Sweet Nothing(2)

My nerves jangle again. I check my watch. The reception started fifteen minutes ago, and I’m still wearing jeans and the stained navy WHARTON t-shirt I won’t need anymore. It was a gift from Aria.

“Hold on,” she’d said excitedly after I had torn into my acceptance letter and read it out loud. She’d sprinted up the stairs and returned seconds later with the shirt. “Here! Try it on!”

“How’d you do that so fast?” I giggled, squeezing her tight. She smelled like vanilla.

“Please. I knew you’d get in.” She squeezed me back. “Hello? Nobody else I know has a big sister who graduated from Columbia in three years! You’re like the smartest chick I know. And in two years, you’ll be the smartest chick I know WITH AN MBA FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA!”

We squealed and squeezed each other tighter.

That was only seven months ago, but it felt like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. When I was the kind of me I’d never be again.

I park the car just out of sight of the driveway, then duck into the back seat, pawing through the piles of clothes. There’s an emerald BCBG cocktail number toward the bottom of the stack. Boatneck, with long sleeves and black jeweled cuffs. Mini, but not in a slutty way. And less wrinkled than the others. I rip off the tags, crouch behind the driver’s seat, shimmy out of my t-shirt, and unbutton my jeans. Where did I stash my silver snakeskin—

“Ma’am?” An older man’s voice leaks through the window. Rap rap rap. “Excuse me?”

I scream and hit the deck, tugging six months’ worth of dry cleaning over my head. This is what I get for not changing in the bathroom at the Shell station, like a civilized fugitive. I screw my eyes shut and consider not moving until the intruder loses interest or enough years pass that the word ma’am doesn’t seem quite so insulting. Whichever comes first.

Again: “Ma’am?” Rap rap rap. “Can I… help you?”

“Okay, okay,” I groan. “Give me a second.” I wrap a black maxi dress around me like a towel and push myself to a crouching position. Then I reach for the door handle, which I don’t actually expect to be functional.

Wrong.

I spill out of the Camry’s backseat, the glistening dark pavement coming up fast.

“Woah! Easy!”

Suddenly, my face is buried in a crisp white dress shirt that smells like fresh grass

and cologne—the same kind my father used to wear. Shaky arms pull me to standing, and I’m standing nose-to-black tie.

“Oh, God.” Face burning, I blow my hair away from my face and look up.

The man still holding me looks to be older than my father, with wispy gray hair and forgiving brown eyes.

“I can explain, I swear.” My body surges with heat. Whether it’s from sheer humiliation or the thick Miami humidity crashing over me like a wave, I don’t know.

“Let’s start with your name.” The voice is amused but kind.

Words tumble recklessly from my lips. “I’m Elle Sloane. The new Econ teacher at Allford? And I drove here all the way from New York and I didn’t have anywhere to change, and if you could please not tell Dr. Goodwin you found me half-naked out here so I don’t get fired before my first day, that would be—”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” The man smiles and mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key. “I’m Gregory. I run the house for Dr. Goodwin. One of the valets saw you on the security cameras and—”

I gasp. The mortified screech in my head sounds like a dying hyena.

“Not you, exactly,” he laughs. “We saw the car parked out here and thought maybe… someone was lost.” It’s his polite way of telling me that my dilapidated ride doesn’t exactly belong with the Audis and Mercedes he’s been parking so far tonight. The snob in me wants to blurt that my car before this one was a BMW M6 convertible.

Stop it, Elliot. That life isn’t yours anymore. It never was.

“Young lady,” Gregory pats me on the shoulder and an image of my father flashes through my mind. I blink it away. “I think we can find you a better place to change. It’s not every day you make a first impression with the Allford Academy community.”

Five minutes later, Gregory has parked my car out of sight and I’m standing in one of the bathrooms in Dr. Goodwin’s guesthouse. The house, Gregory informed me, is a replica of the main house and is unoccupied.

The creamy, marbled travertine tile floors feel cool beneath my bare feet. Dark mahogany cabinets with modern brushed silver pulls line the walls. Warm recessed lighting pours over the single white orchids in silver bowls on the shiny countertops. My black strappy heels sit in a pile at my feet.