A better woman than I would have leapt to her feet and shouted, “How dare you ask that I exploit a situation as horrible as this!” For the fun of it, I also pictured myself slapping Lizbeth across the face. Stomping on her foot. Giving her arm an Indian burn. Making her eat a really hot pepper.
Truth was, however, I rather enjoyed the notoriety. Suddenly I was the school geek who had an extra ticket to the hottest concert of the year.
In a strange way, it felt good.
Not that I planned to do anything about it. Hell would be a skating rink before I’d cash in on any connection I might have to Marissa’s brother to further my own career. Or, more realistically, Lizbeth’s. The very thought was appalling.
Yet I couldn’t make myself say no. Instead, I did what I do so well.
I procrastinated.
And when it comes to that sort of thing, they had no idea who they were dealing with.
“If you think it will help,” I said, gathering up my notes. “Let me see what I can do.”
Chapter 3
A few days later, I bustled home in a cheery mood. I’d stopped by Susan’s after work to watch the twins. Her husband, Chase, was out of town, the baby-sitter needed to leave, and Susan had to work late on a proposal. Glad to do it, I told her. There’s nothing that lifts the spirits like spending a few hours with two guys who think you’re the bomb-even if they are five.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time I got home, and I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed. The kids were cute, but I was beat.
Santa Monica, where I live, is a bustling city that nestles the beach-liberal when it comes to aiding the homeless, yet welcoming yuppies with equally open arms. It is perhaps most famous for being both the home of the O. J. Simpson civil trial and the place where Jack, Janet, and Chrissy caused all that wacky mischief in Three’s Company. My apartment building is a couple of miles from the beach, hugging the border of West L.A. It has twelve units, stacked two floors and arranged in a U-shape surrounding a pool that hardly anyone uses. I have an upper two-bedroom apartment. I’ve lived there for twelve years-Susan and I were roommates before she moved out to marry Chase. I may die here, because thanks to rent control, I pay only $550 for an apartment that’s worth several thousand. Desperately hoping I’ll leave so he can hike the rent, my landlord refuses to do any repairs that he can even remotely call cosmetic. There was quite the debate a few years back over whether fixing my falling-in ceiling was necessary. So the carpet’s pretty ratty, and the counters have seen better days, but it’s roomy and bright.
I dropped my keys on the counter and hit ‘ play’ on my answering machine before heading to the refrigerator to see if I had any leftovers.
I had two messages, both from my mom.
“Junie, this is Mom give me a call when you get a chance.”
I’ d call her first thing in the morning-it’ d been a while since I’ d checked in. My parents live in the San Fernando Valley in the same house where I grew up. I typically talk to my mom every week or so-and my dad for the five seconds it takes for him to say, ‘ Here’ s your mother!’ should he pick up when I call.
On the second message-I don’ t know what time she left it because I never bothered setting the clock on my phone, so the digital voice always announces these arbitrary times-she sounded odd. Sort of breathless and confused.
“Hi, sweetie. I was hoping you’ d be home oh, well, this isn’ t the kind of thing I want to leave in a message. I wanted to Oh, dear. Well, call me back.” Her voice trailed off. “Right away?”
My heart clattered in my chest. God, now what?
It had to be horrible. What could be so bad that she wouldn’ t say it in a message? Somebody died. My dad or my brother.
I dialed with shaking hands, and it seemed as if the phone rang forever. Pick up pick up pick up
“Hello?” It was my mom.
“I got your message. What’ s going on? What happened?”
She caught my urgent tone. “Goodness, I didn’ t mean to worry you. Everything’ s fine. I’ d called to see if you knew who got voted off the island last night. Your dad had his bowling banquet, and I thought I set the VCR, but I must have messed up. Anyway, I’ d have asked Pat Shepic, but-“
“I thought Dad was dead!”
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
“Or he’ d had a heart attack.”
“No although” -she raised her voice, apparently for my dad’ s benefit- “if he keeps getting into those potato chips, he certainly could have a heart attack!”
I heard him in the background. “It’ s my first handful!”
“So?” she said.
Still a little shaky, I gave her the information grudgingly. “They voted off the German guy,” I said. “The one with the gap in his teeth.”
“Oh, good. I didn’ t care for him. He seemed phony.”
After a bit of catching up on who was screwing who on the island, we chatted about Marissa’ s list, which I’ d finally told her about after running into Troy Jones at the cemetery. Mom had been disappointed there’ d been no swimming with the dolphins on it but otherwise was enthusiastic about the project. She thought it might be a good way for me to get back on the dating horse after my breakup with Robert and refused to believe there wasn’ t anything on the list about finding a man. “There’ s the one about going on a blind date,” she’ d said. To which I’ d countered, “But that’ s more about the thrill of meeting someone new than the torment of picking up their socks from the floor for the rest of your life.” To which she’ d then replied, “You wind up picking up their dirty underwear, too.” Which, as it turned out, was a real conversation stopper.
The microwave bell dinged, and I said I needed to go. My dinner was ready. I’ d composed an ‘ international
