Four Of A Kind

Chapter 59: [2.32] My Probationary Period Has Perks

Thursday afternoon at Hartwell meant freedom.

The final bell rang at 12:30, releasing students into the wild like zoo animals discovering an open gate. Half-days existed for faculty meetings or professional development or whatever excuse the administration invented to give themselves long weekends. Students didn’t question miracles.

I walked through the main corridor toward the student parking lot, dodging clusters of classmates making weekend plans. Someone was throwing a party at their parents’ Hamptons house. Someone else had courtside tickets to a Knicks game. A third group debated which club to hit in the city, apparently forgetting that most of them weren’t old enough to drink.

Rich kid problems.

I pulled it out, expecting Iris asking me to pick up snacks or Harlow sending another seventeen emoji string about nothing in particular.

The name on the screen read: Vivienne Valentine.

Oh good. My favorite person.

Vivienne:Mr. Angelo. As per our discussion, this afternoon is designated for your wardrobe and grooming update. Acquire attire befitting your position. The two-tone hairstyle is unprofessional and must be addressed. Report back to the manor by 6 PM.

I stopped walking.

A freshman bumped into my back, muttered something about watching where I was going, and scurried away when I didn’t react.

The wardrobe thing I understood. My thrifted clothes worked fine for a scholarship student blending into the background. They worked less fine for someone driving a Valentine daughter to business meetings and standing in flagship stores that probably had dress codes for their customers.

But the hair comment.

I ran my fingers through the faded blonde ends, feeling the texture shift where they met my natural dark roots. This particular disaster had started two years ago when I’d been sixteen and stupid. The initial bleach job came from a YouTube tutorial and a five-dollar box kit. I’d meant to maintain it, to touch up the roots every few weeks like a responsible person.

Then life happened.

Mom happened. Bills happened. Iris happened.

The roots grew out. The blonde faded to something closer to orange. And somewhere along the line, the two-tone mess stopped being a mistake and started being mine.

It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t polished. It looked like I’d lost a fight with a bleach bottle and decided to embrace the defeat.

But it was the one thing about my appearance I’d chosen for myself.

The Valentine sisters were packaging me like a product. New clothes. New hair. Probably new shoes and accessories and whatever else rich people considered essential for their employees.

I could picture the end result. Clean-cut. Presentable. Indistinguishable from every other assistant in every other wealthy household.

A face that could blend into any background. A person with no edges.

I looked at the phone screen for a long moment.

Then I hit the call button.

Texting let her control the pace. She could craft responses, edit her words, maintain that perfect Vivienne composure.

A phone call forced her to react in real time.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Why are you calling? Is there a problem?”

“I have two questions about your directive.”

Silence on the other end.

I used her word deliberately. Directive. It acknowledged her authority while simultaneously highlighting how ridiculous that authority was. A seventeen-year-old girl issuing directives to an eighteen-year-old guy about his haircut.

We were truly living in a society.

“First,” I continued, “am I using the company card you provided, or is this an out-of-pocket expense to be reimbursed?”

“You will use the household account card.” Her tone shifted slightly, moving from annoyed to cautious. “Keep all receipts. You will submit them to me for review.”

“Understood.”

“Is that all?”

“Second question. Regarding my hair.”

“What about it?”

“This look is, for better or worse, my signature. More importantly, am I still on a probationary trial, or has my employment been confirmed?”

The pause this time lasted longer.

I could almost hear her processing the implications. Running through scenarios. Searching for the logical trap I was laying.

“Your trial period is still in effect. Why is that relevant?”

“I’m not going to make a permanent change to my appearance for a temporary position.”

Nothing.

“If my employment is confirmed after the trial, we can revisit the grooming update. Until then, the hair stays.”

A long sigh came through the phone. The kind of sigh that contained multiple paragraphs of frustration compressed into a single exhale.

She was trapped.

Her own rules bound her. The trial period existed to evaluate whether I could handle the position. Firing me over a haircut during that evaluation would look petty.

Vivienne Valentine did not make emotional decisions.

At least, she didn’t make decisions she couldn’t justify with logic afterward.

“…Fine. The hair can be discussed after the probationary review. But the wardrobe update is non-negotiable. I expect you to look presentable by this evening.”

“Understood. Thank you, Vivienne.”

I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at the screen as it returned to the home display. A small smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Round one: Isaiah.

I pocketed the phone and resumed walking toward the parking lot.

I reached the Lexus and stopped beside the driver’s door. The black credit card sat in my wallet like a live grenade.

Now I actually have to go shopping.

The realization settled over me like a cold blanket.

I was a master of thrift stores. I could navigate Goodwill like a special forces operative, extracting quality pieces from racks of garbage. I knew which Salvation Army locations got donations from wealthy neighborhoods. I could spot a designer label hidden in a pile of polyester nightmares from twenty feet away.

But actual retail shopping?

The kind where you walked into a store with your head held high and asked salespeople for assistance?

The kind where prices had more digits than my bank account balance?

I had no experience. No reference points. No idea where to even begin.

I pulled out my phone again and scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I needed.

Isaiah:Emergency. I need your help.