Page 3 of Run, Run, Roommates
Marco,
My dad wants me to take a more active role in our philanthropic efforts so I’ve signed you up. I don’t care how much you do, just do enough to make Dad happy.
WRLIII
Yes, his email signature includes his suffix to be sure you don’t get him confused with his father or his ninety-two-year-old grandfather.
There’s an attachment, and a thread of emails from a charity organization confirming “my” registration. I click on a link, which opens to a lush green website with gilded filigree, golden snowflakes, and shiny ribbons. The only text is a hotel name—one of the chains in Manhattan—and in big block text, a countdown.
Six hours to the start of the SHiNY Season!
What the fuck is SHiNY?
I do a quick internet search. SHiNY stands for Scavenger Hunt in New York, and based on their flagship event, which takes place in the summer, it’s a multiday scavenger hunt to raise money for charity. The summer event is an over-the-top celebration of the city, with multiple articles written about the good it does for the various organizations it raises money for.
William having me fill in for him at a charity event like this is fine, it’s part of my job—although having to do this over the time I thought was going to be my vacation time is an absolute pain in my ass. But what I realize with a sinking sense of dread is that SHiNY Season is set up to celebrate the holidays in the same over-the-top way.
And I fucking hate this time of year.
2
Brin
Arancini is the worst.
The little round fried balls of cheese and rice are amazingly delicious and when there’s any leftovers in the kitchen after the restaurant closes, they’re the first to get snapped up and taken home.
Here’s the thing, though. These little balls are tumbleweeds from hell.
They’re crispy and crunchy on the outside, and when you pair that with the rimless modern dinnerware we use in the restaurant, it’s a recipe for disaster.
The service staff all know it. But our chef, Helena, refuses to remedy the situation by, I don’t know, adding a bed of marinara sauce to the plate. Even a bed of lettuce would work. Even me, Brin Shaw, a backwoods nobody from Appalachia, knows how to fix this problem.
Although I suppose that if the arancini had been on a bed of marinara sauce, it’s possible that I would have accidentally dropped a marinara-coated arancini into this lady’s purse, which would have made the situation about a thousand times worse.
Eva, my best friend here at the restaurant, and I watched it happen in slow motion. I had just picked up the plate from the tray of appetizers and was moving to set it down in the middle of the table. Someone had stood up from their seat right in my path. I dodged. A collision was avoided.
But I heard that little plop as the arancini rolled off the plate and into the bag.
“What do we do?” I hiss at Eva as I return to her and we both pick up plates.
We’re conferring over the tray of appetizers every time we grab a dish, trying to hide our conversation over the din of the diners and “Santa Baby” playing on the restaurant’s speakers.
She picks up the calamari. I pick up the stuffed mushrooms.
“You have to dig it out,” she says.
Two plates of bruschetta.
“If I get caught they’ll think I’m stealing her wallet.”
A flatbread and another calamari.
“So don’t get caught.”
By the time we put all the appetizers out, I’m no closer to a plan. I mournfully look at the purse. Why does she have to be sitting with her back to the entire restaurant? Even if I could distract her, the tables nearby would totally see me.
When we get back to the server station, I turn pleading eyes to Eva. “We can do this together. I’ll provide cover, you get the ball out of her purse.”
