait, scrolling through Pinterest totally counts as multimedia skills, yes?

  Well, it does now.

  I waltz through the next two paragraphs, completely leaving out that teeny-weeny incident in college where I may have been incarcerated for an evening over something having to do with jumping out of a window at a party that was busted up by the cops. I was investigating underage drinking on campus, and well, things went downhill from there.

  Either way, the cover letter looks great. I pour myself a glass of wine to celebrate, leaning back into the pillows on my bed, I email the letter to Gen. One of these letters will open a door that will lead me out of Pendleton Falls.

  Before I find something to watch on TV, my phone pings and I check my email.

  From: Gennifer@punkgrlsrock.com

  To: PiperAnderson@gmail.com

  Subject: Really?

  This cover letter sucks balls. You sound exactly like every other jackass sending in a resume. Have anything that makes you stick out?

  Kisses,

  -Gen

  Oh God, I’m totally screwed. My stomach drops and I chug the remainder of the wine in my glass.

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  To: EliseAndTheThunderdome@aol.com

  Subject: Hooray!

  Hey Sis,

  Guess what happened to me this morning? After years of rejection, my application for membership in the Daughters of the Royal Mountain has finally been accepted! They said that my years of running the soup kitchen qualify me as a “strong candidate” for acceptance. I received their signature purple membership scarf in the mail just a few days ago!

  I tried calling Piper twice yesterday, and that stubborn little thing just won’t answer. All my other girls call back. I feel like our relationship is just between me and her voicemail. She has to know everything about everybody and I don’t know a single thing about her.

  She was the only daughter that didn’t nurse. Spit my boob right out. I contorted and twisted and stuck my breasts into all those horrible gadgets and none of them worked. Is that why she doesn’t return my calls? She must be hotwired to hate me because she wasn’t nursed.

  From: EliseAndTheThunderdome@aol.com

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: Hooray!

  Tell me you’re joking. Please. The girl has a job, sweetheart. She’s busy during the day, that’s all. I’m sure she’s typing away at those columns and chasing criminals all over town to ask them if they feel their cheeseburger-heavy diet influenced their life of crime.

  Also, if I hear you complain about those breast shields one more time I am going to slap you. Seriously, it was twenty-something years ago now.

  This isn’t about the boobs. She will call you back. And if she doesn’t call you back in forty-eight hours, then she will have to deal with me. Trust me, your girls don’t want Auntie on their cases.

  This Royal Mountain thing sounds like a cult. If they start talking about some comet, I need you to run, okay? And why are they asking your girls to write essays? Mags told me that she was informed she had to put together a two-page, double-spaced essay about your greatness. Who would ask for something like that?

  Is this that Rosalind woman you’ve been hanging out with?

  To: EliseAndTheThunderdome@gmail.com

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Hooray!

  The Daughters of the Royal Mountain is not a cult. It’s a group of strong women devoted to the principles of family, charity and patriotism. And now it seems I can’t find their scarf. I’ve had it less than two days and already it’s gone.

  They asked the girls to write essays about me? Oh God, do you think Piper will even write one?

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  From: EliseAndTheThunderdome@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Re:Re: Hooray!

  Well, yeah, probably, as long as you don’t mention the breast shields.

  Chapter 3

  Men of God, Gamblers and the WWE

  Dear Miss Behave,

  When we were younger, my husband and I would go to the casino, have a few drinks, play some slots and have a good time. Now he hits the tables every night and acts like he’s Bond, James Bond and not Dick from Wethersfield. We don’t make much money, and I hate that most of it is being thrown away. What do I do?

  Sincerely,

  -Unlucky

  Dear Unlucky,

  Darling, you married a Dick.

  Sorry! I couldn’t resist! You walked into that one, do you see? Anyhow, gambling addiction is a serious problem and there is a hotline that you can call for help. Have you spoken to your beloved Dick about his excessive gambling? You should make perfectly clear that there is fun money and there is pay-the-bills money and never the two shall meet.

  Love and Margaritas,

  -Miss Behave

  After a long and miserable day attempting to make the minutes of the town council meeting sound interesting, I finally turn off my computer and head out. I kick my shoes off the second I get into my car and enjoy the feel of the gas pedal under my bare toes and the new soft scarf around my neck as I zoom-zoom out of town.

  It’s exactly five-oh-six pm when I pull into the St. Mary’s Church parking lot. Aunt Elise said that I could catch her here instead of having to drive all the way to her house to deliver Gen’s gift.

  Stepping out of the car, I clutch the wrestling program to my chest as I walk past the statue of the Virgin at the entrance of the church hall. Why on earth is Aunt Elise at a church? Despite the lovely warm evening, a chill nestles into the back of my neck.

  Please don’t tell me that she owes the priest money.

  I tell her to stop inviting the clergy to her poker games, but she never listens.

  Passing rows of perky orange mums I yank open the doors and enter the hall.

  Another statue of the Virgin, this one painted in bright, cheery colors, greets me as I walk inside. Perfect, a vestibule, now where do I go?

  “Aunt Elise?” I call softly, wondering if there is a call button somewhere attached to one of these doors-

  Mom bursts through a set of doors. Ugh, why is she here? Where Mom goes, drama follows.

  Mom’s eyes widen as she takes in the fact that I’m wearing the new scarf. “Um, bingo has already started.”

  “Bingo? I thought Aunt Elise only played poker.” I give her my best daughtery smile and add, “I really enjoyed the surprise the other day, thanks.”

  She blinks at me.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  This is the thing with Mom, she chews over all of her thoughts like a cow digests its grass, again and again and again until all that comes out is gas.

  Eventually, my mother narrows her eyes and says, “They play for cash, Elise likes that. Though if she keeps tipping the priest by slipping dollar bills into his collar when she wins I think she’s going to get thrown out. You’re very late.”

  “Ah.” I say thank you and she gets all ornery? Sometimes I’d swear I was raised by an alien. No matter how much I may have resented Ted at first, at least the guy’s always been human.

 
Following mom through the door to the right we enter into a room filled to the brim with buzzing old ladies and chattering children in uniforms. My mother practically bolts to the far side of the room, where I see Aunt Elise engrossed in the business of marking off the numbers called by a walrus-like priest in the front of the room.

  Mom sits beside her and wordlessly grabs two boards out from under Aunt Elise’s watch.

  “Hey Aunt Elise.” There are no seats at the table, but Aunt Elise motions me over to give me a big hug and kiss.

  “B13” The priest calls from the front in a pleasant tenor.

  “Sweetie! I’m so happy you could join us. Go grab a couple of boards from the front and you can hop on in next round.”

  “I don’t really have the time for that-“

  “Is this some kind of joke, Piper?” My mother asks.

  My face heats.

  “I 35”

  Aunt Elise and I both turn to face Mom, Elise’s brows coming together.

  “What? I’m supposed to meet Gen for dinner in forty minutes and-“

  “Is the scarf some kind of a joke to you? I know that I’m maybe not in touch with you quite as much as I should be, but to take my Daughter of the Royal Mountain membership scarf and wave it around in my face like this-“

  “You took Annie’s scarf?” Aunt Elise asks, her eyebrows lifting as she raises a bird-like hand and moves it to my neck, fingers running along the eggplant colored cashmere.

  “N 42”

  “What? No. It was on the counter. Ted said there was a present and I thought-“