Rat Race

Rosalynn’s house was the hugest house that Giselle had ever seen and… the tackiest. She almost didn’t get out of her brother’s 1985 Corolla for fear that she would be infected by the gaudy display of Rosalynn’s wealth evident on every square inch of her lawn.

She stared at the centerpiece—a golden fountain—which dwarfed the various-shaped topiaries surrounding it. They cluttered the lawn, facing forward like they were about to charge at whoever even thought about stepping foot on the Sinclair property. Giselle was afraid of what the inside of the house would look like.

“Come on, I gotta go to work,” her brother Zack groaned. His eyes were bloodshot again and his brown hair was unkempt, a result of one of his many ‘Zack Nights’ as Giselle liked to call them.

“Oh, I’m sure that Staci won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late as long as you keep supplying her,” Giselle muttered absentmindedly, referring to Zack’s Little Caesars boss whom Giselle had seen around the house way too many times for it to be normal.

“Whatever, just get out of the car.”

“No problem.” She leaned into the backseat to grab her moss green Longchamp tote bag. “Oh and by the way,” she said looking at her brother, “Pick me up at six tomorrow. I don’t want to be here any—”

“Any longer than you need to be. Yeah yeah, I know the drill.” Zack rolled his eyes.

Giselle cracked a smile, something she rarely did when in her brother’s presence. “Okay, bye.” She got of the car and started walking up the long driveway that led to Rosalynn’s monstrosity of a house.

It was really windy that day. No snow though, thankfully. She was glad she’d decided to slick back her hair before she left, otherwise it would be all over the place. She’d done no primping whatsoever other than slipping some red lipstick on. It was her number one accessory.

Her fingers curled around the heavy knocker on Rosalynn’s door, and she lifted it and let it fall. After a few seconds it slowly opened and Rosalynn’s face appeared around the door and then the rest of her body.

Her hair was in waves, and her face was bare. She was already in her pajamas—purple silk shorts and a matching tank.

“Hi.” She wiggled her French-tipped fingers and flashed a blindingly white smile. “You’re early,” she said.

“It’s…” Giselle checked her watch, “Seven o’ clock. I thought that was the time we agreed on?” She looked at Rosalynn and cocked her head.

“Prompt,” Rosalynn smiled again, “I like it.” She hustled Giselle into the house and they walked into what she guessed was the living room area. It was a total change from what she saw outside, like the door to the house separated the tacky from the classy.]

Giselle’s eyes touched on the cream-colored leather couches that looked like they weren’t made for sitting on, heavy curtains of the same hue that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years and oriental rugs that covered almost every inch of the hardwood floor. Giselle supposed that was so guests wouldn’t scuff up the floor. She’d already had to leave her shoes at the door.

“So you should go ahead and change into your PJs. The bathroom’s over there. Come meet me downstairs when you’re done.” And she was off before Giselle could say anything.