Free Pish Posh by Ellen Potter

child!”
    â€œWho on earth has been treating you as a child?” Lila asked, genuinely shocked.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” Clara shook her head. “The problem is solved. ”
    â€œOh, good,” sighed Lila, relieved to get back to her reservation book.
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    That evening, Clara walked into the restaurant feeling lighter and happier than she had since Dr. Piff had left. True, she had not exactly solved the mystery that Dr. Piff had mentioned, but at least she had managed to get rid of Audrey, who (Clara was 98 percent certain) was at the heart of it all.
    She sat at her usual table, had her usual meal brought to her, and watched the glittery, fabulous customers. Curiously, the slap she had given Audrey had a strange aftereffect on Clara. She felt a surge of hot, mean energy, and her face, if she had bothered to examine it closely, looked as pink and damp as her father’s always did. To be brutally honest, her armpits were giving off a sourish smell, too, not unlike the armpits of her father. But all Clara could smell was imminent success. Tonight she would scout out a Nobody—she could feel it in her bones. And indeed, she had not been in the restaurant for more than fifteen minutes before she spotted her first Nobody. The fake countess, about whom “Ask Ms. Mandy” had just written, appeared at the door, a limp Pekingese tucked beneath her arm. Up front, Lila was looking down at the reservation book, preparing to seat her.
    Because Clara was in a strange, mean, buoyant mood, she didn’t bother to go quietly to her mother. Instead, she stood up at her table, pointed at the countess, and in her loudest voice declared, “There! That one! She’s a Nobody!” She slapped her hand on the table in triumph.
    The whole restaurant turned to stare at her, and for a moment she felt a little embarrassed. But not for long. Right after Lila had told the mortified woman to leave, John Sickle, the anchorman who had giggled during the earthquake coverage, entered with several other people.
    Oh, this is too easy, Clara thought to herself, her eyes bright as though she had a fever. This time she ran up to the front of the restaurant, knocking her hip painfully against a customer’s chair as she went, then jabbed a finger three times at John Sickle’s nose. “Nobody, Nobody, Nobody!” she cried, and then smiled at her mother, who looked a little taken aback.
    â€œAre you feeling all right, Clara? ” she whispered as John Sickle and his party backed out the front door.
    â€œI’m fine,” she said. “Why?”
    â€œYou seem a little feverish,” Lila said. She put her hand on Clara’s forehead. It was a nice feeling, having her mother’s hand pressed against her forehead, and Clara closed her eyes, hoping the feeling would last.
    â€œI suppose you’re a little warm,” Lila said, removing her hand. Clara’s forehead felt shivery cold where her mother’s hand had been. “Maybe you’d better go home, Clara.”
    She didn’t want to go home, and she didn’t really feel sick, except for the strange, jittery, spiteful sensation that she’d had all night. But now that sensation felt tamed, and she suddenly grew a little tired.
    â€œOkay,” she said. She hesitated, and almost gave her mother a hug, but Lila had already stuck her head back into the reservation book.
    She made her way through the restaurant, aware that some of the customers were looking at her oddly, and went into the kitchen to say good night to her father, who was carefully lifting an entire fried fish out of a pan and onto a plate.
    â€œGood night, Papa.”
    â€œGood night already?” he asked without looking up as he spooned some red sauce on the fish.
    â€œMother says I have a fever, ” Clara declared. She liked the sound of that and added, in a voice loud enough for the kitchen to hear, “Mother says I should go