Page 28 of The Maid's Secret

In the echoing hallways, I jostled against exuberant teenage boys,all on their way to the cafeteria, as was I. I pushed my skirt down my thighs, wishing it covered my whole legs and not just my knees.

I felt a hand grab my arm. “Hey,” I heard.

I turned to find the redheaded, catcalling boy from class standing in front of me. His pale eyes were skittish and twitchy, and he was short, not even my height. Away from his classmates, he suddenly seemed much less intimidating.

“Are you really Flora Gray, daughter of Reginald Gray, head of Gray Investments?” he asked.

I nodded.

I watched as a new esteem for me colored his expression. I was used to this. My father’s name engendered awe in most circles, young and old. I will admit that I enjoyed it a little too much and even puffed up a bit.

“I…had no idea who you were. I’m Percival Peterson.” He held out a thin, pasty hand. “I’ve heard about you from my folks.”

“And I’ve heard not a word about you,” I replied, “which suggests my parents believe you’re beneath me.”

This is how I was at the time, Molly. When wronged, I leapt for revenge.

“For a flower, you’re sure no shrinking violet,” said Percival.

“Correct,” I replied.

He grinned as the tides of students swam around us. “Walk with me?” he said. “The cafeteria’s hard to find. I’ll show you the way.”

We strode through the labyrinthine hallways, turning this way and that, Percival telling me all about his professor parents and how they had holdings with Gray Investments. He talked about his two golden-boy brothers, both older than he was, and both acing statistics at university.

“How come you’re not streaming toward math like they did?” I asked.

“I suck at numbers,” Percival replied. “I’m not good at lit either, butI figure I can watch the movies of some of the books and pass if I’m lucky. We’re here,” he said, pointing to a set of heavy doors and the sign above them that readMESS HALL.

“Sorry for what I said about you in class,” Percival offered. “I was a jerk. Forgiven?” he asked, holding out his meek hand.

“Forgiven,” I said as I shook it firmly, glad to leave the classroom antics behind us.

“Hey, you were taking lots of notes in class. Can I see them?” he asked, his skittish eyes meeting mine.

All I could think about was a mouse Mrs.Mead once cornered in her cottage, how it looked up at her broom, hoping beyond hope to survive her wrath.

“I will grant you that privilege,” I said, taking my notes from my binder and handing them to Percival. “But I’ll need them back.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “Get ready, Flora. The mess hall is madness.” He pushed through the heavy doors as I followed.

The shrieks and roars of hundreds of hungry, unruly teenage boys assaulted my ears. Four headmasters stood sentry like points on a compass, alert to signs of impending food fights. Not far from us was a long table of boys from my class. They were shoveling food into their mouths from fresh cafeteria trays. They spotted us, waving and yelling, “Percy! Percy!”

I looked around, trying to find a spot to sit, but the only empty seats were at a table at the back of the hall. Alone, sitting on one end, was Uncle Willy’s son, John. Beside him was an open lunch box, the only lunch box in sight. He took out a small parcel wrapped in wax paper. His eyes met mine, and I looked away.

Percival ambled over to the boys from our class, and I followed, but right before we arrived at their table, he turned to face me.

“I showed you the way here, but that’s all I can do,” he said. “You have to understand, you’ll never be one of the boys.”

He dashed to the table, where his classmates made space for him.

At the back of the room, I could feel eyes on me—John, watching from afar. He bit into a roast beef and cucumber sandwich, Mrs.Mead’s specialty. He held out a hand, inviting me to take the empty place next to him. A red fury flared up my neck and cheeks. I turned my back on him and marched out of the mess hall.

—

Chapter 9

When I was young, I was exuberantly curious. I wanted to know everything there was to know. I used to pepper Gran with pressing questions as we sat at our kitchen table eating breakfast. One morning I asked what she would spend her money on if she suddenly became rich.

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