Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

been hauled away, tossing me rubber gloves and a mop. “Hope you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, miss big-shot event coordinator.”

I’m stretched out lazily in an empty claw-foot bathtub that inexplicably sits in the center of the ballroom, reading the smutty parts of one of Violet’s old Harlequins. He glances at the cover and a muscle in his cheek jumps.

“I’ve been getting my hands dirty since I got here,” I retort dryly. “You aren’t the only one who’s made a few trips to the dumpster, sir.”

But I don’t think I’ve appreciated the irony until now, easing the gloves over my fingers, that I’m being forced into taking up the housekeeper role again. I wish we had the budget to hire a professional cleaning crew, but we’ve got to save money wherever possible and that means fumigating, painting, scrubbing, bleaching, patching, all by ourselves. My gaze darts to the ceiling corners, where Violet might be watching us and, it can only be assumed, laughing wickedly. I am starting to visualize her with horns instead of a halo.

“Don’t mix chemicals. Make sure to keep the windows open while you clean. If you pass out, it’ll take an ambulance half an hour to get here.”

“Thanks, man.” I give him the thumbs-up, but my gloves are too long, so it just looks like I’m holding out my hand at an odd angle. “I’m aware that mixing chemicals is a no-no, but it’s good to know if I pass out you won’t even drive me to the hospital.”

“You’re the one who pointed out I could be saving money on gas,” he replies, leaving me to single-handedly fix up the first floor. It isn’t fair. He’s going to get his floor done so much faster, since he’s got all those muscles to help out. I think his workout regimen involves deadlifting logs.

You know what sucks? Not having the electricity turned on yet. If I could run a vacuum hose along the baseboards it would save my back from having to stoop and scoop debris into a dustpan every five seconds. I think a cat’s been living in here, too, because whenever I work the broom I see little cat hairs floating away from me, refusing to be dustpanned. The walls in the west wing aren’t that bad, but they do bear plenty of scuff marks. If I can rub those off, that’ll save me a paint job.

I run to the bottom of the staircase and scream up: “Have you seen the Magic Erasers?”

At first, I think he’s ignoring me. But then a heavy object clatters between the floors, between the walls. I open the broken dumbwaiter in the foyer to find a chunk of brick that sloughed off the chimney, a piece of paper taped to its front. NO. In aggressive capitals.

“You couldn’t have just yelled that?” I holler up the metal chute. “This required more work than saying no!”

I close the door and a minute later the dumbwaiter rattles again. I pull out a remote control for a toy airplane. The message taped to this one reads: will you bring me the lysol wipes

This man’s unbelievably stingy with his decibels and he’s got to have the best-preserved vocal cords ever. When he’s a hundred years old he’ll be able to sing like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Grumbling, I grab the wipes from the kitchen, which is operating as our home base for cleaning supplies, and run them up the stairs.

“Down here,” he calls from the end of a hallway on my right, sticking his hand out a door to wave. I don’t make front-door deliveries. I chuck the wipes like a football right as he emerges, which means the package hits him in the neck. “Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“What’d you do that for?”

“I said sorry! Why didn’t you just go get them yourself?”

He frowns and rolls his shoulder, which in my opinion is a little dramatic. I didn’t hit his shoulder. “My legs are tired.”

“So are mine!” They aren’t, truthfully, but my arms and back are, so I want credit.

“You’re not the one going up and down stairs all day.”

“If you let me have a few rooms on this floor for my guests, I’ll be your errand girl,” I offer. “You’ll never have to come downstairs again.”

He tuts. “Not a chance.”

This is when my attention homes in on the pile of used-up Magic Erasers in the room he just vacated. They’re sitting in front of an ornate ivory wardrobe that matches one I’ve got downstairs, its built-in oval mirror reflecting my fury. “You liar.”

Wesley follows my line of sight. “Oh, those Magic Erasers. Sorry. I just used the last one.”

I seize the Lysol wipes from his hands and throw them down the dumbwaiter.

He has the nerve to go, “I didn’t really want them anyway,” at my back as I march off, stomping hard enough to rain more plaster below onto floors I just swept.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

THE COMMUNAL MOOD IN Falling Stars spikes in temperature from rankled to downright irate when we decide to work right through lunch and dinner, subsisting on Violet’s expired pretzels and Wesley’s sweet tea, which he doesn’t know he’s sharing.

Night’s falling, but I don’t want to be the first one to give up. I’ve stolen a few peeks and I know he’s got four rooms upstairs totally spotless. But what’s the point of a billion rooms if you aren’t going to hold on to any furniture to put in them? It’s freaky empty up there. Even your thoughts would echo.

“We’ll have to get the electricity turned back on again,” Wesley shares when he finally lumbers downstairs for the last time. I know he’s finished for the day because he’s brought all his trash bags down with him. They reek powerfully of bleach, which knocks me back in time to Around the Mountain and its persistent chlorine smell.

Thank god this day is over. I drop my extendable feather duster, sagging along a wall.

“After the auction and estate sale, I hope we’ll have enough money left over