A sudden distance opened up between us, cold as the draft coming from the double doors at the end of the hall. I knew Cassidy’s husband was on the school board, and I knew how much Cassidy liked to keep things orderly.
“I’ll have to check our schedule,” I said.
“Of course,” Mrs. Dalton said, her hand reaching out to touch my arm. “We just want everyone to feel included, Jill. Especially this year.”
The drive to the school that afternoon was quiet, the tires of our old sedan crunching through the frozen slush left by the morning’s light dusting of snow. On the corner of Maple Street, the sign at the Shell station read four dollars and twelve cents a gallon for regular, a number that seemed to rise every time I looked at it.
