Just Because of You

Cinderella-1

Cinderella

THE REST OF THE SCHOOL day went well. Jessica turned out to be in Hilarie’s last two classes, AP European History and Art. During Art, they had fun rolling their eyes at classmates who threw splotches of paint at canvases and dared to call them abstract masterpieces. Some of Edith Wharton Academy’s students proved that all the money in the world couldn’t buy you talent.

“Need a ride to work?” Jessica asked Hilarie after school.

“Nah, I can just walk,” Hilarie said.

“You sure? Because if you want a ride, there’s more than enough room in my limousine.”

A limousine? Sometimes, Hilarie forgot just how wealthy Jessica was, that she was the only middle-class person—the sole scholarship student—at Edith Wharton. But who could blame her? Hilarie had known Jessica since they were nine, years before Jessica’s father had become a multimillionaire. She had known Jessica when she’d shopped at JCPenney, way before she’d started swiping her American Express black card at Neiman Marcus; when Jessica’s family had lived in the one-story house next door, and not in a mansion with an indoor swimming pool and a movie theater.

“No thanks,” Hilarie said. “I don’t want you to contribute more to global warming for my sake.”

“Global warming is a myth invented by Al Gore,” Jessica said.

“That’s not what they teach you in AP Environmental Science.”

“Screw Environmental Science. Physics is the only science that matters.”

“Okay, Sheldon Cooper.”

Jessica swatted Hilarie’s arm. “You know it bugs the hell out of me when you compare me to that socially inept and egotistical nerd.”

Hilarie grinned. “That’s why I do it.”

“You sure you don’t want a ride?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself,” Jessica said with a shrug. “See you later. Have fun serving coffee and wiping tables.”

“Bye, Jess.”

Hilarie headed to The Bean, the coffee shop she worked at. A sigh of contentment left her lips. People always complained about the suburbs, and how they were boring and a sea of architectural monotony, but not her. She loved Middleson and how quiet it was. So what if it wasn’t exactly a hotbed of culture and you usually couldn’t distinguish one house from another? She wouldn’t trade peace and feeling safe when walking alone for a vibrant nightlife and magnificent skyscrapers. Rows of personality-free white houses and a nonexistent art scene were fine with her.

“Hello, my punctual employee,” Mr. Chang said when she walked into his coffee shop.

“Hi, boss,” she said, going behind the counter to take off her blazer and put on an apron. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Today’s been kind of slow, but I finished Twilight. It’s not as bad as everyone says.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Chang.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times to call me Tony.”

“It’s just too weird.”

“It’s not. Say it with me. To—”

“Mr. Chang.”

He exhaled. “Do what you will.”

She glanced at The Bean’s four small tables, all of which were empty. “Has it been like this all day?”

“There were two teens who came in this morning. They left without buying anything when I told them I didn’t make Frappuccinos.” He ran a hand through his short black hair, his brown eyes on Hilarie. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“Sorry I’m late, dears!” Alabama, the second of The Bean’s two employees, said as she came in through the door. Her face was red and beads of sweat streamed down the side of her head. “Traffic was so awful that I had to get out of the cab and run here to make sure I wasn’t an hour late!”

Mr. Chang snorted. “Traffic in the suburbs? If you’re going to make an excuse, at least come up with a plausible one. But Alabama, you know I don’t give a damn about punctuality.”

“Oh.” Alabama shrugged. “I overslept.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Mr. Chang said.

“I was sleeping off a hangover.”

Mr. Chang blinked, unfazed. Alabama was open about her adoration for a good Long Island iced tea in the morning. “I need to make you some of my detox tea.”

Alabama wrinkled her nose. “No thanks. I’d rather drink sewage.”

“You’re lucky I have an easygoing attitude and no customers at the moment,” he said.

“Oh, shush.” Then Alabama brushed a few strands of red hair away from her hazel eyes as she turned to Hilarie. “How are you, dear?” she asked, embracing her coworker. “Your first day of school went all right?”

“Wasn’t worse than usual,” Hilarie said.

“Are people still being mean to you?”

“Well, they’re not exactly friendly.” An understatement, Hilarie thought.

“They’re just jealous of your beauty.”

Hilarie smiled. Alabama was like a sweet grandmother from a fairy tale with her wrinkles, the mixture of red and gray in her hair, and the way she always smelled of chocolate chip cookies. But you knew she had a bit of a wild side when she opened her mouth and you could smell the never-absent liquor on her breath. “Whatever you say.”

Mr. Chang tapped Alabama on the shoulder as two men wearing black berets and holding slim volumes of Whitman’s poetry stepped inside the place. “Don’t say anything bad about my tea,” he whispered.

“How about your coffee?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Just get to work.”

***