Job or death in Philadelphia
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"What's this smell? Did you smoke here?" He wrinkled his nose just like my daughter had done, smelling something unpleasant.
"The restroom is at the end of the corridor. Don't smoke here! When you are done, come here and knock at the door. Do you understand English? Where's your lawyer?"
"I don't know," I answered honestly and headed for the restroom. They had a tiny unisex restroom. I peed first, then looked at myself in the mirror, and screamed. No wonder my Ivy League school English wasn't good enough for him. In the mirror, childhood's nightmare was staring back at me: ash-covered makeup like a gray mask on my face, my red hair styled with Curls Up gel all frizzed up in a hairball and hanging above my right ear. My L'Or,al super black mascara was smeared in big dark circles. Wet paper towels took off mascara and ashes, but my hair stayed dirty gray no matter how much I wetted it. I couldn't waste any of the paid test time anymore, so I returned to the door and knocked. The same guy let me into the room and directed me to the only chair.
"Sit here, please," he said, and when I took a seat, he buckled me up with wires. "Don't move," he said sternly. "Look over there, listen to my question and answer only `yes' or `no'."
"What if…?"
"Only `yes' or `no'."
"Are you Deborah Cooper?"
"Well, Cooper is actually a married name…"
"Yes or no?"
"Yes," I lied. After all, it was entirely this guy's fault because he never let me explain Debbie went to the hospital with her burned son, and Joe disappeared and wasn't answering my calls.
"Are you thirty-eight years old?"
"No! I'm thirty." I was actually thirty-five, but it wasn't for him to know. Now, I wanted to pass this test for Debbie, so we could sue Gamma Woods and the company. The poor woman was suffering too much, and nobody should get away with accusing their co-workers of stealing. Joe Smith came to my mind again. He accused me of attacking him, and if it wasn't for my material witness, Alex, I could be in prison right now.
"Sorry, could you repeat the last question?"
"Did you take Gamma Woods' money from her handbag?"
"No!"
"Did you take jewelry from Gamma Woods' handbag?"
What kind of jewelry was she carrying in her handbag?
"Yes or no?"
"No! Would you carry jewelry in a handbag the size of a hiking backpack?"
"I don't know. Don't ask me questions." He picked up the phone, which didn't even ring. "Hi, Joe. Yes, I have your client. She's here. She took a test. What do you mean? She looks like… a woman. What is her hair color? She has some grayish hair. Yes, she passed. Take care."
He slammed the receiver.
"Joe can't believe you're here. Said that you're a very brave kid."
I drove back home like mad, trying to beat the rush hour traffic. I didn't want Alexander to see me coming home late with my after-fire look and stench. Driving, I kept calling Joe and Debbie, and couldn't reach anybody.
The phone suddenly rang just when I tucked it safely away.
"Mommy, I want you here! It's an emergency, emergency!" A heart-wrenching voice cried for me through static.
I got the impression my daughter needed something from me.
"Where are you, sweetie?" I asked dutifully.
"I'm at school. Everything is ruined. My life is ruined. It's horrible, horrible. We have a cheerleading practice. Please, come here now." My daughter shouted through sobs. "Bring clothes."
She disconnected.
I reached for the glove compartment, got a secret stash of cigarettes, and lit one. I don't smoke, but always have them, as I have a chocolate bar and a bottle of Excedrin, as my Emergency Supply. Something happened at school that ruined my daughter's clothes. Hopefully, it wasn't fire. For a second, a crazy thought came to my mind that Matthew had escaped the hospital and set my daughter's school on fire to get back at me. Oh, maybe they've got their own arsonist. I recall hearing on Fox News that sixty percent of firefighters are pyromaniacs and arsonists. Probably, it's as true as to say that sixty percent of police officers are control freaks; sixty percent of surgeons are sadists, and sixty percent of politicians are crooks. Even if it were a fire, why would Iris need clothes? I went through the fire this morning and I'm fine. Besides, this morning, she had such a sweet Ralph Lauren Pink Pony outfit.
Minutes later, I ran up the stairs of Bridgewater Private School, clenching my fitness clothes, which ride with me everywhere in the trunk of my car in case I get an urge to go to the gym.
As with any old private school, the Bridgewater School had its rules for kids and for parents. `Socialize or go to hell' was the first among equal rules. Being an introvert, I wouldn't survive at this school a day, unless I was a good actress, which I thought I was. That's why I didn't even flinch when my steady trot was intercepted by Ester Daum, our rumor generator. I just said, "Ester, dear. You look great!"
"And you look… weird. And what's that smell? Are you smoking?"
"No, I don't." I moved away from her, breezing aside.
"Did you notify your health insurance company about your habits?" She smelled Clinique Happy.
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