1: Erica: Containment
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Just a minute!” I bellow, snagging my bra off the back of the sofa and sling-shotting it into the bedroom. I slam the door shut—whoever is out there doesn’t need a front-row seat to that particular disaster zone.
Then I do a frantic spin, scanning the tiny apartment for anything else deemed “socially unacceptable” by some people’s standards. Scratch that—very few. The place is a wreck. And as my eyes slide over to the kitchenette, I cringe. I’m not entirely sure how a kitchen without a stove could get so bad.
In a stroke of genius, I snatch a stained dish towel from the counter and artfully drape it over the leaning tower of crusty plates in the sink. “If they really wanted this place to be spotless, they should have equipped it with a dishwasher… and a maid,” I huff, smoothing the towel over the wobbly porcelain.
I plaster on a winning smile and throw the door open. “Hey, Vi! What brings you to my corner of the pack house on this fine day?”
But it appears my plaster has far too many cracks. Violet looks like she isn’t buying what I’m selling, and honestly, having spent a year in a telemarketing cubicle, I know when a lead is dead. And this particular one is in a late stage of decay.
“I have news,” she says. Her smile wilts a little more with every step as she ventures deeper into my lair. “The crafting cabin is a madhouse. The pups are doing science projects, and they’re going to be short-staffed. Most of the helpers will be at the training demonstration today. They could really use some help.”
I don’t like the direction of this conversation at all. Me? Around impressionable children and flammable materials? “I don’t know, Vi… that sounds like a class-action lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She waves a hand dismissively, her eyes tracking a fruit fly. “It’s just a solar system project, and you’ll probably just be a go-fer anyway. They barely need supervision as it is, and they’re especially good during crafting time.”
But who’s going to supervise me?
While I work on mounting a proper argument, Violet completes the three-step journey to the sink, most likely led by that damn fruit fly. In the world’s worst magic trick, she yanks the dish towel away, revealing a mountain that is in no way, shape, or form magical.
“And what,” she asks, nose wrinkling at the fermentation process happening before her eyes, “is this?”
I lunge forward, snatching the towel back. After re-hiding my shame, I secure the towel against the sink with my hip. “Science!” I reply as something pokes me. But I ignore the sensation, abandoning the thought that the pile just shifted on its own. “It’s a growth study. Very cutting-edge stuff. It’s all the rage.”
Violet snorts. Her scary eyes flare brighter with a flicker of amusement dancing in her hazel depths. “Yeah, okay. Just clean it up before someone else sees it and condemns this entire wing. Luca is still traumatized over the paper-towel-cramming incident. He was digging soggy paper towels out of the couch cushions all night after you left. But if I have to, I will recruit him.”
“Don’t threaten me with help. And I was giving the man a purpose,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He should thank me for giving him something that actually required cleaning. Besides, Mason saw the worst of it the other day. This is practically showroom quality right now. He’ll be mildly pleased.”
“Wait—it was worse?! Erica, if you get booted, I’m going with you,” she warns, crossing her arms, “and I actually like it here. I feel like I’m finally in my element.”
“And that’s why they’ll keep me,” I say, pointing at her as I back into the bedroom. “They need you, and I happen to be your baggage. They know the repercussions.” I leave the door cracked enough to keep her in sight while I strip. “Do I need to bring anything? Goggles? A hazmat suit? The fire department?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Her voice is suddenly terrifyingly loud.
“Ah! Boundaries!” I yelp, doing an awesome spin-jump. I immediately begin herding her out with an armful of laundry. “I’ll be just a minute! Go! Shoo! Skedaddle!”
“Erica!” She plants her feet, rooting herself in the threshold. “How on Earth did it get so bad in here? You’ve only been here for a week!”
“Living out of boxes is an art form, apparently,” I sniff lamely, still clutching my dirty, mismatched socks. If she thinks this is bad, she really doesn’t want to check the closet. “I haven’t gotten around to unpacking since I’ve been so busy looking for ways to help out. I can’t do ‘idle,’ Vi. You know that.”
“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” she breathes. “You’ll be helping with the pups until further notice. I’ll get it set up for you. And tonight, you can start cleaning. Please? For me?”
She gives me those glowing puppy-dog eyes. They’re not as effective as they were without the glow, but I won’t tell her that. She’s still the same Violet, more or less. Definitely less, but I love her anyway.
“Fine,” I groan. “Now scram so I can put on some pants. Just because you’re a nudist nowadays doesn’t mean that I am.”
“Why not? You’ve got the body for it,” she says with a chuckle, leaving the room.
I shake my head, locking the bedroom door behind her. After setting the world record for fastest dresser, I step back out into the miniature living room. At least I have my own space here, and it’s roughly the size of my old apartment. Thankfully, it’s a lot less beige. They use these tiny apartments as a sort of halfway house for us in-betweeners until they build more cabins. Yep. A highly supervised, supportive, and sober environment. Meaning, there’s absolutely zilch to do. That’s how I got into this mess in the first place. I need to distribute the garbage evenly. I cannot be contained.
“All set!” I shout right behind Violet.
“Ah!”
I snicker as she jumps, her hand caught mid-air, hovering over the dish towel.
“Dammit, Erica!” she shouts, spinning around while clutching her chest. “You know I scare easily!”
I do. That’s why my smile widens.
“C’mon, I’ll head over there with you now. Harold wants me to meet him at the training cabin today, and it’s just down the path.”
My face falls. I can’t help it. “You’re not joining me today?”
“We’ll do lunch,” she promises, ignoring my pout as she ushers me out. “Wait—actually, no.” She gives me a sheepish look, a slight blush painting her cheeks. “Sorry. Harold is having lunch brought to us today. He plans for the demonstration to be messy. Ari is one of the trainers, so I imagine we’ll be holding him together with tape and a prayer by the end of it.”
Great. Another day without a friendly face. Aside from Violet and Ari, my only friend now lives under a dish towel. My last attempt at socializing ended in the Great Medical Wing Fiasco of Day Two. Turns out, werewolves don’t have a great sense of humor. And they definitely don’t appreciate “that’s what she said” jokes when they’re getting their junk poked during a physical. Needless to say, Harold won’t let me help him anymore, and that’s where Vi is when she’s not with Luca. It’s not my fault that I have terminal foot-in-mouth syndrome, for which there is no cure. He’s a doctor. He should be more understanding.
And even after all that, they’re leaving me alone with children? Oh well. At least I’ll have company. How bad can a few kids with some paint be?
Famous. Last. Words.
An hour later, I’m standing in the epicenter of a crafting disaster. It’s not just messy; it’s atmospheric. The thick glitter cloud has a beautiful iridescent shimmer, but I doubt it’s healthy to be breathing it in. Somehow, feathers and glue also found their way into the mix, and the floor now has way more visual interest. On top of that, at least three different volcanoes are currently hemorrhaging fizzy lava onto the blue carpet, leaving behind large purple stains. I’m not sure which planets in our solar system are feathered or require the type of volcanoes these kids whipped up in the blink of an eye, but here we are. There’s no going back now.
Moral of the story: don’t leave me alone. Sure, I might’ve told the other helpers I could hold down the fort while they were gone, but this level of trust is unacceptable. Other people’s version of “one second” is vastly different from my own. I thought a couple of the other helpers might stay behind, but they all stepped out to help set up the tables for the communal lunch. Now that I think about it, it would’ve been smarter to volunteer for that. This has been the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Another volcano erupts with a violent hiss. Panicked, I grab a bowl of plastic beads and place it beneath the flow. It doesn’t help. It just overflows onto the carpet in a beaded slurry.
The door creaks open. My heart stops.
“We’re ba—”
The sentence dies a horrific, strangled death as the group of helpers stands in the doorway, staring. Every pair of eyes is on me, on my knees, hands dripping with red, feathered foam. Their jaws practically drag across the stained carpet as they make their way inside. These people do not appreciate fine art. The lead woman, a redhead whose name I’ve already forgotten, looks at me with what one could only describe as pure horror.
I offer a weak smile, raising a feathered hand in a wave. The warm, fizzy stream of vinegar trickles down my arm and drips onto my jeans.
“Great news!” I squeak. “We finished the solar system!”
But it’s all a lie. We didn’t get much further than the sun.
