Chapter 24
I throw the boomerang with full force. It almost knocks me down when it returns. Miguel jumps on his feet.
"I'm fine," I tell him. You can sit back down.
"You're hitting that thing hard today," he says, groaning. "Does it have anything to do with the week you've just had?"
"It's everything," I say.
"Want to talk about it?"
I'm so used to keeping everything to myself that I don't know how I feel about discussing my upsets.
"C'mon," he says kindly. "I'm a good listener."
I quietly sit down next to him still unsure about divulging my insides.
"Here, I brought you something" he says, handing me a piece of chocolate.
My mouth waters. "Where did you get it?" I ask with excitement as I extend my hand and he puts the round dark miracle on my palm.
"I took it from Highest Holy Grinder's desk at church. He keeps a bunch of them in a candy dish."
"What if he had caught you?"
"He didn't."
"Miguel, you shouldn't risk it like that."
"I thought you'd like one."
I had great memories of chocolate when I was a kid and had only been allowed to have one piece on each of my birthdays. That was the extent of the Elders' generosity.
"If you don't want it," he says, "I could take it back."
"No!"
As I'm about to pop it in my watering mouth I realize how selfish I'm being and I cut it in half and hand him a piece.
"You have all of it," he tells me, refusing to take the chocolate.
"I can't have it unless you share it with me," I stubbornly declare.
He smiles before taking the piece. As the sweet candy melts on my tongue, I don't allow myself to chew it. I need to prolong it as much as possible.
When every sliver of taste is gone, I turn to Miguel. "Thank you."
He rewards me with a warm smile. "You're welcome. Do you feel better?"
"You should see what the Barstowe household is like with Betsey being the head-wife," I blurt.
"I can imagine," he says dryly.
I explain to him the horrors I had seen that week. The feet kissing thing was only the tip of the ice berg. Now Betsey had made it a rule that whenever the Mister is in the house, a wife has to be standing next to him to be ready to do his bidding. Wifely prayers are now being held once an hour with Betsey making them repeat, "Great Master, keep us worthy of the Master you have provided for us here on earth."
The Mister whacked me with the club five times this week. It was a record for him. And all because every time he'd walk into a room where I was doing my chores, Betsey would jump in as if she was helping me. He was infuriated that I wasn't doing the housework on my own. Betsey would tell him I needed to be properly instructed, and she didn't want the Master's home to be anything less than perfect, so she felt the need to help me. I had to keep my mouth quiet because I knew that if I told him that she only helped me when he'd be in the vicinity, he'd think I was lying. Her manipulation of him is disgusting.
And I'm sure this is only the beginning.
"Keep your wits about you," Miguel tells me. "Isn't that what you always say?"
"You don't understand how sneaky this girl is."
"You're smarter than her," he states.
"I'm not sure about that."
"I'm sure," he states. "I'm very sure."
While scrubbing the bathtub at the Barstowe house, I listen carefully for any noises. I grin when I hear Betsey's footsteps. She rushes in, grabs the other scrubber from my cleaning basket, and kneels down on the other side of the tub.
"You're doing it all wrong," she grumbles.
I hear the familiar steps of the Mister as he steps into the bedroom. Betsey eyes me as her lips form their, I got you, smirk.
"Betsey, are you here?" calls the Mister.
"I'm doing some work in the bathroom," she calls out, her sly eyes on me.
"Lauren told me you needed to speak to me."
"I do."
His steps in the bathroom, and Betsey takes her eyes off me to scrub fiercely. Her face contorts when she sees what happens with her scrubber.
"What do you need?--what in tarnation is this mess!" the Mister questions furiously as he sees the giant streak of mud on the porcelain of the bath tub.
"I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm cleaning it," Betsey mutters nervously.
"Monica's side is spotless. Yours is a disgusting mess!"
"Master Barstowe, I was--"
"I thought you said you were teaching her to do it right!"
"I am. I'm--"
"Shut up!"
"But--"
"Shut up!"
"Yes, Master Barstowe," she says with exasperation.
"She could teach you a few tricks!"
"Yes, Master Barstowe."
"From now on, I don't want you near her when she's cleaning. Is that clear, Betsey?"
"Yes, Master Barstowe," she says, her voice almost in a sob.
"You are to let her do her chores in peace, so she doesn't have to clean up after your messes."
"Yes, Master Barstowe."
"Out.! We'll get out to leave you to your work, Little Bird."
I breathe out as soon as they leave. I rinse out the filthy scrubber I had caked with mud earlier. As I finish cleaning the bathtub I try not to think of what a humiliated Betsey will do next. I don't count my victories just yet.
The game has just started.
Paradise Abductions Page 24