“Stop.”
Silence.
“I don’t care why,” I continue. “I care that you’re not going to do it anymore.”
“I’m not sure I can—”
“You can,” I tell him. “You’ve done very well supplying this house.” I go on, “It’d be a shame to lose that…and to lose your contract with the university aswell.”
I’m bluffing. I don’t have anything to do with how the school gets its food, but he doesn’t know that.
The room is dead quiet.
Nine men holding their breaths over a conversation about steak.
Pathetic.
“I’ll, uh, review the numbers,” he says carefully.
“Do that,” I reply. “Then call back with better ones.”
I hang up. Put the receiver back into the cradle with a solid click.
I turn back to the table.
“Next problem.”
Three hours later, I’ve solved a fight over a sister, redistributed rooms for next semester, and clarified, twice, that setting something on fire does not count as problem-solving.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Anything else?” I ask.
No one answers. They all sit there, stiff and silent, avoiding eye contact, as if I might assign them more work for breathing wrong.
The room smells like stale coffee and panic.
One starts to raise his hand, then thinks better of it and drops it back to the table. Even Jackson’s pen has gone silent.
“Then we’re done for now.”
Chairs scrape, and relief moves through the room in a visible wave, as if I’d lifted something heavy off all of them.
I wait until they’re on their feet, heading for the door.
“Stop.”
They freeze. Turn back to me in unison. I hide my smile.
“One more thing,” I say. “I’m tired of living in a pigsty. Get everyone up. Knock on every door. It’s time to clean this house.”
I let my gaze settle on Jackson for that last part, not bothering to hide the double meaning.
“The cleaners come on Thursday,” he says, scowling.
“I don’t care,” I retort. “This is our home. Start acting like it.”
His lips purse, and I think he might challenge me, but he lets it drop.
