Killer Moms From Outer Space

Book Club

The moms in town did things like that, they'd lean out their car windows to call to kids wearing karate uniforms standing with their moms on the curb.

"Debra! Haven't seen you in ages—wow, is this Brandon?" voice treacle sweet, itching to reach out of its mini van for a companionable ruffle of the kid's curls. A bent, cardigan-d elbow lounging across the wheel. Parked directly in the middle of a two lane street. Here was a powerful woman, to know that there would be no one coming in either direction, or if there were—the nerve it would take to honk at her small town conversation.

The mini van driver squealed with gleeful alarm as its owner checked a delicate and stylishly jeweled watch. "Deb, I'll be late for the girls. It was a treat catching up like this," then the rev of an engine about to needle its way just past 25. Five minutes later, pink kitten heels clattered hurriedly up a neat walkway, inch long nails clawed around a bottle of wine.

More squeals, an embrace. Then settling into a routine, catching up. "I truly couldn't believe he'd gotten that big, I mean, wow, the way kids are growing these days,"

"Probably stuffing him full of hormones, we know Deb's a dairy fiend."

"Says he's a black belt, or maybe, the one before it, a purple? Or dark blue, something."

"I never thought that was healthy, to get so aggressive and competitive. Why does he need to be a certain color? Can't they all be the same color? Shouldn't they all be working together?"

"But that's the whole point, you know, learning to defend yourself. You're not going to team up with whoever's mugging you in a back alley!"

"He'd better not be going into any back alleys, what would he be doing there?"

"Maybe shooting up in a few years if Deb isn't careful!"

The meeting of the moms at weekly book club always began with Kath and Betsy chatting in the kitchen. They baked, standing around bowls of dough, the scent of chocolate or spices perfuming their respiration as they gabbed. Betsy once described it as "shooting the shit", only to realize her five-year-old son was lurking round the corner in the hopes of a lick of the beaters. The pair tried to suffocate their horrified giggles as he toddled around, repeating "shooting tha ship!" Betsy stuck him in his room with his iPad once the rest of the girls got there. They'd never let her live it down.

"Is May still off gluten?"

"She'd better not be, I never waste money on those special flours."

"It drives me nuts, when she doesn't eat anything though. Guess that's why she's so skinny!"

"It's just an excuse for her, you know, she can pretend to be finicky when really she's just painfully committed to her flat ass."

"I know you're not talking about this," Laney said, entering the kitchen rear first. The room lit with laughter. Laney's curves were a clinging remnant of her pregnancy, which had given the sharper points of her body some much-needed padding and had the unanticipated effect of amplifying Laney's already lively personality. "Hope you don't mind me letting myself in—back door's open."

Betsy waved her hand reassuringly. She was used to Laney walking in. "You know who we're talking about," Kath said with a significant look as she grabbed the champagne bottle out of Laney's hands.

Laney rolled her eyes. "Some people are just born skinny, babe, no need to be critical about it." The oven beeped, and Betsy removed a tray of luridly orange crescent rolls. Laney gulped. "Bets, what are those?" she asked.