My car—a silver Toyota Camry with a school bumper sticker and an apple shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror—screamed ‘sensible teacher vehicle.’ Setting my box in the trunk, I climbed behind the wheel and drove toward home. My plans for tonight were far more exciting than sitting around the teacher’s lounge, eating cake and gossiping about students.
Once home, I left the box I’d brought home from school in my trunk. I had limited time to get ready for my appointment, and had to stop by the building’s leasing office to pick up my deliveries.
Like usual, Sadie, the receptionist, didn’t bat an eye at my appearance, but she had to be wondering how someone who dressed like me could afford a thirteenth-floor luxury flat that overlooked downtown Ottawa. Hell, my parking spot alone was above my teaching pay grade. If any of my coworkers ever found out where I lived, I’d have all sorts of uncomfortable questions to answer, which was just one more reason to avoid the rest of the faculty.
“Hello Ms. Davis,” Sadie said, piling my boxes on the counter. “Would you like me to have someone bring these up for you?”
Having people in my space made me nervous, so I always declined. “No. I’ve got this.”
Eyeing the stack, she asked, “You sure?”
I loaded up my arms with a nod before thanking her and heading for the elevator.
Once in my flat, I dumped the boxes on my bed and paused in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, admiring the look I’d worked so hard to perfect. Four years of wearing department store ballet flats, generic tortoiseshell glasses, off-the-rack pantsuits, hair up in a no-nonsense bun, no jewelry, and no makeup. I looked like the very definition of boring grade school teacher. The disguise had been necessary, but I had no intention of keeping it up. Since my glasses were a completely unnecessary accessory, I considered tossing them in the trash.
But what if I stay?
I had no intention of returning to Central Elementary, but I tucked them away just in case. After all, I wasn’t supposed to return after last summer, either.
Tugging my hair loose from its bun, I slipped out of my cheap shoes and clothes and headed for the shower.
School was over; it was time to transform.
Since I’d gone in for a full body waxing last night, I spent my time in the shower exfoliating and scrubbing away my day before drying off and moisturizing. Wrapped in a towel, I blew out my hair and curled it into loose beach waves before pulling out my makeup chest and getting to work on my face. I contoured, highlighted, lined, shadowed, fake lashed, and glossed until I could no longer recognize the face in the mirror. Looking light-years away from the bare-faced teacher I’d been only an hour ago, I was now all sultry, smokey eyes, and glossy, pouty lips.
After my face was on, I slid a pair of silky fishnet stockings up my legs, taking the time to enjoy the sensation. Getting ready was about so much more than changing how I looked. I needed to changewhoI was. To feel Amelia the teacher disappearing as Selina the demimonde emerged.
Opting out of panties, I connected the stockings to my garter belt before slipping into a little blue wrap-around dress that I pulled out of one of the boxes I’d retrieved from the leasing office. The dress fit like a glove, dipping down between my breasts and hugging my curves in all the right places, before ending only inches below my ass. Every time I moved, my client would be able to see the lace tops of my stockings. He’d love it.
A quick glance in the mirror told me I looked a little too slutty to go out in public, so I classed up the outfit by covering my cleavage with a white cashmere shawl that I retrieved from a second box of recent purchases. I didn’t need to keep ordering clothes—my closet was overflowing with them—but this fancy little accessory was a perfect addition to tonight’s costume. It didn’t magically transform me into a respectable-looking woman, but hopefully moms would now feel less compelled to cover the eyes of their children as I walked by.
Fluffing my long brown locks, I gave my appearance one last glance as my phone chimed with the email I’d been anticipating. I skimmed the client message, making note of the room number and requested arrival time before logging onto my bank and checking my account balance. $10,000 had been deposited for this weekend’s appointment. I moved half of the proceeds into my savings account and stared at the balance. $462,732. That number should be far greater by now, but with one glance at my stuffed closets and luxury apartment, it was clear to see why I couldn’t seem to reach the half a million goal I’d set for myself.
I could reason that some of my spending couldn’t be helped. My wealthy, refined clients paid a small fortune for my company and wouldn’t appreciate me showing up in off brands and making their Armani or Brooks Brothers suits look bad. They wanted a classy bitch, so when I played the part of Selina, I kept it so damn classy I pissed champagne and only ate the best caviar.
The real reason I couldn’t seem to let my savings account grow was a little more complicated.
Once I finally hit that magic number, everything would change. It had to. With my university loans long since paid off, and five-hundred grand in my bank account, all my excuses for staying would be stripped away. I’d be able to get my necessary American teaching certificates, return to the US, and live comfortably until I found a good teaching opportunity.
I’d throw away my disguises, say goodbye to the two fictional versions of me I’d created, and finally figure out who I wanted to be.
And I wasn’t ready for that yet.
I could have easily reached the goal last summer, but every time I thought about it, I went on another online shopping spree.
Not today, though.
Today, it was time to buckle down and commit to the change. I had to, because I’d made a promise I couldn’t break.
My gaze drifted to the framed photograph on my dresser. It was a beautiful shot of me and my late best friend, Polly. We were seated on barstools, with our faces smooshed together, holding cocktails in the air. Polly’s birthday. It had been a school night, and she’d dragged me out against my will. It was a fun night, but man, had I regretted it the next morning.
Polly was murdered four days later.
Turned out not everyone respected safe words and previously agreed upon boundaries, and this lifestyle was far from safe. If I didn’t get my spending under control and ditch the side hustle, I’d eventually end up in a pine box, too.
Filled with new resolve, I replied to the email and confirmed the appointment. Then I texted the transportation service I used for this business to request a ride.
Slipping on a pair of white, patent leather Tom Ford pumps, I scooped up my matching Proenza shoulder bag and the weekend bag I’d packed and headed out.
