The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (27 page)

As I’m driving home, I get a text from Hilldale Middle School’s principal, Mr. Belding:

Can you join me at my office today, around 1 pm?

Finally, someone is thanking me for all my hard work!

I text back:
Look forward to seeing you then.

I go home and change before driving to the school. I choose a yellow and white polka-dot blouse over a slim white pencil skirt; and I wear my best pearl necklace and matching earrings, and put my hair up in a demure French twist. The shoes that are perfect for this ensemble–five-inch yellow stilettoes–are taller than I like for daywear, but Belding is tall, so I’ll make an exception. I’m willing to bet he wants a photograph taken with me, for the school newspaper. I can see the headline now:

Jeff Stone’s Mother Throws Party of the Century

Or something like that.

Yes, I know–I’m grasping at straws.

When I get to Principal Belding’s office, Miss Bliss, his secretary, hustles me through his door immediately.

Seeing me, he rises from the chair behind his desk. I smile as I step forward–

Until I see the woman sitting on the couch in the far corner of the room:

Penelope.

Jeff is beside her. He’s trying hard not to cry.

My double-take puts a smug smile on her lips.

I look from her to Principal Belding and ask coldly, “Why exactly was this meeting called?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Penelope declares, “Because your son is a terrorist!”

“Now, now, Mrs. Bing! ‘Terrorist’ is such a harsh word.” Principal Belding clicks his tongue. “However, ruffian would fit the bill.”

I ask him, “And why do you feel this is the case?”
 

“Because my son is currently at Hilldale Emergency Clinic getting his nose bandaged,” Penelope sniffs.
 

I fold my arms across my chest. “What did he do to provoke Jeff into hitting him?”

“He called my father a terrorist, and then he called me ‘Mohammed Stone!’” Jeff shouts.

I look at Belding. “I’d say my son had a right to be angry.”

“I disagree. A misunderstanding is no reason for fisticuffs,” Belding admonishes me. “As you know, in some cultures Mohammed is a very noble name.”

“By calling my son’s father a terrorist, we all know that Cheever’s intentions weren’t by any means noble.”

“Nonetheless, Hilldale Middle School has a very strict ‘first punch’ rule–immediate suspension, for one week. No exceptions for any school activities.”

Jeff looks up, shocked. “But–but that means I can’t go to the dance tomorrow night!”

Ah, so, that’s what this is all about: Penelope wants Jeff out of the picture so that Gabrielle will accept Cheever’s invitation to the dance.

She’s willing to break my son’s heart.

Ain’t gonna happen.

“Did Jeff apologize?” I ask.

“Yes!” Jeff is adamant about this. Penelope smiles supremely at the memory.

“Then I think we can all agree that enough punishment has been administered,” I say sweetly.

“Excuse me?” Belding growls.

Frankly, there is no reason to excuse me. Goodness, it’s not as if I’ve pistol-whipped either of them–but that’s because I would never carry a gun into a school.

Secondly, they’d both enjoy it too much.

I know this because during carpool one afternoon last year, Cheever let it slip that he’d never be suspended from school because of his mother’s quote-unquote special relationship with Principal Belding.

He then had the audacity to ask if Mr. Stone and I had a quote-unquote safe word, too.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like, say, ‘poppin’ fresh dough,’” he explained. “That’s theirs.”

At that point, Morton asked, “What’s a safe word?”
 

I zigged and zagged on the road, as if I had to avoid a dog or something, but really it was because I didn’t want to explain S&M protocol to a sixth-grader.

No chance like the present to see if what Cheever said was true, or if it was his imagination working overtime after breaking into his father’s porn stash.

I walk up to Belding and lean in so that only he can hear what I have to say: “Poppin’ fresh dough.”

He blanches. His lower lip quivers. His eyes ask,
How do you know?

I don’t say another word. I just wink.

“What’s going on?” Penelope growls suspiciously.

Belding busies himself straightening the only file on his already clean desk. “The boy apologized. He’s free to go to the dance–with a warning.”

Jeff practically runs out the door.

I walk slowly, and make sure to close the door behind me.

Miss Bliss and I exchange winces when we hear Penelope’s unintelligible roar. A moment later, there’s a loud smack and a groan.

“I guess somebody’s been a very, very bad boy,” Miss Bliss murmurs.

Something tells me this isn’t the first time she’s heard such goings-on, and it won’t be the last.

Chapter 17
 

Last Minute Prep

As with everything else in life, success is achieved in the tiniest of details! With that in mind, here are a few things to remember before opening your door to your eager guests:

First, at least eight hours before your event, call together everyone who plays an integral part in its success–the event planner, the valet, the caterer, the florist, and the entertainers–to go over the floor plan, the timetable, and their specific roles. Answer their questions, and ask any you have as well.

In fact, tying them to chairs and shining a spotlight directly into their eyes will have them answering you in a fine, forthright fashion. However, should you feel someone is fudging an answer, don’t hesitate to whip out your Taser. (Hint: It can also be used in such party games as Truth or Dare. However, expect more dares than truths.)

Next, distribute cell phones to your party team! Having them at your beck and call with the push of a button goes far toward easing your stress. In fact, don’t stop there! GPS tracking should also be considered. And, for the ultimate control, keep them on leashes.

Finally, have an ambulance service on speed dial. If your guests aren’t scared of you, your party team certainly is, and someone is sure to have a heart attack.

“You’re lying,” Mary declares to Jeff.

“Mom!” he yells down the stairwell. “Tell her that I’m telling the truth!”

“Inside voices!” I yell back. Tomorrow night is the prom, and with everything going on, I’ve got the start of a vicious headache.

Three glasses of wine will do that to you.

So will three chaperone cancellations. I’ve been hitting the phones all day, trying to drum up replacements, but no luck. Seems that when the kids are away, the parents will play.

Evan has convinced me that watching a replay of John Oliver’s
Last Week Tonight
will make it better. Not that I’m paying attention, but Evan finds him a hoot. Anything that makes Evan laugh these days is okay by me.

I’m not so happy, either. I haven’t heard from Jack.

And yes, I’m somewhat miffed that his declaration that my opinion counted in Mara’s hiring was bogus.

Great. Good luck to them all.

I hadn’t planned to be widowed once, let alone three times.

If you were divorced, are you still widowed? I’m not sure I can figure that out without a team of attorneys. If you were never married, but still living together, what does that make you?

An idiot, I guess.

And certainly unlucky in love.

Mary storms down the stairs and into the great room, followed closely by Jeff and Trisha. “Mom, Jeff says that Taylor Swift is singing at his dance! Is that true?”

“Yes.” My affirmation echoes within the jumbo-sized goblet raised to my lips.

“Told you,” Jeff jeers.

“Shut up, I’m talking to Mom.” Her eyes grow big. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry…I guess I thought you’d heard.” No, my eldest mostly tunes me out. From now on, if I want her attention, I’m adding the name Taylor Swift to every other sentence.

Mary looks up at me, pleading. “Can you score a ticket for me?”

“Aren’t you a little old for her?” Evan teases.

“I…yes, I guess,” Mary stammers.

He shakes his head. “Well, I’m not. I think she’s hot.”

“I’ll let you both see the concert, under one condition–that you act as chaperones at the dance.”

They slap high-fives.

Jeff turns white. “No! Mom, no way!”

Has he lost his mind? “Excuse me? May I ask your line of reasoning?”

“Because…because…” His face goes from white to bright red. “I have a date.”

Mary makes a kissy face.

I pinch her arm to make her stop. Biting my lip so that I don’t laugh, I turn to Jeff. “Did you ask Gabrielle?”

He nods nonchalantly. “Yeah. But now I have to learn how to slow dance.”

“It’s easy, dude,” Evan assures him. “They’ve even taught chimpanzees how to do it.”

“That’s about Jeff’s speed,” Mary mutters. “Maybe we can take one from the zoo, and he can practice with it.”

Jeff throws one of my nice couch pillows at her.

I grab the rest of them before Mary can retaliate.

“Taylor Swift,” Aunt Phyllis’s brow furrows in the hope it prods her memory. “Is she the one that did the duet album with Tony Bennett?”

“Lady Gaga,” Mary and Evan say in unison.

“Too bad. Still, it beats bingo, so count me in too,” Aunt Phyllis declares.
 

I toast her with my glass. “Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”

Trisha’s lower lip quivers. “Does this mean I have to stay home alone?”

I bundle my youngest onto my lap. “No, of course not! You can share Aunt Phyllis’s room with her”–I look over at Mary–“and you, too. Evan, you luck out with a room for yourself.”

He raises a brow. “Only if I’m not lucky enough for Taylor to want to serenade me all night.”

Mary’s eyes narrow. “Like that will ever happen.” She pauses and then adds, “Although, you do resemble Justin Bieber–around the time she dumped him.”

“Not Jake Gyllenhaal?”

She snickers. “You wish!”

“No, you do,” Jeff guffaws.

Mary doesn’t need my pillows. Her sandal does just as well. It clips her brother on his forehead.
 

“That’s it!” I holler. “Teach your brother to dance.”

I take my bottle and head upstairs. Something tells me Jack will be having another late night.