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1
OLIVE
Every single weekday was the same. Holding Claire's hand, I straightened my posture, preparing for the wrath of wigs as we turned onto 42nd street. Her middle school was a red brick building, typical old Bostonian architecture. Old but revamped—much like her classmate's mothers.
The group of women perked at our approach, their perms already plaited, ankles tucked into heels. Their outfits should be illegal for a Monday morning. I flattened out the wrinkles in my work uniform, my thumb sliding through a hole in the apron.
Rachel Carlyle, the coach of the crew, was talking loudly to the others. "My husband, the congressman..." I did my best to drown her out. That woman never talked about anything other than her husband—the congressman.
She spotted me and grinned, her perfect teeth nearly blinding me. "Olive!" She kissed both my cheeks, a tradition I still didn't understand. We didn't live in Europe, and we weren't friends. Then she tapped Claire on the head as if she was a dog and not a ten-year-old kid. "So good to see you two. How was your weekend?"
I worked all weekend while Claire taught the regulars at the restaurant how to play Solitaire.
Of course, I'd never say any of that out loud. What I had to say was much more interesting. "Oh, you know, just dined with the Pope. Smoked a cigar with the Prime Minister. Had drinks with the Mayor."
Most of the women were used to my responses and no longer tried to hide the fake-ness in their chuckle. Why even chuckle then? However, a newcomer with pale skin and big blue eyes smiled. "Oh my God, what a weekend!"
Rachel shot her a hard glare. "She's joking, Helen." She turned back to me and rolled her eyes so only I could see her response, as if implying I'm in on the joke. "No, Olive here is just a waitress."
She mentioned my job before nine am—impressive. A new record.
"Not that that's a bad thing, by any means," Rachel waved her hand as if swatting a fly. Sometimes, I wished I could swat her. "Being a single mother, I couldn't imagine." Maybe slap her. As if answering a question Helen didn't ask, Rachel continued. "But her daughter, Claire here, is so smart she almost got a full scholarship to Warren's Prep."
It was the “almost” that did it for me. Fuck me with all you want, but mess with my kid and that's a big heap of flaming nope for me.
Before I could inform Rachel of my thoughts, Claire squeezed my hand three times, her secret way of telling me she had my back. "Didn't you just turn forty?"
It took everything inside me not to burst out laughing. "Children," I grinned. "So direct. Gotta love 'em." At twenty-eight, I was the youngest of the moms, and I knew it was a big part of the reason they disliked me.
To my joyful shock, the newcomer, Helen, did start laughing.
Rachel's posture snapped up straight so fast, her vertebrae cracked.
She peered down her pointed nose at Claire. Her shoulders were practically trembling with rage, but her reputation depended on caring for children and she would never directly snap at a child—at least not in front of other people.
Rachel's attention was diverted as a BMW SUV pulled up to the curb, and I couldn't help but smile. Perfect timing. Rachel could argue away her passive aggressiveness all she wanted, but she'd never be caught dead yelling at a child. It was half the reason I so enjoyed watching her interacting with her own children.
The backdoor was thrown open, and two squirming identical monsters tumbled out. Rachel was waiting for them, half squatting in four-inch pumps, her arms wide open. "Bentley! Astin!"
The twin boys raced past Rachel, swatting each other with their lunchboxes without giving her a second look. Rachel's cheeks flared red, and as her nanny stumbled out of the passenger seat, she apologized in Spanish and went darting after the boys. Even her "friends" found the scenes amusing.
I didn't know which was more appalling: that Rachel Carlyle drove to the school separately from her children just to save face or that her kids were named after cars.
As the first bell rang, Claire wrapped her arms around my waist. "Meet you at the diner after school?"
Squeezing her tight, I hesitated. Claire didn't need to know that my boss had yelled at me for taking her to work this past weekend, insisting that children playing cards with customers looked bad.
"I actually changed shifts, baby, so now I can pick you up."
Claire's jaw dropped. "Oh, yay!"
"Have a good day, baby." As she walked off, joining the crowd of children running toward the door, Ms. Stevens appeared in the courtyard and aimed in my direction, her arms swaying as fast as her short legs were moving. Wind whipped back her pixie cut of red hair. She was barely five feet, but she terrified me, and I spun around, hoping she hadn't seen me.
"Ms. Winters! Ms. Winters!"
Fuck. At least, the wrath of the wigs had left, Rachel among them. I turned on my smile. "Ms. Stevens, I didn't see you. How are you?"
Her voice lowered. "Olive, I know you're avoiding me. I have tried to call you five times in the last two weeks."
