Sure. Nettie pressed her lips together so tightly they practically welded shut, because if she opened them, she’d lose her job.
Exposure to contagion?Off the charts...
Bitter regret?Outpaced the contagion record…
“I’m gonna come down with a whopping case of lice, the trots, and the freaking flu at this rate,” she snarled under her breath, scrubbing wildly in the staff bathroom like she was prepping for surgery. Yellow Dial soap foamed up her arms toher elbows. The smell was sharp and stung her raw knuckles, but she kept scrubbing. The sensation of phantom lice crawled across her scalp every time a child so much as scratched their ear. Those ‘attention’ notes given to parents to alert them that a child on the premises was discovered to have contracted lice were so fun.
So. Much. Fun.
Her reflection showed that her once wet hair had dried weirdly, stuck to her face in wavy clumps. Mascara was smudged under her eyes, made her look like a raccoon caught in a thunderstorm – either that or the ‘grunge-hoe-look’ from the eighties was back in style. She wanted to laugh, cry, or maybe just crawl under the sink until Monday.
Possibly all three.
“I must be insane to do this for a living,” she continued, scrubbing her arms up to almost her armpits once again before drying them and looking upward to the ceiling for hope. “Lord, if you’re listening—and if you must strike me down with something wretched—please let it be diarrhea. Nothing permanent. Just the runs. I never thought I’d pray for that in my adult life, but here I am… begging you to leave the other two options out of the picture. I’ll take the diarrhea in a heartbeat compared to the other two. Amen.”
She felt… stressed.
And that was putting things mildly.
Between worrying if the fruit basket was on the wrong porch, another weird gift from Tate, or a possible gift from someone else, she had no idea who to thank for her injured hand, ripped jeans, or for the fruit basket that she ended up having to throw out when she saw there were bugs floating in the water within the cellophane bag.
“Ugh,” she whispered, shivering again at the thought only to hear her phone ding.
Gina.
Hey girl – you ready?
Ready to back out? Yes.
Ready to face humanity again? Not in the slightest.
Naww! We’re going and we’re going to have a blast.
Nettie sighed heavily and then typed with grim determination:
I need you to drive. I got a flat.
Almost instantly, her phone rang. She ducked back into the restroom, holding the phone close to her face like a secret agent smuggling intel.
“Hey,” Nettie whispered. “I’m at work and can’t really talk.”
“Why’d you answer then?” Gina’s voice was a matching whisper, playful but edged with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. No. And everything in-between, but I’ll explain later.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Be here at six on the dot – with a dry outfit for me.”
“I’ve got you handled.”
“Thanks,” Nettie whispered, releasing a breath that felt like she’d been holding it since sunrise. “I’ve gotta go.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
Nettie ended the call and sagged against the bathroom counter. She had five more hours to survive before freedom. Five more hours of potential lice exposure, bathroom disasters, and silent prayers that her immune system was made of steel.
Her tire could wait until tomorrow. Her dignity could be pieced back together someday.
