Page 6

In which yet again, we learn that no good deed goes unpunished.

Arabella…

The pounding on my front door dinnae wake me, but the repeated texts from Meera did. Stumbling to the door, I open it to see my aggrieved friend with a covered breakfast plate, wearing leggings and a t-shirt that says “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to be here.” This is a phrase she is also not shy about saying out loud.

“Good morning!” she chirps, “Can I come in, then?” Since she’s already through the door and heading for my tiny kitchen, there’s no need for an answer. I lock the door, double-checking it before I head over.

“Oh… ye are too good to me, my friend.” She’s brought crispy bacon, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, and her specialty, tattie scones. I shove half of one in my mouth, groaning in pleasure. The crisp outside of the scone and the soft, buttery potato center is divine.

“Ye look terrible,” she says, looking me over with a frown.

“Thank ye for your refreshing honesty,” I say sourly.

“Sorry, I meant ye look like ye dinnae sleep a wink. Understandable, but ye canna keep that up.”

“Did ye get the kids off to school?” I ask, going in for a slice of bacon. I’m gobbling breakfast down with all the manners of a farm animal but Meera isn’t the judgmental type.

“Aye, they’re fine.” She leans against the counter, folding her arms. “I noticed a police car circling the block a few times, looks like that detective is actually concerned for your safety?”

The bacon’s suddenly dry, stuck in my throat and I take a huge gulp of juice to get it down. “It’s nice that she ordered the patrol but we both know they’ll circle ‘round for a couple of days and then it’s back to business as usual.”

Meera gives me The Eye, the look that makes her kids immediately cave and confess everything they might have done wrong for the last six months.

“Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?” she asks, pushing a little basket of muffins toward me.

The muffins are blueberry; she always sprinkles some coarse sugar over the top and it makes them sparkle a bit. It’s easier to think about the visual appeal of her baked goods than the reality of what’s happened to me. Telling Meera about last night could endanger her, too. I dinnae tell Detective Christie the whole truth and I still haven’t parsed out why.

“I haven’t…” I rub my eyes. “I dinnae want to talk about it right now, aye? I’m gonna need some time.”

Here’s why she’s one of my favorite people. She abandons giving me The Eye, and nods slowly. “All right. But I can tell this is twisting ye all up and this is not just about the attack - though that’s terrible enough. Promise me that ye will not try to handle this on your own.”

That opens a whole new terrifying horizon.

Who could I talk to? This is so much bigger than me. This is cloak and dagger shite, planned assassinations, a man who can kill… shite, he probably killed those guys at the fundraiser because I never saw them again and then these two and with a knife and-

“Ach, girl, you’re spiraling, ye should see your expression right now.” Meera’s waving her hands in front of my face. “Have a muffin. Take a moment. You’re making me anxious and when I’m anxious I bake and Connor says he’s gained two stone in the last month and he’s gonna hide my Ooni Spiral mixer if I canna find another way to handle stress.”

Poor Connor. Her husband has been putting on weight recently and morally, I canna contribute to that.

“Please, dinnae worry.” I reach across the counter, squeezing her hand. “Let me… I’ll work it out in my head first, and we’ll talk.” I glance over at my clock on the wall and yelp. “I’m gonna be late for work!”

“I think ye should call in sick,” she protests, “what about your foot?”

“It’s a teaching day, not a catering one, thank god,” I’m already limping to my bedroom. “I can sit down the entire time. Thank you for breakfast!”

It is, apparently, possible to pay too much attention to your surroundings. It’s a miracle I make it to the school without getting run over by a bus or knocked senseless by a delivery bike. Checking behind me every six seconds means I walked into a puzzled businessman and a block later, the corner of an office building.

I know who I’m looking for. That enormously tall, extremely fine-looking man.

Why would he be following ye, ye eejit?

Why was he following me last night, ye numpty?

Grand. I’m arguing with myself. That just screams of emotional stability.

I’m walking down the hall to my classroom when my phone rings. It’s Kevin, my catering boss.

“Hey there Arabella…” he’s clearing his throat. That’s never good. “Look, so… I’m gonna have to let ye go.”

“What? Why?”

“Uh, well, bookings have slowed down, so I dinnae need as many servers, and…”

The fury hits me hard, but I swallow it down. “Is this about last night? Did Mrs. MacGregor demand that you fire me?”

“Look, ye know how it is. She’s a very important client and she was upset about your lack of professionalism-”

“Wait. Hold up, Kevin. Professionalism?” I look around the hall, trying to keep my voice low. “There’s Marcella, who ‘accidentally’ grabs a hot guy’s crotch at nearly every party. And- and Jonah, he dropped a steak knife on that poor woman’s hand at the Wetlands Gala. The guest last night wasn’t upset, he even helped me pick up the glasses! I’ve never missed a day of work! I’m always on time!”

I feel like my case is strong, but he’s not listening. “Ye must understand that she’s a very important client. She hires us all the time, and if she starts complaining to her friends, it could be a real problem.”

“I need this job.” It bursts out, raw, and embarrassing but I’m not above begging.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “your job performance was unsatisfactory and this isn’t negotiable, I’m sorry. I’ll have your final check for ye when ye drop off your uniforms.”

Ending the call, I limp into the nearest empty classroom, stifling my sobs. I canna get a higher position with better pay here at the school without the full postgraduate teacher’s certification. And I canna afford the postgraduate tuition to get the degree without a second job.

Calling Meera, I search the classroom for some tissues.

“I got fired from my catering job.”

“What the hell?” she snaps. “Why?”

“Kevin told me it was due to spilling a tray of champagne on a guest last night,” I say, forcing my voice not to wobble. No crying.

“One accident? One and that’s all it takes for him to fire a reliable employee?” She snorts loudly. “I’ve seen those clumsy sods you work with waiting tables before. They’ve all dropped a tray or two!”

“Kevin wouldn’t say it, but I think the hostess, Mrs. MacGregor, was put off by my hearing disability,” I admit. “She dinnae want me there.”

“That’s just plain bullshite!” I love Meera for her ability to be fully outraged on the behalf of her friends. It’s deeply comforting.

“I’m used to the overreactions I sometimes get when people realize I’m nearly deaf,” I say, “but they usually give it a few minutes and see I handle everything just fine.”

“Oh, goodness, like this is surely the most shocking thing imaginable and when did people with disabilities really just go gallivanting around in polite society?” I love her sarcasm, too. “Ye must sue Kevin! This is ridiculous!”

“Aye, that,” I sigh. “Mrs. MacGregor definitely took it to the next level last night, shouting in my face and exaggerating her speech, like I’m stupid and not hard of hearing.” I find the tissues and dab at the tears leaking out of my treacherous eyes. “I’m not really mad at Kevin - okay I am, the weak-willed bastard - but I see his point. That woman’s a vengeful cow and he dinnae want to risk his business.”

“It’s still wrong!”

“Thanks for letting me whine a wee bit. It will all work out.”

“Just out of curiosity,” she says, “what was last night’s MacGregor fundraiser for?”

I give a watery chuckle. “The Sense Scotland Foundation. They’re a charity that supports complex communication needs. They donate devices to the school all the time.”

“Agh!” Meera shrieks. “If ye dinnae sue him, I will!”

After a quick cry in the empty room and scrubbing away the evidence, I paste a big smile on my face as I walk into my Juniors Class. These bairns are between five and twelve, and they’re getting so confident with their signing.

How’s everyone today? I sign.

Good!

Grand.

Not so bad.

I got my phone taken away last night.

The surly comment comes from Roger, a twelve-year-old with a perpetually pouty expression and the quickest mind of any bairn in the class.

Though getting him to sit still is about as easy as wrestling a Tasmanian Devil into a sundress.

I’m glad to know, I sign, except for your news, Roger. He gives me a shrug.

So, I thought we’d try something new today, I sign. You’ve all been moving ahead so fast with the lessons that I think ye deserve a little something extra.

Ah, that’s got their attention.

I learned how to read lips back when I started losing my hearing. I want to teach you all a bit. It can definitely come in handy.

Like, if ye wanna be a spy? Roger signs.

Exactly that, I wink. Ye deserve every advantage, aye? Think how handy it would be to get a better idea of what’s going on around ye.

The unwelcome vision of reading those arseholes lips last night rises up tauntingly, and I shove it back down. I have a class to teach.

My students are having a wonderful time misreading almost every word out of my mouth, but by lunchtime, everyone’s managed to interpret a short sentence.

Just as I’m escorting them into the lunchroom, my phone buzzes. It’s Lucy, our secretary in the headmaster’s office. “Arabella, ye have a visitor at the front desk.”

I’ve been expecting a delivery for some refurbished iPads for my kids, but not the giant man in a suit, grinning down at me like the devil himself.

“What are ye doing here?”