The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,6
senior prom? Having said that, I’ve never acted like I know him either. But for me, it’s more a matter of preserving the modicum of dignity I have left.
I brush Mrs. Frothingham’s silver hair away from her eyes before putting her lipstick on for her. When she first moved into the home, she was a real stickler for always wearing her Estée Lauder Blush Crush. I figure she’d appreciate looking her best when her family arrives. “You look very pretty,” I tell her.
There’s a knock at the door as I drape a fresh cardigan around her shoulders. I stand back and take in my handy work before opening it. Both of Mrs. Frothingham’s daughters-in-law are there with a box of her favorite donuts.
“Ashley,” Davis’s mom, Lee, asks, “how are you doin’ today, honey?”
“Great,” I tell her. While the Frothinghams are always very friendly, inquiring after my well-being, I assume it’s just good manners and not any real desire to hear my life story, so I keep my answers to a minimum. Let’s face it, it’s not the best story.
Gracie, the other daughter-in-law and Emmie’s mom, says, “It looks like you’ve been taking wonderful care of Mama Frothingham as always. Thank you.”
“Can I bring you ladies anything before I leave you to your visit?” I ask. There’s no reason for me to hang around, especially since Davis isn’t with them.
“I think we’re good to go,” Lee says.
It’s been nearly six months since I’ve laid eyes on my high school crush and I have to admit to being disappointed that he isn’t here today. Maybe something’s changed since the last time I covered a Monday.
I hurry off to bathe the rest of the residents on my—or should I say Lola’s—rounds. My co-worker is on maternity leave and we’ve had zero luck finding a temp to fill her spot.
Mr. Feinstein loves when I’m the one to bathe him because he says I remind him of an English gal he was in love with during his youth. “Tits out to here,” he declares every time he sees me. Somehow, I’m not flattered by this.
By the time I finish four more baths, the Frothingham ladies are long gone and my nerves are frayed. Mrs. Harms got so agitated, she upset the bucket of water all over me. Mr. Schroder wanted a shave and somehow got hold of the can of shaving cream and sprayed it on me, and Mrs. Johnson told me to go screw myself along with a litany of other colorful insults.
As I walk out of Mr. Frost’s room, wiping off the chocolate pudding he spit at me, I can’t help but wonder what phase the moon is in. Everyone is more ornery than normal, indicating nothing short of a werewolf howling event.
All in all, it’s not my best day.
Then, as if Loki, the Norse God of Mischief himself, has suddenly taken an interest in my pathetic life, I run right into Davis Frothingham. I don’t see him from afar either, which would have given me time to scurry in the other direction, or at the very least, hide in a linen closet. I slam right into him, upending the contents of the dirty laundry sack I’m carrying.
He reaches out to steady me by grabbing hold of my upper arms. My body responds like it’s been struck by lightning. Shock waves flow through me causing goosebumps to rise all over my skin. A molten wave of unadulterated desire nearly overwhelms me when he says, “I’m sorry, I must not have been watching where I was going.”
The fault is so not his, but it’s classic Davis to accept the blame in order to put the other person at ease. As I hurry to pick up the questionable smelling contents of the laundry bag, I mutter, “No, it was all my fault.”
I recall the time a freshman spilled her drink on him during lunch the year we were juniors. She was mortified, but he just laughed it off by saying, “I was in your way, so I got what I deserved.”
I try to scurry past him before he has a chance to really see me. Even though he doesn’t seem to know who I am anymore, I do have some pride and I’d sure as heck like to make a better impression. Not to mention, in a setting like this, the chocolate pudding spatters could easily be mistaken for something else …
I’m three doors away when he calls out, “Hey, can I talk to you