The Fortunate Ones

Through the tail end of puberty, my body’s hormones acted like little general contractors that had fallen behind on a fixer-upper. I started noticing the effects freshman year of college, when my French TA asked me to meet him for coffee. I assumed he wanted to discuss my interpretation of Amélie, but when his hand hit my knee beneath the table, the truth set in quicker than my double espresso. It was new territory for me, being broadly desired, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I always thought people that complained about their good looks were buffoons, but attractiveness does come with a unique set of challenges. For one, people have constantly underestimated me. Like in college, many of my classmates assumed I was seducing my professors (even the gay ones) in exchange for As. Eventually, I stopped minding the whispers. I liked being underestimated. In fact, I still do.

After finishing my double major in French and Spanish, I spent a year traveling trying to “find myself”. In reality, I was trying to find a job. Through a tutoring agency, I eventually found a position as an au pair with an American diplomat named Nicole and her young daughter Sophie. For a year and a half, we became a happy little family in the heart of Paris. During the day, Nicole worked at the embassy while I tutored Sophie in Spanish and French. We turned coffee houses, museums, and grassy parks into our classroom. I’d started to feel like a true Parisien. Life was grand.

That is, until Nicole joined Tinder.

Yeah, that’s right. Even old, Ivy league-educated diplomats with bouffant hair are swiping right. It took Nicole two weeks to fall head over heels for some baguette-toting man named George, and another two weeks to promptly fire my ass. I was shocked, but I couldn’t help but admire her honesty.

“You understand, don’t you?” she prodded.

I didn’t. “Do you need more room? I can get my own place.”

Her smile fell, and I knew I’d missed the mark.

“I’ve just noticed that…well, when George is around, and you…I just don’t think it would be wise to keep you around. Haven’t you seen Pretty Woman?”

My mouth dropped. “What? Pretty Woman is about a prostitute!”

“Hmm…perhaps I’m thinking about a different movie,” she muttered, confused. “Well nevertheless, I think it is time to part ways.”

It made no sense.

“Do you seriously think I’m going to try to seduce George? His breath smells like sardines!”

She had the decency to blush. “No, not at all. It’s just…George and I are ready to take our relationship to the next level, and no one keeps a pretty, young nanny around if they want their fledging relationship to succeed.”

I lost all respect for Nicole that day, and though I would have loved to steal Sophie away in my suitcase, I wasn’t ready to add kidnapping to my record just yet. A few days later, I moved back to Austin and Ellie put in a good word for me at Twin Oaks—a.k.a. where dreams go to die.

“When do you work again?” Ellie asks, drawing my attention away from the mirror.

“Tomorrow.”

“What about Thursday?”

“I’m off.”

She looks up from her magazine and grins. For a second, I’m taken aback by how similar we look nowadays. The two-year age gap between us used to be a big deal. Now, we could almost be twins—that is, if she stopped blowing $500 every few weeks to turn her light brown tresses platinum blonde. After all these years of hair dye, she should be walking around with frizzed-out straw for hair, but the trendy downtown salon she goes to must be filled with miracle workers, because even I sometimes forget Barbie blonde isn’t her natural color.

“Perfect. I need you to cover my shift.”

I scrunch my nose. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really looking to spend any more time at Twin Oaks than I have to.”

She claps her hands together and juts her lower lip out pleadingly. In turn, I clap my hands together and flip her the double bird.

“Please Brooke! Tyler’s band has a gig at Stubb’s. They’re opening for Vance Joy and I can’t miss it.”

I don’t want to concede, not necessarily because I want Thursday off, but because Ellie works the dinner service at the club. I’ve only ever taken on lunchtime duties, and staff normally trains for at least a week before taking dinner service. No, I’m not worried about where the salad forks and dessert spoons go; I’m talking about the politics. You don’t want to sit an Edwards next to a Daniels and provoke a food fight.

“Seriously, PLEASE. I’ll owe you big time!” she says before pausing and tapping her chin, mulling it over. “Wait, actually, I won’t owe you because I got you this job in the first place.”

She’s played the trump card.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Text me any random things I need to know to cover my ass. I don’t want to disappoint Brian.”