Page 79 of The Deepest Lake
“So difficult? Because the differences matter. Words matter.”
Eva has lifted one hand, like she’s preparing to slap me. I stare at it, incredulous.
Then we both hear someone clear her throat, up on the bluff behind us. I see Eva’s face rearrange itself into a semblance of normalcy. She turns and waves to a thin figure up on the bluff: Zahara, scheduled for a private meeting.
“I need to swim before my next appointment,” Eva says. The offending hand returns to where it belongs. “You stay and think a bit. Cool down.”
I close my eyes, trying to let the irritation pass.
“You were right about Barbara, by the way,” Eva adds quietly. “She really is upset with you. She’s worried you’re trying to replace her, and she still thinks you might spill the beans about the orphanage money.”
I remember Mauricio’s lack of shock about the missing money. I remember, too, how Eva referred to her “good friend,” Chief Molina. “Not that anyone would do anything about a little missing money, right?”
“Well, people will donate less if they have concerns. Most of all, it would be a distraction from the good work we do here.”
The good work. She still believes, despite everything, that her moral ledger balances.
“I promise not to talk about the money stuff. And you can definitely let Barbara know that replacing her is the last thing on my mind.”
“Even so, she feels threatened. When she gets like this, I can’t talk her out of it. Anyway, I had your passport returned to your desk drawer. Nothing can stop you from going home, tomorrow. I’ve already let Hans, Concha and a few of the kitchen girls know. You can say goodbye tonight, at the staff party. One last fun evening?”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. First, she wouldn’t let me go. Now she can’t wait for me to leave. “And today?”
“I want you to stay here. Hang around in case Zahara needs some company. She’s already told me she doesn’t want to go on the field trip, but I can’t have her just hanging around. It’s her day for workshopping. She might be a little . . . well, you know.”
Fragile. Usually, Eva won’t even admit it, which probably means that Zahara is even more of a mess than I realize.
If it was anyone other than Zahara, I’d resist. But not only do I like her, I feel protective. Everyone’s tried to get a piece of Zahara, from her ex-boyfriend to the music producers and now Eva.
“I can do that,” I say.
“Good!”
Eva dives into the water, an excellent racing dive, toes pointed.
I stay behind, thinking: Damn. I just turned twenty-three and I’ve been fired from the first job I ever cared about.
I pick up my phone and type a text that won’t send until I’m closer to the house—if the Wi-Fi isn’t stuttering. It might not send for hours. Happy Birthday to me. Not an auspicious start.
Zahara’s private meeting goes well, it seems, because, at a quarter to eight, she and Eva come out of the house arm in arm, bouncing along like teenagers, headed toward the outdoor classroom.
I head into the house, toward the supply cabinet where we keep extra whiteboard markers. Closing the cabinet, I turn and almost walk into Barbara’s chest.
“Looking for something?”
“Just these,” I say, inching back. “Eva told me to bring a fresh set to the classroom by eight o’clock.”
“You know,” she says, blocking my path, “Eva has new favorites all the time. Like that new singer girl. So don’t feel special.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ve changed the passwords. You’re not to check email, PayPal, anything. Eva doesn’t need you.”
“That’s great.”
“And you’ll never write like her.”
“I’ll never write like her?” I laugh. “That’s really . . . interesting, Barbara.” I start walking out, nearly make it to the doorway before turning around. “Eva did remind me that the low cost of living here is fantastic for a writer. It’s a magical place. Truly inspirational. Maybe I should stay.”