becoming deep dark pools of their own. I was learning that bodies didn’t like the sleep-all-day, hang-out-all-night schedule. And yet James seemed to be pulling it off, so who knows.
I only had an hour to get ready for work, and I wanted to make it count. First of all, after yesterday’s humiliating dismissal, I knew I’d have some serious butt-kissing to do. That meant dressing like a semi-sane girl and a responsible employee, having all emotional meltdowns before six, and volunteering to handle even the most menial tasks, like calling customers with late fees and rewritingthe entire New Releases dry-erase board. Also I had to prepare for the potentially worst coworker ever, which for different reasons entirely might be either a judgmental version of Alex or a pissed-off version of Morgan. I preferred the pissed-off Morgan, but bratty, selfish beggars can’t be choosers. Secondly, I needed to call Naomi and accidentally mention I had a shift tonight in hopes that she’d then happen to mention it to James, whom I’d forgotten to tell last night when I was trying to lure him into my bed. Third, I had to find Libby somehow, even if that meant tracking her down by phone at the Spader sanctuary and then commanding her to come visit me at the store. Finally, had to feed myself real food. And sneak out a Diet Coke for emergencies. Which, after last night, I was pretty much banking on.
I set about my tasks in order. My loveliest look was a vintage rayon forties dress that my mother had bought me at Aardvarks on Melrose. I paired it with a ripped, too-small denim jacket and some scuffed lace-up boots, because I could only stand to look so precious. With all the gold jewelry, the black eyeliner, and the knotted bird’s-nest hair that I tried to comb to no avail, I appeared exactly the same as I did on other who-cares workdays, except that somewhere beneath all the junk was a dainty rose print instead of a dirty Beat Happening shirt. So much for put together.
I skipped ahead to my mother’s request and ate somefruit. This would please her and prove to both of us that I could survive without being hand-fed. I wasn’t sure if a tangerine and seven raspberries sufficed as a full meal, considering I’d slept straight through breakfast and lunch, so I rounded it out with seven Saltines and guacamole and a stick of string cheese. I scribbled her a note of my own on the kitchen counter:
Mom, no immediate plans to clean aforementioned bedroom/tornado site, BUT am totally full and well fed. After work tonight might be out late with someone special. Don’t worry, I’ll be good.
Love, Me
I had about fifteen minutes left to make my calls. I climbed on a bar stool at the counter and grabbed the phone. Naomi first. I knew I needed to seem like a cool cucumber, like, keep it smooth. I let the dial tone drone for a full fifteen seconds while I fixed my hair, straightened myself, and swiveled around a few revolutions. Then I practiced saying, “Hi, Naomi,” into the mouthpiece a half-dozen times. I dialed and exhaled a long sigh before she answered.
“Hello?”
I said, “Hey, lady,” but the “Hey, lady” wasn’t me, it was Tom Jones.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
“Um, nothing. Just got back from riding, about to take a shower.”
“Cool, shower.” I yelled at myself: Get to it. Get to it. I tapped the top of the phone against my forehead. Screw the cucumber; I was a zucchini.
Naomi drew out the word, “Ohhh-kay,” and it made me feel crazy. Crazier. “What’s up with you?”
“About to go to work. You know, got a shift at the store like always. I’ll be there all night. Until eleven. Then I’m just going to walk home. No plans.”
“You can come over…if you want.” Naomi sounded sort of disappointed, like she thought we were already done with the “awkward acquaintances” phase. And we were. Sort of. But she’d misunderstood my nervousness and overly specific outline of the evening, and
I only had an hour to get ready for work, and I wanted to make it count. First of all, after yesterday’s humiliating dismissal, I knew I’d have some serious butt-kissing to do. That meant dressing like a semi-sane girl and a responsible employee, having all emotional meltdowns before six, and volunteering to handle even the most menial tasks, like calling customers with late fees and rewritingthe entire New Releases dry-erase board. Also I had to prepare for the potentially worst coworker ever, which for different reasons entirely might be either a judgmental version of Alex or a pissed-off version of Morgan. I preferred the pissed-off Morgan, but bratty, selfish beggars can’t be choosers. Secondly, I needed to call Naomi and accidentally mention I had a shift tonight in hopes that she’d then happen to mention it to James, whom I’d forgotten to tell last night when I was trying to lure him into my bed. Third, I had to find Libby somehow, even if that meant tracking her down by phone at the Spader sanctuary and then commanding her to come visit me at the store. Finally, had to feed myself real food. And sneak out a Diet Coke for emergencies. Which, after last night, I was pretty much banking on.
I set about my tasks in order. My loveliest look was a vintage rayon forties dress that my mother had bought me at Aardvarks on Melrose. I paired it with a ripped, too-small denim jacket and some scuffed lace-up boots, because I could only stand to look so precious. With all the gold jewelry, the black eyeliner, and the knotted bird’s-nest hair that I tried to comb to no avail, I appeared exactly the same as I did on other who-cares workdays, except that somewhere beneath all the junk was a dainty rose print instead of a dirty Beat Happening shirt. So much for put together.
I skipped ahead to my mother’s request and ate somefruit. This would please her and prove to both of us that I could survive without being hand-fed. I wasn’t sure if a tangerine and seven raspberries sufficed as a full meal, considering I’d slept straight through breakfast and lunch, so I rounded it out with seven Saltines and guacamole and a stick of string cheese. I scribbled her a note of my own on the kitchen counter:
Mom, no immediate plans to clean aforementioned bedroom/tornado site, BUT am totally full and well fed. After work tonight might be out late with someone special. Don’t worry, I’ll be good.
Love, Me
I had about fifteen minutes left to make my calls. I climbed on a bar stool at the counter and grabbed the phone. Naomi first. I knew I needed to seem like a cool cucumber, like, keep it smooth. I let the dial tone drone for a full fifteen seconds while I fixed my hair, straightened myself, and swiveled around a few revolutions. Then I practiced saying, “Hi, Naomi,” into the mouthpiece a half-dozen times. I dialed and exhaled a long sigh before she answered.
“Hello?”
I said, “Hey, lady,” but the “Hey, lady” wasn’t me, it was Tom Jones.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
“Um, nothing. Just got back from riding, about to take a shower.”
“Cool, shower.” I yelled at myself: Get to it. Get to it. I tapped the top of the phone against my forehead. Screw the cucumber; I was a zucchini.
Naomi drew out the word, “Ohhh-kay,” and it made me feel crazy. Crazier. “What’s up with you?”
“About to go to work. You know, got a shift at the store like always. I’ll be there all night. Until eleven. Then I’m just going to walk home. No plans.”
“You can come over…if you want.” Naomi sounded sort of disappointed, like she thought we were already done with the “awkward acquaintances” phase. And we were. Sort of. But she’d misunderstood my nervousness and overly specific outline of the evening, and
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