Murder at the PTA by Laura Alden

put my fork down. “What did Robert say?”
    “That spaghetti is . . .” He slid down in his chair.
    I leaned forward. “Is what?”
    “Is . . .” His chin trembled.
    I hadn’t been listening to him, not really. The poor kid was upset, and I should have realized it earlier. I scooted my chair sideways and put my arm around him. “Tell me, Ollster. What did Robert tell you?”
    “That spaghetti is dried worms ! I’ve been eating worms my whole life !” Tears sprang from his eyes. “Robert said grown-ups won’t tell you what spaghetti really is because it’s a pirate thing. He says if you eat too many spaghetti worms, they’ll come alive in your stomach and grow out your ears.”
    Oh, eww. My own stomach felt a lurch. Robert must have older siblings, to come up with a story like that.
    “That’s gross. Good thing I like worms.” Jenna shoved a monstrous bite of spaghetti into her mouth and chewed hugely.
    “Jenna,” I said.
    “What?” All innocence.
    “I don’t like worms!” Tears were double-streaming down Oliver’s face. “I don’t want to eat worms!”
    Without saying a thing, I gathered him up and onto my lap. I held him tight and touched my cheek to his silky-smooth forehead.
    “Who am I?” I asked.
    Oliver snuffled into my chest.
    “C’mon, Ollster, who am I?”
    “Elizabeth Anne Kennedy,” came the muffled words.
    “Who am I?”
    “Grandma Emmerling’s daughter.”
    The time-honored litany continued. “Who am I?”
    “Aunt Darlene and Aunt Kathy and Uncle Tim’s sister.”
    “Who am I?”
    “Um . . .” Oliver wiped his face with the shoulder that wasn’t burrowed into my armpit. “You’re somebody’s cousin.”
    “Bill,” Jenna said.
    “And Bill.” Oliver looked up at me, his small face stained with wetness. “You have two cousin Bills. A hockey Bill and a doctor Bill.”
    “That’s right.” I hugged him. “And who else am I?”
    “Mommy.” He dove against my chest, thumping me hard enough to drive air out of my lungs. “You’re my mommy!”
    And always would be.“That’s right.And would Mommy give you worms for dinner?”
    “Nooo.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
    “Don’t move.” I plopped him into my seat and went into the kitchen. “No moving!” Both kids giggled. I opened the cabinet door under the sink and extracted a long, skinny box from the trash. I brought it back to the table and reinstalled Oliver on my lap. “See this? It says ‘Ingredients.’ This is a list of everything inside this box of spaghetti. Semolina, durum flour, niacin, iron, also known as ferrous sulfate, thiamine mononitrate, and riboflavin.” I left off the folic acid in case the acid part scared him. “Not a single worm.”
    His index finger ran over the unfamiliar words. “No pirate thing?”
    “You mean conspiracy?” He nodded. “No pirate thing,” I said. “No conspiracy here. If the spaghetti company doesn’t write down exactly what’s inside the box, they’ll get in big trouble with all the mommies in the country.”
    “That’s a lot of mommies,” Oliver said.
    “A force to be reckoned with,” I agreed. “Now, are you hungry? Do you want me to put your plate in the microwave?”
    “Yes!” He slid off my lap with the speed of a seal and was soon slurping down pasta. I blew out an invisible sigh of relief. Not only relief that Oliver had recovered, but also relief that I’d divorced Richard. Oliver’s father wouldn’t have comforted him and explained the mysteries of ingredients; he would have told him to eat what was on his plate.
    “Um, Mom?” Jenna took a piece of garlic toast.
    “Hmm?” My lovely daughter was growing. The top of her head obscured the bottom of the wall calendar. In June I’d been able to see all the way to the end of the month.
    “Mom?” Though she hadn’t taken a bite of toast, Jenna took another from the pile. “Can we get a dog?”
     
    Jenna’s request hung in the air. I got the feeling that if I squinted the