She ignored that. “Since you are both here.” She drew a folder out of the drawer and placed it on the desk. “I would like you to commit to the next six months of community events.”
Jean squeaked like she’d just been punched in the gut. I tried not to smile.
It had taken time, over a year, but it looked like the little cat and mouse game between Jean and Bertie—where Bertie volunteered her to work an event and Jean found a way to wiggle out of it—was over.
To no one’s surprise, the Valkyrie had won.
Bertie produced a pen and clicked it once.
“Oh, you first,” Jean said to me.
“Happy to.” I took the pen, more than willing to choose the events I wanted instead of the ones Jean left behind.
“So many choices.” I sighed dramatically.
“Wait.” Jean grabbed for the pen.
“Nope. No, I got this. This is good. Super good.”
“You’ve done so much more, and I should—” She made another swipe for the pen, but I turned my shoulder and chortled as I checked off the easiest events.
“That’s not— Delaney, I want—”
“And…done!” I pushed the folder her way and held up the pen.
She scowled and snatched it out of my hand.
“Swamp Cowgirl!” Jean glared at me.
“It’s the Wild Wild Wetland tour,” Bertie said. “Explaining the importance of our wetland habitat.”
“Yes, Jean,” I said. “Are you saying our wetland habitat isn’t important?”
“No. It’s important. Especially in the spring time. When the mosquitoes rise like blood-thirsty fog banks to feed upon my flesh.”
“There’s the rootin’-tootin’ spirit,” I said. “Saddle up for swamp fun!”
Jean scratched her cheek with her middle finger, flashed Bertie a totally fake smile, and filled out the form.
“Delaney,” Bertie said, “I have decided not to press charges at this time.”
“All right,” I said, waiting for her to follow up on that.
“However, I want you to show me your hand.”
Jean stopped writing and looked between us.
I extended my left hand—the one with the new tattoo—toward Bertie.
“Not that one. Your right.”
Oh, this couldn’t be good. I extended my right hand sideways in a sort of handshake position.
One minute Bertie was nodding encouragingly like a first-grade teacher who was impressed I’d remembered which limb had a hand at the end of it, and the next, she stabbed me in the base of my thumb.
“Ow!” I jerked back and shot up to my feet. “What the hell?” I tucked my hand into my chest pressing my left thumb over the cut.
Bertie pulled two tissues from the little flowery box next to her and wiped my blood off her tiny apple knife. “It’s just a scratch.”
