Free Tiffany Tumbles: Book One of the Interim Fates by Kristine Grayson Page A

but I’m just guessing.
    “We’re supposed to keep our distance,” I say.
    “Because?” she asks.
    “They’re servants,” I say in the exact same tone. I’m getting a little tired of the way she judges everything I say. “So you don’t want to get involved.”
    “Because?”
    “Because what?”
    “What happens if you get involved?”
    I shrug again. This dinner isn’t going well. My stomach is growling, but I’m wondering if I should take another bite because Mom still hasn’t eaten. Her eyes are spitting sparks too—not literally, not yet (that menopause thing), but she’s going to be a danger with this look when she comes into her magic.
    “ What happens when you get involved, Tiffany?” She’s a half step away from yelling.
    “They expect things,” I say.
    “Like what?”
    I keep shrugging. No one actually said what the servants would expect, only that it was bad.
    “Tiffany…”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “Magic, maybe.”
    “Who made the non-fraternizing rule?” Mom asks.
    That one’s easy. “Hera.”
    “Ah.” Mom leans back and wipes her mouth with her napkin even though she hasn’t taken a bite. “So if you fraternize with the servants, you might become like your father.”
    “Huh?” I ask.
    “Your father fraternizes with a lot of women, and…” Mom pauses, as if she’s considering her words. Then she goes on as if she’s come to a decision, “…and a lot of them end up like me. Pregnant. Pregnant women expect the father of their babies to own up to their responsibilities. Is that what Hera means?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, “but I can’t father any babies. My magic doesn’t work that way.”
    Mom’s eyes bug out for a minute, and then she laughs. “No, that’s true. But you can have babies yourself, you know.”
    I know. Mom and I have had this talk, as a matter of fact, every year since I turned ten. It gets more and more graphic over time, and I don’t want to have it again.
    “I’m still intrigued by this ‘servant’ word,” Mom says. “It implies an us-against-them mentality.”
    I don’t know what that means either, and I’m getting really frustrated. “Things are just different here,” I say, stirring my food again.
    “They are.”
    “So I want to know how to treat the servants. You already said to tip them.”
    Mom rubs her forehead with the first three fingers of her right hand. She braces her thumb against her temple like she has a headache.
    “You haven’t gotten very far in American History, have you?” she asks, finally.
    “I’ve only been in school a week,” I say.
    “No Constitution yet?” she asks.
    “What?” I say.
    “No All Men Are Created Equal?” she asks.
    “What about women?” I ask.
    “Precisely,” she says, then sighs. And shakes her head. “Okay. The short version: everyone in America is considered the same as everyone else. So you treat all people you encounter with kindness.”
    This confuses me even more than the other stuff she said. “But not everyone is the same. Criminals are different.”
    “Because they chose to break the law,” Mom says. She finally takes a bite of the dinner, but she chews automatically. She’s still staring at me like I’m nuts.
    “And rich people have servants. At least in the movies.”
    “Rich people do have servants,” Mom says. “They pay their servants. I suspect Zeus doesn’t.”
    “We don’t have money,” I say primly, but I’m really not sure why the servants work at Mount Olympus. I was raised to ignore them, so I have. I have no idea if they got money or time alone with my dad (the women) or all their wishes come true when they’re done working. I have no idea at all.
    “Theoretically,” Mom says, “being a servant is like being an employee anywhere else in America.”
    When she says theoretically, I know she’s on shaky ground, but I don’t know why.
    “So you tip them,” I say.
    Mom shakes her head. Then she sighs again. “This is going to