Chapter Nine
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Genevieve
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I woke up an hour earlier than usual, not for any specific reason, but because I didn’t sleep well the night before. Or at all. But whatever.
I might as well get out of bed, shower, dress, and do some prep work for next week to get ahead of my schedule.
That doesn’t happen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but my routines are usually ironclad. Having much older parents—my dad was fifty and my mom forty-five—I learned the art of sticking to a schedule no matter what. Every minute of my life is planned to a T, thanks to them.
I wake at 6 a.m., have coffee at 7:15 a.m., and am in my car by 7:30 a.m.
I’ve already picked out the clothes I’m going to wear the night before and set the timer on my coffee machine.
Except today, I got out of bed at 5 a.m., and now it’s 7:20 a.m., and I’m still standing naked in front of my closet after trying on almost all my clothes.
What is going on with me today? I don’t know, but I can safely say it has nothing to do with today being our do-over movie day. It’s got nothing to do with that at all.
I’m probably just about to get my period. My breasts feel achy, and so does “the miss downstairs.”
“The miss downstairs?” I ask my reflection in the mirror. Maybe it’s time I grew up.
“Pussy,” I say softly, then panic as if someone could hear me—like my neighbors, the very respectable Mrs. Archer on my right and Pastor Tanner on my left.
What am I doing? This is insane.
I grab my signature long flare skirt—I have them in different colors: grey, brown, and black—and today I choose the dark blue one. I match it with a white shirt with sleeves that reach my elbows and tiny crystal buttons down the front.
I pull on a pair of stockings up to my thighs that match my modest black cotton panty and bra set. My everyday pumps go on next, and I twist my hair into a French knot at my nape, leaving a few tendrils to frame my face.
A dash of pink lipstick, some mascara, my favorite perfume, and I’m done. There, I look exactly how I always look, so I can’t understand why I wasted my entire morning deciding what to wear.
It’s not as if I had to choose between the outfit I’m currently wearing and that black backless dress that just about reaches my thighs and hugs me like a glove, which I’ve never had the guts to wear.
Or the other red dress I have that’s floor-length with a deep slit and a bodice so outrageous it struggles to contain my breasts, which are fuller than I would have liked. Imagine if I showed up to school in either of those dresses.
Thank goodness sanity prevailed, and I’m not on the brink of scarring anyone by arriving in a cocktail dress. Whew.
And, of course, I arrive later than usual at work. Abominable.
“You’re wearing that?” Esme shrieks the instant I step into the teacher’s lounge.
And she’s wearing that? The only time I’ve seen Esme in a dress was probably never—not even at prom—but here she is in a dress, heels, and a full face of makeup.
I look around the room, and every teacher seems to be dressed in their Sunday best. Except, of course, Melody, the school secretary, who always looks like a model in a pink mini skirt showing off her superbly tanned legs, paired with a matching pink jacket.
Her long hair cascades down her back like waves of silk.
She’s so beautiful, she makes me groan in annoyance.
“What is going on? Is there something happening today?” Crap, I didn’t even check my calendar.
Esme gasps at me.
“Isn’t today your do-over movie day?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“That’s what’s happening. Apparently, their PA called the school yesterday to ask about parking, and Jackie happened to be here after 4 p.m. or something. She answered the call, got the information, and sent messages to all the staff members.
“It’s not every day we get to see the world’s hottest billionaire bachelors, Ms. Quinn. And I thought, what the heck. I might as well be excited, hence my dress.” Esme’s dress is beautiful and definitely something from her abuela’s collection.
“Well, it’s just an ordinary day for me, and I don’t understand what all the fuss is about, because if anyone here knew them the way I do, they would know they’re the worst. And another thing––”
I don’t get to finish my character assassination of the three billionaires because suddenly all the staff at Valley Bright Elementary want to be my best friend, bribing me with chocolates, brownies, and potted plants, thinking it’s a great idea to have a combined movie day for the whole school in the auditorium.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And can I introduce them to the bachelors?
I want to laugh. Those cocky billionaires are probably just going to do a drive-by—drop off the snacks and drive on by. But hey, if they want to make a production out of it, I’m all for it. So I agree.
So now it’s movie day for all the kids at Valley Bright Elementary. The class teachers arranged snacks for their own students, and this is now happening.
I believe every moment is a teachable moment, and in this case, I don’t have to say much because beyond their stupidly handsome faces, they’re just... they’re just the worst. Note to self: come up with worse things to say about them.