Count My Lies

Chapter 9

9

The next morning, I’m filling up my basin when Laura walks into the spa. I look up when I hear the jangle of the bell and wave. She waves back, her big hair bouncing, and sashays toward my station.

I don’t need to ask her what we’re doing today; she comes in every week, alternating between a manicure and pedicure. She gets acrylic on her fingers, gel on her toes, the same deep crimson color for both. When she’s finished, she gets her eyebrows waxed with Kristen, our lead esthetician.

“You look like the cat who ate the canary,” Laura says, settling into the oversized leather pedicure chair, her feet plunging into the water.

“Me?” I say. I duck my head and bite down on my lower lip; I’ve been grinning like an idiot since Violet offered me the job.

“She met someone,” Natasha says to Laura, leaning toward my station. Her client is on the phone, headphones in. “Some hotshot businessman.” She snaps her gum and winks at me.

“A businessman?” Laura says. Her drawl deepens, sounding more like Dolly with every syllable. “How fancy!”

“He’s an entrepreneur,” I say, blushing. “It’s a new thing.” For a moment, I consider showing them both a picture of Jay, pulling up his LinkedIn profile, but I know that’s crossing the line.

I tell Laura that he’s a single dad, detail the afternoon we first met, recounting the bee sting, Harper’s cries, how I helped scrape out the stinger. The only things I leave out are my lies. She’s happy for me, nodding along throughout my story, beaming.

When I finish her nails, Laura hands me a hundred-dollar bill, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “In case you need something for your next date.”

“Thanks, Laura.” I smile back and tuck it into the pocket of my scrubs. I loved the cardigan Violet was wearing the other day; maybe I’ll buy one, too.

When my chair is empty, I decide to sneak out for a bit, head to the bakery around the corner to buy a pastry for Natasha. Just as I grab my purse from the break room, Lena walks in. I give her a polite smile, try to sidestep around her, but she stands in the doorway, not moving.

“Can we talk? It’ll be quick,” she says. She pronounces “it” like “eet.” “In my office.” She motions to the door on my left. It’s a tiny square room with a desk shoved up against the wall, a computer, and two chairs. The desk is always piled high with stacks of paperwork, scattered invoices, ledgers.

Fuck. “Sure.” I sigh and walk into her office. Here it comes.

Lena moves past me and squeezes into the chair closest to the desk. Her office has a distinct smell, a thick, cloying mix of acetone and incense. She crosses one leg over the other, looks me in the eye. One of the things I like about Lena is she’s not a bullshitter. Whatever she has to say, she shoots it straight. I brace myself.

“You’ve been late recently,” she says. “Taking long breaks. You missed half your shift on Monday.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It won’t happen again. I’ll be better.”

She shakes her head regretfully. “I can’t take that chance. I’m sorry. I told you when I hired you, I need reliability.”

I stare at her as the words sink in. The incense smell is making me woozy. “You’re firing me?”

Lena nods. “I wish you the best,” she says, standing. The legs of her chair sputter across the floor as she pushes out of it. The conversation is over.

I stand, too. Awkwardly, we face each other. Then Lena takes a step closer and gives me a brief hug. “Take care of yourself, Sloane.”

I leave her tight office, slightly stunned. Even though it wasn’t exactly a surprise, it stings, how abruptly Lena was willing to dismiss me, over a few long breaks and a missed shift, after a year of hard work. It feels like I’ve been slapped, my cheek hot where she struck me.

I slink through the spa, gathering my nail kit and a few small personal items, and head toward the front door. The other nail techs stare as I walk by. No one speaks to me. Natasha looks like she might get up when I pass her station, but doesn’t, turning back to her client. She’s probably the one who ratted me out, who told Lena about Allison. I’ve done a million favors for her in the time we’ve worked together; she’s as ungrateful as Lena is.

I step out onto the sidewalk, out of the air-conditioning and into the heat of the afternoon. The spa door bangs shut behind me. For a moment, I just stand there. Then I smile.

No more neck-hunched days over women’s calloused feet, my face stretched by a counterfeit smile so wide I worried my lips might split. No more acetone-blistered hands, knuckles dried and cracking from the too-hot water. No more looking up at women as they looked down on me, literally, figuratively, debasing myself for tips. I’m free, finally free, my servitude ended. At the end of the block, I toss my nail kit into a trash can, hear it clunk against the metal bottom.

Fuck Lena. Fuck Natasha. And fuck that job. I don’t need it. I don’t need them. I’m Harper’s nanny now.