“Whatever you say. I’m not the one that has the whole school fooled.”
Ironic. He most certainly did have the whole school fooled.
I opened the refrigerator door and wanted to cry at all the plates and old Tupperware containers filled with leftovers. I knew for a fact most had been in the fridge for weeks. Why were people like this at work? It was disgusting.
Miles grabbed my arm, moved me aside, and pushed the fridge door closed. “You’re not cleaning in there.”
Extracting myself from his grip, I responded with a mature, “I can do whatever I want.” Suddenly, I wanted to clean the whole room. I’d clean all night if that was what it took.
He looked at me incredulously. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll go to the office, get on the intercom, and tell everyone to come grab their crap from the kitchen and wash their own dishes. It’s not your job.”
“I don’t mind doing it.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “It’s a little game I like to play. First I imagine that every dish has your face on it, and then I get to half drown it in water.”
I didn’t have to look directly at Miles to know that his mouth lifted in his trademark （annoying） grin. “I knew you liked me, deep down.”
“How did you get that from what I just said?”
“You’re thinking about me while doing mundane tasks. I think my heart just melted.”
Miles Taylor was looking at me as though something amused him, and it made me want to claw his eyes out.
“Want to know what I think?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“You’re a martyr.”
I folded my arms as I glared up at him. “I like things clean, so sue me.”
He shook his head, mirroring my body language as we leaned our hips against the counter, facing off. “Just like in the staff meetings when suddenly you’ve been assigned five more tasks than everybody else, and you act like it’s Christmas morning. Or when Harvey asks you to edit his master’s thesis for free in all your spare time. Or when Davis stole your idea for the spring project. And you just smile through everything.”
“You smile all the time,” I accused, fully aware that that particular burn sucked.
“Yeah, I’m a happy guy. But that’s probably because I’m not bending over and letting the whole school spank me while I do all their homework.”
“Ew.”
He laughed, which only made me angrier. I leaned closer, my fingers clenched with fire. “I help out because I’m a team player. And you don’t know anything about me.”
“Whose fault is that?”
We were interrupted as Mr. Johnson, from the music department, slid into the room. Where Kenneth Harvey was greasy and awkward, Jason Johnson was smooth and slick. He wore a suit like a car salesman, laughed too much, and could talk himself out of just about anything. I took a step back from Miles.
Jason peered at us both, amused, as he slowly raised his arms in the air. “Whoa, where’s the fire? I thought the English department settled their differences over books and a cup of tea.”
There was a pause in the air as we each put down our weapons to face a common enemy.
“We’re fresh out of tea,” Miles countered, his eyes never leaving my face.
I smiled and added, “We’re just talking.” As much as it pained me, I kept my gaze focused on Johnson’s gray tie and his well-fitted, monochromatic suit, very aware of another pair of eyes watching me.
Jason noticed his dishes on the drying rack. “Oh, thanks, Olive. I’ve been meaning to come down and wash those, but I’ve just been so busy.” He strode toward the fridge and took out a couple more half-eaten plates covered in plastic wrap. Checking his watch with a flourish, he turned to me and motioned to the plates in his hand with a sheepish smile—one he probably thought was charming, but it gave me the distinct urge to punch his face. “I hate to ask, but I’ve got to run and pick up my wife—her car is in the shop—or else I’d wash these myself right now.”
I kept waiting for him to ask. But he didn’t ask me anything. He just held his containers with a helpless shrug and stared imploringly at me, waiting for me to offer. “I just don’t want to leave it for two weeks like this.”
“It will only take two minutes, Johnson. I’ll bet your wife would be excited to hear you were doing your dishes,” Miles said, his voice a quiet warning.
“She’s already waiting for me or else I would. Listen, if you can’t get to it, no worries. Hopefully, nothing too green will grow on them while we’re gone.”
I shot Miles a glance. As much as I didn’t want to play Jason’s maid, I certainly didn’t need Miles thinking he was coming to my rescue. My smile wavered only slightly, knowing Miles was watching incredulously as my hands moved to accept Jason’s dirty plates and Tupperware.
“Sure. I can do that,” I found myself saying.
“You’re a gem, Olive.” Jason moved toward the doorway, pausing to face us again. “And hey, congratulations on your award. I keep meaning to have you edit a few things for me. I’ve been dabbling in writing, too.” He sent a meaningful glance over at Miles, who gave him nothing in return but a passive stare.
“Welp, have a good Christmas! Thanks again, Olive.” He strode out of the room, leaving a tension-filled tsunami in his wake.
“Such a team player,” Miles murmured, his disappointed eyes roaming over my face. I burned hot with indignation. I wasn’t sure why it rankled more that he was disappointed in me than actually doing Johnson’s stupid dishes.
“I’m happy to help him.” I lifted my chin and placed his dishes on the counter.
“This isn’t the first time he’s done this to you, is it?”
I said nothing as I opened the Tupperware and immediately gagged as the smell of musty split-pea soup filled the air.
Miles’s warm body brushed up against mine as he plucked the container out of my hands, closed the lid, and stuffed all of Johnson’s food back into the fridge.
The smell had taken my nose hostage, and for several long seconds, I stood over the sink, willing myself not to throw up.
“Why do you say yes to everything?”
“Why do you feel like you have the right to ask me personal questions?” I asked, standing up from my crouched position over the sink and striding toward the front door—away from Miles.
“I don’t know. I figured us working together in the same department the past nine months might have warranted a personal question or two.”
“Nope.” Almost to the door.
“Storming out after an argument? You’re such a cliché, Celery Stick.”
“I’m not storming out,” I clipped back as I walked with light and not-at-all-angry steps down the hallway. “Have a good Christmas!” I yelled as my parting shot.
I ground my teeth as I marched down the hallway, pausing only to give Mr. Young, the social studies teacher, a friendly hello and ask about his children’s excitement for Christmas. When I reached the door to my room, it was all I could do not to slam it behind me. I took a deep breath and leaned against the closed door, trying to calm my nerves.