Serves is no reject!" I hissed. "It's selling big! Just not in my name!"
"Can I help you?" We were finally at the checkstand. The female clerk had boxy glasses and an unflappable expression.
"I'm looking for …" I had to swallow the sudden rush of bile in my throat. " Memory Wars ."
"Sorry. We sold out yesterday. All the stores in Southern California did." She leaned in, misreading my slack jaw. "I know. I want to read it, too. It's set here in the Southland, and rumor is there are big clues to Reynard Jackson's real identity in it. There's an Internet contest offering $100,000 to the person who can guess his real name by November 15 th , so everybody wants to read it. Can I order one for you?"
I stood there, my head imploding, my heart playing ping pong with my stomach. People in line were staring, but I couldn't move. Tears threatened to form, then started to spill. Then my legs took over and propelled me out of the store.
* * *
"Agghh! My life is a terrible B-rated movie! Film noir!" I beat my head on Harley’s dashboard. I think I left dents.
"More like film puce," Harley corrected.
We were back in the car after I'd run down the entire block looking like an Edvard Munch painting. "Take me home right now! I'm a negative energy vortex. If I stay in this car, we'll likely explode."
"Tough as toenails, huh?" Harley said.
I fumed until we pulled past Jackie's house. The lights were on. "Shoot. She's home. Let's try Marian's.”
I was in too black a mood to resist.
Harley dug a vitamin pill out of her pocket. "Have some 5-HTP and relax." She held up a slim hardback. "You should read this book I bought by Farah Moan, that Oregon skater. How to Release Your Inner Roller Queen -- On and Off the Rink . Be brave, spontaneous, in the moment. Cool." She looked at me. "Or in your case, just try to unclench your fists."
I hid said fists and glared at the night passing by. I'd resisted Harley's conspiracy theories, but the more we talked, the more plausible they seemed. How well did I really know my writing group? I made one last attempt to defend them. "Look, most writers just aren't that smooth. We're all loners, and about as subtle as semi-trucks, all trying to funnel our work into the few bestseller slots.”
"And you all have sports cars like Marian."
"No." I crossed my arms. “We’re not going to Marian’s.”
She started singing our favorite song from White Christmas: "Sisters, sisters …”
I couldn't help but join in. Harley and I were just like devoted sisters, having made a sisterhood pact in blood at the age of twelve and sealed it with this song. Then we'd watched the movie and eaten brownies until we felt sick. Now we belted out the lyrics in perfect Rosemary Clooney/Vera Ellen style. Until the part claiming a mister would never come between me and my “sister.” Unfortunately, that had happened a couple of times over the years.
She got quiet. "What would you buy if you were as rich as Reynard?"
I said, "Perfect, cushy care for my parents, a cruise for me, and a boy toy for you—with pecs to die for and loaded with cash.”
She said. "Fine, but I'm not sharing, ever again.”
“Course not.” Seriously? She was still mad about that? It had not been sharing, anyway, more like me dating her castoff goods. For a minute.
To lighten the mood, I treated her to my most colorful version yet of my incredible kissing scene at Darya Delhi with James, and how he saved my life again. Except that storyteller that I was, I stretched the truth just a tad, making the new story that James had rushed up to save an emotionally frozen me, standing sobbing in the parking lot, from an oncoming truck. Hey, a girl has to practice her craft.
Soon we reached Marian's lovely two-story home in Anaheim Hills. No lights, no cars. I called Marian's number on my cell phone. No answer. Harley parked and pulled me out of the car and across the grass to the shrubs that edged the property. "Trust me.
"Can I help you?" We were finally at the checkstand. The female clerk had boxy glasses and an unflappable expression.
"I'm looking for …" I had to swallow the sudden rush of bile in my throat. " Memory Wars ."
"Sorry. We sold out yesterday. All the stores in Southern California did." She leaned in, misreading my slack jaw. "I know. I want to read it, too. It's set here in the Southland, and rumor is there are big clues to Reynard Jackson's real identity in it. There's an Internet contest offering $100,000 to the person who can guess his real name by November 15 th , so everybody wants to read it. Can I order one for you?"
I stood there, my head imploding, my heart playing ping pong with my stomach. People in line were staring, but I couldn't move. Tears threatened to form, then started to spill. Then my legs took over and propelled me out of the store.
* * *
"Agghh! My life is a terrible B-rated movie! Film noir!" I beat my head on Harley’s dashboard. I think I left dents.
"More like film puce," Harley corrected.
We were back in the car after I'd run down the entire block looking like an Edvard Munch painting. "Take me home right now! I'm a negative energy vortex. If I stay in this car, we'll likely explode."
"Tough as toenails, huh?" Harley said.
I fumed until we pulled past Jackie's house. The lights were on. "Shoot. She's home. Let's try Marian's.”
I was in too black a mood to resist.
Harley dug a vitamin pill out of her pocket. "Have some 5-HTP and relax." She held up a slim hardback. "You should read this book I bought by Farah Moan, that Oregon skater. How to Release Your Inner Roller Queen -- On and Off the Rink . Be brave, spontaneous, in the moment. Cool." She looked at me. "Or in your case, just try to unclench your fists."
I hid said fists and glared at the night passing by. I'd resisted Harley's conspiracy theories, but the more we talked, the more plausible they seemed. How well did I really know my writing group? I made one last attempt to defend them. "Look, most writers just aren't that smooth. We're all loners, and about as subtle as semi-trucks, all trying to funnel our work into the few bestseller slots.”
"And you all have sports cars like Marian."
"No." I crossed my arms. “We’re not going to Marian’s.”
She started singing our favorite song from White Christmas: "Sisters, sisters …”
I couldn't help but join in. Harley and I were just like devoted sisters, having made a sisterhood pact in blood at the age of twelve and sealed it with this song. Then we'd watched the movie and eaten brownies until we felt sick. Now we belted out the lyrics in perfect Rosemary Clooney/Vera Ellen style. Until the part claiming a mister would never come between me and my “sister.” Unfortunately, that had happened a couple of times over the years.
She got quiet. "What would you buy if you were as rich as Reynard?"
I said, "Perfect, cushy care for my parents, a cruise for me, and a boy toy for you—with pecs to die for and loaded with cash.”
She said. "Fine, but I'm not sharing, ever again.”
“Course not.” Seriously? She was still mad about that? It had not been sharing, anyway, more like me dating her castoff goods. For a minute.
To lighten the mood, I treated her to my most colorful version yet of my incredible kissing scene at Darya Delhi with James, and how he saved my life again. Except that storyteller that I was, I stretched the truth just a tad, making the new story that James had rushed up to save an emotionally frozen me, standing sobbing in the parking lot, from an oncoming truck. Hey, a girl has to practice her craft.
Soon we reached Marian's lovely two-story home in Anaheim Hills. No lights, no cars. I called Marian's number on my cell phone. No answer. Harley parked and pulled me out of the car and across the grass to the shrubs that edged the property. "Trust me.
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