Page 1 of Facade

Preface

“That’s it. I’ve had it. You’ve abused my generosity for the last time. Pack your things and go!”

Other people might have been startled or nervous to hear that shouted exclamation as they walked into their house, but Clarke wasn’t bothered. She snickered under her breath as she hung her purse on a hook by the back door. Her dad would never throw her out. He had used a combination of bribery and cajolery for months to convince her to move back in after she graduated from university.

He said independence was overrated. It had been just the two of them since her mom died when Clarke was fourteen. They were close, and got along well.

Charles Voudrie was her biggest fan. Clarke knew he’d heard her come in, and was trying to cheer her up. He was unconditionally supportive.

Five days ago, she had gotten another rejection letter from the National Institute of Psionics. It was her dream job, but the love was not reciprocated. Her dad had been doing goofy things and cracking jokes every day to make her smile.

Clarke carried her briefcase into the kitchen and set it on the counter. “Dad, who are you talking to?” She suspected a fictional mouse, or possibly an insect.

“HRH, Sloberotamus the Third, of course. Who else would I be talking to?” His voice came from the living room, so Clarke walked in that direction. The eight-month-old mastiff puppy trotted over to greet her, tail wagging madly. He didn’t look concerned at the threat of losing the roof over his head and regular meals.

Smart dog. Her dad was all hot air and drama, with a little bark and zero bite. He loved that dog like another child, and spoiled him rotten.

“What did you do, Slob?” Clarke asked as she scratched behind his ears.

She rarely used his full name. It was a lot to spit out. There hadn't been a Sloberotamus one or two. Her dad said that designating Slob as the third sounded dignified, which was hilarious. The big lummox had no dignity. Slob licked her hands, then went back to chew on his rawhide.

“He ate my favorite sneakers,” her dad said with umbrage that wasn’t entirely fake. He stood with his hands on his hips, frowning at the perpetrator of the crime. “All these toys in the house, but Slobby shredded my shoes.”

Clarke gave the dog a subtle thumbs-up outside her dad’s line of vision. Those sneakers had been falling apart long before Slob got to them. Most people would have thrown them in the garbage years ago.

She would have understood if the shoes were a gift from her mother, and had sentimental value. But they weren’t, and didn’t. Clarke enjoyed this game, though. She would play along.

“Where were the shoes?” Clarke asked. She crossed her arms over her chest, and attempted to look stern.

“In the closet where they belonged,” her dad replied righteously.

“Then how did Slob get to them? Did you leave the door open?” Clarke asked, already knowing the answer. Slob could not open doors.

“That doesn’t matter. He knows better,” her dad said indignantly.

“You, Mr. Charles Voudrie, are equally responsible for the destruction of the shoes if you didn’t secure them properly,” Clarke said in her best snooty lawyer voice.

“You’re pushing for clemency, then?”

“I am,” Clarke replied. She walked over to Slob, crouched down, and smushed his cheeks. “Only a heartless heathen could stay angry with this face. He’s a sweet, innocent puppy.”

“And a menace to all footwear in existence.” Her dad heaved a dramatic sigh, but his eyes twinkled with humor. “Fine. We’ll see how you feel when it’s your shoes.”

“I keep my closet door closed to prevent similar accidents with a puppy in the house,” Clarke said primly before heading to her room to change clothes.

Her dad was chuckling as she walked down the hallway. His methods had worked. She was in a better mood now.

When she was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, Clarke went to the kitchen, and took her laptop out of the briefcase. She usually graded tests at the table in the breakfast nook. Her dad pulled out a chair across from her, and sat down.

Typically, he would still be at work at this time of day. Her dad had been pulling long hours over the last few weeks. He must have decided to take the afternoon off. There were advantages to being half-owner of a business.

“How was school?”

“I actually like teaching summer school,” Clarke answered. “Part of it is probably seeing the same kids every day, getting to know them, and being able to follow my own lesson plans. This is better than being a substitute teacher.”

After her second rejection from the National Institute of Psionics, Clarke got a teaching certificate. Sitting around moping drove her crazy. She wanted to use her degrees.

Her dad had mentioned that having experience teaching might make her more attractive to the Institute, since they held classes and seminars. Clarke did so, hoping it would be temporary. But she’d been substitute teaching for over three years now.