Read My Own Worst Frenemy Online

Authors: Kimberly Reid

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BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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Chapter 11
B
ethanie was ticked off with me after I called her outfit skanky, but she still hooked me up with business casual, a khaki pencil skirt and a black blouse, both in cotton. Both from Target. Asking Lana for money after being used to making my own is starting to get old, and every time Bethanie treats me to something, I feel this twinge of guilt because I keep wondering how she can afford it. I've been waiting for her to tell me she's got a trust fund, or her parents are in the import-export business, but so far she has told me as little about herself as possible. Not that I don't keep asking. But soon I won't need to mooch off Bethanie and/or plead my case to Lana because here I am at my first day on the job, which means I'll soon have a paycheck again.
It's a warm morning so the air-conditioned lobby of Mitchell's is a relief after the walk from the bus stop. I check out my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the receptionist's desk and see that my new outfit still looks crisp, and I hang around in the lobby a couple of minutes trying to cool off so I don't look a sweaty mess when Marco sees me. That makes me a couple of minutes late because he and Malcolm are already in Paulette's office when I get there.
“Our team is complete,” Paulette says brightly. I think she's hoping her enthusiasm will rub off on Malcolm.
“I'm still with them?” he asks Paulette.
She gives him an exasperated look and ignores his question.
“Before we separate, I want to go over your schedule. If all goes well today and tomorrow with your training, I have a few small jobs to assign you for next weekend.”
“How are things going with that new guy?” Malcolm asks, fiddling with the drawstring on the mini-blinds. The Play-Doh is gone. I guess he needs something to keep his hands busy.
“Things are going great. He's not so new anymore. You were gone six months, you know.”
Gone where?
The state asylum? A drug-induced coma? I really do need to figure out the deal with this guy because there's no way I'm getting into a truck with him behind the wheel, even with Marco there. I mean, it might be slightly romantic to die beside your beloved as you plunge to a fiery death into a canyon off Highway 40 because your driver snapped, but I'd kind of like to enjoy the being-alive part first. At least a first date. Which won't happen until he dumps his bracelet-weaving girlfriend for me. So I'm not quite ready for the death scene yet.
“Chanti, did you remember to bring your license?” Paulette asks as she looks through a folder.
“Oh no, I completely forgot about it,” I say, which is true. I also forgot to make up some story of why I won't have it tomorrow either, but fortunately for me, Paulette gets distracted.
“This is odd,” Paulette says. “Marco, there's a note in your file that says we need to speak to HR before we start the training. Something about your I-9 form.”
“Really? What's the problem?” Marco looks scared, and I try to remember which of the many forms I had to fill out was the I-9.
“Oh, I'm sure there's no problem. It says on your application that you were born in the United States.”
“Yes, I was.” Marco says this a little too defiantly.
“I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Let's just go take care of it now.”
Paulette and Marco leave me alone with Malcolm, which is both scary and fortuitous.
“So, you really liked your old team, huh?”
“I don't know. It's my job. I don't come here to like people.”
“Marco and I will work really hard, I promise. We aren't like the other kids at Langdon; we've had other jobs,” I say, thinking this might be the reason for his reluctance to work with us. Maybe he's met Justin and Lissa and thinks all Langdonites are like them. That would frighten me, too.
“I
knew
my old team. They knew me. It was okay. None of this figuring each other out.”
“I don't much like meeting new people either.”
“Hey, I don't need some kid trying to analyze me, okay?”
Uh-oh. Hot button. I'm thinking the asylum was a good guess.
“My bad. Just trying to make conversation.”
“Well, your conversation sounds a lot like interrogation to me.”
Jail. Hadn't thought of that.
I keep quiet for a full minute (I know because I was staring at the wall clock the whole time), hoping Paulette and Marco return soon. They aren't back when the minute hand strikes twelve, and I can't help myself.
“So you went on a break, huh? That's cool. I could use a break myself.”
“From what—homework? Didn't school just start?”
“Yeah, but summer break is just a couple of months. But six months—that's a
real
break. What was it—a sabbatical or something?”
“A what?”
“Like a long vacation from work.”
“You need to stay out of other people's business, kid.” His tone says
shut the hell up
, and I do.
I'm more than relieved when Paulette and Marco return. Marco looks relaxed again when he offers an explanation. “I just forgot to sign the form, that's all.”
 
I'm trying not to think about Marco alone in a truck with a madman when Paulette and I arrive at the house of our first client of the day, which is in Cherry Creek and not far from Langdon Prep. I'm guessing this is where a lot of Mitchell Moving and Storage's customers live, since it's his neighborhood and he specializes in moving and storing the stuff of people who have more money than they know what to do with. If that describes your financial situation and you live in Denver, odds are good you live in Cherry Creek.
As we walk up the steps of a house that could easily fit three of my houses inside of it, Paulette warns me, “Now let me do all the talking and you just observe.”
That's like telling the sun to shine. This I can do.
The front door is huge, big enough that Shaquille O'Neal could walk through the doorway and still have a foot of headroom to spare. On either side of the door is a tall potted bush that someone has shaped into three uniform balls stacked on top of each other. Rich people must have nothing but time. Well, time and money.
“This is Chantal, my assistant,” Paulette says, making introductions. “She'll be your service representative on the day of the move.”
“Nice to meet you, Chantal. That's such a lovely name.”
I almost tell her to call me Chanti, but I get the impression Paulette used my full name for a reason. Chantal fits this scene.
“So what will we be moving for you?”
“My daughter's away at college and needs some furniture. We bought her a condo rather than paying for a dorm. Better investment than dorm fees, you know.”
“Very smart,” Paulette says, agreeing as if she knows from experience, which seems unlikely on an office manager's salary. I'm really hoping my job won't include pretending I have some idea what it's like to be rich. Paulette may be able to pull it off, but I would fail miserably.
We spend the next hour walking through the house, Mrs. Stone pointing out what will be moved, Paulette laughing at more rich-people inside jokes, and me writing it all down on an inventory form. It should have only taken twenty minutes tops, but Mrs. Stone has to tell us where she got everything, even the stuff that isn't being moved, like the mother-of-pearl backgammon board she got on a little junket to Madagascar. Who says
junket
? And I have no idea where Madagascar is.
I'm starting to dislike her daughter. Not only will she get a free condo, she'll have an almost-new plasma TV and a leather sectional that feels like butter (Paulette gave me an evil look that said
Get off that sofa now
! when I tried it out). And that's only from the first floor of Mrs. Stone's house.
 
After we left Mrs. Stone, there were four more houses and I swear each one was bigger than the last one, with more expensive stuff than the one before it. When we pull into the parking lot of Mitchell Moving and Storage and I see Marco leaning against his ancient Grand Prix with at least three different colors of paint, I have a moment of culture shock, like someone has blasted me back into the real world and now I have to figure out how to make do with hand-me-down cars and weekly bus passes.
“Hey, you're still here,” I say to Marco after telling Paulette I'd see her tomorrow. “I thought you guys only had a couple of small moves.”
“We did, but I thought I'd wait for you, see if you wanted a ride home.”
He waited, probably hours, just to give me a ride home. Someone call an ambulance because I am about to die from happy. I try to stay calm, sound nonchalant.
“A ride would be great.”
“I was thinking if you want, we could get something to eat and discuss our French project.”
Did I say I love my French class? I love my teacher even more. She had the brilliant idea of doing skits, and had us pair up into teams. Marco and I are a team, and the best part about it is
he
asked me. The minute the teacher said pairs, I started thinking up how I'd ask Marco but still play it cool like I didn't really care if he's my partner or not, but while I was busy coming up with a scheme, he just asked. One day I'll learn the direct route is sometimes best, and stop analyzing everything to death. But not today, because I spend the whole ride to the restaurant thinking of what I should do next and end up not saying a word. Not a single word.
When we pull into the Sonic parking lot, I try to decipher his choice of restaurant. Did he pick Sonic because we could have the food brought out to the car and have more privacy? That would mean he wants private time with me, which is great. But if I eat in the car I know I'll make a mess, and then he'll think . . .
“I hope you like Sonic—they have good slushes,” Marco says as he gets out of the car, resolving all my questions. I
really
do need to stop overanalyzing everything. “You're pretty quiet. Did training go okay?”
“Oh, it went fine, but I can't believe how
rich
rich people are.”
“I know.We moved a room that I'm sure if you totaled up the contents, it cost more than everything in my house.”
“How was it working with Malcolm?”
“He's a little strange, but not serial-killer strange, if that's what you're thinking.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Well, you seem a little freaked out by him. And he told me you were grilling him about his time off the job.”
I wouldn't call that grilling. Believe me, Malcolm would know if I was grilling him. I've had a great teacher, and if he didn't weird me out so much, I'd know everything I want to know about his extended vacation. But he did weird me out, so I ask Marco what he knows.
“He didn't tell me, exactly. My take on it is he doesn't have anything against us, it's just that he's not good with people, and he'd been working with his old team for a while and had gotten used to them. Now he has to get used to us.”
“So it's not like he came at them with a hatchet and they refused to work with him ever again.”
He smiles at this. “I'm pretty sure not.”
The place is empty because it's that limbo time between lunch and dinner when everyone uses the drive-through, something I learned working at Tastee Treets. It's almost as private as if we'd stayed in the car. After we order and take our food to the table, I get my French notebook from my bag. Now that we don't have Weird Malcolm to talk about, I'm once again at a loss for words. So I focus on squeezing mustard on my hotdog while I steal quick looks at Marco. God. He's
so
cute. I try to fake like I'm completely at ease, but it's all I can do to keep down my hotdog while my stomach turns flips.
“Do you not like hotdogs? You've only had one bite, and I'm almost done with mine.”
I should have ordered something else. How do you eat a hotdog and not make a mess? I can't pull it off, though I'm dying to finish it before it gets cold. But it isn't worth risking mustard all over my shirt on our first not-a-date-but-could-be-a-date.
“I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought,” I say as I inhale our basket of fries. If you leave off the ketchup, fries aren't at all dangerous.
Awkward silence ensues. We could always work on the French skit, but I'd rather find out more about him, beyond what I can get from just watching him. I remember that moment in Paulette's office when she asked about his I-9 form, and his reaction when she asked if he was born in the States. Maybe I can start from there. He can tell me about his family, where they're from.
“That was strange, Paulette asking if you were born here.”
BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
6.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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