Breaking the Bank Read Online Free

counted the bills again. Ten twenties, two hundred dollars. A bank error in her favor, sure. Would they catch it tomorrow, next week, or in a month? And if so, was someone going to get in trouble, maybe lose a job? She looked again at the machine, the panel of squarish buttons, the hyper-blue of the screen. If the machine made the mistake, then no one could be blamed. She decided not to debatethis with herself any longer. It was just good luck, and she certainly needed some of that. Tucking the bills and the receipt carefully into her wallet, Mia headed back out through the double doors and into the street again. She bought the food she had planned; since Eden was famished by the time Mia returned, she ate everything without comment or complaint.
    T HE NEXT DAY , Mia didn’t have time to think about the extra money. She spent twenty minutes trying to arrange Eden’s hacked hair into some semblance of an actual style, but eventually had to give up and admit defeat. This meant that she was late dropping her off to school and late heading into the publishing firm where she was filling in for someone on medical leave. Once she arrived, the day took off, non-stop. There were the calls from both the psychologist—clueless—and the teacher—hostile—to contend with. There was a long drawn-out meeting at which she was expected, God help her, to participate. The company had made a mint on the Mommy Mousie series, books so treacly and asinine that Mia wondered daily if their appeal was not pure camp.
Mommy Mousie and Her Six Baby Mousies,
a major hit, was followed by
Mommy Mousie Minds Her Manners
and
Mommy Mousie Makes a Milk Shake.
    Today they were discussing the next books in the series and whether the alliterative titles ought to continue. One hot young editor wearing rhinestone eyeglasses and a miniskirt over a pair of olive drab leggings was intent on keeping the “melodious M’s,” whereas one of the older editors, all rumpled shirt and well-worn khakis, was in favor of branching out. To Mia, the discussion was immaterial: the stories were smarmy, the drawings inept and charmless. Her mind wandered; it was a strain to look interested.
    Finally, it was five o’ clock, and even though many of her coworkers stayed later, Mia gathered her things together and raced out. It was only when she passed the greenmarket that she slowed. Given her littlewindfall, she decided to replace yesterday’s lost groceries. She bought cheese, apples, cider, and, since she was feeling flush, organic cashew butter, pumpkin spread, and some onion rolls that, as it turned out, Eden loved. While they were eating, Mia found herself scrutinizing Eden’s hair. Did it look a little better today, or was Mia just getting used to it? Or maybe it was the effect of those extra twenties in her wallet—everything seemed a tad rosier.
    The next week Mia received her bank statement in the mail. She tore it open, scanned the page with avid, searching eyes. No indication of the bank’s accidental largesse. Mia pored over the statement, looking for clues to what might have happened. There was none. She folded the statement in thirds and tucked it in a drawer.
    On Saturday, while Eden was embarked on a marathon playdate— Brooklyn Museum, Rollerblading in Prospect Park, movie at the Pavilion—Mia found herself walking past the bank. She didn’t actually need any cash, but she felt herself drawn through the doors anyway. Once inside, facing the row of machines, she stopped. Did anyone else know what had happened last time? And that she was stupidly hoping and wishing that it might happen again? Could there be a look on her face? An odor she emitted? The other patrons of the bank came and went quickly, transacting their business, tucking away their cash, talking on their cell phones, admonishing their children. No one noticed her at all.
    Nervously, she approached a machine, the same one she used last time.