Authors: Anna Staniszewski
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Briana demands.
My mind floods with explanations, but I can’t say anything with Briana glaring at me like I’m some kind of virus. It’s like all those times at school when she’s practically made me cry in front of everyone.
Briana stomps over to me. “What are you doing with that?” She snatches the photo away from me with her perfectly manicured claws. Her eyes swing around the room and stop on her open closet door. “Were you going through my
clothes
?”
I think I actually whimper.
“Get out—get out of my room!” She grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the doorway.
I can feel the tears stinging at the back of my eyes. Why do I always turn into a blubbering mess around Briana? I swear she has a humiliation superpower.
Suddenly, a voice comes from out in the hall: “Relax, Bree.” It’s Evan. “She’s just here cleaning the house with her mom.”
Briana’s eyes swing back toward me as she finally lets go of my arm. “You’re the new cleaning lady?” I can almost see the wheels turning in her head as she processes the information. “That blond woman downstairs is your mom? Are you adopted or something?”
And there it is, the question I know most people who see my mom and me together wonder about, even though none of them are rude enough to ask. Mom is tall and curvy and blond. I’m short and straight and Asian. Half Asian, technically, since Dad’s parents are from Korea, but his DNA must have beaten out all of Mom’s when I was created.
“No,” I half-whisper. “I’m not—”
But Briana doesn’t seem to care about my answer. “Well, I hope this job was fun while it lasted,” she says as a lip-glossed smile spreads across her face, “because I’m going to get my mother to fire you.”
“What? No!” I cry, finally finding my voice. I can’t get us fired on the first day. “The photo…it just fell. I was picking it up.”
“You’re a stalker, and you know it,” says Briana, her perfectly straight ponytail swinging with every word.
Evan comes up beside her. “Seriously, Bree. Chill out. I’m sure she wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“You don’t even know this girl,” Briana snaps. “You can’t trust anything she says. She made up a fake boyfriend and told everyone about him.”
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. Why did she have to bring up the Troy thing? Why can’t it just die?
“I’m calling Mother right now and telling her to ditch this freak,” Briana adds.
“You know that won’t work,” says Evan. “Mom doesn’t have time to find anyone else.”
Briana lets out a frustrated puff of air. “Fine,” she says, turning to glare at me. “But if anything’s missing from my room, I’m calling the police. Got it?”
I nod, wondering if Evan is a lion tamer or something. I’ve never seen anyone talk sense into Briana before, not even Caitlin Schubert.
“Rachel?” I hear Mom call from down the hall. A second later, she appears in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Briana. Are Rachel and I bothering you?”
Evan jumps in before his sister can say anything. “It’s no problem. She just wasn’t expecting anyone to be in her room.”
“We’ll be here every Saturday at this time,” says Mom, chipper as always.
I expect Briana to chew Mom’s ear off, but instead she gives her a big, fake smile. I glance over at Evan, wondering if he’s using another Jedi mind trick, but he’s already slipped back out into the hallway. I try to give him a grateful smile, but I’m not sure if he sees it.
“Rachel, do you want to help me do the bathrooms now?” Mom asks, grabbing the vacuum.
I nod and manage to make my legs start moving again. They feel like two Slinkies.
“Don’t forget the trash,” Briana says, pointing to a wicker wastebasket overflowing with used tissues. Gross. But I don’t want to give Briana the added enjoyment of watching me squirm. I grit my teeth, empty the trash, and rush after Mom.
“See you next Saturday!” Briana calls after me.
The sickly sweet tone in her voice makes my stomach quiver. Suddenly, I understand why she didn’t object to me being here every week. Briana might not be able to get me fired, but that doesn’t mean she can’t find other ways to make my life completely miserable.
The minute Mom and I get back in the car, I grab the list of cleaning clients to make sure there are no more surprises. Most of the names are of people Mom knows through work or the PTA or her book group. After Dad left, she pretty much told everyone in town about her new side business.
I always have the urge to cluck when I see Mom’s chicken-scratch handwriting. It doesn’t fit her order-obsessed personality at all. The first name she wrote down looks nothing like “Riley.” No wonder I didn’t catch on. I scan the list again, trying to decipher Mom’s hieroglyphics, but don’t see any other names I know. Still, I grab my Red Sox cap from the backseat and pull it down low over my face, just in case.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks. “You’re really flushed.” She gives me a long look like she’s trying to laser her way into my brain. “Maybe try some deep, cleansing breaths?”
“How could you take that job knowing the Rileys’ daughter went to my school?” I can’t help asking, my fake excitement cracking.
Mom blinks at me, clearly surprised. “I didn’t realize it would be a problem.”
“Of course it’s a problem! Imagine there was someone from your grade, and you had to go clean their house. Wouldn’t you rather die than do that?”
“I’d be happy to catch up with them,” Mom says with a little laugh. “It’s been years since I’ve seen anyone from school.”
I shake my head, realizing there’s no point in trying to get Mom to understand. Dad would get it right away—he and I have always been a lot alike—but sometimes I wonder how Mom and I are even related. Then again, Dad’s the one who up and moved to Florida to start a scuba-diving business after only taking one scuba class in his life. I guess I don’t always understand him, either.
After Mom and I drive out of the housing development and turn onto South Street, I hold my breath as we stop at a red light right next to Molly’s Cafe. This is the first time I’ve been by it since Dad left. When I glance over at Mom, she’s staring straight ahead like she doesn’t even realize where we are. But she’s twirling the wedding ring she still wears on her finger. That platinum band is how I know she hasn’t given up on Dad either, no matter what she says.
I still can’t believe how quickly my family fell apart. One minute, my parents and I were sitting inside Molly’s, sipping hot chocolate and waiting for our crepes, and the next minute Dad was announcing he was tired of living in New England and wanted us to move to Florida. Mom begged him to give us time to make the decision as a family, but he said he’d already made up his mind. The next day he quit his job, packed up his stuff, and left. Dad has always been an act-now, think-later kind of person, but he’d never done anything so big before. It was completely nutso.
I hoped he’d at least take me with him, but Dad insisted he couldn’t pull me out of school and bring me to a new place while he was trying to set up his business. After he left, Mom announced she couldn’t stay married to someone so irresponsible and selfish, especially when he lived in a whole other part of the country. The next day, she put all of Dad’s things up in the attic, just like she’d done with all my old toys.
I can’t imagine never going to Molly’s with my parents again, never eating another banana and Nutella crepe while both of them sit beside me. Those days can’t be over; they just can’t. That’s why I have to fly down to Florida and talk some sense into Dad. Even if it means lying to my parents and dipping into my college fund to get there.
“Rachel, are you coming?” Mom’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I realize we’ve already stopped in front of our next house. I take a deep breath and reluctantly follow her.
For the next few hours, all I do is scrub and clean and pretend to be enjoying every minute of it. By the end of the day, I’m dreaming of going home and taking a marathon shower, but we still have one house left to do.
“This one shouldn’t take long,” Mom says as we drive over to a neighborhood of modest houses. “Ms. Montelle is raising a daughter all by herself and having a hard time staying on top of things, so she could really use our help.”
Mom’s eyes get misty for a second, and I’m afraid she might start crying. She’s been so weirdly unemotional since Dad left, but I guess sometimes even she can’t hold it together. Apparently, color-coding our dishes only relieves so much stress.
I try to think of something comforting to say, but all that comes out is: “We should get a puppy.”
Mom sighs. “Oh, Rachel.”
She pulls the car to a stop next to a medium-sized ranch house with a patchy lawn. When we get to the front door, I hear faint music coming from inside. It takes me less than a second to recognize it as the theme song to
Pastry
Wars
. It’s my favorite show, all about pastry chefs competing to see who can make the craziest desserts. The best episode ever is the one where a guy makes cannolis that look like snails and puts them on little conveyor belts so they’re actually crawling. But he doesn’t win because another chef puts firecrackers in her cannolis. The judges always seem to pick people who set things on fire.
A tired-looking woman with dark red hair opens the door. The minute she sees us, a smile lights up her face.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “I’m Linda Montelle.” She shakes both of our hands like we’re important clients. “I’m so embarrassed at how messy this place is, but I work such long hours that I’m always too tired to clean.”
“We’ll take care of everything,” Mom says. I nod for emphasis while peering into the living room and trying to figure out which episode of
Pastry
Wars
is on. Someone’s curled up on the couch, her face blocked by an oversized pillow.
“My daughter is a little under the weather today,” Ms. Montelle says. “I hope it’s all right if she stays on the sofa.”
“Of course,” says Mom. “If she doesn’t mind us working around her.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Caitlin?” Ms. Montelle calls.
“Whatever,” a voice replies from the couch. “As long as no one goes in my room.” The figure moves, and I catch a glimpse of a girl who looks like she just swallowed a lime. Oh my goldfish. It’s Caitlin Schubert, Briana Riley’s bosom buddy.
I stare at Caitlin Schubert in disbelief. Is my mom purposely lining up jobs that are going to kill me?
“Honey, come on,” Mom calls, waving me into the kitchen. As I follow behind her, I expect Caitlin to give me the stink eye or make some sarcastic comment. But she just keeps watching TV as if she doesn’t care we’re here. I realize there’s a good chance Caitlin hasn’t even seen my face. I pull my Red Sox cap down, hoping I can get out of here without being recognized.
“Do you want to start in the bathroom?” Mom asks.
“Sure.” I yank on some yellow rubber gloves and rush down the hall.
As I scrub the puke-green toilet, the same type of 1970s beauty that’s the crowning jewel of our bathroom at home, I can’t wrap my brain around this being Caitlin Schubert’s house. Caitlin and Briana have been best friends since elementary school. They’ve always had the same expensive clothes, the same fancy jewelry, and I know from the photos in Briana’s room that they always go on vacation together. But from the looks of her house, Caitlin isn’t rich. So how can she afford all those things?
When I’m done in the bathroom, I help Mom finish cleaning the house as fast as I can. The whole time, Ms. Montelle is at her computer scrolling through endless spreadsheets. Whatever her job is, it looks like the brain-mushing kind Dad had before he went wacko and quit.
Mom might complain about her job as a receptionist because it pays next to nothing, but at least she doesn’t leave there looking miserable. Judging by the way she’s humming to herself while she dusts, she doesn’t seem to hate her new side job either.
When the house is almost done, Mom sends me into the living room to start gathering our supplies while she finishes mopping the kitchen. I pull my baseball cap so low over my eyes that I can barely see in front of me and rush past the couch where Caitlin is still curled up under a blanket. As I start packing things up, I see that her eyes are firmly locked on the TV screen. If I can just keep her from noticing me, maybe I’ll get away embarrassment-free.
But as I rush past the couch again, my hat keeps me from seeing the edge of the end table. I trip over one of the table legs and sail forward. Of course, all the cleaning supplies spill out of my arms and fall on the floor.
“Gas cap!” I cry as I land on the carpet. Yup, another one of Dad’s goofy swears.
This time there’s no cute Evan Riley to come to the rescue. Instead, Caitlin swings her eyes away from the TV and gives me a long look. My hat fell off my head when I tripped, so my face is totally exposed. But instead of looking surprised or smug, Caitlin just stares at me for another second before turning back to the TV.
My mind’s racing as I scramble to gather up the stuff I dropped. Did Caitlin not recognize me? But even if she thinks I’m someone else, wouldn’t she have some reaction to seeing me sprawled on the floor in front of her?
And then it hits me. She
did
recognize me. Maybe she knew who I was when I first walked through the door. But instead of making fun of me or even acknowledging my existence, she decided to ignore me. Because in her book, I might as well be invisible.
The next day, once my homework is done, Mom lets me go meet Marisol at Second Dressed, a consignment shop on Main Street. I’m not really a big shopper, especially when it comes to digging through used clothes, but Marisol always makes it fun.
“What do you think?” she asks when we’re trying stuff on.
I poke my head through the dressing-room curtain and watch her twirl in a ’50s-style dress the color of Pepto-Bismol. “Um…” I try to think of something tactful to say. “It’s bright.”
Marisol laughs, her dark curls bouncing. “I know it’s kind of hideous right now, but it has potential.”
In the two years we’ve been friends, I’ve learned to trust Marisol’s fashion sense. On anyone else, her retro garb would look like a costume, but Marisol always manages to pull it off. She claims all it takes is confidence, but I don’t think it hurts that she’s also gorgeous.
“Let’s see yours,” she says.
I come out wearing a short cotton dress Marisol picked out for me, tugging it down to make sure it covers my butt. The bright yellow color makes me think of sunlight and buttercups and all sorts of other happy things.
She gasps. “It looks amazing on you!”
I sweep my hair over my forehead to cover my widow’s peak—definitely my least-favorite feature—and then glance in the mirror. I have to admit that the dress does look pretty good on me. My normally stick-straight body actually seems to have a little bit of shape to it.
Suddenly, I can picture myself wearing this dress as I pass by Steve Mueller’s locker. I can imagine his eyes lighting up when he sees me, just like something out of a teen makeover movie. Of course, more likely, I’d trip over my own feet right in front of him and give him a big flash of my underwear.
“You have to get it!” Marisol says, jumping up and down.
I glance at the price tag. It’s only ten dollars, but I know I can’t spend a single penny, not when I only have twenty-eight days to save up almost three hundred dollars. And Mom would kill me if she saw me wearing a new dress when all she does is worry about money these days.
Besides, this dress would make people notice me. It’s one thing to wish Steve Mueller would give me a second glance, but it’s another to have Briana Riley look me over and say something snide like: “Who are you trying to impress? Another fake boyfriend?” That’s the last thing I need right now.
“Nah,” I say finally. “I think I’ll hold off.”
“What? But it’s perfect on you!”
“It’s…it’s ripped.” I point to a tiny hole in one of the seams.
“That’s easy to fix!” Marisol gives me a long look, and then her face softens like she suddenly understands why I’m making excuses. Sometimes it really seems like she can read my mind. “Oh well,” she says before ducking back through the flimsy curtain. “So your mom really didn’t know you guys were going to Caitlin’s house?”
“She swears she didn’t,” I answer, glad for the change of topic. “Caitlin’s mom has a different last name than she does, and I guess Mom thought her daughter was a lot younger than us. Still, can you believe that I have to deal with Briana
and
Caitlin every week?”
I pull off the yellow dress and put it back on the hanger, trying to ignore the disappointment poking at my ribs. Maybe one day I’ll come back to get the dress, if it’s still here.
“I can’t believe Briana brought the Troy thing up again,” says Marisol. “You’d think she’d finally move on.”
“If she moves on, it’ll only be because I’ve given her something else to make fun of me about.”
Who knows why I ever thought inventing a fake boyfriend was a good idea. The plan was for Marisol to send me a couple texts from Fake Boyfriend Troy so we could ooh and ahh over them when Steve Mueller was nearby. If he saw that another guy was interested in me, maybe he’d notice me too. Well, Steve didn’t notice anything, but because we made such a big deal about those two text messages, Briana and Caitlin did.
I’m not sure what tipped them off, but after a couple weeks of Fake Troy messages, Briana stole Marisol’s phone during homeroom and got all the evidence she needed. Briana told everyone, and I’ve been the butt of jokes ever since. Figures that when the popular girls finally learned my name, it was only so they could make fun of me.
“Just think,” says Marisol as I come out of the dressing room. “In a few months we’ll be in high school, and after that it’s only four more years until we never have to see Briana or Caitlin again.”
I groan. Marisol is convinced that one day I’ll be a famous pastry chef and she’ll be a successful fashion designer, and then all the people who made fun of us will regret it. I guess I’m not as patient as Marisol. I want to stop being a loser
now
.
“I can’t think that far ahead,” I say. “Don’t forget. I might not even be alive in a few weeks.”
“Your mom won’t actually kill you if she finds out about the college money.” Marisol comes out in a black kimono and raises her eyebrows at me. “Right?”
“No, she’ll definitely kill me.” It’s not just the money that will get to her. The one time I brought up going to visit Dad, Mom lectured me for an hour on not putting my faith in people who aren’t dependable. “Don’t worry,” I add. “I promise she won’t know you helped me.”
Marisol nods, but I can tell by the way she’s chewing on the inside of her lip that she’s nervous. She didn’t want to use her only-for-emergencies credit card to buy a plane ticket a few nights ago, but I begged until she finally caved. Since I paid her right back with money from my college fund, her parents will probably never know. I’m the only one in danger of infanticide if my mom checks the account balance in a few weeks (like she does at the same time every month) and sees it’s gone down instead of up.
Okay, so Mom might not actually murder me, but she loves coming up with cruel and unusual punishments. One time in fifth grade, after I had accidentally broken the TV and tried to hot-glue it back together, she made me visit a nursing home every weekend for a month to help the old people. To this day, I have nightmares about massaging smelly, wrinkled feet.
“I still think you should just come clean,” says Marisol. “Even if you do repay the money, how will you explain to your mom that you’re going down to Florida during summer vacation?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. Okay, so my plan isn’t perfect. “I’ll figure something out.”
Marisol shakes her head, her long earrings jingling. “You know what I think about lying. It always leads to trouble.”
“Well, not everyone can be honest about everything like you are.” Marisol has three older brothers who are always brutally honest. That’s probably why she doesn’t care what people think of her, because she expects everyone to have an opinion. I can’t imagine not caring how other people see me.
I grab a pair of purple-tinted glasses that make everything in the store look grape-flavored. “Besides,” I add. “This is a special situation. I’m only lying because I have to.”
“It’s just…” Marisol starts chewing on her lip again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what if your parents split up for a reason?”
The glasses fall out of my hand. “My dad’s weird midlife crisis is the reason. My parents were fine before he left. They never argued or anything, and their personalities totally balanced each other out. That’s why they’re meant to be together. If I can just get my dad to come back and apologize to her, I know they can patch things up.”
“I guess you know them better than anyone.” Marisol shrugs. Then she turns to me, a mischievous grin on her face. “So, you know what time it is?”
I can’t help smiling, even though I feel a little sick to my stomach. “Ugly montage time?”
“That’s right!” she says before rushing off to grab some hideous clothes for us to parade around in like people do in movies. I follow after her, trying to push down the stinging feeling in my chest.
It hurts that Marisol doesn’t believe me about my parents being meant for each other. But I’ll just have to prove her wrong.