Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret by Vicki Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

my hand up to stop her. “Forget it. Fine.” I didn’t need any more of the creepy backstory.
    I could hear Mom finishing up with the toast and knew it was hopeless. My mother/Dolores. Frying pan/fire. I was outmanoeuvred.
    â€œWhere’s this job?” I said.
    â€œOn Churchill Street. A lady named Tish Latimer. She sounds nice.” Dolores smiled as if it was all settled, then. I shoved my feet into my sneakers. There had to bea way out of this. I took a long time tying the laces and thought it through. Mom could drop us off on Churchill Street as per the plan and I’d just ditch Dolores there. Mom didn’t need to find out. I’d come up with an excuse later to explain why we weren’t cleaning houses any more.
    â€œI made two pieces for you … Sure you don’t want any, Dolores? It’s no trouble.” Mom was smiling wildly. It was the way she used to smile whenever Nick walked in the room. She had no right to be that pleased about anything—then or now.
    â€œOkay. Let’s go!” I said, all fake and eager. “Don’t want to be late.”
    Don’t want to be , period.
    â€œWait. Gotta put this on first.” Dolores handed me a pink T-shirt, just like the one she was wearing.
    â€œIsn’t that adorable?” Mom actually clapped her hands in delight. “Did you make it yourself?”
    Dolores went for a humble shrug.
    Mom read: “Lapins de … Poussière?”
    â€œThat’s ‘dust bunnies’ in French. Adds a little touch of faux class, I thought.”
    Mom clamped her teeth over her bottom lip and shook her head at the charming cleverness of it all. “‘We’ll work our tails off for you!’ Won’t people get a kick out of that! … C’mon, Betsy. Put it on. Put it on!”
    I just had to go to another place in my head. There wasno other option. I had to smile in as real a way as possible so that Mom didn’t take me aside later for the attitude lecture again. I had to put on the T-shirt. I had to put on the ears. I had to —yes —Velcro on the big white fluffy tail that Dolores pulled out of her shopping bag. Then I just had to make it as far as Churchill Street.
    It was like exam time or suicide sprints or eating something you hate when you’re having dinner at someone else’s place. You don’t think you’re going to be able to survive but you do and then it’s over and you forget about it.
    Dolores sat in the front seat of the car and chatted away happily about “our” cleaning service. Mom responded like the gung-ho Public Relations executive she was.
    â€œBetsy! You didn’t tell me it was your idea!”
    â€œYou built your own website for it, Dolores? I’m very impressed.”
    â€œThat many calls? Really? In just a week? No wonder. It’s very hard to find a cleaning lady these days.”
    â€œYou’re not giving yourself enough credit, Dolores. Very few young people show this kind of initiative. Keep it up and you’ll go far!”
    Not far enough, I thought. What had I done to deserve this? In my heart I knew I was somehow to blame. I watched as the houses whipped past and thought about Nick and Carly in the kitchen at Jitters. It almost seemed like the good old days. At least that sort of made sense.
    The car pulled over and we got out. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Wickwire,” Dolores said. “Oh, my pleasure! And please—call me Kristi.” I waited until the car disappeared around the corner before I turned to Dolores. “I’m not doing this.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m not cleaning houses with you.”
    Dolores threw her arms back and stuck her neck out. Classic angry goose pose. “What? You can’t desert me like this. I’ve got appointments set up. People are expecting us.”
    â€œWell, you should have called me before, then.” At that