The Parents Asked For The Books Behind The Closure

Conrad said the approval line was a drafting mistake.

Beth opened the minutes from the last three meetings. The board had discussed fence repairs, a new hose reel, and whether the snack window needed a second latch.

Nobody had voted to close the rink.

“You sent a draft as our decision,” she said.

“I was trying to protect us from another winter we couldn't afford.”

“Then correct it,” I said.

“This is committee business, Shira.”

I took my membership card from my wallet.

“So am I.”

His eyes went to the little card. He seemed more bothered by that than by the twelve pairs in Beth's car.

The other officers voted to send the city a correction, seek a financial review, and stop equipment sales until the review was done. Conrad voted no on all three.

Beth recorded the votes.

Pilar asked how members could remove an officer.

Conrad snapped his briefcase shut.

“You want to destroy a volunteer over a mistake?”

“I want to read the rules,” she said.

The bylaws required a petition from a quarter of the paid members, followed by fourteen days' notice of a special meeting. There were sixty-eight paid members that winter.

We needed seventeen signatures.

We had twenty-one before the chairs were folded.

I did not carry the petition. Pilar did. I had spent enough time standing alone in front of people who wanted me to prove something.

The next morning, Beth delivered the correction to the city lease office. I went with her, carrying my receipts.

A staff member named Mara checked the lease file and stamped Beth's copy RECEIVED.

“The city hasn't approved an early end to this lease,” she said. “We'll hold the request while your board resolves its records.”

It was a small sentence. It gave us time.

Outside, melting snow dripped from a dirty bank along the sidewalk. Beth held the stamped copy away from the water as if it were a newborn.

“I thought he was handling bills because he had the time,” she said.

“What access do you have?”

“Bank viewing. He arranged it when I became treasurer. I've mostly checked balances.”

“Now we need the transactions.”

She nodded without defending herself.

That afternoon, she downloaded statements from the account she was authorized to view. She sent them to the board and to Daniel Cho, an accountant six parents had hired for a $1,200 review. Each parent paid $200 straight toward his bill. The board voted to give him its records.

Daniel wanted donation records, bank statements, invoices, and canceled checks. He asked us not to call every odd number theft.

“First we find out what each payment bought,” he said.

I liked him for that.

The improvement drive had brought in $18,600. We had all watched the tally rise on a paper thermometer at the snack shed.

There was a real $2,400 invoice for rubber walkway mats. Pilar and I had helped lay those mats ourselves.

That left $16,200.

The ledger called $9,600 of it winter site work. Another $6,600 appeared as an equipment reserve transfer.

Neither amount remained in the rink account.

“Where was the reserve moved?” Beth asked Conrad by email.

He replied that outside interference was making normal management impossible.

He did not name an account.

Meanwhile, Owen worked through the six sold pairs. Ruth had told him to get advice of his own. He had done that, then contacted each buyer and offered a full refund.

Four pairs came back by Thursday. I checked the service codes with Beth present, and she signed for them.

Sixteen pairs were safe.

Two remained with a family away visiting relatives in Vermont. They had agreed to return them Sunday.

I wrote that down too.

Pilar met me at the rink after practice. A girl tapped her blades twice against the gate while she waited for her father.

Chink. Chink.

Pilar opened it for her, then stayed beside me.

"I keep thinking I should have shouted sooner," she said.

"You asked him the right question."

"That didn't stop people staring at you."

"No. But you stood there with me."

She looked down at the mat we had laid together. For once, she had no quick answer.

That night, a customer called to book a sharpening. She had seen my correction, then asked Beth about the returned stock.

“I should have asked before I canceled,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She went quiet.

Then she said, “I'm sorry.”

I gave her the next open time. Forgiveness did not need to include pretending nothing had happened.

Before bed, I looked over the city's stamped copy again. One rubber mark had done more for the rink than all my shaking hands could have done at the locker.

At seven the next morning, someone knocked on my apartment door.

A courier handed me an envelope from Conrad's lawyer.

The letter demanded that I stop discussing the skates and sign a statement saying the entire dispute had been a misunderstanding.