Super in the City by Daphne Uviller Read Free Book Online Page B

things I’d never wanted to learn when there were so many other things I really did want to learn. It meant tenants depending on me, which, if asked on apersonality questionnaire how I’d feel about that, I would have said it was fine. But what if, I thought desperately, what if one of my friends needed me in a hurry and I was all tied up with super stuff? I tried to think of any emergency a Sterling Girl might have that would require my immediate assistance (and thus prove the inefficiency of installing me as super). There was none.
    Thinking about becoming the super of 287 West 12th was accompanied by the clang, squeak, and whump of closing doors.
    And the idea of Hayden, ace reporter, chief schmuck, finding out that I was mopping halls …
    I chewed hard on my lip and traced the curlicues of the iron banister with my thumb. I snuck a glance at Cliff, who was ever so slightly nodding to a beat only he could hear. If he couldn’t stay focused on this turning point in my life, was he really going to be emotionally available to our kids?
    “It would just be until you figure out what you’re doing,” my mother said, her voice hitting the high register that bespoke her grave doubts about when that long- awaited clarity might arrive.
    Mrs. Hannaham put her hands on her hips. I had an urge to kick her.
    “Zephy it’ll be fun,” my dad said gently. “You’re good at this kind of thing.” I looked at him incredulously. “I mean, you’re organized and you’re neat.” If he tells me I’m very special, I thought, I’m going to take to my bed with a jar of Marsh -mallow Fluff.
    “And you’re good with people and very responsible with money,” he continued. “It’s just, what, all of us here, plus Roxana and the Caldwells, right? Everyone’s like family.”
    Was that a subtle way of telling me I shouldn’t reproduce with Cliff?
    “And whoever moves into James’s place,” Mrs. Hannaham added.
    Who
would
move into James’s place? I hadn’t thought of that. The apartment was a sweet little one- bedroom, the mirror of my place, across the landing on the second floor. If I was super, I bet I would have a lot of say over who moved in. He would have to be single. Taller than Hayden. And have an exciting career. More exciting than Hayden’s. Was that illegally discriminatory? Would I, too, be led away by my wrists like James was? Where would my case be tried? Too many people knew my father in New York. None of his colleagues would touch me. Ha!
    “It’s not going to take much of your time,” my mother said doubtfully. “An oil delivery here, a little sweeping there. Maybe call in an electrician once in a while. I don’t think James ever had much work.”
    “Not much … ? You let him have a whole apartment rent-free! It has to be a big job to be worth that.” I scowled at her.
    She took a different tack. “Of course you don’t
have
to do this.” Translation: of course I had to do this. “But we need someone we can trust. James just left here in cuffs with an apparent psychiatric disorder, Zephy! This is a small operation that runs on the honor system. You’d be taking a great load off our minds.”
    So that was the story they were going with. Bulletproof. I was not my brother, after all. And my entertainment value—I hadn’t even had a chance to regale them with the St. Regis escapade—was clearly no longer enough to satisfy their standards in the legacy department.
    I plopped down on the stoop and rubbed at a blister that was starting to sprout over my big toe. A noisy, stilettoed, bridge- and- tunnel crowd teetered up the block in low- slungjeans serving up healthy rolls of waist. Imported muffin tops. I had always wanted to congratulate the woman who first refused to let anorexic models stake a claim on those jeans, the pioneer who let her belly flop over the top and declared, “Ladies, follow my lead!”
    And then I thought, Yes. Let me be like her. Let me be like the woman who would not buy the