The gasp from two hundred parents was the only sound in the room when the PTA president’s secret spreadsheet filled the twenty-foot screen.
Her name was Brenda Garrett, and for a year, she was the queen bee of Oakridge Elementary.
She ran the carpool line like a tiny tyrant, judged bake sale contributions with a condescending smile, and treated other parent volunteers like her personal staff. For the sake of my son, I put up with it. I smiled when she dismissed me and said “no problem” when she sent me on her personal errands.
She thought I was just another quiet mom she could push around.
But Brenda made one mistake. She got so comfortable on her throne that she got sloppy, leaving a trail of financial breadcrumbs a mile wide. She assumed no one had the guts to follow it.
She never saw it coming, because the evidence I used to destroy her was hidden in a project she gave me herself, a final, perfect act of her own stunning arrogance.
The Queen of Carpool: Cupcakes and Condescension
The air in the Oakridge Elementary gymnasium smelled of popcorn, damp wool coats, and the faint, institutional sweetness of floor cleaner. It was the smell of every school event I’d ever been to, a scent that normally filled me with a cozy nostalgia. But today, it was soured by anxiety. My contribution to the Fall Festival bake sale, two dozen Sunshine Lemon Cupcakes, sat pristine on my grandmother’s ceramic platter. My son, Leo, had insisted on arranging the candied lemon slices on top himself, each one a tiny, perfect sun.
I stood behind my assigned portion of the long folding table, feeling a flutter of pride. I’m a part-time graphic designer, I spend my days moving pixels around a screen. Baking is tangible. It’s real. It’s the one domestic art I feel I haven’t completely failed at.
Then Brenda Garrett glided toward the bake sale table. Brenda didn’t walk; she was propelled by an invisible current of self-importance. She wore a cream-colored cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. Her platinum blonde hair was sculpted into a helmet of serene perfection. As PTA President, she was the unelected queen of our little suburban kingdom.
Her gaze, a cool blue sweep, passed over the other parents’ brownies and Rice Krispie treats before landing on my cupcakes. A small, perfect smile touched her lips, the kind a biologist might give a particularly interesting fungus.
“Oh, Maya,” she said, her voice carrying across the gym’s chatter. “Look at you. How… quaint.”
The word hung in the air, weighted and sharp. My face flushed hot. A few other moms, mid-conversation, went quiet, their eyes darting between me and Brenda. Quaint. Like a sad, hand-knitted doily. She picked up my platter, her French-manicured nails clicking against the ceramic. With the casual authority of a health inspector condemning a restaurant, she moved my Sunshine Lemon Cupcakes to the far end of the table, behind a towering jug of watery-looking apple cider. In their place, she set down a heavy crystal dish laden with cookies that looked suspiciously uniform, the kind that come in a plastic tray from Costco.
“We just need to maintain a certain standard of presentation,” she announced to no one in particular, straightening the tablecloth. “It’s all about projecting success. That’s how we get the big donations later.” She turned to me, her smile now a little brighter, a little more dismissive. “You understand.” It wasn’t a question.
A Favor for the PTA
An hour later, Brenda found me watching Leo attempt to win a goldfish by throwing a ping pong ball into a tiny glass bowl. He was taking it very seriously.
“Maya, sweetie, there you are,” she said, placing a cool hand on my arm. Her perfume was expensive and vaguely floral. “You are such a lifesaver. Listen, the PTA is just absolutely swamped. We’re stretched so thin.”
I nodded, my default setting around her. Eager to please, desperate to belong. It was pathetic, and I knew it. “Of course, anything I can do to help.”
“You’re a doll,” she said, her grip tightening slightly. “Could you just pop over to Sterling Cleaners for me? I dropped off a blouse yesterday and completely forgot. It’s prepaid. Just tell them it’s for Brenda Garrett.” She said her own name with a certain reverence, as if it were a password to a secret society.
I looked from her expectant face to my ten-year-old son, who was now arguing with the high-school volunteer about the physics of a ping pong ball’s trajectory. My car, a reliable but slightly dented 2014 Honda Odyssey, was in the far lot. The trip would take twenty minutes, minimum.
“It’s for the PTA, of course,” she added, as if sensing my hesitation. “I need the blouse for the benefactor dinner tomorrow night. Have to look the part when I’m asking for a five-figure check for the new smart boards, right?”
She framed it as a noble sacrifice. My time and gas in service of the children’s education. I felt a familiar, dull resignation settle in my stomach. “Sure,” I said. “No problem.”
The drive was silent and humiliating. Sterling Cleaners handled my request with practiced efficiency, returning a silk blouse on a padded hanger, shrouded in plastic. The tag said it was an ‘Akris’ blouse. I made the mistake of Googling it at a red light. Eighteen hundred dollars. For a shirt. I drove back to the school feeling like a personal assistant, not a fellow parent volunteer. When I handed it to her, she didn’t even say thank you. She just took it and said, “Perfect. Now, can you see if the third-grade parents are handling the trash cans? They’re starting to overflow.”
The Unwritten Rules
My husband, Mark, listened patiently that night as I recounted the day’s indignities, stabbing at my salad. He’s an accountant, a man who finds comfort in the clean, logical world of numbers. The chaotic, emotionally-charged politics of the PTA were like a foreign language to him.
“So, she used your cupcakes as a coaster and then sent you on an errand to pick up her thousand-dollar shirt?” he summarized, a small smile playing on his lips. “And you did it?”
“It was for the children, Mark,” I said, the words tasting bitter. “For the smart boards.”
“Right. And my buying a new set of golf clubs is an investment in my cardiovascular health.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Honey, why do you let her treat you like that?”
It was a fair question, and one I didn’t have a good answer for. Because I wanted Leo to feel like we were a part of the school community? Because I was new to this town and desperate for connections? Because Brenda, with her money and influence and terrifying poise, was the gatekeeper to all of it, and I was afraid of being locked out?
“I just want to be involved,” I mumbled. “It feels important.”
A few weeks later, my desire to be involved landed me in the school’s basement. Brenda was perpetually behind on the PTA’s financial reports, and the school treasurer was starting to ask pointed questions. To “help her get organized,” Brenda had assigned me the task of cleaning out the PTA supply closet. It was a small, windowless room that smelled of mouse droppings, dried-up glue, and the ghosts of a thousand forgotten projects. Fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly, green-tinged light.
My job was to sort through years of accumulated junk. Half-used rolls of crepe paper, brittle with age. Stacks of construction paper faded by a sun they’d never seen. It was mindless work, a clear punishment for some unknown transgression. Maybe I hadn’t smiled brightly enough when she’d demoted my cupcakes. Maybe she’d seen me Google her blouse. With Brenda, you never knew. The rules were unwritten, and they changed on a whim.
The Receipt in the Shoebox
I was on my knees, pulling dusty boxes from a bottom shelf, when I found it. It was a Nike shoebox, the cardboard soft and flimsy. Someone had written “GALA 2021” on the side in black marker. I pried off the lid, expecting to find more sad, deflated balloons.
Instead, it was filled with a chaotic jumble of receipts. They were loose, crumpled, a paper salad of old expenses. Most were for typical things: Party City, a local grocery store, a print shop. I started to stack them neatly, my brain craving order in the midst of this forgotten chaos.
That’s when I saw it. A receipt from a local event company, “A-to-Z Party Rentals.” It was for a “Deluxe Balloon Arch Package.” The total, printed in faded dot-matrix ink, was $500.00. Below it, a rubber stamp mark, slightly smeared: PAID IN CASH.
I froze. I remembered that balloon arch. It was magnificent, a shimmering rainbow of silver and blue that had framed the entrance to the 2021 Gala. I remembered it because I had personally thanked Jim Phillips, the owner of A-to-Z. His son was in Leo’s class back then. He had made a big show of telling everyone who would listen that he was donating the arch to the school. A gift. Free of charge. He’d even gotten a little shout-out in the PTA newsletter for his generosity.
I smoothed the crumpled receipt on my knee. The date was right. The description was right. But the numbers were all wrong.
Jim Phillips donated the arch. I knew he did. I’d heard him say it myself.
So where did the PTA’s five hundred dollars in cash actually go?
My heart started a low, heavy drumming against my ribs. This wasn’t about cupcakes or condescension anymore. This felt different. This felt like a secret. And in the dusty, silent closet, I had the sinking feeling I had just accidentally stumbled right into the middle of it.
The Paper Trail: Just a Simple Question
The PTA meeting was held in the school library, a room that always felt too quiet and too bright. We sat in child-sized chairs that forced our knees up to our chests, a circle of mothers pretending to be deeply invested in a debate over the merits of organic versus conventional juice boxes for the upcoming Teacher Appreciation luncheon. Brenda sat at the head of the table, looking regal even in a chair designed for a seven-year-old.
I’d been rehearsing the words in my head for three days, trying to find a tone that sounded casual, unthreatening. My hands were clammy.
When there was a lull in the juice-box debate, I saw my opening. I cleared my throat.
“Brenda?” I started, my voice sounding unnaturally high. “I was just looking over some of the old budgets to get ideas for the Spring Gala, and I had a quick question. I saw in the 2021 file there was an expense for five hundred dollars for the balloon arch.”
I paused, letting the statement hang in the air. A few heads turned my way.
“I only ask because I thought Jim Phillips from A-to-Z donated that. I just want to make sure I’m allocating funds correctly in my proposals, you know? So we don’t budget for things we might be able to get donated.”
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. The library’s air conditioning unit kicked on with a loud hum. Brenda’s serene smile didn’t change, but her eyes, when they met mine, were as cold and hard as river stones.
“The budget, Maya, is my responsibility,” she said, her voice soft but laced with steel. “It’s a very complex process, with a lot of moving parts. Reimbursements, vendor fees that get adjusted… it’s probably a bit over your head.” She gave a light, tinkling laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Perhaps you should focus on the tasks you’re assigned. It’s better for everyone if we all stay in our own lanes.”
The message was brutally clear. It was a verbal slap, a public dressing-down disguised as a helpful suggestion. My face burned with a familiar shame, but this time, it was mixed with a cold spike of anger. She wasn’t just dismissing me. She was hiding something.
The Queen’s Decree
My punishment was delivered via email the next day. The subject line read: “Exciting New Role for You!”
Brenda had appointed me the Spring Gala Donation Coordinator. On paper, it sounded important. In reality, it meant I was being banished back to the basement closet. My job was to receive, log, and tag every single item donated for the Gala’s silent auction. It was a tedious, solitary job designed to keep me out of sight and out of the loop.
So, for two afternoons a week, the dusty closet became my office. The first few days were a blur of wicker baskets filled with artisanal jams, gift certificates for mani-pedis, and framed, vaguely nautical prints donated by local businesses. I created a spreadsheet, I printed tags, I tied ribbons. I did the job she gave me, and I did it well.
But her plan to isolate me backfired. The closet, grim as it was, became my sanctuary. Away from Brenda’s constant, oppressive scrutiny, I could finally think. The image of that receipt was burned into my mind. PAID IN CASH.
One rainy Tuesday, Sarah Jenkins came down to drop off a donation from her husband’s dental practice—a gift certificate for a teeth-whitening treatment. Sarah had been the PTA treasurer two years ago, right before Brenda’s reign began. She was quiet, anxious, and never made eye contact for more than three seconds.
“Just put it over there,” I said, gesturing to a table.
She lingered by the doorway, twisting the strap of her purse. “It’s a lot of work you’re doing down here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Brenda thought I was the best person for the job,” I replied, the irony thick in my throat.
Sarah looked over her shoulder, down the empty basement hallway. She took a step into the closet. “Be careful, Maya,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on a stack of dusty yearbooks. “Just… be careful questioning the finances.”
My head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“When I was treasurer,” she continued, her voice so low I had to lean in to hear, “she took over everything to do with cash. All the deposits from events, all the cash-box reconciliations. She said it was more efficient. She had a separate PTA debit card she used for reimbursements. Said it was easier than writing checks for small amounts.”
A special debit card. The school’s main operating account was a checking account. I knew that from the public budget reports. There was no mention of a secondary account or a debit card.
“I never saw the statements for it,” Sarah added, her face pale. “She said she’d roll all the expenses into one line item on the final report. ‘Administrative Discrepancies,’ she called it.” She finally met my eyes, and I saw a flicker of fear and old, buried shame. “I didn’t push it. I should have, but I didn’t.” She turned and was gone before I could say another word.
Coffee and Whispers
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the phrase ‘Administrative Discrepancies’ echoing in my mind. It was the kind of vague, corporate jargon designed to sound official while meaning absolutely nothing. It was a bucket to pour secrets into.
The next day, I told Mark I needed to stay late to catch up on donation logging. The school was quiet after 5 p.m., the halls filled with long shadows and the hum of the janitor’s floor buffer. I let myself back into the supply closet and pulled out the old, slow PTA laptop.
I sat on an overturned bucket, the laptop warming my legs. I started searching the files. I looked for “debit card,” “receipts,” “reimbursements.” Nothing. The official budget files were pristine, matching the sanitized reports Brenda presented at meetings. It was a digital dead end.
I leaned back, frustrated, my eyes scanning the mess around me. My gaze landed on the shoebox that had started it all. GALA 2021. And then I thought of Sarah’s warning. Of Brenda’s fury. She wasn’t just a micromanager. She was fiercely, obsessively protective of the finances.
I turned back to the laptop. I stopped searching for accounting terms. I started searching for her.
I typed her initials into the search bar: B.L.G. for Brenda-Lynn Garrett.
A single folder appeared on the screen, one I hadn’t seen before. The file name was simply “MASTER.” It had a little padlock icon next to it. It was password protected. My heart hammered. This was it.
I typed in the first password I could think of, the name of her ridiculously pampered Maltese poodle she paraded around town.
Princess1
The folder opened.
Inside was a single file. An Excel spreadsheet. It was titled: “PTA Projections – INTERNAL.”
I clicked it open.
The Second Set of Books
The spreadsheet glowed in the dark of the little room. It took me a moment to understand what I was looking at. It was beautiful in its organization, meticulous in its detail. And it was horrifying.
There were two main columns for every single fundraising event for the past three years. The first column was labeled “Reported.” The second, right next to it, was labeled “Actual.”
I scrolled to the line for the 2021 Fall Festival. The “Reported” profit, the number Brenda had presented to the school board and the parents, was $5,230. The “Actual” profit, in the column right beside it, was $7,255.
My breath caught in my throat. There was a third column, labeled “Notes.” Next to the Fall Festival discrepancy, Brenda had typed a short, chilling explanation: Admin & Logistics Fee – B.L.G.
It was a second set of books. A secret ledger.
I kept scrolling, my hand shaking as I moved the mouse. It was the same for every event. The Book Fair: $800 skimmed. The Spring Plant Sale: $1,200. Every single time, there was a gap between the real money raised and the money she reported, explained away with a tidy little note. “Consulting Charges.” “Vendor Gratuity Pool.” “Event Management Services.”
She was bleeding the PTA dry, a thousand dollars at a time. The money parents thought was going to library books and art supplies and field trips was going directly into her pocket, laundered through a fake spreadsheet and a secret debit card. The rage that had been simmering in me for weeks boiled over, hot and clean. This wasn’t about her ego anymore. This was theft.
Then, I scrolled down to the bottom, to the section for the upcoming Spring Gala, the biggest fundraiser of the year. The numbers here were projections, not final totals. But one line item, under the “Actual” expenses, was already filled in. It was highlighted in yellow.
B.L.G. Event Management Bonus – $5,000.
She hadn’t even done it yet, and she had already planned to pay herself five grand from our kids’ money. She was so arrogant, so certain she would never be caught, that she’d already logged the crime.
Setting the Stage: The Point of No Return
I sat at my kitchen table until two in the morning, the damning spreadsheet printed and spread out before me like evidence from a crime scene. The numbers pulsed under the dim light, a testament to years of quiet, meticulous theft. My first instinct was to run to the principal, Mr. Davison. To slap the papers on his desk and let the system handle it.
But then I pictured it. Mr. Davison, a man whose spine seemed to be made of jelly, facing Brenda and her husband. Her husband, a corporate lawyer who sat on the district’s advisory board and whose name was on a small, shiny plaque in the school lobby. I could hear Brenda’s smooth, reasonable voice explaining it all away. A misunderstanding. A simple bookkeeping error made by an overworked volunteer. That silly Maya must have misinterpreted the internal projections.
They would bury it. They would form a committee, launch an “internal review,” and six months later release a one-page statement about “improving accounting protocols.” Brenda would gracefully step down to “spend more time with her family,” and I would be branded as the hysterical, troublemaking parent who made wild accusations. The thought made my stomach clench.
No. A quiet takedown wasn’t justice. It was a get-out-of-jail-free card.
“She can’t just get away with it, Mark,” I said, pacing the living room as he listened, his face grim. “If we go the official route, she’ll spin it. She’ll walk away clean, and everyone will forget.”
“So what’s the alternative?” he asked, his voice low. “You stand up in the next PTA meeting and call her a thief? She’ll tear you apart.”
“Not if everyone sees the proof,” I said, the idea starting to form, wild and terrifying. “Not if it’s undeniable. It has to be public. It has to be explosive. The only way to make sure she can’t talk her way out of it is if she’s exposed in front of everyone she tricked. Everyone who ever wrote a check to the PTA or bought a five-dollar brownie.”
Mark looked at me, his expression a mixture of awe and alarm. “Maya, that’s… scorched earth.”
“She burned the fields first,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “I’m just showing everyone the ashes.” This was the point of no return. I had the weapon. Now I had to build the bomb.
An Unlikely Alliance
The next day, I met Sarah Jenkins for coffee at a Starbucks five miles from our town. The neutral territory felt necessary. I slid a plain manila envelope across the table. She opened it and pulled out the printouts of the spreadsheet.
She read them without a word. The color drained from her face, leaving her skin looking pale and papery. She traced the line for the “$5,000 Event Management Bonus” with a trembling finger.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, looking up at me. The fear I’d seen in her eyes in the closet was gone, replaced by a look of profound, weary anger. “I knew it. I knew something was wrong, and I did nothing.” The guilt seemed to physically weigh her down.
“It’s not your fault, Sarah,” I said, though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true. She had been a cog in Brenda’s machine. A silent one.
“Yes, it is,” she said, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “I was intimidated. I let her walk all over me, and I let her do this. To all of us.” She pushed the papers back into the envelope and slid it back to me. Her hands were steady now. “What are you going to do?”
“I have an idea,” I said, leaning forward. “But I can’t do it alone. I need a lookout. Someone who knows the procedures, who can help me cover my tracks.”
Sarah met my gaze, a silent question passing between us. The risk was enormous. If we were caught, Brenda’s wrath would be swift and merciless. But the proof was on the table between us. The alternative—doing nothing—was no longer an option for either of us.
She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, a simple, solid word. “I’m in. Tell me the plan.”
And just like that, our two-person conspiracy was born, fueled by bad coffee and a shared, simmering rage.
The Trojan Horse
My job as a graphic designer gave me the perfect cover. The plan was audacious, theatrical, and deeply satisfying. We wouldn’t just expose her. We would make her the master of ceremonies for her own downfall.
The next day, I found Brenda directing volunteers who were untangling strings of fairy lights for the Gala. I approached her with my most earnest, helpful expression.
“Brenda, I had an idea for the Gala,” I said, my voice full of manufactured enthusiasm. “While you’re up on stage doing the big donation appeal, what if we had a slideshow playing on the big screen behind you? A presentation. We could show pictures of all the amazing things the PTA has done this year. The Fall Festival, the new playground equipment… it would be a powerful visual. A real tribute to your leadership.”
Her eyes lit up. The words “tribute to your leadership” were a direct appeal to her monumental ego. She couldn’t resist it.
“Maya, that is a brilliant idea,” she said, beaming. “Absolutely brilliant. It’s so important for the parents to see exactly where their money is going.” The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. “I’ll put together a flash drive for you. All the approved photos. Can you handle that?”
“Of course,” I said, trying to keep the triumphant grin off my face. “It would be my pleasure.”
For the next week, my apartment became a war room. After Mark and Leo were asleep, Sarah would come over. We’d huddle over my laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating our faces. We built a beautiful, professional slideshow. We used the photos Brenda provided—smiling kids on the new playground structure, the ribbon-cutting for the refurbished library, happy volunteers at the Book Fair. It was a perfect piece of PTA propaganda.
Then, we inserted our Trojan horses. Using my design software, I took clean, high-resolution screenshots of the secret spreadsheet. We embedded them directly into the presentation file. After a glowing slide featuring a photo of Brenda cutting a ribbon, we inserted the screenshot showing the “Actual” versus “Reported” profits, with the $2,000 discrepancy circled in a stark, angry red. After a slide thanking our generous donors, we added the screenshot of her planned $5,000 bonus. We timed it all to the second.
I saved the final version onto the flash drive Brenda had given me. It felt heavy in my hand, dense with consequence.
The Smile of the Crocodile
The day before the Gala, I found Brenda in the auditorium, overseeing the final setup. The stage was flanked by two enormous projection screens. She was directing two parent volunteers on the precise placement of a floral arrangement.
“It’s done,” I said, holding out the small plastic flash drive. “The slideshow is all set for tomorrow night.”
She took it from me, her attention still on the flower placement. “Excellent. Just give it to the A/V tech tomorrow. He’ll know what to do.” She turned to me, a magnanimous smile on her face. It was the smile of a queen surveying her kingdom, confident that every piece was exactly where she’d placed it. She patted my arm, a gesture that was both familiar and deeply condescending.
“You’ve been a big help this year, Maya,” she said. “It’s good to give the quieter ones a little project. Makes them feel included.” She winked, as if we were sharing a secret. “Good girl.”
I just smiled back, a tight, thin smile that felt like it might crack my face. I let her believe I was the meek, harmless little mouse she’d always treated me as. I let her pat my arm and call me a good girl.
Because tomorrow night, the mouse was going to burn the whole house down. And she had just handed me the match.
The Reckoning: A Toast to the President
The school auditorium glittered. It was a sea of rented tablecloths, flickering battery-operated candles, and the strained, festive cheer of a hundred parents dressed in their Saturday night best. The air was thick with perfume, the clinking of wine glasses, and the low hum of forced conversation about property taxes and summer vacation plans. Brenda was in her element, a shimmering queen in a sequined navy dress, moving through the crowd and accepting compliments with practiced grace.
I was in the back, tucked away in the small, elevated tech booth with a pimply-faced high school senior named Kevin who was running the sound system. From my perch, I could see everything. I saw Brenda’s husband hold her hand. I saw the principal, Mr. Davison, laugh a little too loudly at one of her jokes. I saw Sarah give me a tiny, almost imperceptible nod from her table near the side exit. My heart felt like a trapped bird beating against my ribs.
After the dinner plates were cleared, the lights dimmed. A single spotlight found Brenda as she stepped up to the podium on stage. The room fell quiet.
“Welcome, everyone,” she began, her voice as smooth as the expensive wine she’d been drinking. “Welcome to our annual Spring Gala, a night where we celebrate our incredible community.”
She was magnificent, I had to give her that. She spoke of dedication, of shared goals, of the bright future of Oakridge Elementary. She was charming and poised and utterly believable. The slideshow I’d prepared began to play on the two giant screens flanking the stage. Pictures of smiling children, of the Fall Festival, of the new reading benches the PTA had funded. The room was filled with warm, appreciative murmurs. People were reaching for their checkbooks.
“This year,” Brenda continued, her voice swelling with emotion, “has been our most successful yet. And it is all thanks to the tireless leadership of your PTA board.” As if on cue, a large, flattering photo of Brenda appeared on the screens, the words “Our Fearless Leader” emblazoned below it in elegant script.
The room erupted in applause. Brenda beamed, placing a hand over her heart in a gesture of faux humility. She glanced back at the tech booth and gave a little nod. It was the signal. My signal.
My hand was slick with sweat as I moved the mouse. My finger hovered over the button. Click.
The Slide That Changed Everything
The applause died abruptly. It didn’t fade; it was sliced off, as if by a guillotine.
On the twenty-foot screens, the smiling picture of Brenda was gone. In its place was the cold, hard grid of the Excel spreadsheet. The image was crystal clear, the columns stark and undeniable. “Reported Profit: $5,230.” “Actual Profit: $7,255.” The discrepancy was circled in a brutal, hand-drawn red.
A sound rippled through the auditorium—a collective, confused gasp. It was the sound of a hundred people trying to process information that didn’t compute. Brenda’s smile froze, then faltered. She glanced over her shoulder at the screen, her expression shifting from annoyance to confusion.
I didn’t give her time to recover. Click.
The next slide appeared. A zoomed-in section of the spreadsheet, showing a long list of expenses. “Admin & Logistics Fee.” “Consulting Charges.” “Vendor Gratuity Pool.” The lies, itemized.
A low murmur started to spread through the room, a virus of whispers. “What is that?” “I don’t understand.” People were leaning across their tables, pointing at the screen.
Brenda had turned fully toward the screen now, her face a mask of dawning horror. Her microphone was still live, and the sound of her sharp, panicked breath hissed through the speakers.
Click.
The final slide. The projection for the Spring Gala. The line item, highlighted in garish yellow, screaming from the screen.
B.L.G. Event Management Bonus – $5,000.
About the Author
