1
SCARLETT
I pullthe door closed and lock it before lifting up my hemline, pulling down my panties and sheer tights, and crouching in the restroom stall, going over everything in my head while taking care of business.
The theme, music, food, and decorations.
The invitations, the guests, and the first graders with their parents have started to arrive. The photographer and the man playing Santa, who is scheduled to pop up a little later.
Everything on my list has been checked off.
The theme is perfect as Classical Christmas carols stream over the speakers.
The venue is the best in our small, albeit well-off, Long Island town. Tucked inside a secluded community with manicured lawns and a large wooded area next to the water, this is the perfect place to get married, celebrate an anniversary, or meet Santa if you’re a six-year-old.
We’ve hired the most popular catering company in the area and have a variety of delicious food for the children and their parents.
The mayor will attend along with a few councilmen and their wives. The invitations have been sent and confirmed, and the main room will be packed in about two hours.
It has taken some consistent effort, plenty of volunteers, and a committee I have gladly run to organize the event and offer the kids and their parents a few memorable moments.
The donations have been generous, and many moms have been involved.
One of them has used her connections to book this place instead of a smaller, less glamorous building located five miles down the road.
The decorations and Christmas tree towering over the entrance make the place look like a dream.
Coming from a family with limited resources myself has taught me to be more aware of these little details and ensure everything looks fabulous. Things run smoothly, and everything has been handled, I keep telling myself before fixing my clothes, running a smooth hand over my pencil skirt, and pulling upright.
The bathroom is luminous, spotless, and quiet, except for the mellow music drifting through the air.
A few beads of sweat have popped up along my hairline, so I exit the stall, wash my hands, and inspect my appearance in the mirror.
I’m hot despite the pleasant temperature and the air flowing through the ventilation system, and a blush pinches my cheeks.
There's no reason to blush, but for sure, I’m nervous.
Not having to dwell on the particularities of my life for once, I run my fingers through my hair. Lazy rings of smooth ink frame my oval face, making the obsidian eyeliner pop.
It’s too dark, perhaps. Or maybe I used too much. Maybe I overdid my lashes. My eyes look like violet orbs under the ceiling lights.
Naturally, their color is close to dark blue, think ripe blueberries––but for some reason, they’re picking up the hue from my necklace.
My fingers move tenderly over the pendant.
It’s a cheap knockoff, although I have to give it to them––whoever crafted this piece––it looks like something someone would pick up at one of the more expensive jewelry stores in Long Island.
What can I say? I’m good at pretending I belong.
No one has a problem with my modest means as long as I’m doing a great job as a teacher.
And I surely am. Kids love me, and I throughly enjoy working with them.
My other life?
My secret life?
Well, it’s complicated.
