Beware That Girl

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Book: Beware That Girl Read Free
Author: Teresa Toten
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and I want to get a jump on my notes for our meeting at nine. Our board, and certainly this office, is”—she cleared her throat—“greatly anticipating his arrival.”
    “Well, fund-raising is the lifeblood of a school like this. I learned that at all my other schools.”

    “Did you? Yes, yes, it is.” She paused. “And I am sure Mr. Redkin will be a tremendous asset. So you know why I’m here. Why are you here so early?”
    “There’s a lot to do, even in the presort. The file cabinets are a bit of a mess. Actually, the files are kind of unbelievable.” I glared at the boxes for effect.
    “Kate, you’re the Waverly Scholar, not the Waverly slave.” She joined me in box glaring. “I can’t have people concerned about your welfare, after all.”
    “I think we both know that no one would be all that concerned, ma’am.”
    “Not true, Kate. Not true,” she said as she walked away. “I would be concerned.”
    Goodlace was as decent as these types come, so who knows, maybe she did give a fart. But it wasn’t enough. I knew from before. I needed way more to get through the year, to get to where I was going. I needed an Olivia to care.
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” I said to her back.

It looked as if the contents of Olivia’s closet had barfed on her bed. Five maroon school jackets—ranging from extremely fitted to boyfriend-style and from sparkly new to charmingly distressed—wrestled with eleven crisply laundered white shirts that hailed from Barneys rather than the school tuck shop. Struggling under that pile were four short to very short gray flannel kilts with mandatory silver kilt pins from Tiffany’s, as well as a rat’s nest of maroon-and-gray-striped school ties. There was a small mountain of tights in various hues and textures, all unopened and likely to remain that way. A senior wouldn’t be caught dead in tights in the middle of a blizzard, let alone on a fall day. Seniors wore kneesocks with the elastic appropriately stretched out, making it imperative to keep yanking them up. There were uniforms within uniforms—always had been and always would be.
    Olivia scrunched up one of the pristine shirts and sat on it for good measure as she slipped on her baggy kneesocks. Those steps complete, she tucked the freshly wrinkled shirt into her second-shortest skirt and reached for her most fitted jacket. It was her third pass at the complete outfit and it was the correct one, the right blend of caring and not giving a damn.

    This is how the routine had always played out. After a full thirty-five minutes under a searing shower, she would sort through and discard the contents of her closet with an ever-increasing burden of urgency. With a choice finally made, Olivia would race back into her bathroom suite to begin the thirty-seven-minute routine of hair and makeup, emerging dewy and seemingly fresh-faced. With moments to spare, she’d gulp down her morning meds with the green smoothie that Anka had whipped up. Breakfast over, the housekeeper would shuffle to Olivia’s room to begin the process of re-engorging the closet, while Olivia shoved her feet into one-size-too-small, just-so-scuffed Doc Martens and grabbed her black Prada backpack. She was “perfect.” Not that it mattered. It’s just the way things were done.
    Before she left, Olivia always called out: “Okay, I’m off. Later, Anka! You have a great day!” And Anka, buried deep in the walk-in closet, always called back: “Good luck, Miss Olivia. God blessing you all za day.” Neither heard the other’s actual words, but both were certain that they had been wished a day of miracles.
    Waverly was a handsome old stone mansion just up the street on Fifth. Olivia always used that walking time to prepare herself. This year, she even prayed a couple of times. That was new. Prayer was not any part of the cognitive behavioral therapy that had been doled out at the Houston hospital last year, but it was big with her roommate,

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