Today is the day. Bobby is coming home this afternoon. I hope the plane he's currently on crashes into a deserted island where he'll live for years and grow old before anyone finds him again.
Because he's coming home Mrs. Townsend wants the house spotless, even though it already is. She's making us clean everything we cleaned this morning all over again to get rid of every last dust particle and dirt speck. As if Bobby will care. He'll come in, tracking in mud from his shoes all over the floors, and won't even notice our work at all. Then he'll expect us to clean up after his careless tracks. Why should we put in any effort now, just because Mrs. Townsend wants to throw a party for her son's homecoming?
And the party won't be that exciting anyway. Just Mrs. Townsend and her "friends" meeting in the yard while she flaunts her money and her son (who she only had to say she had him). Her and her friends aren't even real friends; just other rich people who all hate each other and talk to each other condescendingly. Why bother at all?
Mom has to keep scolding me about paying attention to my work. Twice I've almost knocked over the same vase, but I can't help it. Mom's the one who told me to dust the living room (the most boring task of all), and the living room has three huge windows with an excellent view of the front yard and the road beyond it.
It's not the yard or the people or the tables that I'm interested in. The tables are set up because the party will be outside tonight, and the dinner my dad and the rest of the kitchen staff made will be served out there. Melanie, another maid like Mom and I (and one of my favorites), is looking over the set up. Her job is to decide on the flowers, the tableware, the tablecloths, everything, and then present the finished work to Mrs. Townsend. And if she doesn't like it, then they have to start over with even less time to work with than before.
But, as I said, I'm not really interested in any of that. My only part in the party will be to stand in as a waitress and bring out the food and beverages and pour water/wine for these people who are too uppity to do it themselves. This dinner is nothing but an extra job for me.
What I'm interested in is past the yard, on the road, where there's a boy on the street. Three times now I've noticed him go by on a skateboard. I've seen him before, only in the last couple months, sometimes walking past, sometimes jogging. He has blond hair that falls to about his shoulders, and an athletic build. I desperately wish I could meet him, but I would feel strange randomly going up to him and asking him his name.
"Essa! Watch what you're doing!" Mom yells as I bump the vase again. It tilts back and forth, tipping as it's about to fall off the table it rests on. Mom shrieks in horror, but I twist and shoot my hand out in time to snatch it out of the air. Carefully, I put the vase back and flash Mom a reassuring smile.
"Caught it," I tell her, grinning proudly. "It's okay. You can relax."
She scowls at me. "Be careful! Remember, you break it, you pay for it," she warns me before going back to sweeping the floor. I turn back to the windows to dust fingerprints, and I hear Mom sigh. "Maybe I should send you outside to help with the preparations instead of cleaning."
Instantly I spin around to stop her. "NO!" I protest. I know if she sends me out I'll be a bigger klutz, and I'll never get any work done; I'll be looking for the boy instead. "If you want me to work, send me to the kitchens to help Dad."
She waves off my offer like some pesky fly. "Essa, you know you can't cook."
I groan and cross my arms over my chest, my duster poking out from under one arm. "Then let Dad teach me! In one more year, I'll be going to college and I'll have to take care of myself. I need to learn."
She shakes her head. "Not today. Not when everything has to be perfect for this evening," she argues as she sweeps a miniscule pile of dirt into the trashcan. "Another time, maybe
Just go outside and help Melanie set tables."
Sighing, I set down my duster, grumbling under my breath. If Mrs. Townsend wants her son's return to be perfect, why doesn't she at least join in and help other than giving everyone orders?
I walk out of the living room and down the hall, a long walkway lined with huge family portraits and several chandeliers dangling from the fifteen foot ceiling. I suppose it would be grand and amazing to see, but I've walked this hallway so many times in my life I've become immune to its extravagance.
At the end of the hallway is the door to the outside. Steeping out onto the fresh, green lawn, I inhale deeply. The flowers on the tables give off a sweet, pungent smell, and there's a cool breeze blowing through, refreshing after the recent stifling heat and humidity. The breeze makes my long flowy skirt swish around my feet.
Melanie waves me over and I walk across the lawn to meet her. "Mom sent me to help you guys since I almost broke a vase," I tell her. "So, can I help with anything?"
She nods briskly. "There are some tables that need set, and we still need to pick which flowers to use as centerpieces." She motions to the table where vases of flowers are set up.
"What kinds do we have to choose from?" I ask, looking over at the table.
Melanie walks over to the table and lists off the names. "Carnations, marigolds, purple lilacs, white lilacs, white daisies, and yellow daisies."
After examining the flowers for a moment I say, "Go with the lilacs." She opens her mouth to ask which color but I cut her off. "Both colors. Everything out here is white, see?" I say, motioning around at the white linen cloths, tableware, and even the vases. "The white lilacs will go well, and the purple is pale so it'll bring some color without going to the extremes of the pastels." "Will Mrs. Townsend like that?" Melanie asks anxiously. I roll my eyes. Seems to me that's the most frequently asked question around here" Will Mrs. Townsend like that.
I nod positively. "The season for lilacs is almost over anyway, so we'll have to use them or they'll just go to waste," I point out.
"That's actually a good idea," says someone from behind me. I turn, surprised, to see Mrs. Townsend herself, standing nearby, dressed in one of her housedresses with her brown curls left down. She walks closer with an air of grace and importance that seems to intimidate everyone else who's standing nearby. I make sure to lift my chin and stand straight - refusing to be intimidated - as she asks, "You're the Wildes' daughter, aren't you?"
Nodding, I respond, "Their oldest daughter, yes." I see Melanie shoot me a look, silently telling me not to correct Mrs. Townsend, even slightly.
Mrs. Townsend only nods. "That's a lovely idea. We'll go with that... Essalinda, isn't it?" I cringe at hearing my full first name, but nod politely. Mom wanted my sister and me to be better off in life than her and Dad, so she gave us her idea of "strong" names: Essalinda and Cassandra. We both loathe our names, both so long, so we go by Essa and Cass. Mrs. Townsend goes on, "You'll be one of the servers tonight, yes?" Again, I nod. She looks me over with a sneer. "Please wear something nicer than that," she says with disgust. "And wash your hair." With that she walks away towards the house, spouting orders as she goes, and I'm left to try to hold back my anger at her comments.
I guess I don't look very presentable, especially when compared to Mrs. Townsend's silky brown hair and expensive gowns. Still, it rubs me the wrong way, especially the part about my hair. My hair's not dirty, exactly, just uncontrollably curly in a way I can't help. Blonde curls that frizz out a lot in humidity like this, and stick out all over the place, unlike the cute bouncy curls you see on TV celebrities. Everyone always tells me how pretty my hair is and how they wish their hair was curly, but I want straight hair. No one seems to understand that when my hair looks good it's because it's either freshly washed and hasn't dried yet, or because I used a lot of hair products in it. I've even tried to straighten my hair, and it just curled again fifteen minutes later.
But even I have to admit that my clothes aren't fancy or cute. A gray tank-top, a flowy blue skirt (secretly my favorite article of clothing) that falls down all the way to my ankles, and my dad's old work boots, dirty and falling apart, handed down to me (because I asked for them) after Dad got a new pair. Even if my clothes aren't fancy, I like them; they're comfortable, and they're like... me.
Melanie scuttles up beside me to whisper, "You will dress up, won't you? Not like that one party..." She trails off and I can tell she's thinking back to when I was fifteen and Mrs. Townsend had scolded me right before one of her parties, so to get back at her I came out in my pajamas. I got in trouble, but it was worth it to see Mrs. Townsend turn beet red to have one of her maids being so improper in front of all her friends.
"No, don't worry, Mel. I promised you I wouldn't do that again," I laugh, my anger shaken away by her worries. "I have a dress I can wear anyway. Now, how else can I help?"
I spend the rest of the afternoon helping Melanie set tables. Though I watch the road carefully, the boy doesn't go by again that afternoon.