Page 9 of Clean Out of Luck

When Claire Beckett,my coworker at the courthouse, tells me I look like I stepped out of an ad for a paper bag company, I don’t say anything rude. Nothing. I smile at her and walk away. Clunking my way to my desk in my oversized flats.

I’d like to tell her how she looks like she’s been sucking on lemons, but I bottle it. I don’t tell her she’s still dressing like an old millennial.

As usual, she loves getting a rise out of me.

But when work is over, I hurry away from my desk, keeping my eyes focused on my phone, because I don’t want to hear anyone else tearing apart my appearance or fake a cordial goodbye to her.

I speed walk past the desk that’s home to Claire, the meanest woman in Serendipity Springs, then I hurry home, pedaling my trusty bike as fast as I can. I’m so glad it’s spring again so I can bike to work on the nice days.

Fresh air is good for the soul. Especially when I’m angry. I can pedal that bike fast and furious and get home in about half the time it would take to drive there.

When I reach The Serendipity, I park the bike in it’s designated spot, run up the entry steps, and finally make it inside after dropping my keys three times.

A few people stand in the lobby chatting. I purposefully keep my head down and walk straight for the stairs that lead down to my basement apartment. I don’t have the capacity to make small talk this evening.

When I reach my apartment, I promptly pull out my broom and sweep away my frustration.

Some people run to work through anger. I clean.

Claire has belittled me ever since I started working at the courthouse. She started six months before I did and felt threatened by a new hire. I know her insecurities have nothing to do with me personally, but it doesn’t stop her from lashing out at me any chance she gets.

And when she does, I come home and clean. I figure it’s better than ending up on the other side of the courtroom, explaining to the judge why I assaulted another court reporter.

I put away the broom. I feel marginally better.

But not quite there. I reach for the mop, left behind from the last tenant.

For some reason, this mop cleans really well, and the best I can figure out is that it’s an old one, made with better-quality materials. The mophead always seems to stay white, no matter how dirty the floor gets.

And it’s satisfying to watch all the dirt wash away.

I prep my bucket then swirl the mop around in the warm, soapy water. After wringing it out, I scrub vigorously at the stained concrete floor. Each time I push the mop forward, I grunt. I’m going to scrub this floor to a sparkling shade of white, which is impossible because it’s gray. But there’s something so satisfying about cleaning when you’re angry. And it keeps me from saying things. I call it aconstructive outlet. And I get a clean apartment out of the deal.

“I wish Claire would have a bad shoe day,” I mutter as I work my way into the kitchen, scrubbing extra hard on the spot where I spilled my bowl of cereal this morning.

My phone chimes, distracting me from imagining Claire’s face where I mop. I lean the mop against the small vintage-style fridge and pick up my phone from where it sits on the island.

It’s a text from my brother.

PHOENIX

Getting tacos for dinner.

It’s so random—and not the usual kind of text Phoenix sends me.He’s more of aget to the pointkind of communicator. But today, he’s texting about tacos—somethingIconsider important.

SCARLETT

Thanks for the update. Anything else I should know?

PHOENIX

I bought the extra guac.

He texts me a picture of his plate of tacos with a huge bowl of guac next to it. It makes me almost drool.

I’d ignored his texts the other day when he started asking nosy questions like, ‘are you going on a date this week?’

And maybe he got the message, because this seems like his version of an olive branch.

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