Messing with Matilda

Chapter One

I try to smile and act calm, cool, and collected, but a stress headache is pounding away on either side of my temples, and I want to go hide under my desk. Why did I agree to this? I have no idea. Forcing the corners of my mouth up even further, I nod enthusiastically at the person sitting in front of me. Did she just ask me a question? I need to start paying attention.

Despite the multiple meditation apps currently installed on my phone, I don’t deal well with stress. I’ve tried all sorts of New Age breathing techniques and visualization exercises, and I used to own a small clown-shaped rubbery ball that I could squeeze until its creepy eyes bulged out of its head, but I flung it across my office last week in a moment of frustration when my computer was taking forever to update. (I have no patience for this process. Time is money!) The ball ended up lodged between two heavy filing cabinets, and it’s been gathering dust ever since. As soon as this epic waste of prime afternoon hours is over, I’m going to retrieve it.

I wipe my moist palms on my black pencil skirt. Who needs a pricey gym membership when squirming in your seat makes you sweat as much as an hour on the treadmill?

Is she still talking? Should I nod again? Yes, that feels right. The last thing I want to do is make my guest feel like I’m not fully invested in our meeting. But I really must remember to clean behind those cabinets.

Excuse me, Ms. Hart. Do you need me to repeat the question?

My eyes dart back to the woman with mousey brown hair sitting in front of me who can’t be a day over twenty-one. She’s holding a black notebook and pen like a journalist from a forgotten era. I’ve never been interviewed before, but I expected an iPhone or some state of the art recorder smaller than a paper clip. Instead, I’m being quizzed by a wannabe Lois Lane. She’s so young, I bet she has no idea who Lois Lane is.

I’m about to tell—Brenda? Belinda? Enid?—to yes, please repeat the question when there’s a small knock at the door and Evie Glass strolls into my office. Again. I’d forwarded all my calls to Evie’s number earlier in the day to avoid any and all distractions. Even though no interruptions is a pretty self-explanatory concept, some people apparently have a hard time grasping it.

Sorry to interrupt again. Evie smiles at my guest. This is the second time my office-mate has barged into the room during this interview and I know exactly what she’s going to say. Before she can say it, I notice that she’s applied another coat of mascara, and it takes an incredible amount of willpower for me to stop my eyes from rolling to the back of my head. Is there a polite way to tell someone they’re being absolutely ridiculous? Matilda, your mother is calling you on my phone. She’s very persistent and wants to talk to you as soon as possible.

I clear my throat. Thank you, Evie. Please inform my mother I’m in the middle of an important meeting, and I’ll call her back the second I’m done. And if we don’t get this show on the road, we’ll be here all week.

"Okay. I’ll tell her you’re going to call her the second you’re free." Evie nods and doesn’t move a muscle.

"Yes. The second my availability goes from busy to not busy." Can I dumb it down any further? We both know I’m going to grab lunch from the deli around the corner, return a few messages and emails, and water the office plants before I call her back, but Mom doesn’t need to know that. She’s probably calling to make sure I have extra toothpaste in my apartment for their monthly trek to NYC to visit me this weekend.

The journalist—What is this girl’s name? Shouldn’t reporters wear name tags?—quickly jots something down in her notebook and I want to snatch it from her hands. What is she writing about me? Apart from the undeniable fact that I share an office with a crazy person, that is. I wouldn’t blame her for that. This space is technically the home of Evie Glass Interior Design, but for the last five years, it’s also been the home of my company, Hart Your Space Services. I have a tiny office in the back of Evie’s studio. Since I’m usually the one who goes out to meet potential clients—and not the other way around—it works out perfectly, and it’s been a happy collaboration so far.

Maybe we could ask Ms. Glass to join us for this part of the interview? It would be nice to get your assistant’s perspective.

Evie is not my assistant (even though she brought us coffee twenty minutes ago), and I was expecting her to quickly correct our little friend, but her eyes light up, and I realize Evie’s willing to play the part in order to get her picture in the paper. I hate to step on her dreams, but it must be done. Truth be told, I’d let her take over for me in a New York minute. In fact, I’d let her pretend to be me so I could avoid this torture altogether. The headache goes from bad to worse, and I lightly massage my temples with my fingertips. We need to get things moving. My to-do list is a mile long and I’m itching to check items off. Stop pretending that I will remember this girl’s name just shot up to the top of my list.

I’m sorry, I sigh. What’s your name again?

"Emma. Emma Watson—like the actress from Harry Potter. But I’m obviously not her." Emma giggles, and I notice the Gryffindor sticker on her notebook. The only reason I know anything about Harry Potter is because Evie once accused me of being a typical Slytherin. (I had to look it up to see if I should be insulted—I wasn’t.) Should I bring it up or are Emma and I mortal enemies because of our opposing houses? Also, why I am thinking about Harry Potter? Could this interview get any more derailed? Your mom knows my mom, Emma adds, nonchalantly.

Does she now? How fabulous. And by fabulous, I mean horrible, but I hope my exaggerated grin doesn’t betray me. Listen, Emma. I’m sure Evie needs to get back to work. I give my friend a pointed look and she leaves my office, closing the door behind her. I turn my attention back to Emma. You must have a lot of sightseeing to do. Is this your first time in New York City?

Emma’s face lights up. Yes, it is. How did you know?

Just a wild guess, I answer, resisting the urge to point out the miniature Statue of Liberty peeking out from the top of an I Heart NYC tote bag leaning against her chair. Classic newbie purchase.

I love it here so much, she says with a dreamy sigh. I never want to leave.

I know the feeling.

When the Messina Messenger—my hometown newspaper—contacted me last month to set up an interview, I deleted the email as soon as I read the first few lines and hoped they didn’t have a way of knowing I’d received it. Letters get lost in the mail every day. The same thing can happen to messages sent through cyberspace, right? It could have been gobbled up by my spam folder. I should have known they wouldn’t give up on me so easily. I’m the one who keeps reminding Evie that ignoring her credit card bills will not make them go away. A new email popped into my inbox a week later, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore it this time. I assured the editor in chief that I was perfectly fine with conducting the interview over phone or Skype, but they insisted on sending a reporter to my office. Maybe they were worried I’d block their number or screen my calls?

We should get back to my questions, Emma says, sliding her dog-eared New York City guidebook back into her messenger bag.

Let’s do it. I don’t want to keep you too long.

Emma had shown me a list of places she wanted to visit before heading back to Messina. Museums. Restaurants. Broadway shows. She wanted to cram in a week’s worth of activities into a day. I can’t blame her for seeking a bit of excitement—nothing ever happens in Messina. I’m surprised they still have a newspaper. When I was a kid, I always rolled my eyes at the headlines, which usually involved teenagers arrested for shoplifting at the corner store or the senior hockey league’s latest hip-shattering defeat. Nobody cared—just like nobody cares about me. I left small-town Connecticut as soon as I finished high school and I’ve never looked back—or been back. So that’s why I’m not too excited at the thought of being celebrated as a proud Messina daughter. I’m more of a bratty child who doesn’t want her friends to see her with her totally unfashionable and uncool parents.

How did you become a professional organizer? Emma asks, reading from her notebook. Did you always know that’s what you wanted to be?

I lean back in my chair. I’d like to have a perfectly prepackaged answer to that question. Do I really want to get into how I was the only kid I knew who enjoyed putting her toys away more than actually playing with them? And how I was once kicked out of The Container Store because they were closing for the day and I didn’t want to leave? Or how the beauty of a clutter-free room can move me to tears like one of the sappy chick flicks Evie keeps going on about? I went to Clutter College, I say with a wink. And got a degree in Mess Prevention.

So that’s why you moved to New York? What was your college experience like?

So much for trying to be funny. I was kidding. There’s no such thing as Clutter College.

Of course. Emma discreetly scratches her pen across the notebook page. The silence that follows is both tense and uncomfortable and I’d now pay good money to have Evie burst into the room. Emma’s mother is probably going to call my mother and tell her I gave Emma a hard time. It’s official—I will definitely never hear the end of it.

Actually, I say, clearing my throat. I studied business at NYU with a minor in psychology. One day, we had a lecture on hoarding during one of my psych classes. The guest speaker was a professional organizer who assisted hoarders when they needed to declutter their houses. I just found it so fascinating and knew that’s what I wanted to do.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up and I know I’ve said the magic word: hoarding. Ever since hoarding reality shows started popping up on television showing the most extreme of cases, everyone loves talking about the people who have twenty years’ worth of daily newspapers stacked up in the middle of their living rooms or wrappers from every piece of candy they ever ate scattered on every surface.

Have you ever dealt with any hoarders yourself?

Only once, I say. After graduation, I started working for Dr. Paxton, the woman who gave that lecture at NYU, and I got the chance to tag along during a consultation. Two sisters were living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment and they were threatened with eviction unless they cleaned up their place. It was a real fire hazard—stacks of books and old toys blocking practically every door and window. Piles of garbage were everywhere. It was sad because the two ladies loved every piece of trash they owned. In fact, it wasn’t trash to them; it was memories—and no one was going to force them to throw out their memories.

What happened next? Emma asks.

Well, Dr. Paxton and I sat down with them and painstakingly went through all of their possessions. We were able to convince the sisters to throw away some stuff and donate other things, all while listening to them talk about what these things meant to them and trying to reassure them that the memory associated with the object wouldn’t disappear if the object did. It was a long process—it took over a week—and it was absolutely draining. I have to admit that I thought we were wasting our time and they’d just go back to their old ways once we were out the door.

Did they?

Emma’s fascination makes me smile and I’m glad I have a happy ending to this story. I keep in touch with Dr. Paxton and she follows up with them every few months. It’s been over five years now, and things are still going well. While these cases can be interesting, I’m glad that my typical day involves more low-key situations. Basically, I help people make better use of their space and tame the clutter that can hinder their productivity.

There you go. I’ve just crushed this interview. Would it be weird if I high-fived myself? I’m about to get up from my chair and escort Emma out of my office when she picks up her notebook again and goes back into reporter mode. What do you miss most about Messina?

Oh, no, no, no. She did not just go there. I should say my parents, but Mom and Dad come down every few weeks so I don’t get the chance to miss them that much. Obviously, the Messina Messenger readers don't need to know I don't have wistful, nostalgic memories about the place where I grew up. In fact, I've lied about being a native New Yorker more than once. There’s my former best friend Amy, but there’s no way I’m bringing her up in this interview.

Think, Matilda, think. Bob’s Hamburger Hut, I blurt out. Just saying the words makes my stomach grumble. Oh, how I miss the bacon cheeseburgers with special Hut sauce and crispy onion rings—I ate far too many of them in my teenage years. They also had a pink lemonade slushie that was so sweet it should have been served with a free shot of insulin and a toothbrush. I must have had a stomach of steel back then.

I love that place, Emma says. I could survive on their strawberry milkshakes alone. I guess you must rush back there every time you’re in town?

The gluttonous smile on my face slowly starts to fade—I walked right into that one. Emma asked a trick question and she doesn’t even realize it. Am I going to lie and say I go back all the time, or am I going to own up to the fact that I left Messina and haven’t looked back? Sweat starts trickling down my back again. It would have been a good idea to have a plan before this interview even began. It’s not like I didn’t expect her to ask questions about my ties to Messina. I just wish I had a better story to tell.

I’m trying to cut back on the junk food, I say, which is technically not a lie.

Emma laughs and nods. I completely understand. I still have a few more Hut years in front of me, but I’ll have to do the exact same thing when I start pushing forty.

I laugh along with her even though I’m mildly insulted she so easily agreed I need to stay away from greasy foods. And I just celebrated my thirty-second birthday a few weeks ago, thank you very much. How old does this girl think I am? My forties aren’t even on the horizon yet.

My cellphone pings with a new text message, and I discreetly look over to where it’s resting on the corner of my desk to see if it’s anything important. Words flash across the screen, and I try not to gasp.

Tilly, call me back right this second. It’s about your father.

What the—? I need to get this girl out of my office now and call my mother. I’m afraid that’s all the time I have today. I stand up and walk over to Emma, extending my hand. It was so nice to meet you, and I’m looking forward to reading your article.

Um, yeah. It was really nice to meet you too. Can I take a picture of you next to your desk? For the article.

Of course, I say, feeling a bit caught off guard. Nobody told me there would be a picture involved. If I had my way, this article would be buried at the back of the paper right after the obituaries so nobody I know sees it. Buried. Obituaries. I need to call home and find out what’s going on.

Emma whips out a small digital camera from her bag and points it at me. If you could just stand next to your desk, that would be perfect.

I take a step back and rest one hand on the smooth cherry-stained wood and the other on my hip. I couldn’t look less relaxed if I tried.

Big smile for your friends in Messina, Emma says. My stress headache is replaced by a panic headache, and I twist my face into something I hope resembles a smile but is probably more like a grimace.

I don’t have any friends in Messina. Not anymore.

Chapter Two

I stare at the massive cardboard box leaning against my office wall. Evie bought a bookcase at IKEA last month because her collection of art deco books is overflowing into my office, but she hasn’t gotten around to assembling it yet. It’s not a good look for someone who’s supposed to project a clutter-free image. When are you going to build your bookcase? I walk over to her desk and sit in the closest chair. I almost tripped on it earlier. Falling flat on my face would have surely made Emma’s article more interesting, but I can’t afford an injury right now.

I think it’s so cute that your mother calls you Tilly, Evie says, deflecting my question like a pro. Are you ever going to let me call you Tilly?

Not a chance. Evie and I have had this conversation before, and I know she’s just trying to distract me as I dial my mother’s number for the twentieth time in five minutes. Why won’t this woman get call waiting? I ask the heavens when I’m greeted with an aggravating busy signal yet again. I end the call with an angry jab of my finger and a grunt.

Evie fans out a rainbow of paint swatches on the table in front of her. I’m sure everything is going to be okay. She gives me a reassuring smile.

I wish I lived in Evie’s world where everything is sunshine and rainbows and you throw caution to the wind like it’s confetti at a wedding. It’s a miracle we’re friends. I’m a realist who knows that things can change in the blink of an eye and disaster is only a phone call away. You can’t be sure of that, I say, picking up a swatch of orange paint so bright I’m afraid it might be burning my retinas. Are you redecorating a color-blind person’s living room? Who would voluntarily put this hideous shade on their walls? I put the swatch down and try my parents’ number again with no success. Can you still call the operator to make sure someone’s phone is working? Do operators still exist?

Who else? Mrs. Murray, Evie says calmly, and it takes me a few seconds to connect the dots.

Ah, the client who’s going to put your unborn children through college strikes again?

Evie nods. Yup. Apparently, the midnight sky theme that she requested for her living room is too dark and I should have known better. So now it’s all about the sunshine orange daydream, whatever that means.

Even the most cheerful and optimistic person has something that makes them want to hide under the covers—and for Evie that something is Mrs. Murray, a notoriously difficult client who has our office’s number on speed dial.

I’m so jealous you’re getting featured in a newspaper, Evie says wistfully. It’s so exciting, don’t you think?

I make a face. "It’s the Messina Messenger, Evie. Not the New York Times. A grand total of five people will read it and then it’s going to line Mrs. Merchant’s bird cages." Truth be told, if my face was going to be splashed across the pages of the New York Times, I wouldn’t be half as nervous. I’m fine with a million strangers reading about me, but the fact that people I grew up with are going to read it makes me want to lose my morning bagel.

You’re a local celebrity. I have six brothers and sisters and ten nieces and nephews—it’s a miracle anybody in my family remembers my name when we sit down for dinner.

I’m about to protest since I’ve been a guest at several Glass family dinners where it seemed like the only topic of conversation was Evie and her colorful love life, but I get distracted when my latest attempt at calling home doesn’t end with a busy signal. Finally! I scream out when my mother picks up after half a ring. I’ve been trying to call you for ages.

Sorry, dear. I was on the phone with Janice. You know how much of a chatterbox she is. Did I tell you she just got a new hip? She’s taking salsa lessons and going out to new restaurants every week now. She just tried sushi for the first time. Maybe I need to get my hip replaced too. Sounds like fun. She giggles, and I groan.

I rub my temples again. "Mother, you cannot decide to get your hip replaced. I’m calling because of that text message you sent me. What’s going on? What’s wrong with Dad?"

Oh, yes. The text message. It’s nothing serious, dear. But I was afraid you’d wait until the end of the day to call me back, so Evie suggested I send you a text message to make sure you called me back right away.

I look up and see Evie intently examining a flame-colored throw cushion, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

Don’t be mad at her, Mom says, reading my mind. She was only trying to help.

Evie can do no wrong in my mother’s book. I swear my parents would adopt my friend if she wasn’t a thirty-year-old adult.

What’s going on, Mother?

Your father had a little spill earlier today during his morning walk, and he hurt his back.

I exhale, relieved. I can stop picturing ambulances with blaring sirens and flashing lights and my poor father hooked up to machines and tubes. Is he okay?

He’s going to be fine. He just needs to rest a bit.

You scared me half to death, Mom.

I didn’t mean to scare you, Tilly. But I’m afraid we can’t come visit you this weekend.

My heart sinks—not because I’m disappointed, but because I don’t really mean the words I’m about to say and my sad voice is totally fake. Oh no, that’s too bad.

I know, dear. But your father can’t sleep on your pull-out couch. And those stairs are so hard on our knees.

While I can’t do anything to change the four-story walk-up I currently call home, I always insist that my parents sleep in my bed when they visit, but they always talk their way into sleeping on the living room couch. If all goes according to plan, my parents will soon be visiting me in a building that has an elevator and an apartment that has a guest-room with one of those fancy orthopedic mattresses with a remote control. My father will love it. But I can’t say anything about that yet. I think it’s for the best. You can come visit me when Dad feels better. Tell him to put ice on it. I'll call later to check up on him.

Why don't you come home for a few days? Mom asks. You haven't taken time off in forever, and everyone would love to see you. Amy asked about you just the other day when I ran into her at the post office.

I sigh into the phone and fight the urge to tell my mother Amy was probably just being polite. If she wanted to know how I'm doing, she'd pick up the phone or send me an email. I can't put all the blame on Amy, though... I'm in no rush to talk to her again either. Also, if I were in the market for a vacation, I'd head to Paris or London or Rome—not Messina. I really can't, Mom. I'm swamped with clients at the moment, and my business has to be my top priority right now.

I hate disappointing my mother, but the only way I'm making an appearance