Kendra held her hand out across the cafeteria table.
"Apron and the ledger, Tess."
"Fresh start."
Sixty parents watched her do it.
My brother Jason stood a half-step behind his wife, arms folded.
He'd been standing behind her for six years.
Monday, August 11, seven o'clock, first parents' meeting of the season.
Folding chairs.
Sweet tea in a cooler.
The smell of floor cleaner and sloppy joes.
I'd worn the apron in from the car out of habit.
Nine seasons will do that.
"We talked about this in May," Kendra said.
She said it to the room, not to me.
Twenty-three votes to seventeen.
Her slate won every seat.
Then they voted the treasurer seat out of existence.
A fresh start doesn't need one.
"Nine years is a long time for one person to hold the cash box."
A few people laughed.
Jenna Coyle laughed loudest.
Jenna was the new vice president, and Kendra's best friend, in that order.
"Nobody's saying anything bad," Kendra said.
"Tess did her best with that old stand."
"We just want to bring it into this decade."
"New menu."
"New look."
"Rod says that fryer's a fire hazard anyway."
In the back row, a big man in a red Big Rod's polo nodded once.
Rod Haskett sat on the school board and sold brisket out of a trailer.
"The fryer passed inspection in July," I said.
"Sure it did," Kendra said.
"Can we not do this in front of everybody?"
She was the one who'd picked everybody.
I untied the apron.
Navy canvas, three pockets across the front.
Gold stencil, the left S worn down to a ghost.
HORNETS BOOSTERS
A scorch mark low on the right from a fryer basket in 2019.
The center pocket had a zipper.
The pull broke in 2021, so I'd threaded a little brass key ring through instead.
Inside the waistband, in Sharpie:
T.W.
I folded it in thirds.
I set the green ledger on top.
My own block print was on the cover.
Concession Ledger 2016–
Every game, every case of buns, every can of cheese sauce.
Inside the zipped pocket was the fifty-dollar float.
Fives and ones, paper-banded, ready for the opener.
I didn't mention it.
Kendra picked the stack up like a pizza box.
"And the account login."
"There isn't a login."
"There's a signature card."
"Great."
"So sign it over."
"That card's the district's."
"Take it up with Dale."
Dale Brenneman was the athletic director.
His name had been on that card next to mine since August 2016.
Kendra laughed.
"Paperwork."
She turned away with my apron under her arm.
Jason didn't look at me.
He looked at the apron.
"Okay!" Kendra said.
"Uniforms!"
"A hundred and forty-three families have already given."
"You guys are amazing."
The room clapped.
I clapped too.
You don't sit on your hands in Halbrook.
At 8:15, in the parking lot, Jayla Brooks caught me at my car with her keys in her hand.
Sixteen, three seasons on my register, never short a dime.
"Mrs. Wozniak, are you still doing the stand?"
"Not this year."
She chewed her lip.
Then she held up her phone.
"Is this the uniform thing?"
"My mom paid forty."
The screen showed Kendra's Facebook post from Saturday, August 9.
🏈 $11,240 RAISED! Uniforms by Homecoming! Venmo @Kendra-Woz
Under it, a hundred hearts and a row of fire emojis.
"That's a lot of money," Jayla said.
"It is."
"Is that how the club takes money now?"
"I don't know, hon."
"Go home."
"Text me when you get there."
She did, at 8:31.
At 9:40 PM I was at my kitchen table.
Owen was asleep.
His cleats sat by the door, still muddy from kicking practice.
The white binder sat on the shelf over the bread box, where it had always sat.
A hundred and eight count sheets, twelve a season.
Every one had two adult signatures and a bag number.
Every one had a pink bank receipt stapled behind it.
Kendra hadn't asked for it.
She didn't know what it was.
I opened the laptop and logged into the district signer portal.
Fund 300-9014 — Football Boosters — Activity to Date
Balance: $18,612.47
Nine seasons of hot dogs and nacho cheese, to the penny.
I scrolled.
There was a line I hadn't made.
The district must have opened it when Kendra started her drive on June 2.
New Uniforms Drive — deposits to date: $0.00
I read it three times.
Then I took the handbook down from the shelf next to the binder.
Board Policy, the page I'd tabbed in 2016.
The boosters aren't our own club.
We're a district parent committee.
The money goes into Fund 300-9014, with a receipt.
Not into anybody's pocket.
Not mine.
Not hers.
I sat there with the fridge humming.
Kendra had raised $11,240 since June.
Every booster dollar must hit the district's account.
Her Venmo drive never did.