Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl by Stephanie McAfee

about not getting a million-dollar bonus check; then one of them decides to do something like this.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Cocksuckers.” He takes a drink of beer, then says, “Let’s talk about something else. Please.”
    I tell him about Roger catching Margo and Cindy on video, and that cracks him up a little.
    “What is
wrong
with those two?” he asks after I tell him they were on their hands and knees with flashlights in his front yard.
    “I have no idea,” I say, wondering whether Margo and Cindy have jobs or if they’re just full-time morons.
    “Tell me something else funny,” he says, and I start getting stressed-out because I can’t really think of anything. I tell him about seeing Cindy and her cat, and he laughs a little about that, but I get the feeling I’m not being as entertaining as he would like for me to be. But I can’t help it. I’m not a stand-up comic. I can’t perform on demand.

13

    F riday morning, I get up before Mason and go downstairs to make coffee. Buster Loo is already outside with all four paws in the air basking in the morning sun. When he hears me clanking around in the kitchen, he jumps up and runs inside, no doubt hoping I’ll fry some bacon. I hear Mason rumbling around, so I pour him a cup of coffee and head upstairs with Buster Loo right behind me. Mason is lathering up a thick beard of shaving cream, so I put his cup of coffee on the sink.
    “Would you like some breakfast?”
    “No, thanks,” he says. “I think I had a few too many last night.”
    “Would you like a Sprite?”
    He eyeballs the coffee, then looks at me. “Not after getting a whiff of that.”
    “Let me know if you change your mind.” I look at Buster Loo, who is sniffing a stray speck of shaving cream. “Buster Loo! No! C’mon out of here and let’s let Daddy get ready.”
    “Hey,” Mason says, “Connor and I are leaving the office at five o’clock today, so you and I will have a night at home like normal folks. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do?”
    “You decide,” I say. “You’re the one working from sunup till sundown.”
    “Wanna grill some steaks?”
    “I’d love to,” I say. “I’ll pick some up on the way home.”
    “Great!”
    At the gallery, the morning turns out to be quite busy, but I don’t sell a damn thing, and that puts me in a foul mood. When the place is empty, I go upstairs and flip through my inventory, thinking that maybe I need a different selection on the floor. I have quite a few ship paintings left over from my days of teaching school, because every year I did an extensive unit on maritime art. I spread those out across the floor and think for a minute about the six years I spent in the classroom. I never thought the day would come when I would miss teaching high school, but here I am thinking about all of my students and how much fun I always had hanging out in the lounge gossiping with and about my fellow teachers.
    “Never saw that coming,” I mumble as I get up off the floor. I gather the paintings and stack them by the door, determined to press onward with my dream. I decide to do some rearranging this afternoon so the gallery will look completely different next week and maybe people will stop looking and start buying.
    I hear the doorbell chime, so I step out onto the balcony and see Avery in the gallery below.
    “Well, hello!” I call out. “Be right down.”
    When I join her downstairs, she smiles and says, “I wanted to stop by and see if you needed any help with anything. I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait until Monday.”
    “Well, I was thinking about doing some rearranging, if you’d like to help with that,” I say, pleased with her enthusiasm. She’s wearing hot pink Converse tennis shoes, red hose with so many runs I don’t really see the point of even having them on, a Pink Floyd T-shirt that looks two sizes too small, and a supershort denim skirt with fringe where a seam should be.
    “I’d love