Best Kept Secret by Debra Moffitt Page A

in business, minus me.
    ME: Well, you’re always so busy—studying, chasing stories, and stuff.
    BET: True, but I have a special place in my heart for the PLS. I want to stay a member in good standing.
    ME: OK, then. Just keep your promise.
    BET: You can trust me.
    And with that, she crooked her pinky around mine and gave it a tight squeeze.

Twenty-one
    Bet’s show aired that Friday, as planned. As you might guess, the school was ho-hum about the women’s history lesson until she mentioned that girls had removed their shirts in protest.
    Mr. Ford sat up as if he had just woken from a nap, and the class was all of a sudden, like, “What? What did she just say?” But just as they started paying attention, Bet pulled the plug, just as she’d done to me.
    â€œThere’s so much more to the story,” Bet told the camera, “that I felt it only fitting that I break it into two parts to do it justice. Please join me next Friday for part two of my report…”
    There was a noticeable buzz as class ended for the week and we filed out to the buses. I even saw teachers conferring and heard people talking about it on the way home. I planned to text Piper and Kate about it as soon as I got home. I don’t text on the bus anymore because I once missed my stop. Embarrassing!
    But my mother interrupted my texting plans in her momlike style. She dropped a thirty-pound basket of wet laundry at my feet the moment I stepped into the kitchen.
    â€œQuick snack, Jemma,” she said. “Then meet me outside for some tag-team clothesline work.”
    It’s greener than green of her, I know. She just loves the fresh scent of line-dried sheets. Even in autumn. Seriously, it was almost Thanksgiving. I’m more of a dryer person myself. You should see my mom move along like a busy bee, making herself more efficient by holding one wooden clothespin in her hand and another in her mouth. I’m supposed to hand her the pins and keep big items, like sheets, from dragging on the ground while she hangs them. So there we were with our basket of soggy sheets and a cool wind whipping all around us.
    â€œJem,” she said, “we’re having the McCanns over next Saturday night. We’ll just grill some chicken and vegetables. Maybe some s’mores? Do kids your age still like s’mores?”
    Just like that? Forrest is coming to MY HOUSE?
    Mom took the clothespin from my hand and skimmed along my pinned-up bedding. I tried to steady myself and act natural. I pushed aside the flapping sheet, like it was a stage curtain.
    â€œWhy?” I said. My voice came out one level too loud and a little quavery.
    My mother must have pretended not to notice. Then she pinned up a pillowcase. Her wicker basket was still half full of wet stuff. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. They must have been cold and wet after all that clothesline pinning.
    â€œWell, I ran into Vera at the Toot-n-Scoot, and she told me it’s possible they’ll be moving. Did you know that? I’m sure you did. Did you ever think to mention it?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Anyway, so we got to talking, and I invited them over. We kind of owe them, you know, after that whole incident with you and the bees.”
    â€œThanks for bringing that up. Are they all coming?”
    â€œYes, I told her to definitely bring the boys, hence the s’mores.”
    Only my mother would ever use a phrase like “hence the s’mores.”
    â€œSo are they actually moving?” I asked, nervous that she might know something more definite.
    â€œDepends on if the house sells and some other variables. Too soon to say. I’d hate to see them go, wouldn’t you?”
    I wasn’t touching that one. I said something that could have been “hmmm” or “mmm-hmmm” and slipped back behind my damp bedsheet and into the house. She’d be in shortly, so I didn’t have much