Feisty (The Do-Over Series Book 3)

by Julia Kent

  The curl of his mouth.

  The seriousness of his gaze.

  My mind flips to Rico's murderous face.

  And I shiver more.

  “Let's go get the rest of your mom's stash,” Mal says as she steps out, too, grabbing a towel. Five minutes later, we're ascending the steps, holding glasses full of water. My body is boneless, my brain filled with a million tiny pieces of sliced-and-diced memory.

  And my soul full of so many questions.

  Chapter 4

  Mallory has the best apartment of the three of us, with gorgeously designed shiplap walls, a whitewashed exposed-beam ceiling, and pale seaglass colors. Best of all, her fiancé just bought the house attached to her in-law apartment and they'll be settling in there after their wedding.

  Perky lives in a two-bedroom pool cottage with a living room full of beanbags and bright colors, her aesthetic more like a preschool teacher's than mine–although, unlike any teacher, her budget is nearly unlimited.

  Me? I live in a matchbox.

  An apartment box like all the other ticky-tacky boxes in my mega-complex that makes me feel like we're all controlled by IT from A Wrinkle in Time.

  But it fits my budget and until my student loans are paid off in the year 2131, it's where I live.

  Of the three of us, my apartment sucks the most, so we barely ever spend time here. No, it's not a dump, and I've done my best to make it homey. Truth be told, I love the décor, I just hate the structure.

  Decorating is on my mind. High on my list of must-dos, even, because it's a serious distraction.

  And right now, I'll take all the distractions I can get.

  It's the morning after the attack, a sunny fall Saturday. Just shy of twenty-four hours since Rico Lingoni banged on that school door and altered the course of my entire life. The video, leaked by a parent, has taken over everything.

  The enormity of it is one big cloud of black mist.

  When I turn my phone on, it buzzes for so long, I fear it's dying.

  When it stops, I look.

  879 notifications.

  Not a typo.

  Eight hundred.

  Seventy.

  Nine.

  Notifications.

  My email, which I proudly clean out every day to achieve Inbox Zero (because who wants all that unfinished energy?), has unread messages in the hundreds. This is my personal email.

  I cringe to imagine my work email.

  Booting up my ancient laptop, wondering if I should go into the office instead, I see that my work email and all school-related social media accounts are on fire. My eyes jump to the email titles in my inbox. It's a mix of freaked-out parents and local and national media outlets. One that's clearly from England, another from Germany, jump out at me.

  What the hell?

  Tap tap tap

  Someone's here? At my door? Mal and Perk always text before they come.

  “Fiona Gaskill?” someone calls out from the hall. “I'm from Anderhill Flowers? I have a delivery?” The inflection at the end, plus the higher-pitched female tone of the voice, makes me answer the door.

  A giant–and I mean peacock-in-full-feather-glory-level giant–flower arrangement threatens to topple the poor woman holding it.

  “I've seen Vegas showgirl headdresses that are smaller,” the delivery woman says as I reach out and try to help. “No, no, dear. Just point me to your nearest flat surface and I'll unload this.”

  As she passes, I see gold-foil chocolate balls on thin, clear spikes. There must be fifty of them, tucked in between peonies, orchids, roses, and assorted greenery.

  A card stands tall in the center, like the star on a Christmas tree.

  “Someone is really happy with you!” the merry woman says. I can finally see her face. Short hair, a little salt-white around her ears. Wrinkles at the corners of her bright blue, nearly lashless eyes. She's petite but in great shape for someone who looks like she's on the northern side of sixty and barely south of seventy.

  I reach for my purse, wondering what you tip after someone delivers half a greenhouse full of flowers to you.

  “No, no, dear. They already took care of it.” She smiles, eyes glistening. Her energy changes, a misty vibe passing in the air.

  Is she about to cry?

  “They?” I ask, holding the shake from my own voice. Emotion is so contagious for me.

  “I'm not supposed to say this,” she whispers, reaching for my hand, the jolt of her feelings making my hand go numb, “but this is from the parents of your preschool class. They've been trying to reach you, but understand if you want privacy.”

  “Oh.”

  “And what you did–thank you.” Big drops pour down over her lower lids. I sense loss. Heartache. Pain. Something deeper than her words, but I don't ask. Can't ask.

  I literally can't.

  Because now I'm crying, too.

  The hug is wholly expected but my reaction to this bizarre moment isn't, her scent all sugar and cloves, with an undercurrent of roses.

  “Oh, my goodness. I'm a mess. How unprofessional!” she says, backing out my open door. “I'll leave you to your privacy, and don't let those pushy camera crews get to you!”

  And with that, she shuts my door.

  Camera crews?

  Walking past the gigundo arrangement, I make a beeline for my window.

  And gulp as I see three news vans in the parking lot.

  I rush to my phone and tap until I see my voicemails.

  Mom's number.

  Eighteen times.

  I hit Play:

  “Fiona? Fiona, please call and leave me a message! Dad and I are worried sick about you. We have internet and phone service now on the ship, but we can't reach you at all! I'm paying for internet and phone every single day until you get ahold of me. We called the police and they said they'd just seen you and you are safe but please! We love you and we're so worried. And Dad says to add we're proud as hell, too! You kicked that mofo's ass!”

  Oh, no.

  I imagine the other seventeen voicemails are the same.

  I hit Call Back and leave a message, assuring her I'm fine. I add I love you for good measure. I don't think I've heard those words from her since I graduated with my master's degree. Mom's about as emotionally demonstrative as a Vulcan. Her way of showing she cares is to do my taxes for me.

  More tears come. I'm a mess.

  The flower arrangement is a great distraction. A card pokes out from the middle. I slip my index finger under the flap and pull out what appears to be a check.

  In the amount of $2,145, from the personal account of one of the parents in my school.

  I drop the check.

  I read the card:

  No flower arrangement, no chocolates, no collection taken up by the twenty families of the precious children in your class can possibly be enough to show our deep appreciation and gratitude for what you did yesterday, Fiona, and what Michelle and Ani managed as well. We know that you're busy with the police and with your own recovery, but please reach out to us when you can. Rest first. Every single child is safe and whole because of you. We could not have chosen a better school or a finer teacher to guide our children. In gratitude, The Grounded Child Community

  My eyes are as wide as moons.

  The folded check is on the floor, the endorsement section a thin line that stares up at me, as if asking a question I can't hear. My heartbeat thrums deep in my throat, under earlobes that itch. My heart double thumps, then goes back to regular rhythm, a cough resetting it.

  I need to center.

  I need to ground.

  I need to think.

  My students are priority number one. They must be so scared. Michelle and Ani are my first calls, though, because I need to make sure they know how much their acts of heroism mean to me. I may have incapacitated Rico, but none of the children would be as safe as they are today without my two assistants.

  I dial Michelle's number. Voicemail.

  “Mic
helle? It's Fiona. I'm sure you're screening your calls, too, so I'll just leave this message. The long weekend means we have an extra day off from school, but I need to see you and Ani. Could we meet somewhere quiet when you get a chance? And thank you.” I start to choke up, my free hand rubbing the roses all over my leggings. “Thank you so, so much for everything you did yesterday. You're amazing.”

  I hit End.

  The check looks at me with a gimlet eye.

  No one goes into preschool teaching to get rich. No one. That collection, that $2,145, covers four months of student loan payments for me.

  It gives me breathing space.

  It brings financial relief.

  It fills me with guilt.

  Ring!

  I jump a foot as the ringer on my phone goes off, surprising me. I look.

  It's Ani.

  “Fiona? Oh, my God, finally. I've been trying since the ambulance took you away to find out how you are! The police wouldn't tell me anything and your parents are on that damn cruise and–”

  “I'm fine. Really. Just fainted a couple of times and the police and paramedics were being extra careful. What about you?”

  All I get in response is a series of heartbreaking sobs.

  “I'm–I'm sorry! I need to get a h-handle on this! I'm fine. Michelle and I got the children out the back office window. We–we were worried if we took them on the playground we'd be trapped by the fences. We went behind the dumpsters in the alley and over to the strip of woods at the end of the building, and then Michelle couldn't find Mattie. That's–that's when she realized he'd wandered off.”

  “How is Michelle?”

  “Her parents have her on complete media blackout. After what happened to her in high school, she's–she's having a hard time, Fiona. I have her mom's number, though. I'll text it to you. Her mom wants to talk to you.”

  “Is she angry with me?”

  “What? No! She's so grateful. But I think she's as protective of Michelle as we were–are–of the kids.”

  “Right. Any mom would be.”

  “Your parents must be freaking out.”

  “I–I ignored my phone and email until now. I couldn't handle it. Called my mom's number and left a voicemail.”

  “You must have so many messages. And did–did you get the flower arrangement and check from the parents?”

  “You got one, too?”

  “Can you believe it?” More sobs. “I feel like I'm cursed and blessed at the same time.”

  “Cursed?”

  “What were the chances that a deranged parent would be a locksmith, Fiona? We followed every safety procedure. None of those plans ever accounted for a guy who could pick a lock.”

  “Yeah.” My voice is high and hoarse. “That's pretty crazy.”

  “The media are here. Asking me for interviews.”

  “Have you done any?”

  “Not the ones for money, no. Just one from my hometown newspaper so far. Fi, there are major news shows asking for us to appear. That video of you, though...”

  “Who leaked it? Do you know which parent did it?”

  “I don't know. But it's someone without tech skills, because it's a cellphone video of someone's computer monitor.”

  “Low tech skills. That rules out two-thirds of the class parents. So many of them work for Big Data.”

  She laughs. It sounds like snot bubbles popping.

  I sigh, the sound deep and hollow as it echoes back to me through the phone. “It doesn't matter. The damage is done. I have more than a thousand notifications on my phone and email.”

  “I only have a few hundred. I can only imagine what you're dealing with. We don't even have a boss to handle this stuff. The one time it sucks to work for a co-op school.”

  “Amelia Wissen must have organized the flower arrangement and collection. I wonder if she's getting hit up by the press.” Our preschool is a co-operative, which means the teachers and the parents run the entire program. Amelia is the president of the board. There's no director, no principal, no head of school.

  Technically, that's me.

  Created more than forty-three years ago, The Grounded Child was a tiny nursery school devoted to individualized learning. The woman who founded it, Cecily Wissen, died ten years ago. She left a few million dollars in a trust, and the income goes to the school. Her granddaughter is president of the board. It's why we're able to stay small, but our jobs are secure.

  And our waiting list is always full.

  Another call beeps in on my phone. It's Perky.

  “Ani? I have to go. Let's plan to meet for coffee tomorrow. I'm–” I look out the window. There's another media van there. “How about Beanerino, maybe at ten?”

  “Sounds good. We need to talk with Michelle, too.”

  “I'll handle it. If she can't be there, that's fine. I'll reach out to the parents, and Michelle's mom. I've got it all under control.”

  Perky's call beeps in again.

  “I know you do. You did yesterday, and you do now.”

  That makes me want to run away screaming.

  “Thanks. Talk to you later, Ani. Another call coming in. Stay safe and grounded.”

  “I will. You too.”

  I click over.

  “My mom insists you let her call our PR company and they'll manage all the media contacts and the negotiations for the endorsement offers you must be drowning in,” Perky says with zero polite intro, her voice a rat-a-tat-tat of punctuated authority.

  “Hello and good morning and how are you, too?”

  “No time for that. How many thousands of notifications and emails and voicemails do you have?”

  “Not as many as Two-Dogs-Humping Girl.”

  “Well, someone has to be the star, right?”

  We laugh.

  I start to cry.

  “Oh, Fi. I'm coming over.”

  “No, no.”

  “Then let my mom do this.”

  “I can't afford a PR company!”

  The check looks at me and says, Bitch, please.

  “Mom will pay for it.”

  “My brother is the one who helped you with your reputation management! I can ask him for help.” Tim left a message on my phone already. Three of them, in fact. He lives in Canton, Ohio now, renovating his fourth old Victorian home in some up-and-coming neighborhood where he lives with his boyfriend. Four old homes there are cheaper than even one in the Boston area, and he's been able to retire at thirty-three.

  He's one of those hardcore early retirement guys.

  But he'll come out of retirement if I need him.

  “He was only good at removing pictures of my boobs, Fi. He can't help after the fact. What you need now is an experienced PR firm where someone steps in and acts as your shield from the press, companies with offers, that sort of thing.”

  “I can't keep taking charity from you guys.”

  “It's not charity and yes, you can.”

  Too much energy, directed in the wrong places, is as sickening as too little.

  “Fi, let Mom do this. It stresses her out to know you're going through so much and have so little help. The media inquiries and offers are a huge deal. Those jackals will invade your life nonstop if you don't have filters. You need a filter.”

  Tap tap tap

  I jump and scream, the sound small but full of panic.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Someone's at my door.”

  “See? Filter.”

  “Fine! Yes. Tell Sofia yes. And thank you. And yes. And I'll pay you back.”

  “Saying yes is payment enough. I'll get the ball rolling. Keep your phone on so they can reach you. PR woman's name is Rafaela. And I'm coming over in a few hours.”

  “Okay.”

  End

  “Delivery!” a guy shouts through the door.

  Another one? I stare at the small forest on my dining table and wonder where I'm going to put anything else.

  I look through the peephole. Normal looking gu
y. About my age, round black glasses, sherpa-fleece-lined plaid flannel hoodie. He's holding something in his hand.

  I open the door.

  To discover that to his left, there's a guy with a film camera rolling.

  “Fiona Gaskill, I'm John Griswold with Metro News.” He holds up what looks like a coffee mug with a pack of convenience store candy in it, inside a ziplock bag tied with a bow made of string. “Let me have a quick interview?”

  I start to shut the door. “No. Stop. I don't want–”

  He inserts his foot in the door, suddenly so close, I can smell the coconut lime deodorant he's wearing. I recognize the scent because it's the same natural brand I use.

  “This would be a huge scoop, Fiona. You set the narrative. You pick the questions.” He has that overeager, too-slick attitude that makes my intuitive receptors go nuts.

  He's a user.

  I'm his use-ee.

  “No. Leave me alone,” I say firmly, pushing on the door. I'm barefoot, so I can't use my foot to shove his out of the way.

  The camera rolls on.

  “Or what? You'll dropkick me?” Excitement rolls off him like a green wave of fun. He likes intimidating me. He revels in conflict. I suddenly doubt he's with Metro News, whatever that is, and I'll bet his name isn't John Griswold, either.

  His vibes are so bad, they're starting to stink.

  I recoil, trying to close the door. “No! Why would I–”

  “John” stays in place, moving closer, hot breath smelling like sour coffee. “Someone's going to get your story. Might as well let it be me.”

  “Go away! I said no!”

  “You sound really angry, Fiona. What if I don't back off?” he hisses, the back of my neck prickling with a feeling I know all too well. It's an energy that transforms from fear into something harsher with each passing second.

  “I'll call the police!”

  “You rolling?” he asks the camera guy, who makes a sound of assent.

  “Maybe you should fight me,” he says in a low voice, the set-up clear: He wants clickbait.

  “She won't, but you keep this up and I might have to.”

  We both turn toward the sound of that voice.

  “Who are you?” John asks.

  “Your worst nightmare.” Fletch shoves the guy, just hard enough to make his feet move, just light enough to carry the threat of more force if he doesn't respond to this first, polite push.