“Congrats, Maxie. A new job.” Coop crushes me in a hug, spilling popcorn on my lap. “You’re moving ahead in life.”
“Don’t get so excited; it’s only a babysitting gig,” I retort.
“It’s something.”
We’re both on the couch, having a popcorn-hogging marathon while Ji-ae is visiting her friend in Brooklyn. On the television, a movie is playing. Let’s just say a brother-sister movie night isn’t all that it’s made out to be.
“The house sure is quiet without Ji-ae,” Coop remarks sadly. “And I’m getting hungry.”
“What do you like about her?” I ask, wriggling my toes.
Unlike me, who brought her every boyfriend to every family holiday, Coop never brought Ji-ae to a single one. He just showed up with her one day on my parents’ doorstep and announced they were getting married. Everybody suspected it was a shotgun marriage, but it wasn’t; five years later they still have no kids.
“She’s always full of energy,” he replies with a dreamy expression.
“So are dogs. But you didn’t marry one.”
“Max, you have a terrible sense of humor. How can you compare Ji-ae to a dog?”
“Don’t pin it on me,” I grumble, chomping on popcorn kernels. “It’s your reason that’s lame. You’ve gotta have a better reason for loving her.”
And he most definitely loves her—he wouldn’t get up at five to peel potatoes otherwise.
My words force him to dig deeper.
“It’s hard to explain why I love her.” He stares at the moving pictures on screen. “When I’m around her, I feel energized and happy for no reason. I don’t know why; it just happens. And I feel like she’s changed me. You know, I wasn’t such a great guy when I met her. But these days I look at myself and think, ‘When did I become such an awesome person? When did I become so selfless and responsible?’ I really didn’t think I was capable of being so amazing.”
I click my tongue, elbowing him. “Stop tooting your own horn.”
We both laugh and spill some more popcorn on each other. This is such a bloody waste of popcorn.
“You know, I was looking at our childhood photos this morning. You used to be really quiet when we were young.” Coop shifts around on the couch, swinging his legs over the armrest.
“I still am.”
This elicits a snort from him. “Like hell you are.”
There’s a four-year age gap between Coop and me; he told me once that he was overjoyed when I was born because now our mother would focus on me instead of nagging him all the time. In our childhood photos, Coop’s always holding me with a big, missing-tooth smile on his face. In quite a few of those photos, he’s pressing kisses onto my hairless head.
Like all siblings, we fought a lot when we were young. But he was the first to support me when I wanted to become an actress. Even though he’d only just graduated and found a job, he paid for my acting school, since I couldn’t get a full scholarship. I’m always grateful for his unflagging support.
Most people would likely go to their parents’ house rather than their sibling’s when they were down on their luck. But even discounting the fact that my parents live in a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, I still wouldn’t have gone there. Because I love Coop more. And I think he loves me more, too. When you’re struggling, you want to be in the company of positive people. My parents never supported my acting career and I don’t want to listen to their criticism of my life choices.
“Ji-ae will have to hire part-time help from now on, because I have to be at work by seven,” I say, resurfacing from my thinking.
“She’ll manage. The important thing is you.” Coop taps my cheek. “We both want to see you do well. This job could be the beginning of a new chapter of your life.”
You wish. But no matter how much I try, I can’t see myself sticking it out as a housekeeper for longer than a year—it’s too unglamorous for my glamor-seeking soul. When I die, I want to be remembered for something more than the clean floors and shiny bathrooms I left behind. I want to be remembered for the art I created, the emotions my work inspired in people. I want to be immortalized on celluloid.
“Let’s see how it goes. For all you know, I might prove to be a dud at housekeeping.”
“I don’t believe that.” Coop pats my head like you would pat a puppy’s. “You’re really smart. You’d excel at anything.”
I fist-bump his chest. “Thanks.”
“By the way, we’d better clean this up before Ji-ae comes back, or she’ll be mad,” he says, surveying the couch, the very image of a henpecked husband.
“We should,” I consent, too happy to object.
*
Strains of jazz music welcome me on Friday morning. Because I’m used to waking up at five, and I was paranoid about not being late, I ended up arriving fifteen minutes early.
Henry’s hair is mussed up when he shuffles out his room and turns on the sound system, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Seems like he just woke up.
“Good morning,” I greet brightly, eager to make a good impression. I wore my nicest clothes today—a pair of un-faded jeans and a pale pink blouse.
“I hope you don’t mind the music. I like listening to jazz in the mornings,” he says.
“Not at all.” I skip to the kitchen. “May I sing along?”
A lazy grin elongates his lips. “Please do.”
My heart chatters.
That’s a sexy grin.
No! What am I thinking? I’m not allowed to think such thoughts. The relationship between Henry and me is strictly professional.
I’m still battling my conscience when he fades into the bathroom. The sound of water running breaks me away from my errant thoughts and I focus back on the task at hand: making breakfast. Daydreaming is all fine and dandy, but if I hope to get paid, I must do my job. After those samples Ji-ae handed out to Henry, he must be expecting miracles from me.
Nevertheless, I’m prepared to bake, fry, and poach miracles today. I practiced a lot yesterday evening.
Today’s simple menu consists of French toast with berry compote (don’t worry, I bought berry compote on the way—couldn’t risk it). For sides, I’ll be serving up strawberry smoothie. (I realize that’s too much berry, but antioxidants are good for you!)
Getting to work, I whip up a storm using his top-of-the-line blender. He has really good kitchen equipment for someone who never cooks.
By the time Henry returns to the living room, I’m putting the finishing touches on my culinary masterpieces. They look and smell great. I can only hope they taste just as good.
He’s fully clothed (to my disappointment L) in blue pants and a beige shirt. The shirt’s well fitted, which means it clings scandalously to his torso. Not that there’s any six-pack there. Henry’s still scrawny, but not as much as he used to be. Wealth and good housekeepers seem to have helped him gain some weight.
His hair is wet at the ends, dripping water on the floor. I have a half a mind to tell him to wrap his hair in a towel or something. Water is going to leave stains on the floor and he might end up slipping. But it’s his house, so I can’t demand anything from him.
“Please take a seat. I’ll have breakfast out in a minute,” I say instead.
Nodding, he sits down on the table outside the kitchen, and I go back to singing along with the radio. Music was my minor at university and my instrument was the voice. So although I don’t know any of the words to these songs, I manage to scat like Ella Fitzgerald.
I balance the plate of French toast and smoothie easily, using my waitressing skills to deliver them to Henry, who is awe of this.
“I prepared a breakfast packed with antioxidants,” I whisper, leaning over his shoulder.
Mmmmm…the scent wafting up from his hair is delicious, even better than the scent of food. I’ll have to check what shampoo he uses later. He seems to have good taste in beauty products.
I tap the back of his chair. “Eat up. They’re good for your skin.”
“How did you know I have skin trouble?” he asks.
Really? He does? I can’t see any evidence of it, save for the pale brown scars dotted around his jaw, but you wouldn’t be able to see those from afar.
“I remember…from years ago.” I flatten my palms on my jeans. “You had many zits then.”
“Thank goodness those cleared up.” He lets out a mortified, strangled laugh.
Then the fork and knife clank, and he starts eating.
Backing into the kitchen, I put away things and continue belting my heart out. It doesn’t strike me that I might be too noisy or conspicuous—at least not until I catch him watching me.
His eyes are boring through me with intensity, although the cryptic expression doesn’t give any helpful hints about what he’s thinking. Do I sound like a dying cat? Is that it?
I stop immediately, self-conscious. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all.” He chews the bread in his mouth before resuming. “I was thinking you’re an awesome singer. You were really good when we were in university, too.”
“Thank you.” I perk up.
Adoration is the air I breathe. I’m really weak to flattery. Plus, it’s been missing from my life for far too long. So I bait him into giving me more of it.
“I hope the food is to your liking.”
“It’s fantastic. You really are all that you said on your résumé.” He picks away at the remnants of his toast with increased vigor.
Wait until you see my mad laundry skills, I think to myself.
Schooling his features into a staid expression, he says, “By the way, I’m trying out your sister-in-law’s lunch delivery service this week.”
“You’ll definitely not be disappointed. Ji-ae has a very high rate of repeat customers.”
Once he’s done, Henry stacks the plates one over the other and proceeds to the kitchen, where I’m twiddling my thumbs, not sure of what else to do.
Eagerly, I intercept his path, trying to get the dishes from him. “I’ll take care of them.”
It’s my job anyway. He’s paying me thirty-five dollars an hour for it. My service policy is providing the best bang for the buck.
He jumps back to dodge my extended arms. “I can do it. I don’t want to become lazy just because you’re here.”
We play the dodging game a while longer, until it becomes frustrating and I have to raise my voice. “I can’t allow you to. It’s my job now.”
He briefly considers this line of argument, then says, “It wasn’t stated in the document of duties I emailed you.”
Oh, right, that thing. He made a detailed five-page list of my duties, including ones that were daily, weekly and monthly and ones that were optional.
“Fine.” Dropping my arms to my sides, I get out of his way.
If he’s so desperate to do the dishes, who am I to stop him?
I watch him critically.
Water splashes, hitting the plate and running off the sides, falling on the metal sink in thick plops. With his sleeves pulled back, he massages the plate with a sponge before placing it in the dishwasher.
Heat snakes up my cheeks when he dips his hand into a glass. I seem to have hit a new low in life because I’m getting turned on watching Henry Stone wash dishes. I mean, really. He’s Henry Stone. And those things he’s holding are dirty dishes. Two of the un-sexiest things in one frame. What’s my problem?
“Do you sing professionally?” he asks, out of the blue, dragging my brain from the gutter back into the peaceful environs of the apartment.
A strangled sound filters out my throat. No idea where that came from. Pretending to clear my throat, I reply, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
Good as my singing is, I never had any interest in being a professional singer. My dream was always to be an actress.
“I see.”
My eyes are fastened on the rivulets of water running down his hair-smattered wrists, drenching the edge of his shirt.
“Your shirt’s getting wet. You can leave the rest to me,” I squeak from the corner, fervently praying that he heeds my advice.
Lifting his hand, he sees the soaked edges for the first time. “Ah.”
He pulls down the sleeves and flaps his hands around to get them to dry. Before he can protest, I take over the sink.
Having an overactive imagination can sometimes be such a curse.
The succeeding minutes pass in relative peace, and soon it’s time for Henry to leave.
“See you,” he says, before going to work. “I hope you and Lucien get along.”
When the last traces of his scent diffuse and disappear, air rushes out of my mouth.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath that long.
*
When I arrive at Trinity School at half past two, I’m still trying to organize all the information I received from Henry and his sister, Emilia. They both sent me emails detailing what I should and should not do regarding Lucien. The header of both the emails was: ABSOLUTELY NO SUGAR, SWEETS, OR FATTY FOODS.
Apparently, Emilia wants me to cook nothing with more than five grams of fat. How I’ll manage that, I don’t know, when the only three dishes in my repertoire—mac ’n’ cheese, pizza, and pasta—all involve copious amounts of fat.
I’ll have to download recipes. Thankfully, Henry showed me how to use the computer at his place yesterday when I came in for an orientation. He also explained where everything was and the way he likes to order things. Let’s just say, he’s a little too perfectionist for my tastes.
I mean, he wants me to wash the white and non-white clothes separately…WTF? And he organizes pens by color. OCD, anyone? Plus, the apartment’s really big (he must’ve paid through his gills for it) and getting dust out of every corner is going to be a mission in itself.
But I’m determined to impress him. It won’t do to have him looking down on me now because I’m not successful. I’ll show him how talented I am at housework and win his admiration.
As school lets out, kids come out hollering and are claimed by their waiting mothers and nannies. I fight the crowd, shouting Lucien’s name, failing to spot him.
“Excuse me, have you seen this boy by any chance?” I ask a passing mother, clutching the picture of Lucien that I printed out.
“Oh, him.” She looks at me with pity-filled eyes. “He always stays back in class. If you go in, you’ll be able to find him.”
Thanking her, I enter the building and wend my way through the hallways, marveling at how grand this place is. The public school I went to was nothing like this.
I locate the classroom and peep in. It’s empty, except for the boy sitting in the last seat, his nose buried in a book. Overgrown black locks thread down over his forehead. When he lifts his head up, I see that his eyes are a very familiar shade of electric blue—the exact shade as Henry’s and Emilia’s. Yesterday, I stalked Emilia Stone on Facebook so I know her eyes are the same color. Must run in the family.
Sweeping towards him, I paint on a smile that’s neither too friendly nor too forced. I read in an article online that it’s important to look approachable to kids, and a smile sets the right tone.
“Lucien? Hi, I’m Max, your new babysitter,” I say in dulcet tones, grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously.
He pouts. “Max—isn’t that a boy’s name? You don’t look like a boy.”
Of course not, you dolt, I think to myself. Because I’m not.
“It can be both a boy’s and a girl’s name.” I gather his stuff.
Geez, why does a fourth-grader need to play violin and cello? I never played anything when I was nine. But then again, I didn’t go to private school, either.
“It’s a weird name,” he muses, hopping off the chair.
He’s short for a nine-year-old; his head barely skims my hip.
“Not as weird as Lucien,” I shoot back.
“There’s someone in my class called Silly Sisler. We make fun of her all the time.”
“That’s not very nice of you,” I reprimand, wondering what kind of mother would name her child Silly. It’s like asking for bullying.
Managing to somehow fit all his stuff between my two hands, I waddle out of the classroom with him raking me critically.
Pinching my love handles, he turns up his nose. “You’re fatter than the previous nannies. Do you eat a lot of junk food? Fat and sugar are poison, you know.”
I barely restrain myself from screaming. Oh, Lord. He’s the precocious child. I’d prayed he’d be mild-mannered and bookish like Henry, but alas, I get an annoying twerp.
I mask my dismay with a high-pitched giggle. “Oh, you’re funny. Come on, let’s go home.”
His running commentary continues all the way to the subway station.
“Your fashion sense is really bad.”
“It’s really hot today. Where’s my Gatorade and towel?”
“Don’t walk with a slouch. It’s bad posture.”
“You forgot to refill your MetroCard? How disorganized.”
Culminating with: “You’re hurting my cello. Get your grubby hands off it!”
This is said to a fellow passenger on the subway, and earns us both an indignant look.
“Sorry, he’s learning new words in school. He doesn’t know how to use them yet,” I apologize, embarrassed beyond words.
At this point, I’m seriously considering taping his mouth. He’s more of a prima donna than me, and this subway car can only accommodate one giant-sized ego.
“How was school?” I try to steer the conversation away from his complaints.
“Same as usual. Boring.”
Then he starts with a rant about the education system. I must say, he’s pretty smart, because I can’t get most of what he’s saying. But his constant chattering is giving me a headache.
“Can you be quiet for a little bit?” I ask in my sweetest voice, bending down so my eyes are level with his.
After considering this proposition for a moment, he says, “Okay, but I want chocolate. Can we buy chocolate on the way?”
“Sorry. Your mother has categorically instructed me that you are not allowed to eat any sugar or fat. I even laid off the cheese in the pasta.”
He sighs loudly, expressing his discontent. “Everybody my age eats chocolate.”
“If you eat chocolate, you’ll become fat like me,” I remind him, although I hate using myself as an example. I’m not fat. I’m ideal weight, never mind that most of that ideal weight likes to camp out on my hips.
“You’re not fat,” he replies. “I just wanted to annoy you.”
The doors of the car open at the next station, inviting another flood of passengers. Lucien and I squeeze in one corner, his face squished against my boobs.
Staring at the lighted panel which details the train’s stops, I check how far our stop is. Still three more to go.
“Once we get home, you have to start doing your homework,” I tell him. “Then your mother wants you to practice the violin and cello. After that, you will get some outdoor exercise to keep your heart healthy and ensure you get your daily dose of vitamin D.”
“Will you help me with homework?” he questions, looking extremely doubtful.
Squirming, I push back a strand of my hair. The thought of multiplication still breaks me out in a cold sweat. I am math-phobic. Actually, unless it’s scripts I’m reading, I happen to be selectively dyslexic, too.
“I wasn’t a very good student in school, so I can’t,” I say. “And your mom said I should let you do your homework yourself.”
“Ah.” He narrows his eyes. “I get it. You weren’t very good at school, that’s why you became a maid.”
“I’m not a maid,” I clarify. “I’m a domestic helper and child-care expert.”
I got those words from the internet, when I was watching a YouTube video on how to do laundry. They make me sound infinitely more professional, so I’ll use them.
He snorts derisively. “Same thing.”
Maybe I should have taped his mouth, after all. I’ll have to remember to bring along the tape lying at the bottom of Coop’s stationery cabinet tomorrow.
Finally, the train halts at our stop.
We arrive at Henry’s apartment just as I’m wondering whether I should mix sleeping pills with Lucien’s lunch and spare myself a whole evening of his analysis of the world’s problems. But as soon as we’re in the apartment, he runs off to the bathroom, leaving me to revel in glorious silence.
The silence is remarkably short-lived, though, because he comes back screaming.
“Where’s lunch?”
“In the process of being made,” I reply, staring at the pot of water I just put on the stove. There’s not a single bubble in it yet.
His stomach lets out a loud whine. “I want to eat now.”
“In five minutes. Practice violin until then.”
I’m going to make him instant noodles today. I already checked the fat content on the packet and it was less than five grams, so it should be okay.
“I wonder what fat tastes like,” Lucien wonders aloud, tuning his violin. “Probably really disgusting.”
Abandoning the pot, I fly to his side. “Are you kidding me? Fat is the most heavenly thing in the world.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never eaten any.”
“C’mon. You must’ve at least eaten ice-cream.”
He looks at me as if I asked him whether he’s eaten a dinosaur.
“Cake? Tart? Pastries? Macaroons?”
No again.
By this point, I’m kneeling next to him. “Tell me you’ve at least eaten pizza.”
“Yeah, once. Low-fat, thin crust with vegan cheese,” he says. “My mom is a cardiologist, so she’s strict about my diet. It’d be terrible to get high cholesterol and rotten teeth at this age.”
“Poor you,” I cry sympathetically.
No wonder he’s so crazy. It’s my personal theory that fat and sugar help the brain stay happy and normal. His mental balance has been disturbed by a lack of fat.
As I’m wondering how to remedy his mental condition, somebody buzzes at the door. I scurry to the security monitor that shows Rick’s face. Rick’s the guy who delivers Ji-ae’s lunches around town. He speaks into the system to let me know that Ji-ae sent me lunch to feed the kid because she was worried I might not be able to get everything together in time.
Glancing back at the pot of boiling water, I decide to be grateful for her intervention and collect the lunchbox from Rick. Today’s special is shepherd’s pie, roast potatoes and broccoli, with brownie for dessert.
It smells great. I wish I could eat it, but duty dictates that I feed Lucien first. I’ll make do with instant noodles.
Placing the lunchbox on the table, I clap my hands to catch Lucien’s attention. “Here’s your lunch. There’s even dessert.”
Dumping his violin on the floor, he races to the table, undiluted enthusiasm lighting up his pale face. I brush away the hair that’s falling over his eyes. This kid needs a haircut. Maybe I’ll give him one later.
Lucien sniffs the food on the table and steps back, angling his eyes up. “What’s this?”
Widening my eyes, I sing in an artificial voice. “Delicious lunch. Look! There’s even broccoli.”
This doesn’t convince him to go any closer to it. With a huff, I throw my hands on the table. I can’t believe this kid. How could he not like something that smells so divine? When I was struggling in LA, I longed for such wholesome food every day, but had to settle for whatever I could find.
“Too much starch,” he grumbles, stabbing at the pie with a fork now. “Carbohydrates are empty energy.”
Off with him. I should eat this myself and feed him the bland ramen.
“Quit nitpicking. There are many people who don’t get to eat food like this.”
This does nothing to change his opinion.
Circling the table like a prowling cat, he lifts up his nose. “Is it okay to feed me this? What if I die of clogged arteries? Are you going to take responsibility then?”
I pat him on the back (actually, it’s more like a shove). “You’re too young to think about clogged arteries. So just be grateful for your youth and eat it.”
Still unsure, he resists, but when his stomach wails again, he ventures a spoonful of pie into his mouth.
“Ah!” A sharp exclamation bursts forth. He drops the fork, the muscles in his face freezing.
“What’s wrong?” Worry grips me. Hell, was there something in there that he’s allergic to? No, that can’t be. Emilia didn’t mention Lucien being allergic to anything in her email, so I assumed he wasn’t.
But what if he is? How could I have known?
Fuck. Having to take him to the hospital for an allergic reaction will ruin my first day, not to mention get me sacked.
Rushing to grab water from the fridge, I am relieved to hear him cry, “Delicioussss.”
Closing his eyes, he lets out a pleased sound and hurriedly stuffs more into his mouth. “Even better than chocolate.”
I slump against the fridge, thankful beyond measure. I was really scared something had happened to him.
“When you’re done, you can throw it in the trash,” I say, bringing him water and purloining the dessert for myself. I don’t want to overdo it. We’ll take it step by step: fat first, sugar later.
“It’s plastic. It should be recycled,” he reminds me. “Lazy people who throw out plastic with trash hurt the environment.”
“Fine. Then recycle it.”
Why do I feel like I’ve acquired a new mother-in-law?
Anyway, with lunch sorted, I need to worry about the rest of the house. I immediately reach for the vacuum cleaner and get busy. By the time I’m finished dealing with all the dust in the house, Lucien has recycled the plastic container and is doing his homework. He’s really quiet—I can’t even hear the scratch of pencil against paper.
Leaving him to it, I think back to what Ji-ae told me this morning. She said that I shouldn’t just do the bare minimum work. I should do something extra to impress Henry with my dedication. When I scan the living room, my eyes fasten on the royal-blue curtains fluttering at the window. Creeping closer, I spot a layer of dust on them.
That’s it! This is my chance to shine. I’ll wash the curtains and earn brownie points from Henry. Plucking a ladder from the kitchen, I climb up and wrest away the curtains from the frame. They feel frail in my hands. They’re old; they must have been his parents’. I must take care to wash them well.
Excitedly, I trot to the laundry room and dump the curtains in the washer. It’s a really big and swanky one that loads from the top. As I’m about to grab the detergent, music shoots through the radio—I left it on—and it is The Show Must Go On. The song stirs emotions within me, freeing the actress in me. The mood’s too perfect to waste.
In the throes of emotion, I grab the nearest microphone-looking object—a bottle of bleach—bringing it close, playing with the cap as I belt out the words.
“The show must go ooooon!”
Spreading my arms wide at the last note, I take a bow.
That’s when I hear the sound of liquid dripping.
“Fuck,” I scream, realizing the bleach’s dripped into the washing machine.
It’s streaking over the curtains, settling deeper into the azure folds. In a hurry, I switch on the machine. Water should dilute it, I reason, throwing in some detergent for good measure. Then I shut the machine, hoping miracles work themselves and give me perfectly washed curtains at the end of it all.
With that behind me, I empty the dishwasher and go around the house, polishing stuff. Lucien stays put and practices cello (he’s surprisingly good…), although he does annoy me with some more of his smart-alec comments.
“You’re just shifting the dust around with that kind of cleaning, you know.”
I can only conclude that Emilia is a really opinionated woman who has opinions on everything, from subways to the right color of kitchen sponge to use, to vacuuming technique, which she constantly voices to her son.
I mostly ignore him.
Soon, the washing’s done and it is time to retrieve the curtains. But when I lift the curtains up to check them, I shriek.
No! No! No!
What happened to the pretty curtains?
There are ugly slashes of white running across the pale, bleached blue. My heart sinks. These drapes are ruined. Henry’s so gonna fire me after a fiasco like this. I was just warming up to the job, too…
“What’s the deal? Why’re you howling?” Lucien bursts into the laundry room.
He gauges the situation quickly when he spies the white and blue cloth in my hand. There is only one conclusion to draw.
“No way! You bleached the curtains?”
I use the lamest excuse in the book of excuses. “I thought that was the detergent.”
Picking up the bottle of bleach, Lucien thrusts it closer to my face. “Can’t you read? It says ‘bleach’ in red letters.”
“Fine. I was daydreaming about being a superstar. But all is not lost. I’ll buy new curtains. I was going out to shop anyway.”
“Max, Max, Max…you can’t replace those curtains. Those were antique silk curtains gifted to Uncle Henry by the king of Ceylon. They’re worth thousands of dollars.”
My jaw drops a million miles. “What?”
Thousands of dollars for curtains? I want to cry. Wasn’t being a housekeeper supposed to be easy? How can I be making a loss on my very first day?
I’m so not cut out for this drudgery.
“What should I do now?” I look at Lucien anxiously, hoping for an answer.
His tiny hand lands on my collarbone, his eyes slitting with pleasure. “Don’t worry. I have an idea.”
There’s surety in his voice, which eases my heart. I chase away the whisper in my head that tells me not to trust a nine-year-old. Kids these days are really smart, I tell myself. Ji-ae says that all the time, especially when she’s watching child prodigies on Ellen. Lucien has all the makings of a child prodigy. I believe in him.
“What’s the idea?”
He produces a black credit card and dangles it in front of my nose. “Use my mom’s credit card to buy new curtains. You can’t afford it on your salary.”
Can’t argue with that point. Right now, my savings account has a net total of three hundred dollars.
“But wouldn’t using your mom’s credit card be identity theft?”
“Not at all. She’s given it to me to use. I even know the PIN. If she asks me, I’ll tell her I bought a new cello or something.”
“And what will you say when she notices there’s no cello?”
“I’ll say I lost it on the subway. She believes the subway is unsafe, anyway. She’ll lap that story up like fat-free chili.”
The logic doesn’t click in my head immediately, but the pieces slowly fall into place. I can use Emilia’s credit card to replace the curtains and all will be well again. Nobody has to know until the end of the month. Oh, my God, Lucien Stone is an actual genius. This idea could work.
“Sounds like a plan.”
I reach for the card, but he pulls it away.
“Not so fast, Max,” he says. “I’m not going to let you use my card for free. You have to promise to buy me chocolate.”
Oh, that devilish gleam in his eye—it’s like he planned the entire thing. But I’m not in a position to bargain here. Besides, I don’t see the harm in feeding a kid some chocolate. Eating chocolate should be a constitutional right for kids, if you ask me.
“Fine.” Pushing to my feet, I stretch out my hand towards him.
He meets my hand with his, in a mock handshake. “Let’s go, then. I know where you can buy cheap curtains that look exactly the same.”
The deal’s been struck.
Only later that day do I realize that sugar and kids are the deadliest combination in the world.
