My Three Girls. Susan Floyd

the oh-too-sweet-voice at the same time. Beverly Moore. The only parent she had personality conflicts with. Maybe it was because Mrs. Moore was new and hadn’t quite acquired small-school etiquette. Most of her parents traveled as far as forty miles to drop off their children, and Dana did what she could to accommodate their schedules, since they didn’t have a lot of time for chit-chatting. Most lived and worked on ranches or farms so rural that running water was a luxury. Like the school’s, their electricity was gleaned from a generator. When the parents picked up their children at two-thirty, they were single-minded in their efforts to get back to their properties. Livestock needed to be fed, fences needed to be mended. Dana used the snatches of time before and after school to update them quickly on their children’s progress or lack thereof.

      Mrs. Moore, whose three daughters had enrolled at the last minute but made up a quarter of her class this year, was a parent of a different caliber. The family lived in a house just two miles from the school, and Beverly Moore seemed to believe that Dana was a built-in baby-sitter. Dana could count on the fact the Moore girls would be the first ones dropped off in the morning, some times an hour early, and the last ones picked up—often by two or three hours. They were occasionally dropped off on weekends so they could play on the school grounds, too.

      Dana didn’t appreciate the added responsibility, but the girls kept to themselves and weren’t destructive in any way, so she let it slide. Eventually she’d become used to hearing Karen bark orders at her younger sisters, and Ollie, the youngest, scream with delight.

      “Miss Ritchie?” The voice was getting closer, along with the distinct clicking of high heels.

      Mrs. Moore’s perfume reached Dana before she did.

      Dana summoned a stiff smile and called, “Yes?” She stepped out from behind the file cabinets.

      The other woman stopped short. “Oh! I’m so glad you’re here. I knocked on your door, but when there wasn’t an answer, I took the chance you’d be in the school. I saw your car, so I knew you hadn’t gone anywhere.”

      One good reason why Dana should park in the garage.

      “What can I do for you?” Dana said, her voice as crisp as she could make it. She even crossed her arms over her chest, hoping that Mrs. Moore was attuned to nonverbal communication.

      No such luck.

      “I need the biggest favor from you.” She smiled as if Dana were her closest and dearest friend, then placed a manicured hand on Dana’s forearm.

      Dana worked not to flinch; she didn’t want people touching her. She removed herself from the contact. All that did was give her a better look at the other woman’s ensemble. The manicure, the heels, the perfume all set off an impeccable beige linen suit. Dana eyed the cream silk camisole with something that she might have called envy a lifetime ago. Despite the heat, Beverly Moore looked cool and composed. Dana felt every inch the dowdy schoolmarm.

      “I know it’s an imposition,” Beverly continued, as if Dana’s silence was consent, “but I’ve been called out of town and I’m just not able to get a baby-sitter.”

      “No.” The word was out of her mouth before Dana could stop it.

      Even Beverly looked taken aback. “No? You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

      “To baby-sit, maybe?” Dana raised an eye brow, her voice dry.

      Beverly had the grace to flush. “It would only be for the weekend.” She spoke rapidly as if speed would convince Dana to grant her the favor.

      “No.” Dana had been down that road once before. First, it was baby-sitting, then foster care, then— “No!” She turned her back. “School is out for the weekend.”

      “It’s a very important business conference I need to attend. I’ll be back on Sunday.”

      Sunday? Dana didn’t dare look at the woman in case eye contact would be considered assent. What would she do with the Moore girls for two whole days?

      “I can pay—”

      Dana turned, feeling her face get red. “I don’t need money.”

      Beverly Moore shrugged, looking at Dana’s clothes, her gaze fastening on Dana’s serviceable shoes. “I’d make it worth your while.”

      “I don’t think you could,” Dana replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a great deal of work to do. I hope you find someone.”

      The woman’s lipsticked mouth pinched tightly together, but finally she nodded and left, heels clicking across the linoleum. With the final bang of the closing door, Dana expelled the breath she was holding. Then she crossed the room and locked the door before settling back in her chair and picking up the form on the top of the pile. She studied the fine print and began to fill it out.

      The front door handle rattled.

      Dana’s back stiffened. Surely Mrs. Moore couldn’t be back.

      “Miss Ritchie?” The voice came sailing toward her through the locked door, as cheerful as if they hadn’t had the previous conversation. Dana stayed silent, hoping Mrs. Moore would think that she’d gone back to the house.

      “I know you’re in there,” the woman said. “I know you haven’t gone. The girls say you don’t ever go anywhere.”

      Dana kept her head down and tried to concentrate on the form in front of her. Then a persistent knocking started.

      How long could she keep that up? Eventually, her knuckles would be raw and—

      “I’m going to keep knocking until you open this door.” Mrs. Moore was sounding rattled and the knocking changed to pounding.

      Dana popped to her feet, angrier than she remembered being in a long time. She crossed to the door with several impatient steps. This was her private time. “I told you—”

      Mrs. Moore stood on the concrete entryway, this time with her daughters, Karen, Jean and little Ollie, positioned in front of her, all clutching small backpacks.

      “Hi, Miss Ritchie.” Karen spoke first, her voice uncertain as she glanced up at her mother.

      “Mrs. Moore.” Dana frowned.

      “Bev. Call me Bev.” She waved her hand toward her daughters. “The girls want to thank you for agreeing to take them this weekend. They like you so much.”

      Dana doubted that. The girls interacted as little as possible with the other children and her. The eleven-year-old, Karen, seemed to take exception to any attention that was paid to the younger girls, Jean, six, and Ollie, just five. They were well mannered, although Jean retreated so often to lengthy silences it was easy to forget that she spoke at all. Dana also noticed both Jean and Ollie had the curious habit of kicking the supply closet every time they passed by. The third time Dana had to wash off the scuff marks, she’d asked them not to do it. Jean had answered with a staring silence, and Ollie’s eyes had filled with tears. The brief discussion hadn’t saved her cabinet, though. The two girls simply kicked with more stealth.

      “Uh, thank you, Miss Ritchie,” Karen blurted, nudged by her mother. “We’ll be very good.”

      “This is blackmail,” Dana said to Mrs. Moore.

      “I’m desperate or I wouldn’t put you in this position,” she said. From her voice and the way she glanced over her shoulder, it seemed to be the first truthful statement Beverly Moore had made.

      “I’m sorry, but I can’t take the girls.” Dana was firm. She wasn’t going to be railroaded into this duty. She wasn’t the only option that Mrs. Moore had. She was just convenient. “You might consider taking them with you.” With that, Dana shut the door and tried to lock it, but her hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t turn the dead bolt properly. The knocking started again.

      “Go away!” Dana muttered under her breath, eventually managing to lock the door. “Leave me alone.” She put her