You Should Have Known by Jean Hanff Korelitz

squeaking sound, like something on springs. Then Hilda reappeared. “She’s leaving the carriage in the hallway. Okay?” she asked Sally.
    â€œOh.” Sally looked mildly stunned. “Okay.” She shook her head. “Okay.” When she looked up again, she had affixed a bright and toothy smile to her face. “Hello!” she said, getting to her feet.
    A woman had arrived, stepping around from behind Hilda. She was a person of medium height with dark hair curling to her shoulders and skin the color of caramel. She had very black eyes and above them very dark and full eyebrows that arched in a manner that made her look vaguely flirtatious. She was wearing a tan skirt and a white shirt open far enough to reveal two items of note: a gold crucifix and a substantial cleavage. She seemed somewhat cowed by her surroundings, the large but messy home, the baffled women, the evidence of a meeting already in progress, if not—as indicated by the note pages and printouts on the table—nearing its end. She gave them all a furtive sort of nod and stood awkwardly in the doorway.
    â€œPlease. Sit.” Sally pointed to the chair beside Grace. “Everyone, this is Mrs. Alves. She’s the mother of Miguel Alves in fourth grade. I’m so sorry, you’re going to have to help me pronounce your first name.”
    â€œMalaga,” the woman said. Her voice was light, nearly musical. “Malaga,” she said again, more slowly and with the emphasis clear on the first syllable.
    â€œMalaga,” Grace repeated. She extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Grace.”
    Sylvia and Amanda followed suit. “Hi, hi,” the woman said. “I sorry. I late. The baby, she fussy.”
    â€œOh, that’s okay,” Sally said. “But you know, we’ve gotten a great deal done. Please,” she said again. “Sit.”
    The woman sat in a chair next to Grace and angled herself away from the heavy wooden table, crossing one leg over the other, and Grace couldn’t help noticing her legs, which were fleshy but rather graceful. She leaned slightly forward, nearly touching the wood of the table: more flesh, visible through the silk of her shirt, but somehow, again, not unattractive. She had mentioned a baby? Grace thought. She looked like someone who might have given birth in the not too distant past. Still convex, still producing. Her hands were folded together on the tabletop. On the left hand, fourth finger, was a thin gold band.
    â€œWe’ve been talking about auction items,” said Sally, speaking—Grace could not help but feel—inordinately slowly. “Things to auction off at our benefit, to raise money for the school. For scholarships,” she added, now looking pointedly down at her notes. “Generally, we ask the parents to come up with ideas. If someone can offer something related to their work. Like an artist or a doctor. If you have any ideas, please let me know.”
    The woman—Malaga—nodded. She looked thoroughly sober, as if she had just been given terrible news.
    â€œSo…let’s move on,” said Sally, and she did. The newcomer’s arrival had the effect of a starting pistol, and suddenly everyone sped up. They barreled through everyone’s schedule for the next few days, and who would be manning the table downstairs in the lobby (not a desirable position), and who would be greeting guests upstairs in the Spensers’ grand marble foyer, and whether Sylvia had the software she needed in order to cash everyone out at the end of the evening. There was to be a pre-party— “Cocktails with the Headmaster”—technically not their responsibility but necessitating some coordination, and an after-party in the Boom Boom Room at the Standard, which Amanda was more or less in charge of (her friends being the core group of attendees, in other words). But they tore through it all.
    Malaga said nothing,