“It’s your town, but it’s called Greaverville. The Greaver family is very prominent and owns most of the town, including this place. By the way—the drinking age was reduced to sixteen here sometime back in the forties.”
“So they funnel their money into pizza parlors?” I still can’t believe this place. There’s an arcade room off to the side, an entire sports-bar area with pool tables and dartboards and big-screen TVs, and what looks like an enclosed ball pit and play area for kids, too.
“Greaverville is five times the size you know Ardenville to be,” Mario says. “The Greavers worked hard to put this place on the map and are known for their shrewd but ethical business practices. They’re a far cry from the Greaver family as they were in your history.”
“The name is familiar,” I admit. “Greaver’s Mill Road is where I used to go for piano lessons before I told my mom I was quitting. And I think there was a Greaver’s store or something, wasn’t there?”
“There was a Greaver everything in your town at one point,” he tells me, leaning back against his desk. “They owned the local mercantile, the lumber mill, the zinc mine, the racetrack, the waterworks, and according to some scandalous newspaper articles, they owned the mayor and half the judges in the area as well—that is, until the empire crumbled around them.”
“What brought them down?”
“Shoddy construction. Bad labor policies. Too many payoffs changing hands. That kind of stuff.” He gestures at the board again. “They were a little better at business in this reality.”
“So why here? What’s the job?”
“Another easy one,” he says, “piece of cake. You see that woman with the two young boys over there?” He gestures toward their table. “I need you to spill your drink on the youngest boy.”
“Just … walk over there and dump a drink on him?” I clarify.
“Not like that.” He looks annoyed. “Make it believable. Trip or something. But make sure it hits the kid full-on in the chest.”
I feel kind of bad about this one. The poor kid’s going to get soaked, and his mother is going to have to deal with it. I watch them and my face must show my reluctance, because Mario makes a tsk-ing sound and shakes a finger at me.
“Remember the greater good,” he says. “I wouldn’t have you do it just to do it.”
“I would hope not.”
“Now let me show you the bathroom, so you know what to look for in the mirror.”
“When do I go?”
“Tomorrow after school. Go straight home, make the transfer.”
“No surprises this time,” I warn him. “Is everybody alive and well over there?”
He thinks a moment. “Yes. But I meant what I said earlier, Jessa. You have to learn to roll with whatever you get handed.”
“Whether I like it or not?”
He gives me a noncommittal shrug as I walk over to the red door.
“Keep it simple,” he reminds me.
I step through the door, and when I wake, I wonder how he can ever think that a life like this is simple.
25
Dirty Job
I stare at myself in the mirror and watch as my face changes slightly—the makeup gets heavy and turns very goth-looking, with a lot of black eyeliner. I have an eyebrow piercing. And bangs—ugh! I step through into the bathroom at the pizza parlor.
I give myself one more glance in the mirror, shaking my head, especially when I remember the entire notebook full of sad, death-related emo poetry that’s in my bag. I wrinkle my nose and step out of the bathroom.
I’m early, so I kill some time by ordering a slice of pizza to go with my soda. I toy with the idea of getting a beer or a glass of wine since I can, but I decide I’d better keep my wits about me.
It’s been at least three-quarters of an hour, and I’m about to call it quits when they finally walk in. The mom looks nice enough, and the boys look about ten and six. The younger one is sitting on the outside, making my job easier.
“Right. I can do this,” I tell myself.
I stand up, grab my soda, and walk like I’m heading for the bathrooms, with a slight detour by their table. I do a pretty credible job tripping—mainly because I really do start to trip once I try to fake it—and I end up throwing not only my soda at the kid, but my whole self as well, knocking him over in his chair as I go staggering.
He starts shrieking almost immediately, and it’s a horrible sound, like I’ve seriously injured him, and I am terrified. I run back to him immediately and his mother is right next to me, pulling him up and into her arms.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…” She’s rocking him back and forth as she repeats it over and over again, and I see him desperately pulling at his shirt, trying to get the wetness of it away from his body as he continues to shriek.
Something in the way she’s soothing him, the dirty look his brother is giving me, and the child’s overblown response clicks, and I crouch down next to him, completely horrified. I look at the mother.
“I’m so sorry. Listen, I have a tank top on under this.” I lift up my shirt to show her. “Can I give him my shirt? It’s dry. He won’t notice the wetness that way.”
She looks at me gratefully. “Are you sure?”