THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twelve
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twelve
After that, I started eating my snacks in my room. I knew it was against Mr. Ratliffe’s rules but I didn’t care. If I was stuck with him, he was stuck with me, and besides, he had no business deciding what I did in my room.
That seemed like a decent solution at first. I did have to wait until no one was around to grab my snacks from the kitchen and run back to my room, and it meant I didn’t get to talk to Mrs. Scott or anyone as much. But at least I didn’t have to put up with the author of “My Fat Wallet.”
Then one day I came back from class to find ants had invaded my bedroom, apparently drawn by all the crumbs I’d left behind. Crap. Now I had to figure out a way to get rid of them without anybody else in the house knowing about it.
Mrs. Khumari had shown me where she kept the vacuum cleaner—“hoover” she’d called it. Even though I hadn’t bothered to clean my room at all since I moved in, I would just pretend that today, Wednesday, was my regular cleaning day if anybody asked. I vacuumed up all the ants I could find and emptied the canister into the kitchen trash, then took it out the larger trash bin outside by the garage. “Just being helpful,” I told myself, even though I was really hiding the evidence of my habit.
Back inside, I heard Mr. Ratliffe stirring around in his office on the phone, and had to go full 007 James Bond stealth mode in the kitchen while I looked for some bug spray. Finally, in the far back of the cabinet under the sink, I found some Raid. I softly closed the cabinet door and, back flat against the wall, scooted along to the hallway. I could hear Mrs. Scott coming in the kitchen door, and practically barrel-rolled into my room just in time to hear Mr. Ratliffe coming out of his office. My bedroom door closed safely behind me, I held out my weapon and sprayed.
The few ants that had snuck in since I vacuumed curled up into black fuzz on the hardwood floor, and I liberally coated the baseboards in Raid, leaving the entire room in a choking fog. I opened the window to air out the fumes, but it was beginning to rain, so I was forced to leave the window only cracked to keep water from getting in.
I hid the can behind my bedside table, and sat down at my desk, trying not to breathe. Mr. Ratliffe’s voice came drifting in muted tones from the kitchen. Guess I’m stuck here, I thought miserably as the drizzle outside became a steady downpour. What am I even doing?
When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I left my room with a book in hand and decided to brave the drawing room for some study time. Mr. Ratliffe’s office door was closed. Whew. I noticed a couple of fresh magazines on the coffee table in front of the television and picked one up. Looked like some kind of tech magazine. I flipped through it and noticed one of the pages was dog-eared. The article was titled “Thirty Under Thirty: Entrepreneurs and Innovators” and had portraits of—surprise, surprise—mostly men next to little bios about their businesses. My eyes skimmed over the page until I saw a familiar face at the bottom.
Adam Ratliffe, Age 28, Wickwood, PlumTree Educational Platforms
I guess he’s younger than I thought. He definitely looked better in the picture since he wasn’t smirking or scowling. The write-up said he had taken the distance education world by storm in creating secure course management and professional development training platforms over the last three years. I guess that’s what he does all day. And why he’s on the phone all the time.
Still, he was just another boring computer guy like Frank. Except Frank was nicer. I tossed aside the magazine and settled in with my book until Mrs. Scott called me to dinner.
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That Saturday was the field trip to Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey. I was expecting the site to be like a regular church graveyard with a grassy field full of headstones and maybe a few obelisks. Instead, the Corner was housed within one of the arms of the cross-shaped church, with various slabs covering the floor like large flagstones. Some had colored lettering; others bore stylized quotations or images. Even the stones themselves were different colors of marble and granite.
Above the floor there were more monuments. Curious, I wandered a little away from the group to examine each one. An elaborate stone bunting joined plaques for Keats and Shelley. A small marker for Jane Austen hung on the wall, overshadowed by a large, full-body statue of William Shakespeare just beside it. I rolled my eyes at the obvious juxtaposition. Bet Mr. Ratliffe would approve. Moving on, a glossy white marble square on one wall caught my eye, and as I moved closer I read the names of the Brontë sisters above the phrase “With courage to endure.” I grimaced, and though not one for signs and superstition, still fled as fast as I could to join the safety of the tour group, and perhaps escape the remonstration of the dead.
The tour took only half the morning, and it was still early when our group arrived at the train station. I watched my classmates depart to campus, and having no reason to follow them, decided to do a little window shopping in the town. I bought myself a cup of coffee, which was weak and bitter but at least a taste of the familiar. Time had proved that no one in the Ratliffe House was a coffee fan except me. A little breeze whipped my long bangs into my eyes. Dang, I really need a haircut. I brushed them away, and tossed my coffee into a trash can in front of the local grocery before entering. It was a tiny place, not much bigger than a drugstore back home. I meandered the aisles, aimless and bored. Surely there was something in the shelves to assuage the old ennui. Eventually, I found myself in the cosmetics aisle. That’s it! I’ll give myself a spa day. The thought of a few hours burned up with some pampering cheered me immediately. I scoured the shelves, finally settling on a tiny bottle of black nail polish and a pack of bath salts.
The house was quiet; no one greeted me when I arrived. Sigh. I hushed any feelings of disappointment, hurrying to drop my bag at my room and start the bath. A satisfying cloud of steam rose from the tub as I twisted the taps and dumped in the bath salts. While it filled, I let one hand dangle in the stream emanating from the faucet. Warm water ran through my naked fingers, and I cupped and fanned them like a child, reveling in the sense of heavy and soft. The gentle scent of lavender perfumed the white-tiled room, and once the tub was full, I slipped for a long soak. Ahh. Perfect.
About the time my fingers and toes had turned into prunes, I pulled the plug and washed my hair crouching under the tub faucet. Ugh, it’s so long! My bangs kept slipping through my fingers to drip shampoo suds down my forehead and into my eyes. Finally, I rinsed and wrapped a towel around my head so I could stand up and dry off my body. The need for a cut continued to pester me as I rubbed down. I knew my hair was just going to get longer and more annoying over the next month. There was only so much a pack of bobby pins and one headband could do. But I only just got here! And I’ve got to watch my wallet. I tried to remember if I had noticed any salons on my walk downtown. Maybe there was some subtle way of finding out the prices.
I was squeezing the last of the moisture from my hair and wondering if any salons here had websites when another thought seized me. I could chop it myself. Why not? The bangs, at least. I hunted through the bathroom drawers and medicine cabinet until I found a decent-looking pair of scissors. Running the water in the sink, I twisted my bangs, held my breath, and snipped. The water washed away the trimmings. I let the bangs fall loose. They didn’t look too bad. I tentatively snipped at the ends to feather them a bit, then pulled a loose bit of hair from around my shoulders and snipped at that too. I kept snipping, a little at a time, watching the tiny red pieces wash down the faithful river to the drain. Finally, I took stock of my handiwork.
Shorter, but not too short. I ran my fingers through it. Lighter. I found my barrel brush and dried my hair the rest of the way, the lighter tresses falling now in soft waves. Happier than I’d felt in weeks, I slipped on some underclothes, threw on my robe, and headed for my bedroom.
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