"Stephanie, get up."
My personal alarm clock — otherwise known as Mom — tapped me relentlessly on the back.
I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow. "But it's just—" The words melted into muffled nonsense.
"Eh? Get up, Steph. You have work."
"But it's Saturday." I finally cracked an eye open, even though both refused to cooperate.
"It's Monday," she corrected briskly, already adjusting her bun in the mirror. Even as a house help, she never let herself look anything less than put-together. Her slender frame and sharp cheekbones made her look younger, too, like she had tricked time into ignoring her.
"…Yesterday was Friday."
"Yesterday was Sunday."
"Fuck," I rubbed my eyes tiredly, reaching for the pillow again.
"Language." She snapped, whipping the pillow from under me with merciless efficiency. "You're a working-class woman now. Go get ready."
