Free My Own Worst Frenemy by Kimberly Reid Page B

Paulette is saying. “On moving day, you manage the move—make sure items are packed to our standards, keep the guys on schedule, and deal with any issues that may arise.”
    Uh-oh. I detect some BS. “Issues?”
    â€œWell, our clients are all high-end. They’re paying more for our services and they have . . . let’s just say they have high expectations. That’s where your customer-service skills, and a dose of maturity, will really help.”
    Translation: rich people going off on me when we scuff their credenza. But I got this. At my old job, I had people going off all the time. Like I said before, I bet Paulette never had to deal with a meth-head coming off his high.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m used to working with challenging personalities.”
    â€œI think you’ll do just fine, Chanti. I’ll go with you this weekend on your first project assessment. I’ll just need to get a copy of your driver’s license to file with your employment paperwork.”
    â€œBut I thought because of the law I was too young to drive at work.”
    â€œYou won’t be driving, but we need something on file for identification. Don’t you drive?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I’m an excellent driver, first in my driver’s education class.”
    That doesn’t mean I have a license, though. In all my excitement about the new job, and slight fear of working with weird Malcolm, I’d forgotten I’d have to show proof of my age. I don’t even have my learner’s permit with me since Lana is holding it temporarily. I borrowed her car without permission a few weeks ago and she got a little ticked off about that. So I make a big show of looking in my wallet and being surprised not to find my license, but promise I’ll bring it with me Saturday. I just hope Lana will be so happy I found a job nowhere near our neighborhood that she’ll give me back my permit, and that I impress Paulette so much on Saturday that she won’t mind I tweaked my birth date.

Chapter 9
    I ’m hanging out with Tasha and Michelle after my interview, telling them about my new job. We’re in Michelle’s kitchen, which looks like the set of one of those cooking shows on cable and nothing like my kitchen. It’s the only room in the house that doesn’t have some kind of cross or Bible in it so it must be the only room Pastor Owens didn’t get a say about how to decorate.
    Thanks to her mother working overtime all the time, every appliance is stainless steel—not the hodgepodge of mismatched appliances at my house, where Lana buys what’s cheap, not what coordinates well. There’s a block of knives on the counter that must be crazy expensive because no one in the house can touch them except Mrs. Owens. They even have a cappuccino maker. As you can imagine, Mrs. Owens is a great cook. She always leaves something good in the oven or refrigerator before she goes to her nurse job on the second shift. Michelle and I are fighting over who will get the last pork chop, and eventually I have to concede since it’s kind of her food. Okay, it is her food.
    â€œBut I’m a guest. A good hostess always lets the guest come first.”
    â€œSince when are you a guest? Nobody invited you, or Tasha, for that matter. And Tasha had the nerve to bring her sister.”
    â€œShe’ll be in there glued to Nickelodeon for the next hour, like she’s not even here,” Tasha says. “I’m watching her tonight so I couldn’t leave her at home.”
    â€œY’all could have both stayed home instead of coming over here eating my food,” Michelle says. I notice her voice goes up an extra octave when she’s miffed. “Why don’t we ever go to your house, Chanti?”
    â€œHer mother doesn’t like people visiting when she’s not home,” Tasha says.
    â€œI’m starting to wonder if you even have a