Roommaid

by Sariah Wilson

  “You know,” I told him, “Bitsie missed out. If she’d just auctioned off a dance with you, she would have raised all the money she needed.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “I’m serious. You were unquestionably the belle of the ball tonight. Did you leave behind one of your shoes just in case?”

  This time he did actually laugh. “I’m not trying to land a prince.”

  “You’d be the only one.”

  His car arrived and we both got in after Tyler tipped the valet. As he put his seat belt on, his phone started buzzing. And buzzing. He pulled it out and stared at it. Then he handed it to me. “Do you recognize these names?”

  He had like fifty new texts. I scrolled through them while he drove. I did recognize some of the texters. Every message was some variation of I was hoping to meet with you to discuss my portfolio. Please contact me immediately.

  “I knew it. Did I ever mention that I get smug when I’m right? I told you this would work.”

  He looked worried. “So all these people, I danced with their daughters? And now they want to meet with me? In case I might marry one of them?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “When you suggested it, I honestly didn’t think this would happen. And now that it has . . . it doesn’t seem right to have them come in and try to turn them into clients when I have no intention of going out with any of their offspring.”

  “I get it, but that’s not really the point. You networked your butt off. They might come in with these hopes and ulterior motives and then you’ll either turn them into clients or you won’t. The dating thing will be irrelevant once you charm them with your business acumen.”

  “How do you know I have acumen?” I loved that teasing tone.

  “A woman just knows these things.”

  He laughed, and the sound warmed me. It was one of the things I was coming to enjoy most about him. Brad never thought I was funny. We weren’t that couple who sat around and laughed together.

  Another text came in to Tyler’s phone. It was from Mary-Kate Martinez. “Okay,” I told him, “this one is weird because I happen to know her oldest daughter’s in high school.”

  “I’m not into committing felonies,” he told me.

  I smiled. “Maybe they want to get a dating rain check for when she’s legal. Or someday have her be your second wife after you get tired of your first one.”

  He made a sound of disgust and this time it was my turn to laugh.

  “Or maybe,” I continued, “what I told you was correct and rich people hate missing out and they’re not all trying to get you to marry their daughters. Tonight you became the hot new finance guy that people want to use and the rest of them will line up to get your attention. You’ve become the new Birkin bag.”

  “What is that?”

  “To get a Birkin bag you have to get on a waiting list. Which rich people hate doing. But it makes them want that thing even more. You’re going to be swimming in appointments when you get back from Singapore.”

  We came to a red light and he grinned at me, his eyes bright. “Thank you. Seriously.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I looked at his phone again as three more texts rolled in. It seemed like I had done a good thing and helped him.

  So why did it feel like I’d just made a big mistake?

  Tyler spent the next morning with Pigeon until he had to leave for the airport. I was out at the grocery store when he left, and I came home to find a Post-it note on my door. It said:

  Forgot to tell you—mi DVR es su DVR. Record to your heart’s content. Also, don’t buy any more cars unless I’m there to see it.

  His note made me smile so hard that my face hurt a little. And he had no idea what he’d just agreed to. I spent Sunday afternoon and evening creating timers for my favorite shows. Pigeon came and sat next to me on the couch. At some point she rested her chin on my knee, and I held my breath when I slowly reached over to pet the top of her head. She closed her eyes when I did so, seeming to enjoy it. I almost texted Tyler to tell him about it because the moment seemed so monumental, but I was worried it might get lost in the avalanche of potential new clients. I opted for leaving him a Post-it note about it instead.

  Part of me wanted to ask him how the text messages were going, but the bigger part of me was happy to leave all that in his hands and not think about it any longer. It was one thing to step into that world temporarily, for one night, in order to help a friend, but I wasn’t interested in it as a lifestyle any longer. I hated having to worry about how I looked, what people were saying about me, if I was in with the right people and excluding the wrong ones. Where everything was about the facade and nobody cared about the things in life that really mattered.

  I didn’t envy Tyler having to still play those games. The one benefit of staying just friends was that I wouldn’t have to go to those charity events all the time.

  I tried not to think too hard about all the other benefits of being his girlfriend.

  The next day I was back at work, and we had a teacher professional development day. Which meant time for us to work on our lesson plans, catch up on our grading, and then attend a meeting in the afternoon organized by the headmistress.

  I grabbed lunch with Delia and Shay, and since the cafeteria was totally empty, we decided to eat in there. We were discussing our classes in part because one of our friends, Jennifer, had gone on maternity leave and Delia had filled in for her until a long-term substitute teacher could be found.

  My teacher’s pet, Brinley, had struck again with a question I didn’t have an answer for. “One of my kids asked me if either the S or the C is silent in the word scent.”

  Delia twisted her mouth to one side. “I have no idea. Every time I fill in for a non-art class I realize how many things I don’t know. Speaking of scents, we’ve been discussing insects this week and I learned a certain type of orb-weaver spider puts out a scent that smells just like a female moth in heat in order to attract and trap male moths. It made me wonder what my lure scent would be. You know, the thing that would make me fly blindly to my death. I think it would probably be warm apple cider and cinnamon sugar doughnuts.”

  Shay laughed. “I would have guessed patchouli and incense.” Delia lightly shoved her shoulder, protesting, and then Shay added, “My lure scent would probably be expensive shoes and an Italian leather bag. What about you, Madison?”

  “Chocolate and the promise of no more cleaning.”

  That made them laugh, but it wasn’t my real answer. The thing that would draw me in right now was someone who smelled like . . . I tried to think of the right word, and the one that popped in my head was freedom. Like choices and options and dreams and possibilities. If that kind of man existed, he would be the opposite of Brad.

  Like Tyler.

  I brushed the thought away.

  Shay asked me a question, interrupting my brain going down forbidden paths. “How’s that thing with the little boy in your class going?”

  “Denny? I still haven’t heard from his parents. I’m going to try them again and then maybe bring the headmistress into the situation.” Both women looked a bit scandalized, which I got. Nobody wanted to take things that far and I didn’t want to be forced into a position where I had to resort to more drastic measures over Denny’s behavior. Because here at the academy, at least as far as the parents were concerned, giving a kid detention was the first step into them becoming meth addicts.

  Apparently looking to change the subject, Delia asked me what I’d done over the weekend. I filled them in on how much I was improving with my cleaning.

  “I even dusted with one of those feather dusty thingies.”

  “Did you wear one of those cute little French maid outfits, too?” Shay asked, teasing me. “I bet Tyler would enjoy that.”

  “He wasn’t even there,” I shot back. “He’s in Singapore at the moment. But he’ll be back in a few days.”

 
“Aw, look at you memorizing his schedule,” Delia said, joining in on the make-fun-of-Madison party. “Do you make his appointments, too?”

  “No, but we went out together the night before last.” I’d said it to shut them up, to make them think that I was more than his maid or secretary, and it had worked. But I couldn’t let my best friends believe something that wasn’t true. “It was to help him network for his job because I’m good at talking to rich people. Friends only. Nothing more.”

  Shay studied me for a moment before announcing, “You like him. Like like him.”

  “I barely know him.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t have a major crush on him. And you do,” she said.

  I shook my head. “What? How could you . . .” I let my voice trail off when I realized that I couldn’t deny it to my friends. “Yeah, okay. I have a crush on him.”

  “Why don’t you go for it?”

  “First off, he’s been really clear that he only wants us to be friends.”

  “Easily surmountable,” she replied with a wave of her fingers.

  “Second, I’ve realized that I’m kind of over dating rich guys.”

  “Yes.” Shay nodded. “The reason the Cinderella story has endured for thousands of years is because no one wants that. Is that it for your objections?”

  “No. The third thing is he’s sleeping with a Russian spy named Oksana.”

  “What?” Delia looked alarmed.

  “Okay, she may not actually be a spy. But I’m pretty sure she’s Russian. And possibly a model.”

  “How do you know for sure they’re together?” Shay asked.

  “Her lack of clothing and lying in wait for him in his bed was my first clue.”

  “We could probably take her,” Shay offered.

  Delia scoffed playfully. “She could have Bratva connections for all you know and then we’ll all be dead. But seriously, what if she’s like a stalker?”

  “A stalker the doorman lets up?” I asked. “They have to know her or they wouldn’t be letting her access Tyler’s apartment.” At least, I hoped that was true. What if she was that girl Tyler had taken a restraining order out on? Maybe I should say something about her visit to him.

  But Delia was determined to figure out what role Oksana was playing. “Tyler hasn’t mentioned whether he has a girlfriend? If he and this Oksana girl are serious? Or just hanging out?”

  “No, Tyler and I haven’t reached the point in our friendship where we braid each other’s hair and talk about which boys or girls we like.”

  Shay collected up her garbage, shoving it all into her paper bag. “Well, methinks the lady doth protest too much. And so I am officially withdrawing my cap.”

  “Your cap?” I repeated.

  “Haven’t you heard that expression? Setting your cap at someone? It means you like them and you’re planning to pursue them.”

  “No,” I said. “Because I live in the twenty-first century. Nobody at this table needs to be setting any caps anywhere when it comes to Tyler.”

  “Delia.” Shay turned to face her. “You think Madison should go for it, don’t you?”

  “I think both of them should do whatever makes them happiest.” Delia reached over to pat my hand.

  “Unhelpful as ever,” Shay told her.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re just friends,” I said for what felt like the thousandth time. “Nothing more.”

  “Not yet,” Shay said, mischief in her tone.

  Before I could do my best to persuade Shay to give it a rest, the school’s secretary, Miss Martha, stuck her head in the cafeteria door. “Oh, there you are, Ms. Huntington. Ms. Gladwell would like to have a word with you.”

  My heart rate sped up. Ms. Gladwell was our headmistress. It was never good news when she wanted to have a word with someone.

  Both Delia’s and Shay’s eyes had gone wide, which didn’t make me feel any better.

  I’d been so caught up recently in my personal life dramas (the cleaning, the dog, Tyler, Brad, my family) that I hadn’t stopped to consider any potential workplace problems. I was currently on probation at work, as was every new teacher who started there, for one year. If the school was pleased with my performance and my students’ test scores, then I would be asked back.

  Had I messed up somehow already?

  Delia whispered, “It will be fine,” but her words were undone by Shay looking like I’d just been issued a death sentence.

  Pulling in a deep, shaky breath, I got up to follow Miss Martha while frantically trying to figure out what I could have possibly done to warrant getting called to the headmistress’s office.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I knocked on Ms. Gladwell’s office door, which was slightly ajar. She looked up at me, over the rim of her glasses and said, “Ms. Huntington. Please come in and have a seat.”

  Doing as she asked, I pushed the door the rest of the way open and sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Her office was decorated very traditionally: dark wooden cabinets, a desk with thick legs, and leather armchairs. Ms. Gladwell was in her forties, and had the same look as so many of the older mothers here at the school—where her face was unnaturally smooth and tight. But in Ms. Gladwell’s case I didn’t suspect plastic surgery so much as wrinkles wouldn’t dare to form on her face. She was a formidable woman. And very, very good at her job.

  Which is why the next part surprised me.

  She finished typing something on her computer and then swiveled her chair to face me. “Ms. Huntington, as you know, we expect the students here at Millstone to participate in extracurricular activities. Especially school-sponsored ones.”

  I nodded. I did know that.

  “And we have the same expectations of our teachers. As you may or may not know, our annual winter festival is coming up. It is typically held in our gymnasium and is one of our primary sources for fundraising throughout the year.”

  Delia had mentioned the festival a couple of times, but I didn’t know much about it.

  Ms. Gladwell continued. “A problem has arisen and we find that we need one additional person to join the decorating committee.”

  “Oh.” That was a bad idea. A really bad idea. I’d never decorated anything in my life. My mother had very-well-paid people for that. Even my classroom walls had started the year pretty much bare. I felt bad about it and had tried to do a Harry Potter theme, but it was all excruciatingly terrible. I couldn’t spend the entire year staring at my hideous attempts at re-creating Hogwarts and the Whomping Willow. I’d been assigning my kids art projects so that we could hang them up and cover the walls that way.

  Taking my “oh” for a yes, Ms. Gladwell called out, “Mrs. Adams, would you please join us?”

  I’d been so intent on following Miss Martha to the office that I hadn’t noticed the pretty and tiny woman sitting out front of Ms. Gladwell’s office. She looked like every other mother of a Millstone Academy student, perfect hair, perfect teeth, name-brand yoga pants, and a hoodie. A look designed to be casual but screaming of expense—both monetarily and timewise.

  “Hello, I’m Mrs. Adams.” She had been carrying about ten grocery bags but set them down on the floor.

  I shook her perfectly manicured hand wondering what Ms. Gladwell had decided that I’d agreed to. “I’m Madison Huntington. Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, I am just thrilled and delighted that you’re going to be joining our little committee! We told Ms. Gladwell that we needed an extra set of hands and she was so accommodating. We have so much to do and we are in dire need of your help.”

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” If it was just stapling up Christmas lights or putting tablecloths down, I figured I could manage that.

  Mrs. Adams pointed to her bags. “Just a couple of little things that we need you to make.”

  “Make?”

  “Yes. We pride ourselves on our homemade decorations. We want our kids to be surrounded by things made with love. Not to me
ntion that they’re so much more impressive for the school’s Instagram account over generic things that we could just buy.”

  Yes, why would anyone just buy the decorations that they could so easily afford and save themselves hours of work? I barely refrained from making my snarky comment out loud. I would instead try reason. “I am not a crafty person. At all. I’m the actual opposite of whatever crafty is. I really want to help out, but I don’t think this is the best way to use me.” It was hard to adequately convey just how bad I was at it.

  “Don’t even worry about it,” Mrs. Adams said, but my relief was short lived. “These decorations are so easy even a child could do them.”

  Huh. I wondered if I could make my kids do it. Or if that would somehow be breaking child labor laws.

  “First, we need you to make a bunch of poms.”

  What was a pom? I was afraid to ask.

  “We need a hundred in these different shades of blue and white.” She pointed at the bags and I saw bags and bags of tissue paper in various shades of blue.

  “A hundred total?”

  “No.” She said it like I’d asked something silly. “A hundred in each shade. Our gym is huge! We also need you to create some snowfall out of fishing wire and cotton balls. We plan on hanging those up on the walls. I’m not sure how many we’ll need of those, but they should be six feet long and I guess just make them until you run out of supplies.”

  I let out a noise that was a cross between a squawk and the sound of my blood pressure going up.

  Mrs. Adams misunderstood my sound. “Don’t worry. We’ve already bought everything you’ll need. You have two weeks and we put completed examples in the bags for you. This will be fun!”

  I told my kids the same thing when I made them do something they didn’t want to do.

  I guessed now I was the kid being assigned the art project.

  She handed me the bags and I might have said, “Thank you,” like some kind of demented person who didn’t rightfully protest something she was going to screw up horribly.

  Ms. Gladwell expected me to participate. That was the end of the discussion.

  I dropped the bags off in my classroom, heading to the teachers’ lounge to find Delia and Shay. The other teachers were starting to gather there, as we still had our staff meeting. My friends had staked out a prime location, nabbing one of the faux leather couches.