The stereotype isn’t all wrong in Evie’s case: she does love to throw a rager here and there.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll swing by.”
“I’m not a maybe, H,” she says coolly, flicking at my ear playfully. “In or out?”
“Evie!” Yadira yells out, finally out of patience. “What if we decapitate him and keep the head? All we need is his brain, but you can have his body.”
Greg has been rendered silent by Evie’s appearance. Girls like Evie Hooper are his Kryptonite.
Evie laughs before leaving. “See you Saturday, Halti!” she calls over one shoulder.
“Are you guys done yet?” comes another voice from the hallway. Corinne this time. “You’re seven minutes past your window!”
“Haltiwanger was late!” Yadira tries, although under the Corinne Troy glare even she tenses up like a soldier just hearing her drill sergeant storming the barracks. “And then his girlfriend walked in! We haven’t even done a single round with him yet.”
Let the record show that Evie Hooper is not my girlfriend.
I mean, she’s not not my girlfriend. And she’s definitely not just a friend who happens to be a girl either. It’s, er, tricky.
“That is not my problem,” Corinne says, arms crossed. “An unreliable teammate is something that should factor into your scheduling, not mine.”
I roll my eyes at the drama. It’s not that I don’t feel bad about being late, but no NYC subway line is above the occasional fourteen-minute delay. And beyond that, Yadira has a personal driver who parks right in front of the school in a giant black SUV every day and a trust fund waiting for her twenty-fifth birthday, so I’m not going to lose any sleep for needing to squeeze in my dog walks after school and being late to practice.
Eventually, Yadira and Greg concede to wrapping things up, already knowing that there’s no point in putting up a fight with Corinne Troy.
“Don’t forget to collect the wreckage of your presence,” Corinne adds, motioning to the bags of takeout in the corner while already scrubbing the dry-erase board of Greg’s scribbles. Honestly, who talks like that? I swear there’s a regime in this girl’s future.
“Sorry, Corinne,” Greg says as he scurries—actually scurries—to collect the greasy brown paper bags and bundle them into the recycling.
“What do you even do in here?” I wonder out loud, finding it all a little amusing. Her temper is so high with the stakes so objectively low: after-school debate practice in a school with dozens of empty classrooms right now.
“This room has the best projector. I rehearse my flash cards.”
“You what?” Yadira asks, balling up napkins and hurriedly zipping her backpack.
“I’m a visual learner.” Corinne sighs as though explaining it is a bothersome waste of vocal cords. “Seeing the material in a gigantic font makes it easier for me to retain it. Plus, it’s proven that recalling material is easier when said material is studied in the same environment in which it will later be recalled. Mr. Shapiro’s weekly quizzes are in this room.”
“That’s intense.” I snort.
Corinne Troy’s eyes are on me like a hawk’s, which is intimidating, yes, but unfortunately for Troy, I don’t tremble as easily as poor Greg.
“Why did you just say that?”
“Er, because it is?” I blink. “I mean, kudos to you. Shapiro’s quizzes are brutal, but that is still—I don’t know—an intense amount of studying.”
The answer doesn’t seem to lighten her mood.
“That word,” she says through clenched teeth. “Why did you use that word?”
“Uh . . .”
“Intense,” she snaps. “Why did you just call me that?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I hear Greg swallow a laugh, but he’s already out the room, squeezing himself past Corinne, who really will not move an inch to be accommodating. Yadira follows suit, shaking her head.
I swear I don’t pathologically enjoy riling people up—Greg and Yadira will get an apologetic text from me, and I will make it on time next week, come hell or high water. They’ll forgive me. They always do. And I’ll come through next time. I always do that too.
But torturing Corinne Troy? That might be the exception.
“See you around the Wyatt, Troy,” I say, backtracking as slowly as possible and making a grand show of closing the door, enjoying every second of the glare that follows me out of the room. Sooner than you think.
For a while, I settled for being a mediocre dog walker. Paws were left cursorily wiped. I was a ninja: in and out. A ninja that could fit in more walks that way. A relatively well-remunerated ninja. Dad was furious with me when he learned this.
It’s cost-effective, I told him. I squeeze in more walks and make way more money!
You don’t do it for them, Henri, he said. You do it for yourself, you hear? So you can look your clients in the eyes, shake their hands, and collect your payments proudly, knowing you’re not hustling anyone.
“Punctuality, Work Ethic, and Education” would be the words on the Haltiwanger family crest. And that’s a very good thing for today’s client who, I already know, won’t tolerate anything less.
Mrs. Troy answers the ring to her apartment after one buzz, which lets me know that she has been expecting me.
<<Troy Residence?>>
“Yes, hi, Mrs. Troy. I’m here for the interview,” I say loudly into the relic of the intercom system that still plagues the building.
<<Okay.>>
“It’s Henri Haltiwanger, from Uptown Updogs.”
<<Yes . . .>>
“Um, Jacques’s boy from downstairs, ma’am. The super’s son. We had an appointment at eight p.m.?”
<<Yes, I know. I’m just not sure why I’m conducting it through an intercom. Please come to the door.>>
And with that, communication cuts off. Yikes.
Mrs. Troy greets me at the top of the stairs of the building, outside her door on the top floor.
“Hello, Mrs. Troy.” I Smile, extending a handshake that she politely returns. I clock her noticing the Uptown Updogs T-shirt.
She motions me inside. “And please call me Chantale. If you’re going to be in our home, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”
I occasionally help Dad with various two-person tasks around the building, but I’ve never been in this unit before. A handful of floors apart, hers feels completely different, with higher ceilings, arched hallways, and framed art on nearly every wall. There are bold-colored paintings and Africana art in every other corner and the distinct smell of Earl Grey tea around the open kitchen. Something about the space feels both homey and staunchly academic. The living room end tables, I realize, are in fact stacks of neatly aligned hardcover books with a thin layer of dust. It’s weird to imagine Corinne living here.
“To make a long story short, my daughter received this from her father.” Chantale sighs as we come to the sight of a crate in which sits a tiny border collie mix, whose tail is batting so hard at the sight of a new person, it might take off flying inside its cage.
“Well, hi, little buddy!” I wave.
The puppy itself is pretty freaking adorable. I’m not a dog racist—all breeds are beautiful in their own right—but holy crap, is this one a cutie: black and white, with patches of marbled gray around its neck and chest.