put up all over town. Dad left the house to me not my stepmother—thank goodness, but it’s one of the nicer ones in our mostly agricultural and working-class town. That means it’s going to take a while to sell, especially right now during a nationwide pandemic. So I’ll definitely need the extra income renting out the back house could bring in for our move.
E lets out an aggrieved huff in the passenger seat. “There’s only three stoplights on the way to Guac High, but I swear we’re hitting every one.”
A, who’s scrolling on his phone in the back seat says, “They’re saying the governor’s about to give a press conference about the coronavirus. Do you think he’s going to tell everybody they have to close the schools?”
“That’s the rumor,” I answer. “But you never know.”
Many school districts and most of the colleges in Missouri had already closed, but Guadalajara was one of the districts still holding out.
“If they do, I hope they re-open in time for the spring musical,” E says, wringing her hands in the front seat.
I pull up in front of the red brick and stone building where a couple of hundred high schoolers are gathered waiting for the first bell. “We’ll see, honey.”
“Good-bye, dear Cynda. Love you!” E says. She gracefully slides through the passenger side door while her brother clambers out of the back seat.
“Love you too,” I call after the both of them, even though A just got out like I was his chauffeur.
They walk together towards the stone steps only to split into separate groups of their theater and nerd friends.
It’s funny, I think. If this were a play, they’d get cast as polar opposites. E could play the popular high school girl role easily with her long, wavy hair and creamy brown skin with makeup perfectly applied to hide her freckles. Meanwhile, A would definitely be chosen as the band nerd with his chubby waistline and 365 day affinity for cargo pants from the Sears big and husky line. Yet, they would never be cast as twins.
But that’s what they are, and nothing says that more than the lengths they went in order to attend the same school. My heart constricts as I drive away. It had been my father’s dying wish to see them thrive, and I’m going to make sure that happens. It’s my dream to see that they are as loved and well taken care of as I was growing up with my mom and dad.
Which means I have to rush back across town to my job in downtown Guadalajara. Our house is actually close enough to walk to main street. My dad used to walk to work every day, rain, snow, or insanely humid shine. However, the detour to the high school means not only do I have to drive to work today, but I’m going to be late.
Just as I’m halfway to the office, the phone rings. It’s Dr. Haim. Probably wondering where I am. But I can’t pick up the call because I forgot my headphones at home and it’s against the law to talk or text while driving.
So I let Dr. Haim’s call go to voicemail with a silent apology for being late. Again. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to get the twins to the bus on time.
If it was anybody else, I’d text him at the next stop sign. But Dr. Haim tosses his personal phone into his middle desk drawer when he gets into the office every morning and only uses his landline.
So at the next stop sign, instead of texting, my eyes wander to the letter sticking out of my purse along with a bunch of bills. The letter from R. Smith. My belly flutters and my heart twists just a little bit.
It’s probably nothing. But for some reason, I can’t stop glancing at it as I drive toward the office. If I weren’t so late, I’d pull over and read it right now.
But I am late, so the letter will have to wait.
When I get to the office, I grab my purse and immediately jump out. Only to nearly scream when I see myself in the window’s reflection. My straightened hair which I’d pulled into its usual long ponytail extension this morning now has tufts sticking out and there’s ash all over my face!
What the hell? Why didn’t E or A tell me I looked like a hot mess, not the former Princess Missouri the town takes such