Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 16.

by Melissa 

Part 16. The steep price of Maria's forgiveness. 

The phone rang shrill in the quiet of Maria's apartment. She eyed it with suspicion, the memory of Agnès' last call sour in her throat. Finally, with a huff, she snatched it up. "Hello?" 

"Maria, it's Agnès, Elmwood Academy's receptionist again. Did you have a chance to... well, to see everything?" came the hesitant voice on the other end. 

Maria hesitated. "About Melissa, the daughter of my former employers? Yes, I got the video." She couldn't deny a sliver of grudging respect had pierced her anger when she'd seen the young woman, decked out in a scratchy maid uniform, scrubbing the floor with a fervour that spoke volumes. The apology letter too had surprised her. It wasn't the flowery, self-serving apologies Melissa usually offered. This one was raw, filled with a desperation Maria hadn't seen before. 

"And?" Agnès prompted gently. 

"And... well," Maria sighed, "the girl did a good job on her hands and knees, that much is clear. And the letter... it sounds more sincere than I expected. Begging, even." Her voice hardened again. "Doesn't change what happened to me." 

"No, of course not," Agnès soothed. "But sometimes, people make mistakes, Maria. And sometimes, they learn from them." 

Maria snorted. "Melissa's a master of making mistakes. But learning? That's a new one. Besides, hard work does a spoilt girl like her a world of good." 

A brief silence followed. Maria could almost hear Agnès' sigh through the receiver. "Maria," Agnès began, "I understand your anger. What Melissa did was unforgivable. But you have to admit, seeing her like that..." 

Maria chuckled. "It serves the little socialite right. Melissa needs to learn the value of hard work, the way she never had to when I was the maid cleaning up after her messes!" 

"I understand your anger, Maria," Agnès stiffened. "But believe me, this whole experience has shaken Melissa up. It's already her second week being stuck here doing maid duty, mistaken for a delinquent on community service." 

Maria sneered. "Oh yeah, cleaning up after a bunch of rich kids. Real hardship." 

"No, Maria. I assure you," Agnès pleaded, a touch of sadness in her voice, "it's been far from easy. The poor girl's been cleaning floors and toilets all this time. She is exhausted, humiliated and treated like a criminal." 

The image of Melissa, the pampered child Maria had once cared for, reduced to menial labour... It was a stark contrast to the carefree teenager she remembered. Yet, the anger remained, a hot ember refusing to die. "Doesn't change the past," Maria snapped. "That girl had a chance to stand up for me and she threw me under the bus when I needed her the most." 

"Perhaps," Agnès said placatingly, "but trust me, she's truly sorry for what happened. There's been a shift in her. But that's not all. There's another, pressing reason I'm reaching out. It's something we need to discuss." 

Maria's sharp retort died in her throat. "Another reason?" 

"Yes," Agnès explained, "Melissa had spoken with Mrs. Cavendish, the school dean." 

Maria stiffened. "About what?" 

"About the identity mix-up, of course. Poor Melissa needed someone to vouch for her, someone the school records wouldn't contradict." 

A cold dread bloomed in Maria's stomach. "And?" she whispered. 

"And she... well, she gave your name." 

A knot of dread formed in Maria's stomach. "My name? Why in the world would she do that?" 

"Perhaps because, despite everything, she believes you might be the one person who can help her," Agnès offered tentatively. "Mrs. Cavendish will likely be contacting you soon to verify her story." 

Maria slumped against the wall, the phone dangling limply in her hand. So, the tables had turned. Now Melissa needed her, after everything? The anger that had simmered within her for months flared back to life, hotter than ever. 

"Well?" Agnès prompted again. "What are you going to do?" 

Maria closed her eyes, picturing Melissa in that horrendous uniform, scrubbing away at someone else's mess. A tiny spark of something akin to pity flickered within her. But it was quickly extinguished by the embers of resentment. This wasn't about pity. This was about what Melissa owed her. 

"I don't know, Agnès," Maria finally said, her voice tight. "This whole situation is a mess." 

"I understand," Agnès said. "But Maria?" 

"Yes?" 

There was a long pause before Agnès spoke again. "Don't let anger cloud your judgment. Sometimes, forgiveness is the hardest thing to do, but it can also be the most powerful." 

Maria clenched her jaw. The image of Melissa on her hands and knees, surrounded by cleaning supplies, was quite satisfying. 

"She had her chance to stand up for me," Maria said, her voice tight. "Now she's reaping what she sowed." 

"But that's the point, Maria," Agnès said gently. "She regrets it. Deeply. She's willing to do anything, Maria. She wrote that letter begging for your forgiveness, promising to work tirelessly to earn your trust back." 

Silence hung heavy on the line. Maria closed her eyes, picturing Melissa, once a carefree girl with a smile as bright as polished silver, now scrubbing toilets. A flicker of sympathy danced within her, but it was quickly extinguished by the embers of lingering resentment. 

"Alright, Agnès," Maria finally spoke, her voice firm. "Tell Melissa this: I'm impressed by the letter. Truly. But I'm not letting her off the hook that easily. Forgiveness doesn't come cheap, especially after what happened." 

Agnès hesitated. "What are you asking, Maria?" 

A slow smile crept across Maria's face. "Money's too easy for the likes of her. No, she'll understand the value of hard work. Tell her if she wants out of that mop closet and back as a student in her fancy school, she'll clean for it. Literally." 

"Clean?" Agnès echoed, confused. 

"Yes," Maria said, her voice firm. "Here's the deal: if the school dean contacts me, I might be willing to confirm Melissa's identity to get this misunderstanding cleared and get her back in class, but there's a catch. Once everything is settled, Melissa will need to take on a side job, as a cleaner. Cleaning houses, offices, whatever. No cushy desk job, mind you. She'll be scrubbing toilets and moping floors, just like she is now, only this time she'll be drawing a pay check. Ten hours a week, at least. Every penny goes straight to me, until the end of the school year. Then, and only then, will we talk forgiveness." 

There was a long pause before Agnès spoke. "An interesting idea, Maria. But wouldn't that be a bit... excessive?" 

"Excessive? Let's see how 'excessive' she finds it after a semester of real work," Maria said, her voice softening slightly. "Maybe then she'll understand what losing a job feels like. Maybe then she'll appreciate the value of loyalty. Tell her that's the price of my forgiveness, Agnès. Tell her she can clean her way back into my good graces." 

Agnès' breath hitched. "Ten hours a week? That's a lot for a student." 

Maria snorted. "Then she can study during the day and clean during early mornings and late nights. It's a taste of the real world she wouldn't have gotten otherwise. A taste of what I went through." 

Agnès hesitated briefly. "Maria, are you sure?" 

"Tell her," Maria insisted, "ten hours a week, cleaning, her pay goes to me. And if she complains once, the deal's off." 

Agnès chewed her lip. "Understood. Thank you, Maria." 

"Don't thank me, Agnès," Maria said firmly. "This isn't charity. It's payback." 

There was another pause on the other end. Maria pictured Agnès relaying the ultimatum, bracing herself for Melissa's likely outrage. Then, to her surprise, Agnès let out a soft laugh. 

"Maria, you're a genius," she said. "And a bit of a devil, but that's alright. I'll tell her." 

Maria hung up the phone, a strange mixture of satisfaction and unease churning in her stomach. It wasn't complete forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start. A chance for Melissa to understand, not just apologize, for the pain she'd caused. And maybe Melissa would emerge from this a little less entitled, a little more grounded. 

*** 

The fluorescent lights of the reception area buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished marble floor. Clad in my ill-fitting maid's uniform, I pushed a heavy cleaning cart ahead of me, dread clinging to me like a second skin. Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, an imposing woman with a perpetual scowl etched on her face, had barked orders at me for hours. Now, with a final, withering glare, she'd banished me to the supposedly "easier" duty of cleaning the reception area. 

Alone at last, I straightened and let out a long, weary sigh. My shoulders ached from lugging the cleaning supplies, and the sting of my previous duty – scrubbing the cafeteria floor on my hands and knees – lingered in my knees. I yearned for a soft bed, a hot shower, anything other than this endless cleaning purgatory. 

Suddenly, the door to the back office swung open, and Agnès, the kind-faced receptionist, emerged. Her usual warm smile was absent, replaced by a solemn expression. "Melissa, there you are," Agnès said gently. "I need to talk to you for a moment." 

I pushed the cleaning cart towards the corner and followed Agnès into her office. The small space was a haven in comparison to the sterile vastness of the reception area. Pictures of Agnès' family adorned the walls, and a vase filled with colourful lilies sat on the desk. 

"Sit, dear," Agnès patted the chair in front of her desk. I sank gratefully into the worn leather, the tension momentarily easing from my shoulders. 

"Mrs. Henderson wasn't too keen on sending you here, but I told her that the reception area needed a thorough cleaning." Agnès said with a wry smile. 

I nodded, a ghost of a smile flickering on my lips. 

A flicker of nervousness crossed Agnès' eyes, a stark contrast to her usual composure. "But there is another reason why I wanted to see you," she admitted, her voice turning serious. "I spoke with Maria again. She received your..." she hesitated for a moment, "your letter." 

My heart skipped a beat. "Did she?" 

"She did," Agnès confirmed. "And to be honest, Melissa, it was quite moving." 

Hope surged through me. "So she... she'll help me, Miss Agnès?" 

Agnès sighed. "She was... impressed. But Melissa," her voice hardened slightly, "impressed doesn't mean forgiving." 

I slumped in my chair, the weight of reality settling back on my shoulders. "I understand, Miss Agnès." 

"However," Agnès continued, "she's willing to consider it. On certain conditions." 

I looked up, a flicker of hope rekindled in my eyes. "Conditions? Anything, I'll do anything!" 

"Good," Agnès said. "Maria wants to see... proof of your remorse." 

"Proof?" 

"Yes," Agnès explained. "She... well, let's just say losing her job was a very painful experience for Maria. And she wants you to understand the value of hard work, the value of loyalty." 

My stomach churned. "What do you mean, Miss Agnès?" 

"Maria has proposed a... unique arrangement," Agnès explained. "If you want out of this maid duty and back into your classes, you'll need to work for it afterwards. Literally." 

I frowned. "Work?" 

"Yes," Agnès said. "Once the mix-up is straightened out with the help of Maria's testimony, and you're back in class as a student, you'll take on a side job. As a cleaner." 

I stared at Agnès, dumbfounded. "Cleaning? But, Miss Agnès... I can't just..." 

"Ten hours a week," Agnès interrupted. "Cleaning houses, offices, whatever comes your way. No fancy desk jobs, mind you. You'll be scrubbing toilets and moping floors, just like you are now, only this time you'll be drawing a pay check." 

"A pay check?" I echoed, confused. 

"Every penny goes straight to Maria," Agnès clarified, "until the end of the school year. Then, and only then, will she consider forgiveness." 

My mind raced. Ten hours a week cleaning on top of my schoolwork? It seemed impossible, exhausting. But the alternative – being stuck as a delinquent maid forever – was even worse. 

"It's a lot to ask, Miss Agnès," I mumbled, a flicker of defiance entering my voice. 

"Perhaps," Agnès said calmly. "But maybe you'll finally understand what losing a job feels like. Maybe you'll appreciate the value of what you threw away." 

The weight of Agnès' words sank in. I began to think about the practical implications. "Ten hours a week? On top of schoolwork?"

 "Think of it as... extra credit," Agnès said gently. "Every penny you earn goes straight to Maria, until the end of the school year. Then, and only then, will she consider forgiveness." 

I stared at Agnès, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. Ten hours a week meant late nights and early mornings, stolen from my studies and social life. That was practically a part-time job. Not to mention the humiliation of cleaning after strangers. Yet, a sliver of hope flickered within me. 

"So... if I do this, Miss Agnès," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "there's a chance she might forgive me?" 

Agnès smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "There's always a chance, Melissa. But forgiveness is a gift, not a guarantee. This is about more than just money. It's about proving you understand what you lost, and that you're willing to fight to earn it back." 

I swallowed hard, the weight of the decision settling on my shoulders. Agnès' words echoed in my head: "proving you understand what you lost." Shame still burned at the back of my throat, but it was overtaken by a surge of determination. Ten hours a week cleaning houses -  it was a steep price, but the alternative - the endless cleaning under Mrs. Henderson's watchful eye, the feeling of being trapped - felt infinitely worse. 

"All right, Miss Agnès," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. "Tell Maria I'll do it. I'll clean anything, everything, if it means she'll forgive me."

A slow smile spread across Agnès' face. "Good girl," she said, laying a hand on my arm. "This isn't just about money, Melissa. It's about showing Maria you understand. That you're willing to work hard to earn back her trust." 

I nodded, a flicker of determination sparking in my eyes. Cleaning toilets and moping floors might not be glamorous, but it was a path forward. Ten hours of cleaning a week might seem like a punishment, but right now, it felt like a path towards redemption, towards reclaiming my life at Elmwood. And hopefully towards mending a bond I'd so carelessly broken. 

Then I attacked the cleaning of the reception area with a fervour that surprised even myself. Gone was the desultory dusting of a bored captive. In its place, a focused determination burned in my eyes. Every swipe of the cloth, every polished surface, became a silent plea for forgiveness. The fluorescent lights, once harsh and unforgiving, now seemed to hum with a strange kind of encouragement. The dust bunnies, once mundane nuisances, became tiny symbols of the past I was trying to scrub away. Even the lingering scent of Mrs. Henderson's disinfectant held a faint undercurrent of possibility. 

Agnès, watching from behind her desk, couldn't help but smile. This wasn't just about cleaning any more. I moved with a newfound purpose, my steps lighter, my strokes purposeful. It was as if the cleaning cart itself had become a weapon in my quest for redemption. 

The phone rang, startling me. Agnès answered with a cheerful chirp, then glanced at me. "It's Mrs. Henderson. Wants to know if you're finished yet." 

I shook my head without looking up. "Not even close, Miss Agnès," I muttered, my voice rough with effort but brimming with a newfound resolve. "There's grime in the corners I haven't even touched yet." 

Agnès chuckled softly, then relayed the message to Mrs. Henderson, her voice laced with amusement. "She says there's still grime in the corners," Agnès finished, her eyes twinkling. 

A ghost of a smile played on my lips. This wasn't just grime. This was the residue of lies and betrayal, and I wouldn't rest until it was spotless. I meticulously dusted picture frames, wiped down the reception desk until it gleamed mirror-bright, even ventured behind the counter to clean the rarely touched crevices between filing cabinets. The polished brass nameplate on the reception desk, usually ignored, glinted back at me with a satisfying gleam under my vigorous buffing. Even the worn leather chairs on the waiting area weren't spared. Armed with a leather conditioner pilfered from the cleaning cart's bottomless abyss, I meticulously massaged it into the cracked surfaces, willing them to regain a semblance of their former glory. With each cleaned surface, a sliver of hope seemed to bloom in my chest. 

Time slipped by unnoticed. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the window, painting stripes across the polished floor. Finally, I stepped back, surveying my handiwork. The reception area was more than clean. It sparkled with an almost sterile perfection. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead, but I barely noticed. I felt a sense of accomplishment I hadn't experienced in a long time. This wasn't just about scrubbing floors, it was about taking control, about proving I could face the consequences of my actions. 

As I pushed the empty cleaning cart back towards the door, Agnès called out, "Impressive work, Melissa.." 

I glanced back, a genuine smile breaking on my face. "Thank you, Miss Agnès." 

Then I headed towards the staff room, my body tired but my spirit oddly lighter. My muscles ached pleasantly, a welcome contrast to the dull throb of boredom that had plagued me for most of the first week at Elmwood. Today, however, there was a different kind of anticipation simmering beneath my exhaustion. Mrs. Henderson, the head maid and resident embodiment of disapproval, was due to inspect my work in the reception area. I had poured my heart – and a surprising amount of elbow grease – into cleaning the space. Every surface gleamed, every corner sparkled. It was a far cry from the sterile efficiency I usually strived for, it was an homage, a silent plea for a sliver of recognition. 

As I reached the staff room, the doorknob rattled, and Mrs. Henderson, a tightly wound bundle of starched uniform and disapproval, swept into the hallway. 

"Finished with the reception area, I presume?" Mrs. Henderson snapped, her voice like a whip in the confined space. 

I straightened, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple. "Yes, Ma'am." 

"Well, let's see what kind of havoc you've wreaked then," Mrs. Henderson grumbled, leading the way back towards the reception area. 

I followed, my heart hammering a nervous tattoo against my ribs. I watched as Mrs. Henderson entered the reception area, her sharp eyes scanning the space like a hawk searching for prey. Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, Mrs. Henderson began a slow, meticulous inspection. She ran a gloved finger along the edge of the reception desk, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She peered under the couch, sniffed suspiciously at the air, even crouched down to examine the baseboards with a magnifying glass. 

I held my breath, bracing for the inevitable storm of criticism. But as the inspection continued, a flicker of something akin to surprise flickered across Mrs. Henderson's face. The pursed lips remained, but the frown seemed to soften ever so slightly. Finally, Mrs. Henderson straightened up, her gaze fixed on me. 

"Well?" Agnès prompted gently. 

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat, the sound suspiciously like a cough. "It appears," she grudgingly admitted, "to be... adequately clean." 

A wave of relief washed over me, so strong it almost made my knees buckle. Adequately clean? Coming from Mrs. Henderson, that was practically a rave review. 

"See, Mrs. Henderson?" Agnès said, a hint of triumph in her voice. "Melissa has a knack for this cleaning business." 

I managed a weak smile, my gaze dropping to my shoes. Even a grudging compliment from Mrs. Henderson felt like a victory. 

Mrs. Henderson, however, wasn't finished yet. "Adequately clean," she repeated, her voice regaining its usual sharpness, "does not mean spotless. There's always room for improvement, girl. Especially in the corners." With that, she turned on her heel and marched out, leaving me and Agnès staring after her. 

Agnès burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the reception area. "Don't worry, Melissa," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "Even Mrs. Henderson can't argue with sparkling surfaces. You did a fantastic job." 

Still slightly dazed by Mrs. Henderson's reluctant praise, I couldn't help but grin. But I was also thinking about what I had agreed to. Ten hours of cleaning a week, the prospect of earning Maria's forgiveness one dirty floor at a time. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a start. And as I looked around the reception area, gleaming in the afternoon light, a tiny seed of hope bloomed within me. Maybe, this path of scrubbing and sweeping could lead me back to where I belonged.