Page 57 of No Ordinary Girl
I smiled. “I have a little sister. She’s bratty but pretty cute. I have to babysit her all the time, and I don’t even get paid.”
She laughed. “You’re lucky. I can tell you love her.”
“I’m crazy about her.”
Her smile faded again. “Do you think you’ll find her soon?”
“I hope so.”
So it was clear how she felt about Haley and Mason, but what about Jenna? I still had that nagging feeling that it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine as far as they were concerned.
“So… how is your relationship with Mrs. Henderson?” I asked carefully. “Is she nice? She seems nice.”
Her face fell and her shoulders visibly slumped. No mind reading skills required – it was obvious that there was something up, there. “She… she’s okay, I guess.”
“You don’t like her?”
“Well… she’s a little bossy, that’s all.”
“How so?”
“She always asks me to do other stuff like fold laundry, and clean up Haley’s room.”
I knew there was more to it. “I see.”
She threw the fluffy pillow. “She’s just so… she’s like Sandra Cook.”
I scowled. “Ugh… Sandra Cook.”
“Jenna is so perfect and skinny,” she whined.
And there it was. She was jealous of her. It broke my heart that Mischa didn’t consider herself as pretty as Jenna, just because she had a few curves. I blamed the media.
“Her teeth are perfectly straight,” she went on. “I wore braces for two years, and this damn tooth is still crooked,” she complained with the tip of her finger pressed against her tooth.
“Me, too,” I said, pointing to my own troublemaker tooth. “Same.”
“She has the perfect house, and the perfect husband, and… I don’t even think she realizes how perfect her life is... was,” she quickly corrected herself.
I was taken aback by her point of view. Surely, Mrs. Henderson’s life was far from perfect… she was living every mother’s nightmare.
“And her hair and nails are always so perfect. And she has the tiniest feet.”
I almost laughed – what an odd thing to say. Tiny feet. I thought back to Mrs. Henderson’s shoe collection, and it suddenly hit me. I read the expression on Mischa's face. She was thinking about the shoes, too.
I ran to her walk-in closet, and sure enough, tucked in a pile in a corner, were Mrs. Henderson’s missing heels; the red sandal, the black stiletto, and a few others. I turned to look up at Mischa, who was standing next to me, biting her bottom lip, guilt written all over her face.
“What the…”
Mischa just looked at me. She knew I had her. She knew there was no point in lying.
She twirled a strand of her hair like a petulant teenager. “She had it all,” she said. “I just wanted to mess with her. Fucking with her precious shoe collection gave me a rush,” she confessed.
Mischa Anderson: perfect daughter, student and babysitter. Not so much.
Her eyes grew wide. “But I swear,” she squealed. “I stole her shoes, but I never touched her baby. I love that little girl.”
21
