Page 7 of Savage in the Sweets
“But isn’t that why we’re here now?” Mr. Tracksuit says. “To discuss and consider?”
“Mr. Davers, Lacy Savage has been instrumental in securing funding for several important Wilson’s Grove events, despite the fact that she doesn’t have any children in the schools. While I understand your desire to better educate our children so they can make better choices, I believe it is the responsibility of each parent to address the foods they’re allowed to partake in.”
“And that’s where we fail our children—we don’t make this a community effort. We rely on what’s convenient and easy.” He gestures toward me flippantly. “She’s not the one that has to pay to fill our kids’ cavities. She doesn’t have to worry about hyperactivity. She doesn’t care about your children, but she cares an awful lot about pushing her sugary crack on campus.”
Did he just liken me to a hardcore drug dealer?
Now he’s done it. There’s no way I can just stand here while he not only disparages my business but my character as well.
“Excuse me!” I say, stepping out from my booth and toward the podium. “But who the hell are you to say what it is I care about?”
He smirks slightly, his eyes traveling up and down my body, causing my arms to break out in goose bumps.
“You’re the person peddling candied crack,” he says in a firm voice.
I look around the room at surprised faces, each of them clearly uncomfortable with the development.
Except for Stacy. She’s elated.
“I will have you know that I love this community and every one of the children at Wilson’s Grove. I’ve been here through countless fundraisers, helping the kids reach important and sometimes essential goals.”
“All while taking your cut.”
The gut punches just keep coming.
No one comes to my aid, which hurts more than his insults.
“That’s not fair!” I say, choking back raw emotions. “I’ve donated time and countless items to the school. If you want to run me out of here, what the hell are they going to replace it with?”
Fuck! Did I really just say that at a school board meeting?
He doesn’t even address me. Instead, he addresses the crowd with, “I think there are several better alternatives than what this hot-take is serving up.”
Hot take? Is he insinuating that I like attention?
He continues by saying, “We could invite the local farmers market to participate in school events. Or perhaps local artisans. We need to think outside the box.”
“I think that would be a great idea,” Stacy pipes up.
Before my very eyes, people are nodding and murmuring in agreement. Planning to out me from the community as I stand like a witch on trial.
“There’s a food truck that sells only organic meals. We should contact them,” a traitorous PTA mom says.
“Or what about that healthy shake place that opened up?” another voice adds.
Donald Setland rises from his seat, and everyone goes silent.
Fuck, I hate that man.
“Hold on, now,” he says. “Lacy has always been generous with her time and goods, and people love her treats. I don’t see why we can’t continue to work with her and teach our children a lesson in moderation.”
Thank you, Mister Roving Eyes.
Mr. Tracksuit comes back with, “While I understand your desire to cling to tradition, why keep on serving up more of the same when you could have a sushi chef serving up tuna rolls at these meetings?”
What the fuck—kids don’t want sushi!
The murmurs turn into a deafening roar as enthusiasm is high for the raw E. coli vector. People who I had thought were my friends, are now narrowing their eyes at me, or avoiding me altogether.
