Page 103 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
The woman’s frown only deepens. So much for being friendly. I want to tell her she ought to be careful. The older she gets, the more those frown lines are going to make her look like she has jowls, but I bite the comment back. Jack is too perceptivefor me to fully unleash my snark in his presence. The child repeats everything I say. He’s already smart enough without my sassiness added into the mix.
I hand the tardy slip to Jack and kiss him on the head. “Have a good day, okay?”
He nods and shuffles down the hallway. He only has to go a few doors down to get to his classroom, so I watch him the whole way, knowing he’ll turn and smile before he pushes through the door. I hate that I know this. That we’ve been late enough times thatthishas become the routine.
“You know,” the admin lady says to me through pursed lips, “it really does impact the functionality of the classroom when kids are continually late. And it diminishes the importance of promptness to our children when we allow tardiness to become the norm.”
I know all this.Of courseI do. But I’m doing the best I can, and I’m doing it alone. Putting on a brave face for my kid. Pushing through the never-ending exhaustion because I don’t have another person to help balance the load. It’s just me.
“Have you thought about putting Jack on the bus in the morning?” the woman continues.
Ha.That’s a funny suggestion. Our house falls at the beginning of the bus route. We tried it a few times at the beginning of the school year, but Jack had to be at the bus stop by seven-fifteen. Which, if we can barely handle eight o'clock, we for sure aren’t ready for seven-fifteen.
I force a smile. “The bus comes pretty early to our house. And things have been pretty tough since Jack’s dad died.”
The woman’s expression shifts, the stony edges and stark lines of her features softening the slightest bit. “Well. Yes, I’m . . . I’m sure.” She presses a hand against her chest.
It’s a common response. That hand right up against the sternum. Like people are trying to anchor their bodies to the earth.
I smile, this time a little more sincerely.
She’ll be nicer to me now.
I give her a little wave on my way out. “Have a nice day.”
It maybe wasn’t completely fair. I mean, it has been hard since Trevor died. It’s also been three years, and my feelings surrounding the loss are more complicated than most. It’s hard without Trevor. It was also hard . . .withTrevor.
But no matter that, or how long ago it was, or whether the sharpness of loss has started to dim, I’m still alone. Parenting alone, trying to make ends meet alone. Sending my only child off to school alone.
Weshouldget to school on time.
But if showing my hand earns us a little grace, I’ll take it wherever I can get it. Lord knows I need it.
Back at home, I settle at my desk with an enormous coffee and two slices of thick, buttered toast and log in to the software that connects me with my clients. I only have two, and so far, their needs have been pretty low key, but I like to log in early anyway. It’s only been a couple of months since I completed my training as a virtual assistant, but Marley, my trainer and the liaison who helps me find my clients, says we’re being paid to be available as much as we’re being paid to do the actual work. If we’re inside our hours of availability, our clients should never have to wait more than a few minutes for a response.
Fortunately, my hours of availability are only during Jack’s school hours. I’m lucky I can get by working fewer hours than a typical nine to five. My schedule is more like nine to two. Trevor’s military benefits and insurance policies fill in the gaps, but I’d rather save the majority of that money for Jack.
A familiar twinge of guilt rises up like bile in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. Jack deserves everything. Even if I’m not so sure that I do.
Either way, I like working. I don’t necessarily likethe work,but it feels good to be doing something to contribute toward Jack’s wellbeing.
Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to make work something I truly love.
In my wildest dreams, I’m teaching piano and voice lessons out of an at-home music studio. But I know better than to give that dream roots. I’m hardly qualified, no matter how much I like to sing. And truly, answering emails and managing calendars from the comfort of my own home isn’t a half-bad gig.
My inbox and task list are still empty, so I kill time by fiddling on my iPad, using a drawing program to finish the avatar I’ve been working on. The program Marley uses to connect us with clients has a “personal bio” section that contains a little information about me and has a place for a photo. When I first started, I put up a fairly recent photo and called it good. But after the experience I had with my first client—a fancy pants CEO who took less than a week to ask me if he could fly me to Chicago and pay me a thousand dollars a night for escort services—I pulled the photo down and haven’t replaced it. Marley suggested I create a cartoon avatar, something that still looks like a representation of me but is a little less personal.
“You’re young, Lila. And beautiful,” Marley told me. “And most of your clients are going to be men twice your age. Unfortunately, the more distance you keep between them and your personal life, the easier this job is going to be.” I’m not sure if I believe the beautiful part, but for Jack’s sake, I’m on board with keeping things impersonal, even if it goes against my natural inclination.
I’m not a great artist by any stretch, but I still think my avatar is pretty cute. Her hair is up in a ponytail and is the same deep brown that Jackson and I share. She’s featureless, but the way she’s tilting her head makes her seem friendly. Approachable. But she also seems . . .young.Maybe it’s the ponytail? Struck with a sudden wave of inspiration, I make a few tweaks, changing the hairstyle and adjusting a few colors.
There.Now she’s perfect. Gray hair. Glasses. Pearls and a dowdy sweater set. Not anything like me. But does she really need to be? These men I’m working for will never meet me in person. It’s the magic of a virtual job. It really is all virtual.
I’ve just finished uploading my new and improved avatar when my phone rings and Marley’s face fills the screen.
“Hey, Marley.”
“Hey! I’m glad I caught you. I have news. Or, a job, really. Kind of a big one.”
