The Next Thing on My List

Jill Smolinski

The Next Thing On My List

Chapter 1

Next on the list: Kiss a stranger.

“How about him?” Susan pointed to a guy so rakishly handsome, it was odd to see him in a downtown Los Angeles bar wearing a shirt and tie instead of modeling underwear in front of a camera, where he clearly belonged.

“Let’s be realistic.”

“Why? It’s just a kiss.”

Easy for her to say-she wasn’t the one doing the kissing.

It was Thursday after work, and the Brass Monkey was hopping. Susan and I had already been at the bar for an hour, casing the joint and sipping two-dollar margaritas that were, sadly, much too weak to help me muster my courage.

“What do you think-on the lips?” I asked.

“Definitely, but tongue is up to you.”

After much debate, I settled on three guys at a cocktail table across the bar. Mid- to late thirties and dressed in casual business attire, they seemed harmless, which was their primary appeal. Here goes. I hoisted myself bravely from my chair as if I were about to march forth into battle. My plan was to go up to their table, explain my predicament, and hope one of them would take pity on me and volunteer for the job.

In the event that that didn’t work-well, I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it didn’t work. I suppose it would involve skulking away in humiliation.

I swigged down the last of my drink, took a breath, and strode to the table. The three guys looked at me with open curiosity. A woman approaching who wasn’t a waitress was an interesting sight indeed. Plus I’d sort of slutted up for the occasion. I wore a snug suit over a camisole, and I’d gone to town with the eyeliner. My hair was doing its usual insane tumble of waves and curls to my shoulders.

“Hi! I’m June!” I said perkily.

After a moment, perhaps debating if I was going to try to sell them something, one of them said, “I’m Frank, and this is Ted, and Alfonso.”

“Nice to meet you!” And then I plunged in. “I came over here because I was wondering if you could help me? I have this list of things I need to do.” I held up the list, Exhibit A, which was handwritten on a sheet of ordinary notebook paper. “One of the things on it is that I need to kiss a stranger. So I was wondering-“

“You want to kiss one of us?” Alfonso asked eagerly.

Frank chimed in, “What-you on a scavenger hunt?”

“Not exactly,” I answered.

“So would this kiss be on the mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Tongue?”

“Optional.”

Three sets of eyes gave me a once-over, but-bonus points for them-they tried to make it appear as if they weren’t.

“Aw, Christ,” Alfonso said with what appeared to be genuine regret, “we’re all married.”

“I’m not that married,” Ted added. “I mean, if it’ll help the girl out.”

“That’s okay,” I said, starting to back away. Why hadn’t I thought to check for rings?

“No, we want to help you. None of us can do it, but we got a buddy here from work who might be able to. Hey, Marco!” Frank shouted across the bar, and who should turn around but the underwear model. Terrific. “There’s a girl here needs a hand!”

Marco trotted over. Well, he seemed eager enough. Trying not to blush-and knowing Susan was probably bursting a spleen laughing-I repeated my story. Before I could finish, he snatched the paper from my hand and started reading it aloud.

“Let’s see what this list is about,” he boomed. “Twenty Things to Do by My Twenty-fifth Birthday.” Then he paused to look at me and smirk. “Twenty-fifth birthday?”

Oh, real nice!

I’ll have him know that I may be thirty-four, but in certain lighting I still get carded.

“Give me that.” I made a grab for the list.

He blocked me with his shoulder and kept reading. “Let’s see what it says, shall we? Ah, yes, here it is: Kiss a stranger.“

Afraid the list might get ripped if I grabbed for it again, I stood still, arms crossed, fuming.

Ted attempted to defend me. “Dude, don’t be an a-hole.”

“Run a 5K& . Get on TV.& Oh, wait, here’s the best one: Lose one hundred pounds. Used to be a fatty, huh? Well, you’re looking mighty fine now, sweetheart, so I can see why that one’s got a line through it.”

“Look,” I snapped, “it’s not even my list.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s not. But it so happens I need to do the things on it.”

Alfonso asked innocently enough, “Why’s that?”

I sighed. “Long story. Please” I held my hand out. “Give it back.”

IT WAS TRUE. The list wasn’t mine.

It belonged to Marissa Jones.

Even though there was no signature on it, I’m certain it’s hers. I know because I discovered it myself in the days after I killed her. I’d been washing the blood off her purse so I could return it to her parents, and there it was. Folded and tucked inside her wallet.

Of course, I gave everything of hers back-even a pair of sunglasses found near the scene that I thought might possibly be mine.

But I kept the list. Didn’t say a word about it to them. After all, how heartbreaking would it be to see your twenty-four-year-old daughter’s list of dreams that would never be fulfilled?

Out of twenty items, she’d completed only two: Lose 100 pounds and Wear sexy shoes. The first one was already crossed off. The second I had to mark off for her myself-and seeing it written there sure explained those silver stilettos she was wearing when she died.

Naturally, everyone insisted that it wasn’t my fault.

They nearly fell over one another at the funeral offering assurances and hugs-which I accepted as part of my penance. My body was one big bruise. Even the gentlest touch was agony.

And here’s the worst part: She’d been thin less than a month. One lousy month. After a lifetime of knowing nothing but being fat.

As if to rub it in, staring at me from the front of the church had been a blown-up photo of Marissa standing in a pair of size twenty-eight pants-her body fitting in one leg while she held the waist out to its side. The smile on her face clearly said, Okay, world, here I come!

Well.

The whole time the minister was at the podium, I barely heard a thing he said. Instead, I devoted my thoughts to concocting the lie I would tell Marissa’s family about her final words. They were going to want to know, after all. And there was no way I was going to tell them the truth: that she’d been giving me a recipe for taco soup.

Turned out I didn’t need to worry. My entire interaction with them was limited to a handshake and an “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I skipped the wake, feeling that my presence there-with my bruised collarbone and big shiner-would be nothing short of vulgar. Besides, it’s not as if Marissa and I were friends. I’d only met her the night she died.

She and I had been at the same Weight Watchers meeting. I’d just joined, hoping to lose the ten pounds that had managed to creep up from the last time I lost ten pounds. She’d received her lifetime pin for being at her weight goal (the irony of that word lifetime not lost on me now). Offering a ride to a stranger is something I wouldn’t normally do, but I saw her teetering toward the bus stop on those sexy shoes. I thought about how amazing it was she’d dropped so much weight and said to myself, What the heck. Maybe her success will rub off on me.

So there we were, zipping along Centinela Boulevard and chatting about dieting. I said to her something along the lines of “I’m worried I’ll fail because I get so hungry when I go on a diet.”

Then she said, “I have a recipe for a soup that’s super filling.”

And I said, “I’m not much of a cook.”

And she said, “This is totally easy.”

And I said, “Really?”

And she said, “I have the recipe right here with me. I swear, it’s so simple-nothing but opening a bunch of cans.”

And I said, “Well, great, let’s see it!”

And she reached into the backseat of my car to grab her purse, which was the reason her seat belt was unbuckled at the moment of impact.

Marissa Jones’s Taco Soup

4 cans navy or northern beans

1 can Mexican-spiced tomatoes

1 can diced tomatoes

1 can corn

1 package taco seasoning

1 package fat-free ranch dressing mix

Mix ingredients in large saucepan. Heat and serve.

MAKES 8 SERVINGS.

As best I can recall (my head took quite a whack, so my memory is dodgy), a dresser toppled off a truck in front of us, and I’d jerked the steering wheel to avoid it. The rest is unclear. Witnesses reported that we skimmed the curb at an angle, which sent us rolling.

“Landed ass over teakettle,” I heard one paramedic say to another as they slid my stretcher into the ambulance.

Another thing I overheard: “No hurry on that one, she’s dead.”

Dead? My hands felt around on my body. I wasn’ t sure which one of us he referring to.

It wasn’t me.

Which meant.

Oh shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

After the accident, I tried to go back to life as usual, without success. Seemed I’d failed to account for one simple yet irrefutable fact, which is as follows: Knowing that you killed somebody is really depressing. Honestly, I can’t fathom how people like Scott Peterson can pick themselves up afterward and go fishing. I barely had the energy to report to the office and perform a job I’ve been doing so long that I suspect I could do it in a coma.

The weeks ticked by. The bruises faded, and yet, unable to shake the despair that clung to me like a fog, I was left to conclude that there are two types of horrible events: the type that shake you up and cause you to grab life by the throat and never again take it for granted, and the type that make you lie in bed and watch a lot of reality TV.

Mine fell into the latter category.

With no one close enough to witness my downward spiral, I was free to fall. No husband or kids. No roommate. My boyfriend Robert made his break in late August, a month after the accident. We’d been on the brink of splitting anyway, lingering at that stage where we both knew things were over and yet, like a car we weren’t quite ready to sell, we kept patching and paying for small repairs, waiting for something huge like the transmission to blow. As it turned out, the relationship was totaled. Robert could barely stand to look at the wreckage I’d become, and frankly, it was a relief when he left. I barely noticed him packing his toothbrush and the extra set of shoes he kept under my bed, what with the new fall TV season starting up.

If only Marissa hadn’t written that list or if hers had been more like my to-do lists: a bunch of nothing that nevertheless had occupied my time for the past three-plus decades. Pick up the dry cleaning. Run to the gym. Meet a friend for lunch. Some of the tasks got crossed off others were transferred from paper to paper until I’d either finally get around to doing them or decide they weren’t as important as I thought they were.

If I died, what could my obituary possibly even say? June Parker, on- and off-again girlfriend, midlevel employee, and lifelong underachiever, died waiting for something to happen. She is survived by a new pack of socks, the purchase of which was the greatest achievement crossed off her to-do list.

I’d read Marissa’s list only once before hiding it away in my dresser drawer. I wasn’t even sure why I’d kept it. Sure, I told myself it would be sad for the family-but still, why did it bother me so much?

It was only when bathed in the forgiving light of the TV that I could bear to admit the truth to myself: Horrible as it was that I’d killed someone, I was relieved I hadn’t died. For whatever reason, I’d been given a second chance.

Which is why I felt so guilty about squandering it. The gods who spared me were probably sitting around in the clouds, scratching their heads, and saying things like “You’d assume rescuing her from a pile of destroyed metal was enough! What do we need to get through to this woman? Plague? Locusts?!”

Problem was, I had no idea how to change. I wasn’t and had never been that person who could sit down and write a list of things I wanted to do and then actually do them. Marissa Jones needed to rub off on me all right. Not so much the part of her that could lose weight, but the part that seemed to at least have a clue about what she wanted once she did.

It seemed it would require a miracle to pry me from my malaise and set me on a new course. As it turned out, all it took was a guy at the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Eleventh Street selling ten-dollar bouquets of roses.

IT WAS JANUARY 20, exactly six months from the day Marissa died. My stomach had twisted when I noticed the date on my calendar and realized half a year had passed. It felt like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. My original plans to honor the occasion involved going home after work and& well, I had no plans. But then I stopped at a traffic light next to the man selling roses, and an idea instantly formulated in my head. I’d visit her grave. I’d apologize, and in doing so, maybe I’d be set free.

Flowers resting on my passenger seat, I stopped by a booth at the cemetery’s entrance for directions. A woman gave me a photocopied map, using a Sharpie to mark the route to Marissa’s grave site. I parked and then walked the rest of the way to where she was buried. Her tombstone, a tastefully simple marker, read, Marissa Jones, loving daughter, sister, and friend, and gave her birth and death dates.

“Sorry,” I whispered, and set down the flowers.

I stood there for a while, waiting for a sense of peace that didn’t come, when someone behind me said, “June?”

I turned around to find myself in that situation everybody hates: I didn’t recognize the guy. Easy on the eyes, though. Had that surfer-dude grown-up look. Thirtyish. Tall but not too tall, sun-kissed blond hair, a strong nose, and a jaw that worked well with it. Jeans and a Billabong T-shirt. “Oh, hi there,” I said, trying to pass off that I knew who he was.

“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Troy Jones. Marissa’s brother.”

“Of course I remember you.”

Okay, maybe not right away. He’d been dressed more formally at the funeral. And his hair had been shorter. Plus I’d met him only long enough to shake his hand.

“I thought it might be you, but I wasn’t sure. Do you come here often?” As soon as he said it, he shook his head. “Boy, did that ever sound like a pickup line. Next thing you know, I’m going to ask what a nice girl like you is doing in a place like this.”

Avoiding the obvious response-visiting your sister who is dead because of me-I said, “If you’re working your way through the lines, I’ll save you time. I’m a Scorpio.”

“Good to know.”

“And to answer your question, no, I don’t come here often. But since today was six months”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Apparently we then decided to observe a moment of silence, because we stood there not speaking, and just when I was about to make an excuse to leave, he said, “Care to walk around a bit?”

If only I’d dumped the flowers and run when I had the chance. “Sure,” I said, not wanting to be rude. “That’d be nice.”

We headed up a dirt path that wound through the grounds, taking a leisurely pace.

“You’re looking well,” he said, gazing over at me. “You were pretty banged up last time I saw you.”

“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, and to my relief, from there we chatted about nothing of significance-how we’d gotten so much rainfall lately and how dogs bark before earthquakes. He so resembled his sister. It stirred up what I’d tried to stuff deep inside-the shame I wore that was as ugly as if I still had the shiner. I feared if I said too much, he’d be able to see what I’d been able to hide from others for months. That I might look okay on the outside, but inside I was still tender and purple and swollen.

We eventually wound our way back to where we’d started, a short distance from my car. “I’m parked right here,” I said.

He walked me the rest of the way. I had my keys in one hand, my other reaching for the door handle, when he said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Rats. So close, and yet.

“Of course not.”

“It’s just that you were the last person with Marissa.”

Alarms sounded in my head as he continued, “My parents and I have the details on the accident, but the one thing we can’t figure out is why wasn’t she buckled? She always wore her seat belt. It didn’t make any sense. I hate to bother you with it, but it’s been driving us crazy.”

There you had it. I was going to have to reveal her final moments. Granted, I could say I didn’t know, but that seemed crueler than the truth.

“She was getting a recipe for me from her purse.”

“A recipe?”

“For a taco soup.”

“A recipe.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “That’d be my sister.”

His expression was so disappointed that I added, “It sounded quite tasty.”

“I’m sure it did.”

Oh, why didn’t I lie? Tell him that she’d been telling me how she adored her family-especially that brother of hers?

“Sorry it wasn’t something better,” I said lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not sure what I was expecting. It’s only that ‘” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaning against my car. “There’s so much I don’t know-that I never will. That’s what keeps you up at night. It’s not only that you miss them. It’s the regret that you didn’t ask the big questions while they were still here.”

He looked over toward where her grave sat and then continued. “A few weeks before she died, Marissa and I were at my parents’ house for dinner. We were outside, goofing around, playing a little one-on-one. I asked her how her life was different since she’d lost the weight-besides the fact that she could now whup my ass at basketball. She told me she had so many things she wanted to do. And she sounded so excited that I’d asked her what kinds of things. But then my mom called us for dinner, one thing led to another, and I never got around to following up. I mean, what was the big hurry, you know? We had all the time in the world.”

Oh God. My insides bubbled and frothed as he spoke.

Returning the list wouldn’t have been unkind. It was wrong to keep it, especially now that this perfectly nice guy standing in front of me had been grieving all the more because of my selfishness.

“Um actually,” I ventured, not sure what to say, but feeling I had to say something. “There was one more thing. She had a list.” When he didn’t respond right away, I blurted, “Your sister had written a list of things she wanted to do by her twenty-fifth birthday. I have it.”

His eyes shifted to meet mine, and-brrrr-did the temperature just drop fifty degrees? Because the look in them was icier than I could have ever imagined. “You kept it? There was a list and you kept it?”

Well, when he put it that way

“I had to,” I said defensively.

“Why?”

Why indeed? Panic was setting in when, luckily, I thought of a lie so brilliant that it felt as if it were the truth.

“Because I’m completing the list for her.”

The change in his face was like one of those square puzzles where you can move the pieces around to form a picture-it hadn’t settled yet, and since I didn’t know what it was going to be, I kept talking. “I figured since Marissa couldn’t do it for herself, well& it’s only right that it be me. I was the one driving when the accident happened. I feel responsible.”

And there it was: The coldness had melted and was replaced with an expression I couldn’t quite read but I knew that I liked. It lifted me up and floated me skyward. I was no longer June Parker, accidental murderess and borderline slacker. I was the sort of woman who’d find a list of uncompleted dreams and take it upon herself to get the job done. I fucking rocked.

“That’s so amazing,” he managed to say, and then to my horror he added, “Do you have the list with you? Can you show it to me?”

“It’s at home,” I replied hurriedly. “And I’m afraid you’d be disappointed to see it. There’s not much crossed off what with her birthday still being months away.” July 12, I remembered from her tombstone. Less than six months left to go. “In fact, if we could not make a big deal out of this, I’d be grateful. I’m nervous enough about it. I’d rather keep things to myself right now, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand.” He nodded. “No problem.”

I made a show of glancing at my watch and then said, “I’d better get going.”

“Sure.”

As I got into my car, he pulled out his wallet and fished through it. He handed me a business card. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”

It occurred to me there was something he could do. “It’d probably be helpful for me to know more about Marissa. I don’t want to bother you too much. Maybe you could send me her old yearbooks or photo albums? Anything that might shed light on what might have motivated her to write the things on the list that she did.”

He agreed without hesitation, and I gave him my business card before driving away, the blood pumping through my veins so wildly that I suspected I must be visibly throbbing.

I was going to do this. I was going to complete the items on Marissa Jones’s list. If I couldn’t make something out of my own life, at least I’d make something out of hers.

For the first time in a long time-since the accident and even before-I felt a surge of an emotion so unfamiliar, it took me the entire drive home to figure out what it was.

Hope.

I felt hope.

WHICH BROUGHT ME to where I was: at a bar, realizing there was no way I was going to kiss this jerk, no matter how bad I wanted to cross something off a list.

“So,” he said, flashing a gleaming white grin as he handed me back my paper (and, may I add, there is such a thing as too much whitening), “what kind of kiss?”

His friend Frank filled him in: “Mouth tongue optional.”

“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll just-“

Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, his tongue thrust between my lips. It wasn’t awful. My first attempts with Grant Smith back in high school were certainly a whole lot sloppier. But I’d experienced significantly more zing with Grant. This kiss, frankly, left me feeling as if I might as well be paralyzed from the waist down.

As he pulled away, he said a glib, “You’re welcome.”

Oh, please. I wish he’d said it while he was kissing me, because then I could have thrown up in his mouth.

“Unfortunately,” I said, feigning regret, “the list specifically states that I have to do this kissing-you know, be the kisser, not the kissee. I’m afraid this doesn’t qualify. But hey-“ I winked at the guys at the table before turning to go- “I appreciate the effort.”

On my way, I nearly bumped into a busboy. Hmm. He appeared to be about seventeen years old and was conveniently just my height. “Mind indulging me?” I asked. I took hold of his collar to pull him closer and-pausing for a few seconds to give him a chance to run for the hills if he wanted-planted a kiss on his mouth. No tongue, but plenty warm and moist, and-yes!-there was that zing I was talking about.

Then, over the sound of the guys at the table having quite a guffaw about the whole thing, I grabbed Susan. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. After all, I still had plenty more things I needed to cross off the list. And as my grandma used to say, there’s no rest for the wicked.

Chapter 2

20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday

1. Lose 100 pounds

2. Kiss a stranger

3. Change someone’ s life

4. Wear sexy shoes

5. Run a 5K

6. Dare to go braless

7. Make Buddy Fitch pay

8. Be the hottest girl at Oasis

9. Get on TV

10. Ride in a helicopter

11. Pitch an idea at work

12. Try boogie boarding

13. Eat ice cream in public

14. Go on a blind date

15. Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton

16. Get a massage

17. Throw away my bathroom scale

18. Watch a sunrise

19. Show my brother how grateful I am for him

20. Make a big donation to charity

“Skydiving is at the top of my list,” Susan said, taking a bite of her ice-cream cone.

“You have a list?”

“Not anything written. But sure, there are things I want to do before I die.”

“Well, I for one can’t imagine anything worse than skydiving-hurtling through the air, no control over how fast you’re falling or where you might land. Why people find that fun is beyond me.”

We sat at an outdoor cafe; taking a break from work, slurping on double-scoop ice-cream cones. The offices of Los Angeles Rideshare-where Susan is client services director and supervises a staff of twenty and I work as a writer and am more, say, in the worker bee category-are located in one of the older downtown business districts. Ornate buildings line the narrow streets, making it seem unusually old for Los Angeles. On this particular afternoon, with the sun blazing warm on our shoulders, we watched pouring rain across the street where a Visa commercial was being filmed. Huge machines sprayed water on faux New York taxis. Tourists stood at the periphery in tank tops and shorts, holding pens and paper for autographs in case that guy grinning at the camera was a real celebrity.

As much as I was riding high from the success of kissing the busboy, I knew there was much more to do.

The list sat on the table between us so Susan could help me establish the rules-the dos and don’ts, as it were, for completing it. For example, we decided that I didn’t have to do the tasks in order. Also, I had to obey, as Susan put it, ‘the spirit of the law’ -a result of my saying that to do #8, Be the hottest girl at Oasis, I could merely walk into the bar and set myself on fire.

“So what’s your plan to get this done on time?” Susan asked as she used a napkin to dab at ice cream that had spilled onto her blouse. She looked amazing as always, wearing a simple silk pantsuit, no makeup except for red lipstick, and her black hair knotted into an effortless updo. It was the sort of look that made me regard my flowered skirt and blouse from the Everything $15 Store a little less charitably than I had when the cashier had been ringing it up.

“My plan?” My brow furrowed. “I figured I’d wing it.”

“I don’t know, June. Some of these seem time-consuming. Like this one: Change someone’s life. That’s hardly the sort of thing you can handle on your lunch break.”

“Oh, don’t worry-I did that already. In fact, do you have a pen? I’ll cross it off.” I sounded so gloomy that Susan looked at me perplexed until I elaborated. “Marissa was alive. Now she’s dead. That’s quite a change, don’t you think?”

“Ugh. How long do you intend to beat yourself up over this?”

“Until this list is done, that’s how long.”

“All the more reason to take it seriously.”

“I sure hope I finish.”

I didn’t need to say anything more than that. Susan and I have been best friends since we met as students at UC Santa Barbara-she’s been around long enough to know that it won’t be easy for me. She’s seen it all. The vacations I planned but never got around to booking. The half-completed master’s degree in marketing I thought would jump-start my career. For that matter, the poncho I recently tried to crochet that took so long, ponchos went back out of style.

“You know that anything I can do to help I will.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get back to the office. Lizbeth’s having one of her famous late afternoon meetings to make sure none of us tries to sneak out early. But hey, at least I’m getting one task accomplished today.” I held up my ice-cream cone in the gesture of a toast. “Number thirteen: Eat ice cream in public.”

“About this one, I don’ t get it. What’s the big deal about eating ice cream?”

“Fat people aren’t allowed to eat in public.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, a bit snobbily in my opinion. “I notice them eating all the time.”

“Exactly.”

“You lost me.”

“It’s hard to enjoy the eating experience when you feel everyone’s staring at you, thinking, No wonder she’s such a fat cow. Look how she eats.”

“I don’t think that!”

“Sure.” Although I’d never carried the sort of weight Marissa had, I was no stranger to how feeling fat can affect things. I’ve gone up and down the same ten or twenty pounds my whole life. I have one of those body types that lean in that direction: all curves and boobs and butt. Currently, thanks to being too miserable to eat after the accident, I was the lowest weight I’ve been in a long time-a diet strategy, by the way, that I don’t recommend. Logically I know that I’m not overweight, but I fear that one wrong move-one taco or burrito too many-and I could burst into fat without a moment’s notice.

Susan tipped her chin toward my cone. I’d worked my way through the rocky road and was well into the cookie dough. “Are you enjoying that?”

“To be honest, I’m not a big fan of ice cream.”

“How can anybody not like ice cream?”

“Too big a commitment.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Think about it. Once you buy ice cream, you have to finish it right then and there. Either eat it or lose it forever. I mean, look at this. It’s already drippy. You can’t tuck it away to finish later like you can, say, a cookie.”

“Oh, come on! Have you ever once in your life put a cookie away to finish later?”

“That’s not the point. It’s that I could if I wanted to.”

“Seems to me that if you’re going to do this task justice, you need to enjoy that ice cream. No guilt. No worries. Let yourself get into the moment.” When I looked at her skeptically, she said, “That’s what Marissa would have done.”

She was right, of course, darn it. So I closed my eyes and slid my tongue over the ice cream. I let its cool sweetness wash over me. Let myself taste it. Feel it. When I finally let down my guard, I had to say it was incredible. Soft and creamy. I enthusiastically licked it down to the cone, sighing and letting out an mmmm of pure pleasure.

And then I opened my eyes.

Peter from the accounting department stood at the edge of my table, breathing heavily with a big grin on his face. “Hey, I hear there are Krispy Kremes in the break room. Any chance you’ll let me know if you decide to eat one? I want to be there if you do.” His eyes moved longingly between Susan and me. “Even better, maybe the two of you could share one.”

“HI GUYS,” I said, grabbing a chair at a gleaming conference table that could accommodate a family of twelve for Thanksgiving dinner. It was almost the size of my entire cubicle. I set down my Diet Coke and watched happily as it formed a fat wet ring.

Lizbeth Austin Adams’s office reminded me more of a living room than a place of business. She’d brought in plants and lamps and other homey touches-each new addition a knife in my heart, as it meant she was setting down roots.

“Her Majesty will be here in a few,” Lizbeth’s assistant, Brie, informed me, barely glancing up from her issue of Us magazine. “Dang, I can’t believe that Beyonce acts like she invented the whole bootylicious thing.” She crossed an ample thigh, exposing the control-top line of her panty hose. “I had a booty when that girl was still running around in diapers.”

“Wait a minute-you can’t be any older than she is,” I countered. “Wouldn’t that mean you were in diapers, too?”

“Yeah, but I had a booty.”

It was three o’clock on the dot, and the marketing department, such as we were, was assembled. Gazing around at my co-workers, I almost had to feel sorry for Lizbeth. After she’d joined as director of marketing for L.A. Rideshare two years ago, unexpected budget cuts brought a wave of layoffs. The empire she’d moved from Texas to lead dwindled to the four of us. Like strangers thrown together in a lifeboat, we seemed to have only one thing in common: an instinct for survival. Besides Brie and me, there was Greg, the designer, and Dominic Martucci, known only as Martucci, whose job it was to drive the Rideshare Mobile. Martucci had a thin-lipped smile and a habit of fondling the tiny braided rattail that he’d let grow like a hairy tadpole from the nape of his neck. Sometimes I shuddered to think he had his hands all over my brochures.

“Good afternoon,” Lizbeth said as she breezed in. Martucci and Greg straightened in their seats. She had that effect on men. I half expected them to chant like schoolboys, “Good afternoon, Miss Austin Adams.”

She tossed a manila folder in front of me. “Nice work on this brochure. I made a few comments.” I thumbed through the draft copy I’d given her to review. There was so much red ink, I thought perhaps she’d opened a vein over it. As if I’d be so lucky. “Overall I’d prefer that you make it less”-she gave me a patronizing smile-“Jane Fonda.”

“Jane Fonda?”

“You know,” she said, wrinkling her nose and whispering as if saying a dirty word, “strident.”

“All it says is that cars cause pollution.”

“Right.”

“But isn’t that the-“

“All right, people, we’ve got quite a bit to cover today,” she said, ignoring me as she always did and addressing the group instead. “Let’s get started.”

I tucked the brochure away. I’d make the changes she wanted-what was the point in arguing?

As at every department meeting, Lizbeth went around the table having each of us report the status of the projects we were working on. When it was my turn, I mentioned a brochure on carpool lanes I was writing and a press release announcing a new bus pass. I bored even myself as I talked about it.

When people discover I work as a writer, I’m quick to point out that I’m not a real writer. I see their eyes light up-ooh, a writer?!-so I try to squelch it before it goes any further. While I’m not exactly ashamed, let’s face it: My job lacks glamour on a level almost impossible to comprehend. Carpooling isn’t exactly sexy stuff.

That’s why it baffles me how someone like Lizbeth Austin Adams wound up working here. Well& besides the fact that Lou Bigwood, our agency president, discovered her at a conference she’d put together-a tale passed around the office with the same reverence as the one about Lana Turner getting discovered at Schwab’s. That was Lizbeth’s forte: event planning. At our first department meeting two years ago, she’d boasted that she’d planned the Bush twins’ coming-out party, to which Brie had slapped her ever exposed thigh and exclaimed, “I knew they was gay!” Bigwood, apparently impressed with Lizbeth’s credentials-or impressed with something, at any rate-had offered her a job on the spot.

Not just any job.

My job.

Granted, it wasn’t mine technically. But my old supervisor had groomed me for the position. I would have been managing a staff of twelve, in charge of ad campaigns and publications, plus running promotional events-big parties where we’d feed people hot dogs and, once their mouths were full, talk to them about how very fun sharing the ride could be.

Instead, I’d had to force a smile and applaud as Lou Bigwood had trotted Lizbeth out at a staff meeting and introduced her as the new director of marketing.

I suppose it shouldn’t have been such a shock. He was notorious for finding stunning women and-to the endless frustration of the human resources manager-offering them hefty salaries and the plum jobs at the agency without consulting with anyone else. He was a maverick that way. Lizbeth, blond and in her late thirties, was conventionally attractive in a TV-weather-girl sort of way. That in itself was a surprise. Bigwood’s tastes usually leaned more toward the exotic-dark-haired beauties like my friend Susan. In fact, not only like Susan, but Susan herself had at one time been the object of his interest, much to my horror.

“You mean you’re one of Charlie’s Angels?” I remember exclaiming after Susan had casually mentioned that Bigwood had hired her after they’d met at (where else?) a conference. I believe I’d been working at L.A. Rideshare for only a few weeks at the time, Susan having recommended me for the copywriter position.

“At least I’m the smart Angel,” she’d replied.

“But that’s horrible! He hired you based on your looks!”

She’d shrugged.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not particularly.”

I must have gotten puffed up and judgmental and strident looking because she’d said, “Look, I know Bigwood’s an ass, but that goes for anyone who runs a company. I get the job done. People respect me. What do I care why he hired me? Besides, turnabout’s fair play-do you have any idea how many men get the job over a woman for the sole reason that they are the proud owner of a penis?”

She had a point.

And now, I realized with a sigh-watching Lizbeth slice Greg’s web designs to ribbons in her cool but impossible to contradict manner-that I had a female boss who had balls of steel.

“I spoke with three reporters today,” she said briskly when it came to her turn to talk. “I have nibbles but no bites.”

She was talking about the Friends of Rideshare project. It was one thing that made me cringe as much as the memory of that typo I’d let slip through in a newsletter back in 2002. (I’d accidentally put pubic transit instead of public transit.)

Friends of Rideshare was an idea that I’d pitched as part of my failed job proposal. I suggested that we ask local traffic reporters to mention carpooling when they did their on-air traffic reports. They might say things along the lines of Rubbernecking is causing slowdowns on the 405 don’t you wish you were ridesharing? My old boss had marveled at the simple brilliance of the plan. Except when Lizbeth came on, she’d claimed the project as her own and started going after big-name celebrities. I heard she’d spent months calling Brad Pitt’s people, trying to get him as a spokesman. She couldn’t even get through to his people’s people. The project was tanking, and Lizbeth made sure everyone knew it had been my idea. “I’’doing the best I can to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” I’d overheard her complaining to another director.

So now, she told us, she was giving up on movie stars and musicians and had an idea-and how novel!-about approaching on-air reporters who specialized in traffic. Although& and she gave a woeful sigh& she wasn’t certain there was any salvaging things.

“No offense,” she said.

None taken. Bitch.

We wrapped up the meeting and were gathering to go when Martucci said, “Maybe June could talk to Troy Jones.”

Uh er what? Why was he mentioning Troy Jones?

Lizbeth wondered the same thing. “What about Troy Jones?”

“You didn’t hear? June ran over his sister back in July.”

“I didn’t run her over!” I protested.

Martucci snapped a folder shut. “Fine, then. She didn’t run her over. But that girl in her car was Troy Jones’s sister. Right, Parker?”

Lizbeth looked at me with interest. “Is that true? That’s who was in the accident with you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

A cold finger of dread wormed its way up my spine.

Everyone obviously knew who Troy Jones was-besides his being Marissa’s brother. I sure wished I did, but I wasn’t about to ask.

Luckily, Greg came to my rescue. “Who’s Troy Jones?”

“Traffic reporter,” Lizbeth said. “Recently started on K-JAM morning radio. Very up-and-coming, gets a lot of airtime.”

So Troy was a traffic reporter. I supposed I should have known, but I’d let my interest in the industry slip right around the time I lost out on the promotion. There was no point in being in the loop if they weren’t going to pay me for it.

Lizbeth leaned forward. “So will you be talking to Troy soon?”

“For what?”

“Oh, the usual. Memorials. Ashes scattering. That sort of thing. I’d love to get him to work with us. Now that we have you as a personal contact”

I gaped at her, my jaw dropping on its hinge. Was she serious? “I met him at a funeral.”

Martucci, ever the kiss-ass, said, “Now this sounds to me like an opportunity. What’s that old saying?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes when a door closes, a window opens.”

My brows shot down in a scowl. How dare he attempt to quote The Sound of Music against me!

“That’s right, you never know,” Lizbeth said. “Sad as his sister’s passing is” -she held her hands out across the table& and fortunately I was sitting too far away, or I suspected she might have tried to clasp mine-“from these sorts of tragedies, bonds can form.”

“Yeah, it’s not as if you ran over his sister on purpose,” Martucci said, almost kindly.

“Ooh, you know who you shoulda run over?” Brie interjected. “Rick Hernandez on Channel Five. That man is fine. I wouldn’t mind sharing a ride with him, if you know what I’m talking about.”

“I didn’t run anyone over,” I hissed.

Martucci leaned back, his arms crossed. “No need to get yourself all in a twist, Parker. We’re just brainstorming.”

“Maybe we should drop this” Greg said, which was lucky because Martucci deserved a snappy comeback, and since I was struggling unsuccessfully to come up with one, someone needed to defend me. “This guy isn’t the only traffic reporter in the world. I have a feeling that June would prefer to put the accident behind her.”

I gave Greg a watery smile in gratitude. He’d managed to shut Martucci up, but alas, Lizbeth wasn’t giving up so easily. She turned to me. “I want you to consider it.” Her voice was crisp& back to business. “Getting Troy Jones on board would mean more funding for this department. It would be a feather in your cap.”

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 sampler’ consisting of leftover spaghetti (Italy), a fish taco from Rubio’ s (Mexico), two California sushi rolls (Japan), and a slice of Kraft fat-free cheese (France).

Before hanging up, my mom said, “Again, honey, sorry for scaring you.”

“Don’ t worry about it. Guess I have death on my mind these days.”

She snorted a laugh. “This is nothing. Wait till you get to be my age.”

LEANING OVER SUSAN’ S shoulder to see the computer screen in front of her, I marveled, “This feels strangely like shopping.”

She scrolled through a row of men’ s photos. “How about this one: Hot Lover Seeks Wild and Free Lady.”

“Ew. He might as well just say, Horny Guy Seeks Slut, as Whore Too Expensive.”

“Oh, come on,” she taunted in the superior way that only the happily married can. “Where’ s your spirit of adventure?”

“It’ s home wearing bunny slippers and watching Entertainment Tonight.”

“You need a life.”

“Isn’ t that what we’ re trying to do here?”

Most of the office was deserted. Susan and I stayed after hours so we could find a man for me on the Internet without fear of anyone finding out. Task #14, Go on a blind date, might as well be next to check off the list. My mom had been dropping hints that she might be able to set me up. She’ d told me that several of her friends’ sons were getting divorced and were ripe for the plucking& and who’ s to say for how long? In situations such as this, I figure, the best defense is a good offense.

We couldn’ t use my cubicle. Not only does my computer screen face out so that anyone walking by can see exactly what’ s on it, but for people at my level, the company programs in all sorts of blocks limiting where we can go on the Internet. Apparently only upper management is welcome to online date and view porn all day.

“He looks nice.” I pointed to a photo of a guy who& well, I’ d describe him, but he had the sort of face you don’ t remember. His intro line said, Nice Regular Guy.

“hat do you want a nice regular guy for?”

I scowled. “What’ s wrong with a nice regular guy?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then.”

“But remember how you asked me to keep you honest about this?”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“If I’ m being honest, I think you’ re being a coward.”

“Terrific.”

“Seriously! The whole idea of this is to take a risk-to put yourself out there. I’ m sorry, but I happen to believe that you’ re funny and smart and very pretty. A guy like that is beneath you. You can do better.”

It’ s hard to argue with someone complimenting you while they ball you out. That’ s probably why Susan’ s employees love her so much. She’ s slippery that way. “Are you coming on to me?” I asked jokingly, hoping to change the subject.

“I mean it. Remember those photos from C.J. and Joey’ s birthday party last month? I e-mailed them to a few people, and Chase’ s friend Kevin e-mailed back to ask who the babe was in the red shirt.”

“Really?” Even I have to admit I look piping hot in that shirt. “Well then, why don’ t we skip this and you can set me up with this Kevin fellow?”

“For starters, he’ s in Zimbabwe. Secondly, he’ s beneath you.”

I sighed. With all these men beneath me, you’ d think I’ d have a more exciting love life.

“All I’ m saying,” she continued, “is that you have an opportunity here to take a risk. Aim high. Go for someone who seems out of your league. Isn’ t that the whole point? For example” She scrolled down until she found a man who resembled Fabio. “Him. Personal Trainer Seeks Fit and Funny Lady.”

“He doesn’ t want me. I’ m no lady.”

“Who cares what he wants?”

“I don’ t know. He’ s almost too good-looking. Besides, it says here his favorite book is Likes movies better.”

Susan kept searching and then stopped on what looked like a Calvin Klein ad. Dark hair, a graze of stubble along the jaw, intelligent but smoldering eyes& hands casually in pants pockets of what appeared to be a very expensive suit.

“Forget it,” I said, cringing from the memory of the jerk at the bar. I was done with underwear model look-alikes.

“He’ s a writer!” She clicked open his profile. “His name’ s Sebastian, and he works as an advertising copywriter. Thirty-three& never married& nonsmoker& ooh, and look, he’ s man enough to check the ‘ any age’ box rather than saying he wants the woman to be younger than him. We should e-mail him. He’ s perfect!”

Exactly. That was the problem. It was one thing to put myself out there, but this guy wasn’ t simply out of my league& we weren’ t even playing the same sport. “He vacations regularly in St. Croix. I don’ t even know where that is!”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’ m willing to go on a blind date, but the list didn’ t say anything about being humiliated and rejected. Thanks, but no thanks.”

She told me I was being silly but finally moved on. Not much later we gave up for the night, and I left for the gym. The down side of getting over my funk was that my appetite had sprung back to its full glory.

Susan stayed behind to finish up a report, exhibiting the sort of work ethic that is the reason she gets a door and full Internet access and I don’ t.

THE NEXT MORNING, Brie came into my cubicle. She wore a yellow top that clung to her generous bosom, along with a leopard-print mini. Her hair-a never-ending source of entertainment for me and often nothing short of a work of art-was in a flip reminiscent of Diana Ross in her Supremes days. All in all, on the demure side for Brie.

“I found this in the printer,” she said, waving a piece of paper at me, “but I’ m not sure if it’ s for you or for Susan. It’ s from her computer, but the note is addressed to you.”

I’ d been deep in thought-trying to come up with a good rhyme for ‘ transit’ for a headline I was working on-so I barely glanced up. “Thanks.”

“It’ s from some guy named Sebastian,” she continued just as I was dismissing ‘ rancid’ as being too negative. When I heard the name, little fingers of worry starting to worm their way up my spine.

“Sebastian?”

“Yeah. It’ s strange because he’ s asking one of you, I think you, on a date and I figure Susan’ s married, but as I said, it was from her computer, so”

I snatched the paper from her hands.

Her face got excited. “He’ s inviting you to a book signing. Sounds like the kind of thing you’ d be into, huh? All intellectual and whatnot. Me, I prefer a date with a little action in it, where I can dress up real nice. You know, like going to a club-ooh, there’ s that new one in Hollywood I went to last weekend, and let me tell you, it was off the chain! I wore my new pink leather skirt, and-“

“Brie?” I interrupted. “You said you found this in the printer?”

‘ Yeah. You and Robert break up?’ When I didn’ t answer right away, she narrowed her eyes at me. ‘ You’ re stepping out on him?’

‘ We split, back in August. Give me a sec, will you?’ I paused to read what she’ d brought in, which was a printout of an e-mail. It was from Sebastian all right. He thanked me for writing him, said how excited he was to hear from a fellow copywriter and that he loved the photo I sent him. And then he invited me to a book reading and signing at seven o’ clock on Thursday at Book Soup. There’ ll be wine and cheese there, and we can go out for dinner afterward, the note read. I know that it’ s last minute, but let me know if you can make it. Love to get together and find out more about you.

‘ Susan must have written him,’ I said, and realized it was the wrong thing to say when Brie put up both hands and started to edge away.

‘ You know what? This is none of my business. Whatever kinky kind of things y’ all are into, that’ s for you to know and me to never find out.’

Great. Now Brie was going to tell everyone in the office how Susan and I were into some sort of swinging lifestyle.

‘ Come with me.’ I grabbed Brie’ s arm and dragged her to Susan’ s office, where I marched in and shut the door behind us.

Susan looked up from her desk. Without saying a word, I waved the printout in the air.

‘ Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘ It did print out.’

‘ Yeah. Oh, dear,’ I mocked.

‘ I couldn’ t get the printer to work right last night,’ she went on to explain. ‘ I was going to bring it in to you this morning and talk to you about it. Anyway, I thought I canceled the job-’

‘ You wrote him pretending to be me!’ I cut in.

‘ Yes, and he asked us for a date!’ And then she corrected, ‘ Well, you. I told you that picture of you from the party was gorgeous. He e-mailed me back within minutes. We had a couple back-and-forth e-mails. I’ m no writer, and we know it’ s been forever since I’ ve had to flirt& but obviously I’ ve still got it. A date! A blind date, if you catch my drift.’

‘ Brie here,’ I said pointedly, ‘ found it.’

Susan pulled the corners of her mouth down in an oops face, but just for a second before moving on to berate me. ‘ It’ s ridiculous you’ re being so private about this whole thing anyway. If I were doing something this nice, I’ d sing it from the rooftops.’

I blew out a breath and looked at Brie. For some reason, I didn’ t want her to think badly of me. I admired her ‘ take no bullshit’ style. No one else could handle Lizbeth the way she did.

Brie knew about the accident, of course, so I proceeded to fill her in about Marissa’ s list and how I was completing it for her.

When I was done, Brie gushed, ‘ I saw something like that on The Guiding Light! This lady had a rare blood disease and only had six weeks to live, so she was trying to do everything real fast before she died. Oh, and if you ever want to watch it, I usually book Lizbeth into meetings in the conference room at two o’ clock so I can use that portable TV she keeps on her side table.’

‘ Brie, this is between us, though. Okay?’

‘ Sure. So’ s that thing about watching the Light.’

Before I left, they made me e-mail Sebastian and accept his invitation. What the heck. It wasn’ t as if I had any other offers.

Then Susan picked up a phone call, and Brie walked with me back to my office. ‘ So, what kind of stuff is on this list, anyway?’ she asked.

I rattled off a few of the items, then realized maybe it wasn’ t so bad that Brie found out. Being Lizbeth’ s assistant, she could prove helpful. ‘ That reminds me,’ I said after a moment. ‘ One of the things I have to do is pitch an idea at work. I have an idea for a gas giveaway, but Lizbeth seems so hell-bent on this traffic reporter project, I don’ t know if she’ ll even listen to anything new. Any suggestions?’

Brie paused to consider my question. ‘ The woman’ s a bulldog. If she can’ t get what she wants one way, she’ ll get it another. It’ ll be tough, but don’ t you worry about a thing,’ she said as we parted ways in the hallway, ‘ I got your back.’

Chapter 4

I ‘ ve had eight boyfriends so far in my life, with the average length of relationship being 9.8 months. The mean is 14.4 months. Two out of the eight-a full 25 percent of all of my romantic entanglements-were named Scott.

I came up with these statistics on a girls’ weekend in Palm Springs a while back, when rain kept us indoors with nothing else to do but play cards and calculate our romantic affairs. Linda, a friend of mine from high school, brought a laptop, so we were able to put the whole thing on a spreadsheet.

My track record seemed reasonable until Linda started playing with the numbers a bit more. ‘ Check this out,’ she said. ‘ Your average span of time between boyfriends is 13.4 months. That means& ‘ She clattered away until she pulled up a new report. ‘ You’ ve been single as an adult 150 percent more than you’ ve been with someone.’

Well.

Isn’ t that something?

I cringed to think how almost half a year had already passed since Robert dumped me and yet I’ d made no progress at all toward finding someone new. Granted, I’ d been busy. First, there was all that TV to watch. Then the list to do. But still, I read all the time about celebrities walking down the aisle when the ink is barely dry on reports of how their last affair ended. It just wasn’ t fair.

I want marriage! I want kids! I thought bitterly as I showered the morning of my blind date. Other people seemed to tumble into husbands and children as if they were God-given rights and not the Herculean achievements I seemed to find them to be. It’ s not as if I were being greedy-I wanted only one husband. Some people my age had already had two or three. Probably one of them was supposed to be mine. They probably had my kids, too.

There were times among my eight men (numbers three and seven) I thought I might have found the right guy. Provided we could work out a few kinks. If only he could manage to be more (a) committed, (b) employed, (c) willing to stop that habit of picking his toenail and flicking it on the carpet. If only I could manage to be more of whatever that mystery thing is that men want that apparently-at least for the long haul-I don’ t have.

Ah, well, this shower sure feels like heaven. Nothing like steamy water on a rainy January morning to take the chill out of the bones. Even though I’ d pay for it later. My apartment has only the one hot-water tank. When it’ s out, it’ s out.

Please let him like me. I’ d been on plenty of setup dates before, but they were usually less deliberate than tonight’ s affair. A friend would have a party or a get-together at a bar and invite me as well as the potential love interest. There might be a bit of prodding on the part of the hostess to generate enthusiasm, but overall we were free to pretend we didn’ t know it was a setup if we didn’ t click.

Please let us click tonight.

There’ d be no problem with the clicking on my side. I was clicking all over the place just thinking about that photo of him.

Which was why I was fretting. Sebastian seemed the sort of man who had women hanging over him. He probably had to beat them off with sticks. He certainly didn’ t have on average 13.4 months between lovers as I did. More like 13.4 minutes, I’ d guess. Lucky for me there wasn’ t an interview process to dating-that I didn’ t have to bring a résumé outlining my pitiful love life. Imagine Sebastian getting a peek at that!

‘ So, June,’ he’ d no doubt say, peering at me from across the dinner table, ‘ this looks good. But tell me, what were you doing with that time between Jason and Mark? It shows here that you broke it off with Jason in August 1999-finally accepted that he was all talk and no action-yet I show a three-year gap before you took up with another man.’

‘ Was it three years? Gosh, I hadn’ t realized it was so long& .’

‘ Yes, you see that big hole right here on your résumé?’

‘ Now that you mention it, that is quite a long break.’

‘ Maybe you were focusing on your career at the time?’ he might supply helpfully. ‘ Or traveling the globe? Learning a new skill?’

I’ d shake my head woefully.

‘ Being selective, then? Going on date after date to make sure you found someone deserving of your love?’

Ooh, that one sounded good-and worth an enthusiastic nod. Even if it was a lie.

Truth was& I had no idea what the truth was. Only that I had a habit of burrowing like a groundhog any time a relationship failed. I didn’ t have that ability to dust myself off and try, try again. The only thing that brought me out of the hole was a soul brave enough to reach in and grab me.

It was crazy to expect that a man Susan found on the Internet might be the one to do that. For crying out loud, I was only going on this blind date to fulfill another person’ s wish list. I knew nothing about him other than what he wrote in his profile.

Yet that morning in the shower, as if guided by forces outside of me, I found myself digging through my pile of abandoned beauty products to find a loofah. If by chance things did click, I decided, there was no sense in scaring him off with rough elbows and knees.

I WAS TEN minutes late getting to Book Soup and far more frazzled than I’ d expected to be.

Besides the time I’ d spent primping and fretting over what was proper attire for a book signing, there was Lizbeth’ s department meeting that ran over.

The meeting had been ready to wrap at five o’ clock. Usually we’ d be bolting for the door, but then Brie said leadingly, ‘ Hey, June, why don’ t you tell us about that great idea you had for an event?’

I held back a scowl. Brie’ s notion of ‘ having my back’ apparently meant throwing me unprepared to the wolves, the first to my carcass being Martucci. ‘ This ought to be good,’ he stage-whispered to Greg, and then grandly set the papers he’ d gathered back down to enjoy the show.

The rest of them looked my way. June is going to trot out another idea even as her Friends of Rideshare program lies flopping and gasping for air like a dying fish?

It would have been nice if Brie had warned me she was going to do this. I’ d have preferred to have charts or stats or a write-up or something besides me. Still& the idea of completing two tasks in one day spurred me on.

‘ My idea,’ I said, trying to put some punch in my delivery, ‘ is that we do a gas giveaway. Gas prices are hitting record levels everywhere. So I thought we could let people know that L.A. Rideshare is rewarding people who carpool by paying for their gas when they fill up. The media would eat it up.’

‘ Interesting. The problem,’ Lizbeth said slowly, ‘ is the same one we always have. Funding. Who’ d pay for this gas?’

‘ A sponsor. It wouldn’ t cost that much. We wouldn’ t give gas to every carpooler. We’ d let them know we were out there& then sneak up on them at the pumps. Say, ‘ Surprise! We’ re paying for your gas!’

‘ If we’ re sneaking, then how would the media know?’ Martucci asked.

‘ We’ d tip them off ahead of time,’ I replied smugly, pleased that I had an answer and therefore wasn’ t giving him the pleasure of tripping me up. ‘ We’ d just tell them to keep the locations a secret from the public.’

‘ It certainly sounds& interesting,’ Lizbeth said. ‘ And I admire your initiative in bringing it up here today. Unfortunately, I don’ t believe that’ s the direction we should be going. No, we should be putting our energies behind partnering with a traffic reporter. By the way,’ she purred, ‘ have you contacted Troy Jones?’

My mind flashed to the box sitting on my desk filled with Marissa’ s yearbooks, along with a note from the traffic reporter in question: Hope this helps. I hadn’ t worked up the stomach to dig through them yet, although I needed to. One of the items I was particularly worried about (besides #3, Change someone’ s life, which did seem to be quite the tall order) was #7: Make Buddy Fitch pay. Who on earth was Buddy Fitch, and what had he done to her that was so awful? I suspected I’ d find a clue in those yearbooks-maybe a jock who tormented her for being fat. A bully who knew Marissa Jones would be easy prey. The very thought made my insides lurch.

Of course, Lizbeth didn’ t need to know any of that.

‘ Gee, I left one message,’ I lied sweetly. ‘ I’ ll try to follow up.’

Lizbeth nodded and then addressed the group. ‘ People, we have plenty of work here and not enough budget to move through the projects already on our plates. Let’ s stay focused, okay? Have a good evening.’

As I left the meeting, Brie whistled and made a gesture with her hand of a plane flying downward. ‘ Shot down in flames,’ she said, shaking her head.

I limped away in defeat.

After freshening my makeup and trying to get my hair to recapture the self-control it had hinted at achieving earlier, I met Susan at a boutique down the street. She’ d agreed to help me shop for an outfit that seemed sexy yet bookish after nixing the red shirt I was wearing-pointing out all too correctly that Sebastian had already seen it.

An hour and two hundred dollars later, I was dressed in a pinstripe jacket over a rock ‘ n’ roll T-shirt and a pair of jeans cut low enough that I had to bunch my underwear down to keep it from showing. I left for my date a new woman.

BOOK SOUP is a small independent bookstore on a trendy section of Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. When I arrived, a line was already forming to get into the store.

I’ d arranged to meet Sebastian at the adjacent coffee shop. As I walked in, I was nervous that he’ d be disappointed when he saw me. Brie had warned that my biggest fear should be the other way around, adding grimly, ‘ The guys I met online looked like their pictures all right. If their picture had been taken twenty years earlier and fifty pounds lighter.’

I saw Sebastian right away. He was an exact replica of his photo, except now in full color and 3-D. Holy cripes, he was gorgeous, dressed in another suit that seemed to scream ‘ money.’ When he came up to say hello, I noticed he smelled good, too.

‘ Are you June Parker?’

‘ Yes, hi,’ I said, extending my hand to shake his.

He gripped my hand so firmly, it nearly fused my fingers together. ‘ Great to meet you. Your photo doesn’ t do you justice.’ Before I could say anything else or blush prettily, he added, ‘ Do you mind if we get going to the bookstore? I don’ t want to be late.’

We walked outside, and he bypassed the crowd to head straight for the entrance. The bouncer-or whatever one would call him-let us into the room. Folding chairs were set up in an open section of the store. A podium and microphone faced the chairs. People filled some of the seats, while others milled around, thumbing through books and drinking wine.

‘ Wow. Do you know the author?’ I asked.

‘ Actually,’ he replied sheepishly, ‘ I am the author.’

‘ Excuse me?!’

He picked up a book and held it out to me. One-Woman Man, a novel by Sebastian Forbes. ‘ This is mine. I’ m doing the reading tonight.’ He flipped to the back to show me the author’ s photo-the same one he’ d posted on the dating website.

‘ You wrote this?’

‘ Guilty.’

‘ I can’ t believe you wrote this.’

What I really meant was, I can’ t believe you wrote this and invited me here sight unseen to your reading.

‘ I can’ t say it’ s exactly Shakespeare. More of a romantic comedy. But I’ m proud of it.’

‘ But why,’ I began.

‘ Why did I invite you?’ he finished for me. When I shrugged a yes, he grinned. ‘ Can you blame a guy for wanting to impress a girl? My other idea was to fly you to Paris for dinner, but I decided against it. Too showy.’

I’ d have come back with equally flirtatious banter, but I was too busy thinking, He likes me! which was seriously impeding my ability to formulate clever retorts. Instead I gazed coolly around the room.

(He likes me!)

(He’ s a published author and he likes me!)

(Me!)

‘ Drink?’ he asked.

‘ Sure. Thanks.’

‘ By the way,’ he said as he handed me a glass of wine, ‘ I’ m all for keeping the fact that this is our first date on the QT.’

I smiled agreeably and took a sip.

(Oh no, he’ s ashamed of me.)

Attempting to check my insecurities, I harkened back to the advice I used to read in Teen magazine. I asked him about himself. Once I did, I relaxed. Sebastian Forbes put on his Armani slacks one leg at a time like anyone else.

Turned out he worked as a copywriter for DDB advertising agency and had written this book in his spare time over the past two years. That meant giving up any semblance of a social life, he told me, cashing in the evenings he used to spend clubbing by banging away on his computer. (And I wasn’ t sure what I envied more, the fact that he gave up clubbing to write or the fact that he’ d been clubbing in the first place.) He wasn’ t sure if he was writing anything people would care about. ‘ I had a story I had to tell, that’ s all I knew,’ he said. ‘ Corny as that sounds.’ After he found an agent and he started shopping the manuscript, he found himself in a bidding war, a rare occurrence for a first-time author. Only once he made it through the grueling editing process did he realize how much of his life he’ d let slide, and-pardon me while my ears perked-he was eager to get things back on track.

So the guy set my hormones in motion. Even more amazing was how comfortable I felt talking to Sebastian. Like talking to one of my girlfriends-only a handsome girlfriend who was starting to get the faintest shadow of stubble along her strong, masculine jaw.

‘ Aren’ t you nervous?’ I asked.

‘ A bit. I can’ t believe this turnout. And the L.A. Times book reviewer is supposed to show up.’

‘ That seems like a pretty big deal.’

‘ It could make me or break me.’

The room filled, and I was taking up the attention of the man of honor. ‘ I feel like I’ m hogging the bride and groom at a wedding,’ I confessed to him.

‘ I’ m grateful for the distraction, but you’ re right. I should be mingling. Here, let me introduce you around.’ He took my arm, then hesitated before saying, ‘ June& you have any nicknames?’

‘ My mom calls me June Bug. My brother had a few that don’ t bear repeating. Why?’

‘ You don’ t strike me as a June. I see you as having a spunkier name. Like, oh, I don’ t know, JJ.’

Then he led me into the crowd. ‘ Come on, JJ, I need you with me to face the firing squad.’

I met his agent and his publicist, each one shaking my hand and saying things along the lines of ‘ It is so wonderful to meet you’ and, even more strangely, ‘ JJ, you’ re everything I imagined.’

I’ d heard movie people were a bunch of phonies. Maybe publishing people were the same-lots of air kissing and pretending to be fabulous friends. It was baffling, however, how many congratulated me. I could understand Sebastian& but me? After the third time it happened-the woman had even grabbed my hand and said, ‘ Sebastian, you bad boy& why is this still bare?’ I turned to Sebastian.

‘ What the heck was that all-’

‘ Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘ but we’ re ready to get under way.’

He escorted me to a chair in the front of the room. ‘ I saved this seat for you,’ he said, and he kissed my cheek before heading to the podium.

Sebastian read several excerpts from his novel, which was quite good. It was the story of a man who met the love of his life in the 1960s at a Peter, Paul & Mary concert and followed their courtship against the backdrop of the folk music era. It was quirky and smart-a romance novel, only from the man’ s point of view.

After reading, he answered questions from the audience. Then he introduced and thanked the agent and publicist I’ d met earlier. Before finishing, he said, ‘ And lastly, allow me to introduce my beloved JJ.’ Everyone applauded, and he motioned for me to stand, which I did, waving around to the people while confusion and dread formed a stew in my stomach. My beloved JJ?

Psycho. The guy was clearly a psycho. Oh, why did I ever let Susan talk me into the Internet? Everyone knows it’ s crawling with loonies.

As I entertained thoughts of being held captive in a cellar later while Sebastian decided which part of me he’ d use to make his coat of human flesh, the guy who’ d served as bouncer earlier announced that we’ d be taking a brief break, after which Mr. Forbes would sign books.

Sebastian came over and this time kissed my forehead. ‘ How’ d I do?’

Be calm& be cool& don’ t aggravate the crazy man.

‘ Great! But you know what I realized? I need to go.’

His face fell. ‘ You’ re leaving?’

‘ I forgot I have this big meeting tomorrow.’ I faked a yawn. ‘ But I loved your book. Thanks so much for inviting me.’

‘ Can’ t you stick around a while longer?’

No sudden movements that might startle him.& ‘ It was lovely, really. But I need to get going.’

‘ Give me a few more minutes, please. Let me explain.’ He pleaded so earnestly-and even though he was a psychopath, his face still seemed sweet-I let him lead me behind a bookshelf, where I figured my screams could be heard. ‘ The L.A. Times book reviewer isn’ t here yet, and my publicist says he’ s due any minute. Can’ t you stay for that, at least?’

‘ To be honest, Sebastian, I don’ t understand what’ s going on here.’

‘ Going on?’

‘ Everybody acts as if they know me, and they keep congratulating me. Then you introduce me as your beloved JJ.’

‘ What, people can’ t be friendly?’

‘ Thank you, I’ ll be leaving now.’

‘ Wait!’ he whispered urgently, grabbing my arm. ‘ There’ s something else.’

‘ I’ m listening.’

‘ I may have let it get around that we were engaged.’

‘ Engaged?! Why!?’

‘ Think about it. I’ m writing about a lifelong romance between a man and a woman, but I’ m coming to my own event stag? No one would take me seriously.’

‘ You couldn’ t get a friend to pretend for you?’

He released my arm. ‘ I didn’ t want to be that& devious. I was hoping you wouldn’ t catch on, the press would write it up-and by the time anyone was the wiser, my book would already be at the top of the best-seller list.’

‘ Weren’ t you scared people might see your personal ad?’

‘ It was a chance I had to take.’

‘ Sebastian, I wish you luck. I do. But-’

‘ No buts, please! I’ m begging you! Just for another hour or so, pretend to be my fiancée. Please& as a favor to a fellow writer. I hate to ask this of you, but when I got your letter and photo, you seemed so nice.’

‘ I’ m not comfortable with this. I’ m sorry& .’ And I turned to go.

He slumped against the shelf. ‘ You think I’ m a lunatic, right?’

‘ I& uh& ‘ Yes?!!?

‘ Would it ease your mind if I mention to you that, lovely as you are, you’ re not exactly my type?’

‘ What-’ I bristled, finally fed up and not afraid to let him know. Now the psycho was going to insult me as well? ‘ You mean sane?’

‘ No. Female.’

I stared at him, he shrugged, and after a second a light bulb went on over my head. ‘ Oh.’

No wonder he was so good-looking.

‘ I’ m not in the closet, but for this first book, I thought it would be best if I appeared to be straight. The book has received good buzz. If the press found out I was gay, no matter how glowing the reviews, it would still be a gay man’ s account of a romance. I didn’ t want to see it limited that way. Believe me, once this hits it big, I won’ t care what anyone thinks. I’ ll hand out free copies at the Gay fucking Pride parade.’

‘ I don’ t claim to know anything about writing books,’ I said, neglecting to mention the Carpoolers Guide to Road Safety I’ d authored, ‘ but don’ t they say ‘ Write about what you know’ ? Shouldn’ t you have written about a gay relationship?’

‘ This is what I know. It’ s the story of my parents’ courtship-and it’ s a love story, but it’ s also a story about drug addiction and wife swapping and other things they grew out of and would be humiliated to have anyone know they used to do. They’ re dead. I wrote this to honor their memory in my heart, but to publicize it to the world as their story would have them spinning in their graves.’

There it was.

How could I not help a man trying to tell his dead parents’ story of romance?

‘ Oh, crud& ‘

He saw his opening. ‘ Sit next to me while I sign. Emit estrogen. That’ s it.’

‘ Fine,’ I huffed. ‘ But you’ d better really be gay.’

‘ Please. Would a straight man wear shoes this expensive?’

AFTERWARD OVER DINNER, I got the whole story. JJ was his boyfriend, to whom the book was dedicated and who-along with the rest of Sebastian’ s friends-boycotted the reading. That’ s how disgusted they were about his playing straight. But one friend-a Latvian model-trying-to-turn-actress named Mjorka, who had a tendency to be game for anything-had volunteered to play his fiancée. When she canceled on Sebastian for a last-minute shoot in Bolivia, in desperation he posted a profile online to see if he could find someone. Then along came my e-mail.

‘ JJ’ s probably dumped me for good,’ he lamented. ‘ So maybe I’ ll switch my profile over to a gay site. How do you like Internet dating?’

I explained what I was doing with Marissa’ s list and decided to cross off Go on a blind date right there at the table. He made me feel the evening was worth it, applauding so wildly that the waitress came by to ask if champagne was in order.

Chapter 5

R ose Morales peered at me over thick red reading glasses. ‘ So,’ she said, straightening papers on the desk between us, ‘ why do you want to be a Big Sister?’

‘ I love kids, and I feel I have so much to offer,’ I replied, delivering the line I’ d spent ten minutes rehearsing outside the Big Sister offices. ‘ It’ s been a lifelong dream of mine to be a mentor to a girl-to share with her all I have to give.’

Rose nodded.

She seemed to be buying it.

As director of the Los Angeles Big Sister program, she was in charge of interviewing potential Big Sisters-weeding out the felons and any weirdos who were in it for the wrong reasons. While she went over the particulars of being a Big Sister-a ‘ Big,’ was how she put it-I sat smugly, congratulating myself on my clever plan. Susan had said I couldn’ t handle the task Change someone’ s life on my lunch hour, but here I was, noon on a Thursday, doing just that. Or at least getting it started.

The idea had come to me as I’ d ridden the bus home the week before. Gazing out the window and listening to Whitney Houston on my iPod-volume low so the hip-looking guy sitting next to me couldn’ t overhear-we passed a billboard for the Big Sisters program. In huge type, it announced: ‘ Change Someone’ s Life-Be a Big Sister!’

Talk about your signs from above, literally.

I filled out an application online as soon as I got home. Okay, after eating dinner and browsing on eBay for new sunglasses. Still, the speed at which I pushed the idea forward amazed me, considering that changing someone’ s life struck me as the most difficult task. It’ d take time. Perseverance. The type of thing I’ d usually put off-avoiding the hard things until it’ s too late to do them right, or to do them at all.

And yet.

If all went well-and Rose had seemed mighty impressed that I worked as a writer, even if it was brochures-I’ d soon have a Little Sister of my own. The idea of a sweet, freckled little piece of clay, eager to be shaped and molded, made me giddy. I’ d buy her balloons and take her to pet ponies. She’ d gaze up at me, her tiny hand clutched in mine, and say, ‘ Gee, you’ re so much cooler than my mom.’ True, my motives for signing up weren’ t entirely sincere. I wanted to change someone more than bond. But as I listened to Rose talk about how vital role models were in the lives of these girls, I remembered how I do believe that children are our future. Teach them well. Let them lead the-

‘ How often would you want to see a Little?’ she asked abruptly.

‘ How often?’

‘ Yes. Most people do outings once a week. Or every other week.’

‘ Weekly,’ I said, amazed that that was all they were asking. Why hadn’ t I thought to do this before? Why didn’ t more people? ‘ Definitely weekly.’ Excitedly, I added, ‘ It’ ll be so fun! Taking a girl shopping for cute little outfits, and-’

‘ We frown on shopping sprees,’ Rose chided. ‘ It’ s not to spoil them so much as to be a positive influence. We suggest sporting events or going to the beach or museums. Even cooking together can be lots of fun and very rewarding for both of you.’

‘ Of course,’ I said, reddening.

Now I knew why more people didn’ t do this. It sucks enough to not get a job you want-it’ s downright humiliating to be rejected for a volunteer position. How big a loser would you have to be for that? I didn’ t care to find out. There was a matter of a July 12 deadline, and if I didn’ t get a Little Sister, odds were I wouldn’ t encounter any more billboards providing instructions on what to do from there.

Rose must have sensed my worry, because she said, ‘ A little shopping is fine.’

She went on to explain that they’ d need to follow up on my references and do a background check, which typically took a few days. ‘ If it pans out, hopefully we’ ll have a match for you soon,’ she said, packing up my file. ‘ Anything you want to add before I let you go?’

I thought about the five months remaining before my deadline. It didn’ t seem like much time to change a life, but it was all I had. ‘ Only that I’ m eager to get started,’ I said heartily.

FEBRUARY 14. Valentine’ s Day. The day started on a sour note by being Valentine’ s Day. It then went from bad to worse before I even changed out of my pajamas. I’ d stepped on the scale to discover that I’ d gained five pounds. I didn’ t need Linda and her spreadsheet-making abilities to know that that constituted half of my total weight loss regained-and that every one of those pounds had gone straight to my ass.

No chocolates for me, I realized, sighing. No nibbling at the heart-shaped cookies people would bring into the office. No celebrating the holiday in the way I’ d come to know it: as an excuse to consume mass quantities of sugar with joyous abandon. Not after seeing how much I weighed.

Then again&

I leaned over to pick up the scale. Then I placed it directly into the trash.

#17: Throw away my bathroom scale.

That Marissa was a genius, I thought as I scrambled an egg for breakfast-compensation for the damage I’ d be doing later to my blood sugar. Getting rid of that scale had been positively liberating. So much so that I’ d have tossed away my body shaper underwear, too, if it weren’ t for that one blue dress that I look lumpy in without it.

SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH-I’ d had a chicken salad to make up for the damage I in fact did to my blood sugar-I popped into Susan’ s office. ‘ Am I still on to baby-sit tonight?’

She peered around a bouquet big enough to be mistaken for shrubbery. That was her husband, Chase. More is always more. ‘ If you don’ t mind-I’ d be forever grateful. We’ ve got reservations at Nic’ s. Chase’ s mother offered to watch the boys, but she had that toe surgery the other day. I hate to ask her to run after a couple of five-year-olds so soon.’

‘ It’ s no problem,’ I assured her.

I knew it was a special holiday for them since-and only Susan could pull this off-they’ d met on Valentine’ s Day. It was back in college, when she and I were at a bar refusing to feel like losers because we were stag. At one point, a drunk guy the size of an army tank bumped into Susan, making her spill her drink over herself. Then he lumbered on without an apology. Chase-who stands six feet two and at the time probably weighed 120 pounds dripping wet-came running over. He tipped his chin in the lunk’ s direction and said, ‘ You want me to kick his ass?’ We gaped at him for a moment, stunned, and he said, ‘ I’ m kidding. The guy’ d smash me like a bug.’ Susan was instantly smitten, and I’ m pleased to report that Chase has since filled out nicely.

They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that-thanks to California’ s ridiculous real estate market-was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’ s only about 1,600 square feet.

I arrived at the palace at seven o’ clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. ‘ Hey, beasts!’ I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.

C.J. and Joey-identical twins-were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, ‘ What’ s that?’ when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’ s yearbooks.

‘ I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,’ I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.

‘ Good luck& hope you find what you’ re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,’ Susan said. ‘ We won’ t be long.’

‘ No later than ten,’ Chase added. ‘ I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’ s Day booty.’

Susan grinned at him. ‘ Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.’

‘ Ah, I’ ll wear you down before that. Besides’ -he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door-’ you’ re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.’

‘ Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!’ I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.

Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’ t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’ t baby-sit that often.

The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’ d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)

‘ We always keep it open,’ C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.

‘ Doesn’ t she escape?’

‘ Nope.’

Joey then grabbed a sprig of parsley from the refrigerator to demonstrate. Even when he held the treat just outside her reach, she merely leaned on the base of the door and squealed. He tossed the parsley into the cage. ‘ We asked for a dog.’

It was a little after nine o’ clock when the boys finally passed out on the living room floor. I had to step over C.J., curled up at my feet, to get the box filled with yearbooks.

Wrenching as it was, I made myself thumb through every one in search of Buddy Fitch. But there wasn’ t a trace of him. No one named Fitch at all.

So he wasn’ t a high school classmate. Although it meant that the search continued, I felt a degree of relief. I’ d been weaned on teen movies where the basic principle is survival of the fittest, so I feared the worst. I’ d concocted all sorts of scenarios regarding who Buddy Fitch might be. Most involved him starring as a wealthy, popular jock-think Steff, the head ‘ richie’ in Pretty in Pink-a boy who would have gotten his jollies from abusing Marissa for being fat.

And she was, too. Fat, that is. Poor kid. Her yearbooks showed the progression as she started out chubby in junior high and got heavier and heavier over the years. As if that weren’ t tough enough, there were photos of her in the marching band, in the glee club, and as a member of the chess team. Why didn’ t she just have a ‘ Kick Me’ sign sewn permanently to her back?

Marissa had a pretty smile in her senior picture, though, and it seemed genuine. Maybe her thought bubble would read, Thank God I’ m almost out of here! Or-who knows?-maybe she enjoyed high school. After all, when I was in school, I thought I had a good time. It was only after I graduated and got out into the world that I realized how miserable I’ d actually been.

One thing was certain: I was going to have to do some serious legwork to find Buddy Fitch. I’ d need to know who he was and what he did before I could determine what sort of payback he had coming.

And I’ d better get a move on. A month had already ticked by, and I’ d completed only four of the tasks. (I’ d have claimed five, but when I mentioned to Brie about how I pitched my idea to Lizbeth at the staff meeting, she’ d exclaimed, ‘ You call that pitching?’ and I didn’ t dare cross it off.)

After setting aside the last yearbook, I pulled the list from my purse.

20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday

1. Lose 100 pounds

2. Kiss a stranger

3. Change someone’ s life

4. Wear sexy shoes

5. Run a 5K

6. Dare to go braless

7. Make Buddy Fitch pay

8. Be the hottest girl at Oasis

9. Get on TV

10. Ride in a helicopter

11. Pitch an idea at work

12. Try boogie boarding

13. Eat ice cream in public

14. Go on a blind date

15. Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton

16. Get a massage

17. Throw away my bathroom scale

18. Watch a sunrise

19. Show my brother how grateful I am for him

20. Make a big donation to charity

I’ d made a start, I knew, but there was so much left to do. If I was going to succeed, I needed to hunker down and stay on track. Next Tuesday I’ d handle #6, Dare to go braless. Most of the staff would be off at a rideshare fair. I’ d be able to go the whole day without encountering many people.

Maybe that was the easy way out, but I was willing to take any break I could get.

AS I DRESSED for work Tuesday morning, I couldn’ t help but think how it wasn’ t fair. After all, Marissa was, to put it delicately& petite. As in flat-chested. A-cup at best, I’ d reckon. Not that I’ d spent a lot of time staring at her chest, but I have a distinct memory of her being quite unendowed. Therefore, the ceremonial relinquishing of her bra would have been a feeling akin to the tossing of her scale: freeing.

For me, it was bordering on obscene.

It’ s not that I’ m huge-a C-cup usually, although depending on the bra occasionally a D. By Los Angeles standards, that’ s nothing. Problem is, unlike many of my contemporaries here in La-la-land, mine are real. Which is to say, they move. They bounce, they boing, they have minds of their own.

In an attempt to contain the potential damage, I searched my closet for my most conservative apparel and settled on a gray blouse over black slacks. Checking myself out in the mirror, I jumped up and down.

Good grief, I could put an eye out.

I took off the blouse, tugged on a black stretchy pullover, and then buttoned the blouse over the top of that. I jumped up and down again.

Better.

The office, as I’ d anticipated, was nearly empty when I got there. I spent the morning catching up on months of filing and was about to head to the break room to get the salad I’ d brought for lunch when my phone rang. It was Rose Morales from the Big Sister program.

‘ I have wonderful news,’ she gushed. ‘ We don’ t often have a match so quickly, but I’ ve found the perfect girl for you. I remember you said that you were eager to get started.’

‘ I am!’

‘ Her name is Deedee, and she’ s a real doll. I know you’ ll adore her. The reason I thought of you for Deedee is that she has dreams of being a writer when she grows up. Isn’ t that perfect? Let’ s see,’ she continued. ‘ What else can I tell you about her? She’ s Hispanic on the mother’ s side. The father’ s not been in the picture since she was little. She lives not far from you in the Mar Vista area, and she’ s a freshman at-’

‘ Freshman!’ I exclaimed. ‘ How old is she?’

‘ Fourteen.’

And with that my bubble burst. How was I going to mold and shape a teenager? As clay goes, they’ re already pretty hardened by that point. I couldn’ t hide my disappointment. ‘ I was hoping for someone& younger.’

Rose was silent for a moment and then said, ‘ She’ s still a girl. A good kid, too. Her mother is legally blind. Deedee helps take care of her and her little brother as well. We thought she deserved some fun time.’

‘ It’ s just that& fourteen? What do I do with a fourteen-year-old?’

‘ You could still take her to movies. Play with makeup. Do that Rollerblading you love so much,’ she said, and I cringed remembering that I’ d put that on my application. ‘ You may find you have more in common with an older girl than you would have with a younger one.’ When I didn’ t respond right away, she added, ‘ I’ m not trying to talk you into anything.’

‘ I know.’

‘ She’ s a sweet girl who could use a break.’

‘ Can I think about it?’

‘ Of course. If you’ re not comfortable with this, we can always find you another match, although to be honest, I don’ t know when that will be. We tend to be more stringent about matching younger girls within their ethnic culture. It could be months. But it’ s important that you feel you can bond with your Little, so it may be worth waiting.’

Months! I didn’ t have months! ‘ I’ d imagine it’ s tough having a mom who’ s legally blind,’ I ventured.

‘ Deedee shoulders much more responsibility than a fourteen-year-old should have to,’ Rose agreed. ‘ She’ s spunky, though.’ Then she asked, ‘ How old are you again?’

‘ Thirty-four.’

‘ Here’ s something else to consider. I’ m guessing you’ ll want to be starting a family soon.’ I tried not to snort into the phone as she continued, ‘

Would you be able to balance the needs of a Little with your new family? Sadly, that’ s when many girls get set aside. A teenager, on the other hand-she’ s only going to need a Big for a few years at the most.’

A few minutes later I hung up, having agreed to take the next step, which was to go with Rose Morales to meet Deedee and her mother at their home. We could check each other out, with absolutely no obligation to buy.

It was after one o’ clock when I returned from the lunchroom, kicking myself for putting Rollerblading on my application. They’ d had so many lines under ‘ Hobbies.’ I was embarrassed to leave them all blank.

Lost in thought, I didn’ t hear Bubba bound up.

Bubba was the CEO’ s black Labrador that he sometimes brought to the office. He immediately buried his nose in my crotch. Like owner, like dog.

Which meant, I realized with dread, that Lou Bigwood wasn’ t far behind.

‘ Hey, Bubba,’ I bleated, attempting to pull his face away in a gesture of friendly dog petting rather than the heavy petting that Bubba was aiming for.

Bubba clearly hadn’ t seen HR’ s sexual harassment video that talked about inappropriate touching. My attempts to push him away only excited him further. He lunged for me, sending me reeling back-stumbling and bouncing and boinging and grabbing for the wall to catch my balance.

‘ Bubba!’ It was Lou Bigwood. ‘ Come back here, boy.’

In all the time I’ d worked at L.A. Rideshare, I’ d seen Bigwood only from a distance at staff meetings. I was far too lowly for direct interaction. Bigwood was in his late fifties, I’ d guess-graying at the temples, but hearty and hale. He could as easily be captaining a ship at sea as leading a traffic agency.

‘ Hi, Mr. Bigwood.’

He held Bubba by the collar, squinting at me. ‘ It’ s June, right?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ How are things going in& publications, right?’

‘ That’ s right. Great, thanks.’

I thought about saying ‘ Have a nice day’ and making a run for it, but he was staring at me curiously, stroking his chin in that way people do to show how very deep in thought they are. ‘ There’ s something different about you,’ he said. ‘ What is it?’

‘ Pardon me?’

‘ Is it your hair? Did you change your hair? I’ ve got three daughters, I’ m usually good at figuring out this sort of thing.’

I shook my head noncommittally and he said, ‘ Nice work on the annual report, by the way.’

Stunned that he had noticed my work, I could only say, ‘ Thank you.’

He kept me standing there in the hall, chatting about ideas for future brochures. No one came by. It occurred to me he must be talking to me out of boredom, but he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I wondered if he could see my nipples through my shirt. The hallway was a tad chilly-the sort of thing that tends to bring out the high beams. I used my mental powers to will my nipples to stay put.

Bubba bumped into me again, sending me bouncing.

Bigwood snapped his fingers. ‘ I’ ve got it! You’ re wearing flat shoes. So you look shorter.’

Since I was, as always, wearing flats, I nodded.

‘ See,’ he boasted, ‘ I told you I’ m good at figuring this sort of thing out.’

Bigwood’ s gaze then shifted to something behind me, and he suddenly looked alarmed. ‘ Is that clock right?’

I turned around. One-fifteen. ‘ Maybe a minute or two fast,’ I said.

‘ June, I need your help,’ he said urgently. ‘ I’ m due at a meeting in Long Beach in thirty minutes. I can’ t be late. I need you to come with me so I can use the carpool lane.’ He turned without giving me a chance to reply and nearly sprinted down the hall. Bubba barreled after him. ‘ At the elevators in two minutes!’

Talk about being wanted for your body.

The meeting, he explained as we climbed into his convertible, was at S.C. Electric, whom he hoped to bring on as a corporate funder. ‘ It’ s a long shot-those cheap bastards. But I’ ll do what I can to squeeze a few bucks out of them.’

I held a notebook I’ d grabbed off my desk clutched to my chest-why hadn’ t I brought a backup bra? This would surely qualify as an undergarment emergency. I could’ ve tried another day for my task.

We cruised along in the carpool lane at speeds reaching a hundred miles per hour. ‘ Look at that!’ Bigwood exclaimed, tipping his head toward the regular freeway lanes. Even in the middle of the day, they were packed with traffic. ‘ This is why we do the good work we do!’

I’ d sort of taken it as a sign that we weren’ t doing such good work.

We arrived in one piece and parked. Bigwood led me into the offices of S.C. Electric with seconds to spare. I expected him to deposit me in the lobby to wait, but instead he insisted I join him. ‘ This is how you learn,’ he said in a tone that I suspected he often used with his daughters.

Two women and two men already sat at a conference table. Bigwood introduced me as his associate in charge of marketing-a lovely, albeit temporary, promotion to Lizbeth’ s job-and went on to bluntly explain why S.C. Electric should give us money.

The proposition, for all its snappy delivery, went down in flames from the beginning.

And then, surprisingly, came my moment.

Even looking back, I couldn’ t say if it was Bigwood wanting to give me an opportunity to prove myself or him deciding, as long as he was leaping from the plane, that he’ d grab me to cushion the fall.

The S.C. Electric people had responded plainly that they couldn’ t fund us because they had limited dollars. Bigwood thanked them, and I expected we were going to leave. But then he turned to me and said, ‘ June, do you have anything to add?’

In real life-that is, my old life, in which I wouldn’ t even be here because I wouldn’ t have been jiggling down the hall and attracting Bigwood’ s notice-I would have made a benign remark such as ‘ I’ m good to go.’

Instead, I set down the notebook I’ d been clinging to. Lizbeth was never going to listen to my pitch. This was my chance. If I blew it, what was the worst that could happen? I’ d never see these people again, and Bigwood could hardly fault me for failing when he’ d done exactly the same thing moments before.

‘ I do have a way we may be able to partner that would be low-cost,’ I said, aiming to keep my voice steady. ‘ It’ ll help you get your feet wet. Once you see the good work we can do, I’ m confident you’ ll want to continue the association at a higher level.’

Then I pitched the hell out of my free gas idea. I was so focused on what I was saying that I didn’ t even worry that I was braless. Without the graphs and charts I’ d been working on, I knew I was the main show, so I did my best to make giving away free gas sound like the next step in reality TV. I painted a mental picture of happy motorists screaming with glee as we told them they’ d won free gas-of how they would surely thank their generous sponsors for this honor, perhaps even wipe away tears of gratitude. All on TV. And all for the low, low price of, say, a few thousand?

They loved it-they loved me! Although they couldn’ t commit on the spot-they first had to run it by the powers-that-be-they assured us they’ d do everything they could to make the project happen.

Later, as we walked back to his car, Lou Bigwood gave my shoulder a squeeze and told me I did a great job.

‘ Thank you, Mr. Bigwood.’

‘ Call me Lou.’

That was when it hit me: I was now one of Charlie’ s Angels. Susan was going to keel over laughing.

I suspected that Lizbeth, however, would be less amused-leaving me to fret the entire way back to the office over how much she’ d try to make my job a living hell.

Chapter 6

I woke to the phone ringing. Seven forty-five on a Saturday. Who’ d be calling this early?

I let the machine pick up, but when I heard it was my mom, I grabbed it. ‘ It’ s not even eight o’ clock!’

‘ It isn’ t? Oh, sorry. Go back to sleep.’

‘ No& ‘ I rolled out of bed and ambled to the kitchen to start the coffee. ‘ I needed to get up anyway. What’ s up?’

‘ I wanted to let you know that Vons has those bags of frozen shrimp on sale for $8.99 a pound.’

As if I knew how to cook shrimp? ‘ Okay& thanks& don’ t think I need any.’

‘ I know, but your father wanted me to call you and tell you to pick some up. They have a limit of five bags. He’ s already been to the store twice, and he’ s afraid if he goes back again, they might catch on.’

I smiled-my dad loved to find the bargains. ‘ Okay. No problem.’ After my mom warned me that the sale ended Wednesday, she and I were free to catch up. While I made toast and peanut butter for breakfast, my mom gave me what I’ ve come to refer to as the floral report-that is, the state of various flowers in her garden. ‘ So why did you need to get up early today?’ she asked after sharing her haunting story about how the delphinium were at death’ s door.

‘ I’ m meeting that girl who might be my Little Sister,’ I reminded her. ‘ The one who’ s fourteen?’

‘ That’ s right. You told me that. But I guess I’ m confused. I don’ t remember the list saying you had to get a Little Sister.’

‘ It doesn’ t. This is for the one about how I’ m supposed to change someone’ s life.’

She gave a derisive grunt. ‘ With a teenager? Good luck.’

Exactly what I was worried about. ‘ What did I get myself into?’

‘ I’ m joking. Sweetie, when you were that age, I’ d have loved it if a caring adult took you out to do fun activities. Maybe you would have been open to that. Lord knows I tried to get you to try new things.’

‘ You did? I don’ t remember that. Like what?’

‘ Oh, you know, learning to play an instrument or taking up a sport.’

‘ Bob did enough of that for both of us,’ I grumbled jealously. My brother-eleven months older than me-had so many activities on his college applications that he had to cut a few for space.

‘ He did always prefer to keep busy,’ my mom agreed, as usual turning a deaf ear to the sibling rivalry brewing. ‘ But you know what I always appreciated about you?’

‘ What?’

‘ I loved how you seemed content being who you were. Didn’ t always have to go running around proving things. Of course, you could have watched less TV. But-’

‘ You thought I was content?’

‘ Absolutely. From the day you were born. Your brother cried and fussed so much as a baby. I had to entertain him almost every minute of the day. But you-we hardly ever had to pick you up. You’ d lie there in your crib for hours at a time, gurgling away. Staring at the ceiling& happy as can be.’

THE AFTERNOON HAZE refused to lift. Even at five o’ clock when Rose Morales and I pulled up to Deedee’ s house, the sky continued to cast its gloomy spell. Luckily, the homes in the neighborhood were painted in intense yellows, pinks, and blues, so they practically generated their own light.

Where Deedee lived was almost tiny enough-yard and all-to fit inside my apartment. It sat mere yards from the entrance to the Marina Freeway. Even though cars roared by, a group of boys attempted to play a game of soccer on the street. I felt a twinge of rent-controlled guilt knowing that they probably paid twice what I did.

Rose put her Honda Civic in park and rolled up her window. The plan was to visit with Deedee and her mother for a few minutes. The mother didn’ t speak any English, so Rose would serve as interpreter. Then Rose and I would take Deedee to the Sizzler for dinner.

‘ Anything else I should know?’ I asked before getting out of the car. Frankly, I was nervous about meeting a blind woman who didn’ t speak the same language as me. What were we going to do-feel each other hello? I supposed we could chat about burritos or huevos con queso, my command of Spanish being limited to food words.

Reading my worries, Rose assured me, ‘ It’ ll be fine. Maria is a kind woman, and you and Deedee are going to hit it off. If for any reason you don’ t, you’ ll let me know. We’ ll find you another match. It’ s that simple.’

We walked to the house, and Rose rang the doorbell. After a moment, a boy answered the door. He was about ten years old, with a wide mouth and a haircut that looked as if it might have been self-inflicted. He left us there, shouting in Spanish. A bit later, a girl I assumed was Deedee came to the door and told us to come in.

The house was sparse and neat, and as soon as Deedee’ s mom came bustling up to meet us-short, broad, and dressed in a pink terry sweat-suit-I understood why neatness mattered. I’ d have never known she couldn’ t see if Rose hadn’ t tipped me off. She clearly knew the lay of the land. If my own mom had been relying on Bob and me to pick up our things so she wouldn’ t trip, she’ d have been falling and breaking a hip every other day.

Rose did introductions all around, and we took a seat in the living room. Deedee’ s actual name was Deanna Garcia Alvarez. The boy who’ d met us at the door was her brother, Ricky. And I hadn’ t needed to worry about an uncomfortable silence. Rose chattered away happily in English and Spanish, expertly soliciting answers from the rest of us about a series of benign topics from home decorating to taking the bus to the fact that Deedee has made honor roll every semester so far in high school.

All the talking gave me a chance to steal a look at Deedee. She was about my height of five feet four and had large, almond-shaped eyes-and if I thought I’ d been generous with the eyeliner the day I gave a kiss to the busboy, I was naive about the eye’ s ability to bear the weight of makeup. It suited her, though, in a cat-girl sort of way. She was a fourteen-year-old girl trying to look older. In other words, typical. Her hair was pulled back from a round face, and there was a mole above her right eyebrow that I thought was adorable but that I’ d bet for sure she hated. She wore boys’ big hip-hop-style shorts and an oversize Raiders jersey-her attire at one point being the topic of conversation, I suspected, because I saw Maria gesturing at her in that disapproving way moms do, and it was the only time Deedee appeared to get an attitude. Plus Rose opted not to translate that part.

Reflecting back on the dinner that followed, I can’ t pinpoint the exact moment I decided I’ d agree to be a Big Sister to Deedee.

It might have been when she announced at the Sizzler that she loved salad and then loaded up on potato salad, macaroni salad, Jell-O salad, and ambrosia without a clue of the irony.

Or even before that, when we went to cross the street to get to the restaurant and-out of habit, I’ ll assume-she started to take my arm before dropping it and stepping away in embarrassment.

Who knows? I may have been drawn to a lively and willing disposition that gave promise of a certain& shall we say& malleability?

Plus I felt sorry for the poor kid. Rose whispered to me over the all-you-can-eat taco bar that Deedee had never been to a movie at the theater. Guess when your mom can’ t see, you might as well wait until it comes out on DVD.

Still, if I had all the girls in the world to choose from, I wondered if I’ d pick Deedee. Hard to say. She was definitely a far cry from the dimpled, wide-eyed girl I’ d envisioned. But I consoled myself with the thought that it doesn’ t work that way in life with kids anyway. You get what you get.

LIZBETH CORNERED ME by the reception area first thing Monday morning. ‘ Did you follow up on that call?’

‘ What call?’ I asked, knowing exactly what she was referring to. If she’ s going to keep giving me only the minimum merit increase every year, I want to earn it.

‘ Troy.’

‘ Troy& ?’

‘ Troy Jones.’

My brows furrowed as if I were trying to place the name.

‘ Troy Jones the traffic reporter for K-JAM radio,’ she snipped. ‘ You said you called him and that you were going to follow up because he hadn’ t called you back.’

This was another one of those times that I felt sorry for her. I couldn’ t imagine trying to supervise an employee who was so pathologically passive-aggressive. But that’ s what she gets for getting to me before I had my first Diet Coke of the day. And for being Lizbeth.

‘ As a matter of fact, I did. He said he needed to look into it, and he’ d get back to me.’

Her face lit up. ‘ Did it sound hopeful? Maybe I’ ll call, too. Give him a bit of a-’

‘ He has to check with his boss,’ I said hurriedly. ‘ He likes the idea, but it’ s a sticky situation& office politics and whatnot. I got the definite impression that he would have a problem with it if we applied pressure.’

Lizbeth nodded, told me to keep her posted, and left to do whatever nefarious bidding was next on her agenda.

As soon as she was gone, I collapsed with relief. That’ d teach me to try to be clever. Because fact was, everything I’ d told her was true: I had called him, and he’ d said he needed to check into it and get back to me. Only the ‘ it’ had nothing to do with being a spokesman for L.A. Rideshare. I hadn’ t even brought up the subject.

‘ It’ was trying to find out who Buddy Fitch was& and what he might have done to Marissa.

That alone required supreme finesse. I had called Troy to thank him for sending the yearbooks. Then, while I had him on the line, I asked nonchalantly if he knew of a Buddy Fitch. Of course he asked why. Although I tried to stall him off by alluding vaguely to the list, I could tell the curiosity was eating him alive.

‘ One of the items on the list says, Make Buddy Fitch pay,’ I finally admitted. ‘ But I don’ t know who he was or what he did.’

‘ It says to make him pay?’

‘ Yeah.’

‘ Boy, it’ s weird to think my sister would write something so vengeful. It doesn’ t sound like her at all.’

‘ It doesn’ t?’

‘ Not Marissa. If she was that pissed off, then this guy must really have it coming. He must have-’

‘ Troy, I’ m sure it was nothing bad,’ I interrupted, hoping to shift his train of thought, at least for now. If the idea that Marissa was the victim of any sort of cruelty was going to get planted in his head, it wasn’ t going to be me with a shovel in my hand and dirt under my fingernails. ‘ Maybe he played a friendly practical joke on her and she wanted to do something funny back.’

‘ Yeah& maybe,’ Troy said, his voice skeptical. ‘ So he wasn’ t in any of the yearbooks?’

‘ Nope. That’ s why I was hoping you might be able to ask around for me. I thought he could be a family friend or someone she worked with.’

‘ Okay. I’ ll ask my parents, and I’ ll try calling her old boss. I’ ll let you know as soon as I find anything out.’ Then he added apologetically, ‘ It could take a while, though. I’ m swamped at work right now-the station’ s got some big fair coming up, and I’ ve been roped into helping out. How fast do you need this?’

‘ No hurry. I just need to have everything done before her birthday, so we’ ve got time.’

‘ Not that much time. Just over four months left.’

I understood the warning underlying Troy’ s words. As far as he knew, I’ d been working diligently on completing the list since the accident last July and not merely since I’ d seen him at the cemetery six weeks ago. By his calculations, then, my time was half-over rather than only just beginning.

‘ Well, I didn’ t want to pressure you,’ I said by way of explanation.

‘ I just don’ t know how long it’ s going to take to find this guy. But I really meant what I told you before. Anything I can do to help I’ m glad to.’

If ever there was an opening for me to make Lizbeth happy and ask Troy to sign on as a spokesman for my company, this was it. Yet I couldn’ t make myself do it-not after he’ d just told me he was so busy. Not while I was already asking him for another favor.

Instead, I merely thanked him, and even when he asked me directly if there was anything else he could do& anything at all, I demurely declined.

It didn’ t matter anyway, I assured myself. The traffic reporter project was yesterday’ s news. I sat at my desk, having escaped Lizbeth’ s scrutiny earlier that morning, and was secretly making plans for the gas giveaway. Granted, I still hadn’ t gotten a go-ahead from Bigwood-which meant S.C. Electric hadn’ t yet said yes-but I felt certain it was going to happen. I was in the midst of pondering whether I’ d have the nerve to call them myself when Bigwood’ s secretary, Phyllis, strode into my office.

‘ You’ re late,’ she said in her road-gravel voice.

‘ Late? For what?’

She crossed her arms, which were twisted with muscle. Phyllis terrified me. Between her leathery skin, broad frame, and salt-and-pepper hair that she kept pulled back in a bun, she gave every indication that the rumors that she used to ride with the Hell’ s Angels were true. ‘ The directors meeting started at ten. Everybody’ s already there.’

I was invited to a directors meeting? Me? This sort of thing never happened to anyone here, much less me. If any of my predecessors went to a directors meeting, they never made it out alive because I’ d sure never heard about it.

‘ Nobody told me,’ I attempted to explain as I followed Phyllis’ s confident stride. Then I added nervously, ‘ Any idea why they want me there?’

‘ Beats me,’ she replied before depositing me in Bigwood’ s office without further comment.

I squinted to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. Even though he had a corner office with spectacular views, Bigwood had every curtain drawn, giving the place, for all its size, a cavelike feel. He was there along with Lizbeth, Susan, the head of finance, and Ivan Cohen, aka Dr. Death (no one knew what he did, but pack your bags if he ever called you to his office, because you were headed for either unemployment or some sort of career Siberia).

‘ Nice of you to join us,’ Lizbeth sneered.

Susan cleared off a space next to her, and I mouthed a ‘ Thanks’ in her direction.

Bigwood regarded me curiously. ‘ You look different. What’ s different about you?’

I’ m wearing a bra, perhaps? When I shrugged, Susan widened her eyes at me, as if to say, Give an answer. I quickly understood why: He wasn’ t going to drop it until I did.

‘ Glasses-did you use to wear glasses?’ My mind raced-what could I say? Nail polish color? A brow wax? ‘ Wait-’ He snapped his fingers. ‘ You’ ve gained a few pounds!’

Lizbeth tittered. ‘ You guessed it,’ I replied as gaily as I could manage, given the fact that I had gained a couple of pounds.

‘ Good for you,’ he said. ‘ You look healthy. I admire a woman who isn’ t afraid to eat.’ To delight him further, I took a cookie from a tray in the center of the table.

My interest in being summoned to the inner sanctum soon turned into mind-numbing boredom. How did Susan stand this week after week? Bubba sat at my feet, probably because I was the one who kept feeding him pieces of cookie. They discussed strategies and funding and I don’ t even remember what else, because eventually there weren’ t even any more cookies to keep Bubba interested and me entertained, and as I wondered if winter had yet turned to spring and contemplated crawling across the conference table and begging Dr. Death to put me out of my misery, Bigwood turned to me.

‘ June, I’ m putting you in charge of the gas giveaway promotion. I’ d like to see it happen within the month.’

At last& the reason I was here. Apparently, not only was my project approved, but I’ d been given the lead on it. Over Lizbeth, no less! As delighted as I was, I was smart enough to squelch any show of emotion. ‘ Great,’ I said, trying to sound casual. I dared not look directly at Lizbeth for fear I’ d be turned into a salt pillar on the spot.

‘ Gas giveaway?’ I heard her say. Clearly this was the first she’ d heard about it, and she sounded none too happy to be out of the loop. ‘ Gee, Lou, I don’ t believe that I-’

Bigwood cut her off. ‘ June will fill you in.’

And that was that. He stood to leave, and everyone else followed suit, including Lizbeth-who either respected Bigwood as the final word or was too busy plotting my murder to say anything further.

Cautiously, as one might approach a feral cat, I edged my way over to her. ‘ Let me know when you want me to give you the details. I’ d be happy to,’ I said.

Without so much as glancing at me, she replied frostily, ‘ Oh, I’ m sure you would.’

Chapter 7

T he problem with having a list of things to accomplish like Marissa’ s, I soon discovered, is that you become loath to expend energy on anything that isn’ t directly related to the challenge. It’ s about payoff. Like in high school when a teacher, eyes shining, would tell us about an exciting educational opportunity-a play we could attend or a museum exhibit related to our studies. It may have even sounded remotely interesting. But it came down to what one brave soul would eventually voice for the rest of us: Will we get credit for it?

That’ s how I felt when Sebastian Forbes called to ask me to a party he was throwing for himself. It was to celebrate the success of his book-which currently topped the Los Angeles Times best-seller list and was number five on the New York Times list. Publishers Weekly called it ‘ a darkly comic tour de force.’ ‘ I owe almost none of it to you,’ he chirped happily, ‘ but I want you to come to the party and behold the rat bastards who abandoned me in my time of need.’

‘ So they came back?’

‘ Like moths to the flame.’

He hinted there might be fellow writers and a few actors there as well-there was already talk about turning his novel into a movie. Still, I had to force myself to accept the invitation. All I could think was, Will anyone be giving massages? Will I get on TV? I thought back to the list for other tasks I needed to accomplish: Any chance there’ ll be boogie boarding? Is Buddy Fitch invited?

I eventually caved and took down directions to his home. Before we hung up, he said, ‘ I suppose I should tell you, I’ ve been seeing my doctor.’

‘ Oh& ‘ I wasn’ t sure what to say. It seemed such an intimate thing to confide in me considering we’ d met only recently. Besides, he’ d seemed so healthy.

He caught my hesitation. ‘ No, I’ m seeing my doctor. His name’ s Kip, and he’ s smart and gorgeous, and he’ ll be at the party, so be on your best behavior.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘ So I take it that JJ’ s gone for good?’

‘ JJ who?’

SEBASTIAN LIVED in a Mediterranean-style house in the Hollywood Hills-although a case could be made for calling it a mansion. I let out a whistle of appreciation as I walked into the vast foyer with Susan. (She’ d begged to come along after I mentioned the party to her-she’ d borrowed my copy of One-Woman Man and couldn’ t stop talking about it.) Painted in gold hues, the walls were covered with abstract paintings. I’ m sure they were all of naked people.

‘ So these are the spoils of a best-selling author, eh?’ I said to Sebastian as he collected our coats.

‘ This, the spoils? Hardly,’ he scoffed. ‘ My advance was minuscule. The home is thanks to Grandmum, who died several years ago.’

‘ I’ m sorry& .’

‘ Don’ t be. She was an evil, bitter hag who made everyone miserable.’

‘ I loved your book!’ Susan gushed out of nowhere, making me start.

Sebastian beamed. ‘ And June, who is your lovely friend?’

I made introductions as he escorted us into the main living area. Susan launched into a breathless swoon about how the earthquake metaphor he used to parallel his tumultuous relationship with his mother had brought her to tears.

About a dozen people milled around the room, which had high ceilings, minimal furniture, and-instead of walls-massive windows opening to a sparkling, twinkling city below. The night was clear but nippy. We’ d seen a sky full of stars on the drive over, which-because of the perpetual haze and smog and city lights-is a rare treat around here. From my apartment, I can usually spot only a handful on any given night. It’ s ironic: Los Angeles is the city of stars, but only the kind that are on the ground, attending premieres and getting the best tables at fancy restaurants.

‘ It’ s still early, so you’ re among the first here,’ Sebastian said.

‘ Early? It’ s ten-thirty!’ I cried.

‘ I know-a pretty good crowd so far, don’ t you think?’

I hoped Susan and I didn’ t stand out. We both wore black on black, although she had a classic silk sort of thing going. My outfit looked as if it were off the rack from Express-which it was, but it had seemed a whole lot more sophisticated in the dressing room than it did here.

I was helping myself to a crab puff off a passing tray when a swarthy, well-built man walked by in what appeared to be standard men’ s trousers, only cut so low in the back that his crack showed. He wasn’ t ‘ sagging’ the way the kids do-that is, wearing them low with his underwear exposed. They were just plain low, no underwear in sight.

‘ Man-ass,’ Sebastian supplied when he caught me staring.

‘ Excuse me?’

‘ It’ s the latest style from New York. They refer to it as man-ass. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to limit my butt-crack viewing to repairmen and dockworkers.’

I felt immediately better. There wasn’ t a chance in the world I could compete with the sort of style that would be on display this evening. The pressure was off. My outfit may have lacked panache, but at least no one could accuse me of trying too hard.

‘ Get whatever you want to drink,’ Sebastian said, gesturing to the bartender set up in the corner before leaving us to go mingle. ‘ And then why don’ t you say hello to my publicist, Hillary. You remember her from the reading, don’ t you?’

But by the time we got our drinks, Hillary was deep in conversation with Man-ass, so I used the opportunity to eat a deviled egg and tell Susan about my first outing as a Big Sister with Deedee earlier that afternoon. I’ d picked her up, we’ d gone to a movie, and then I’ d taken her home.

‘ That was it,’ I complained. ‘ Not exactly life-changing stuff.’

‘ What were you expecting? It was a movie.’

‘ And popcorn,’ I added defensively.

‘ Did she have fun?’

‘ It’ s hard to tell. She’ s sweet, but not exactly a chatterbox. I find myself doing that thing I know kids hate, where I drill her with stupid questions.’ I grimaced as I thought back to snatches of our conversation:

How do you like school?

It’ s okay.

What’ s your favorite subject?

(Shrug) Language arts, I guess.

That’ s right. Rose mentioned you want to be a writer.

(No response, as I hadn’ t officially posed a question.)

What sorts of things do you write?

Fiction, I guess.

Oh? What type of fiction?

Short form.

‘ She’ ll open up,’ Susan assured me. ‘ As to whether or not you can change her life, you’ ll have to be patient. Sounds to me like she hasn’ t had much of a chance to let loose and be young. She may not even know how. Maybe taking her out and introducing her to a little fun-even if it’ s a movie on a Saturday afternoon-maybe that’ s enough.’

‘ I guess I’ m hoping for trumpets and revelations.’

‘ Aren’ t we all.’

It took only an hour or so for the room to fill. Sebastian delivered on those celebrities he promised-that is, provided one used the term celebrity loosely. There was a guy I recognized from one of those bachelor shows and a woman who had earned her fifteen minutes of TV fame for drinking a blender full of slugworms and managing to keep it down.

‘ June! Susan! Come here!’ Sebastian waved us over to where he stood with a group of people-one of whom immediately caught my attention, being as she was a magnificent giantess of a woman with pale blond hair, cheekbones you could ski off, and the shoulder span of an Olympic swimmer.

He introduced her as Mjorka, the Latvian model/actress who’ d originally been cast to play JJ before I stepped in as understudy to capture the role so brilliantly. Also there was his publicist, Hillary, Man-ass, and Sebastian’ s boyfriend, Kip, who was adorable in that you-want-to-pinch-his-cheeks kind of way with his goatee and wire-frame glasses.

‘ I was telling everyone about your list,’ Sebastian said. ‘ I tried to remember some of the things on it, but all I could come up with was the blind date& and running a 5K.’

‘ If I found out I was going to die,’ Man-ass interjected, ‘ I’ d want to skydive.’

Susan gave a little hand clap. ‘ Me too!’

I rolled my eyes-enough with the skydiving!

The topic veered to a story Man-ass once read in Chicken Soup for the Soul about a man who at age fifteen made a list of 120 things he wanted to accomplish. (I knew the one he was talking about: I’ d read it myself at my parents’ last Christmas when I ran out of things to do. His list included learning languages, climbing mountains, studying primitive cultures, owning exotic pets, photographing the great sites in nature-things you couldn’ t imagine any one person achieving in a lifetime. I remember remarking to my mom that it said he’ d done most of the things and still managed to get married and have five children. She’ d huffed, ‘ Sure he did, but I’ ll bet he never changed a diaper’ -which surprised me, because my mom’ s rarely cynical.)

‘ What’ s so interesting about June’ s situation,’ Sebastian said, deftly bringing the topic back around to moi, ‘ is that she’ s completing someone else’ s list.’ He turned to me. ‘ What else is on it?’

I named a few off the top of my head. When I got to Eat ice cream in public, Mjorka looked puzzled. She asked, her voice thick with accent, ‘ Do you mean while nude?’

‘ Or while skydiving?’ That was from Man-ass.

I shook my head. ‘ You have to understand. The girl who wrote the list used to be very overweight. In fact, she’ d lost a hundred pounds. So the simple act of eating in public would be-’

‘ You Americans eat too much of the potato chips and of the sugars,’ Mjorka interrupted.

‘ We do love food,’ Hillary said agreeably, patting her ample hips.

‘ You do not love the food. You are afraid of the food. So you eat the garbage. You poison your bodies and become fat and ugly to watch at,’ Mjorka said. Hillary looked stung.

Kip turned to me. ‘ Sebastian told me she’ d recently lost the weight?’ I nodded, and he said, ‘ That’ s so sad. I can’ t imagine what it must be like to be obese your whole life. People are so mean. I’ ll bet that list was her first shot at trying to live a normal life. And then’ -he snapped his fingers-’ gone. She’ ll never have a chance at happiness.’

Um, Kip, I know you meant well, but& ouch.

‘ Why do you all assume that she was miserable?’ Hillary challenged. ‘ There are plenty of large people who lead rich and rewarding lives. They have friends and satisfying careers, and yes, they even find love and get married. Not everyone is obsessed with being model’ -there she cast a disparaging glare toward Mjorka-’ thin. I believe you’ re being incredibly size-ist.’

‘ If she was so happy as you say,’ Mjorka said, ‘ why would she lose the weight then?’

‘ Or make a list,’ Sebastian added.

Hillary snapped, ‘ I have a list, and I’ m a happy person!’ Apparently not at the moment.

In an attempt to smooth emotions, which is one of the things Susan does so well, she said, ‘ That’ s so admirable. What’ s on your list?’

Hillary reddened, and before she could say anything, Mjorka exclaimed, ‘ Ha! You want to no longer be the fat! That is what is on your list!’

At that, Hillary stormed off, Man-ass followed, and Mjorka, oblivious, went off to say hi to someone she knew across the room.

‘ Hey& ‘ Sebastian turned to me. ‘ So how are things going with the list?’

‘ So far, so good.’

‘ Well, you realize you can’ t hog it all to yourself. You promised you’ d let me participate. All I do these days is write, so I need to live vicariously through you.’

‘ It’ s true,’ Kip agreed. ‘ This is the sort of thing he lives for.’

‘ So, June, what have you got for me?’ Sebastian pressed.

Thinking of the one task that seemed to be eluding me the most, I said, ‘ I don’ t suppose you know anyone by the name of Buddy Fitch.’

‘ As a matter of fact, I do!’ he cried.

‘ You do?!’ Ohmygosh, this was incredible! I started jumping around. The search was over! Boy, what were the odds that Sebastian would know-

I stopped. ‘ You were just fucking with me, weren’ t you.’

‘ I didn’ t know you’ d get so worked up. Who is he?’

‘ Beats me. That’ s the problem. There’ s an item that says Make Buddy Fitch pay. But it’ s hard to exact revenge on a person when you have no idea who he is.’

‘ Have you done an Internet check?’ Kip asked.

I caught them up on what I’ d tried so far: scanning the yearbooks, searching on the Internet, talking to Troy, who had called me back to say that the people he’ d talked to had come up empty, too.

‘ Tell you what,’ Sebastian said. ‘ I’ ve got a couple PIs helping me do investigation work for my new book. I’ ll have them do some digging into this Buddy Fitch character.’

‘ Oh, I don’ t want to ask you to do all that.’

‘ No problem. I owe you one.’

That was true; he did. Besides, I didn’ t know where else to turn. It was vital that I find Buddy Fitch. After all, it would be awful to go through all the trouble of racing to finish the list, only to fall one short.

Chapter 8

T he next few weeks passed quickly. To punish me for being assigned the gas giveaway, Lizbeth refused to ease up on any of my usual deadlines-and, in fact, I suspected she was making up extra work to give me. I stayed late at the office most nights trying to juggle everything. I hadn’ t noticed how busy I was until my mom called to talk about a finalist being voted off American Idol and I realized I’ d forgotten to watch. Not the entire season-just a few episodes-but still. (I liken it to those people who get to the end of the day, find they’ re peckish, and remark, ‘ Gee, I forgot to eat!’ That never happens to me, either.)

Even with work heating up, I made time to get together with Deedee every Saturday afternoon-although things with her weren’ t progressing as quickly as I might have hoped.

I’ d been allowing her to choose the activity, and every week she said she wanted to see a movie. Making up for lost time, I’ d guess. The only problem, I began to realize, was that it didn’ t exactly create the sort of bonding experience that would allow me influence over her life. I’ d pick her up at her house, we’ d drive the ten minutes to the theater, talking mostly about what we happened to observe outside the windows of my car-things like billboards, that lady with the shopping cart, which pizza places offered the thickest layer of cheese. Once at the theater, we’ d get snacks, watch the movie, and then head back home. So far, the only life lesson I’ d taught her was my trick when buying popcorn: insisting that they fill the bucket half-full of popcorn, squirt on the butter, then fill it the rest of the way up before adding the final buttering. ‘ That way, every bite is greasy,’ I’ d told her wisely. And while she’ d seemed genuinely impressed-ordering popcorn like a pro on subsequent visits-I doubted that’ s the sort of thing Marissa had in mind when she’ d written, Change someone’ s life.

In the interest of moving forward on the list, I tried to suggest another activity when I picked Deedee up for our fourth outing. The science center had a special show of actual preserved dead bodies. I thought for sure that’ d be a draw-what teenager doesn’ t enjoy gore?

‘ But the new Chris Rock movie just came out! I’ m dying to see it.’

I buckled my seat belt and started the engine. ‘ Wouldn’ t it be nice to do something new?’

‘ Pleeeeeeease,’ she pleaded. ‘ I hear it’ s really funny. Everybody’ s seen it. If I don’ t, I’ ll be the only person in my entire school who doesn’ t know what’ s going on.’ In her earnestness, she wiggled like an upended Jell-O mold.

How could I say no to that? ‘ Okay. Chris Rock it is.’

Everything went as usual until we were at the concession. I heard Deedee whisper to herself, ‘ Shit!’ followed by a mumbling in Spanish.

‘ What?’ I asked, but having learned to put a deaf ear to her swearing, I turned my attention back to the guy behind the counter. ‘ No, don’ t fill it up all the way. Halfway. Then add the butter& .’ I leaned over to give Deedee a nudge, but she was gone.

I paid for the snacks and attempted to balance them in the paper-thin cardboard carrier-two sodas, a giant bucket of popcorn, a box of Whoppers, and some Twizzlers-as I scanned the crowded lobby.

No sign of her.

Please tell me I didn’ t lose her.

I still had the tickets, so she couldn’ t have gone into the theater. I tried to recall what she’ d been wearing. Baggy jeans, I think. A gray hoodie. I shouted into the women’ s bathroom for her. No answer.

Worry knotted my stomach, but I told myself it was ridiculous. This wasn’ t a toddler who had wandered into traffic. She was fourteen. The place was silly with teenagers-loud, bright mobs of kids talking loudly and pushing at one another and drawing attention to themselves while pretending that was the last thing they wanted-yet none of them was my teenager. This was bad. The Big Sister program surely frowned on losing your charge.

I debated having Deedee paged, even though I knew she would kill me, when I spotted her sitting inside a phone-booth-shaped driving video game in the corner of the lobby. I could see the edge of her arm and pants and part of her ponytail.

‘ Deedee?’ I said, leaning in, trying not to spill the drinks.

‘ Oh, hey,’ she said. ‘ Just checking out this game.’ She hadn’ t put in any coins. ‘ Game over’ remained on the screen from the last player.

‘ You scared me-I thought I lost you.’

‘ Sorry.’

‘ The movie’ s about to start.’

‘ Okay.’ She didn’ t move, but she craned her neck to look past me, obviously searching for something& or someone?

‘ Is there a problem?’

‘ Nope. No problem.’

After another minute or so, she finally got up, snatching a soda from the tray in my hands, which upset the delicate balance I’ d worked so diligently to establish. I fumbled, trying to hold everything together, to no avail. Deedee made a grab for the popcorn, and I managed to save the Twizzlers. The rest crashed in a wet mess to the ground, splashing my pants and earning applause from the people nearby.

As I bent down to clear everything, I heard, ‘ Nice job, Deedee. Real graceful.’

I gazed up to see a girl standing there who was probably cute, but all I could see was her smug grin.

‘ Oh, hey, Theresa,’ Deedee said nonchalantly. ‘ I didn’ t know you were here.’

Suddenly Deedee’ s dash to hide in the video game made sense. She appeared to be as glad to see this girl as I was to see Lizbeth every morning.

‘ Me and Claudia met up with Tony and all them.’ Then she asked, ‘ Who you here with?’

Deedee, clearly not seeing any way around it, introduced me with a tip of the head. ‘ Her.’

I’ d been reduced to a pronoun.

Theresa appeared to expect further explanation. Deedee seemed mute, and I couldn’ t come up with anything that wouldn’ t shame her further. I understood how embarrassing it must be to get caught at a Saturday afternoon movie with an adult when your peers are there with friends. Was I a family friend? A relative? Would my admitting to being her Big Sister be akin to committing social murder? For lack of anything better, I said, ‘ I’ m her parole officer.’

To my surprise, Deedee burst out laughing, the purest show of emotion I’ d seen from her in the month we’ d been getting together. Theresa tittered uncomfortably, not quite getting the joke but obviously wondering if it might be on her.

‘ Yeah& got busted drug running,’ Deedee said. ‘ Anyway, we better go. Movie’ s starting.’

As we took our seats in the front row-our punishment for seeing a movie on opening weekend-the previews thundered just a few feet from us. I leaned toward Deedee and said, ‘ Was it my imagination, or was your friend Theresa a complete bitch?’

Deedee grunted agreement as she took a handful of popcorn. ‘ She acts like she’ s everybody’ s best friend, but the second your back’ s turned, watch out.’

‘ Big gossip?’

‘ Yeah, and not too smart, either. She’ s probably telling everybody I really got a parole officer.’

‘ You don’ t seem to mind. I guess that’ s better than her squealing that you were with a Big Sister, huh?’

After taking a slurp of the surviving soda that we were now sharing, she said, ‘ Nah, you’ re cool. A few girls have Big Sisters. My girlfriend Janelle has burned through three Bigs already.’ As I said a silent prayer of thanks that I didn’ t get matched up with Janelle, she added, ‘ It’ s just that I never get to do nothing with my friends. I’ m always baby-sitting my shit of a brother. Every day after school. Most of the weekend. The only time I get out of watching the little bicho is when I’ m with you. Oh, and once I got to go to a school dance. And even then my mom tried to make me come home right after. I only got to hang out longer because I pretended I got mixed up on the time.’

‘ Clever strategy.’

‘ I thought so.’

I shook my head. ‘ It’ s hard to believe anyone would ask that much of a fourteen-year-old. When do you get to have fun?’

‘ This is it.’ Her voice was grim, making it evident how short our outings fell from her definition of fun. ‘ And it’ s only because that lady Rose from the Big Sister program told my mom that I’ d freak out and turn into a ho or something if she didn’ t give me a break once in a while. Like, go wild with any freedom I might get. I overheard them talking. It was the first time anybody ever made Mami feel bad. About anything.’ She slurped again. ‘ Rose is pretty funny. She totally gave my mom shit. Said my life needed changing and that she was going to do it.’

At hearing that, I nearly dropped my box of Whoppers again. Of all the nerve! Rose Morales wasn’ t helping me achieve my secret goal of crossing an item off my list after all. The wily minx was competition!

Trying to set the record straight-if any life changing was going to happen here, it’ d be me doing it-I said, ‘ I know I’ m not as good as having a friend your age, but I’ m glad that you and I get to do things. I hope you’ ve been having an okay time.’

She shrugged agreeably. ‘ Sure. It’ s good.’ She eyed the Whoppers. ‘ You gonna open those?’

After the movie, I suggested we sneak in a little extra time together to hit the M.A.C cosmetics counter, where I bought Deedee a tube of liquid eyeliner. At eighteen dollars, it was cheaper than the movie snacks and-judging by the squeal of delight she gave when I handed over the bag-a much wiser investment toward purchasing her affection.

‘ So how about next week we skip the movie and go to the beach instead?’ I said as we scurried to the car. She was supposed to be back by four, and it was already five minutes after. ‘ I’ ve been wanting to go boogie boarding.’ (Which of course was ridiculous-anyone who knew me at all would realize I’ d never want to go boogie boarding. It was just a task from the list. But since Deedee didn’ t know about the list-and never would, since she was essentially a task on it, too-I was relieved that she seemed to take my comment at face value.)

‘ All right. I can work on my tan. But ain’ t no way I’ m going in the water. It’ ll be freezing this time of year.’

‘ I prefer to think of it as refreshing,’ I countered.

‘ Yeah, right.’

Okay, so I’ d brave the waters alone. At least we’ d be doing something other than staring at a movie screen. After I got on the road, I asked, ‘ Will you be in trouble for being late?’

‘ Probably. But maybe not. My mom will be mad at you, not me. I’ m supposed to watch Prince Ricky.’

‘ Your brother, I presume?’

‘ You can’ t believe what a pain in the ass he is, and my mom thinks he’ s so perfect. It’ s always Ricky this and Ricky that. I don’ t even exist except to watch him. You have no idea.’

When we reached a red light, I turned to her and said, ‘ Feel the back of your head.’ She looked at me as if I’ d gone insane. ‘ Go ahead, do it.’ With a look that said she was simply humoring me, she reached up a hand and ran it over her head. ‘ Notice how it’ s nice and curved?’ I leaned toward her, still keeping my eyes on the stoplight. ‘ Now feel mine. See how it’ s flat?’

She did and said, ‘ Ew. It is kinda flat.’ She felt hers again to compare.

‘ That’ s because when I was a baby, my parents used to spend their time chasing my brother around. He was hell on wheels. I was an easy baby, so they left me lying in bed all day by myself. Baby’ s heads are soft, so mine eventually flattened.’

Deedee thought about it. ‘ You’ re lucky you got all that hair. It covers it up. I’ d never have known you had a flat head.’

‘ My point is, you’ re not alone. I understand what it’ s like to lose out because of a spoiled brother.’ And I had the deformity to prove it.

THE SANTA MONICA beach near the pier was packed-I remembered too late that there was a big environmental fair and beach cleanup going on. Even though it was off-season, the beach was filled with rows of tents with booths set up on the sand. Music from the sponsoring radio station, K-JAM, blared from speakers-top forty pop and hip-hop music, which I would’ ve enjoyed a lot more if I hadn’ t had to pay seven bucks to park. Deedee carted a beach bag, and I carried towels and a boogie board borrowed from Susan, which I slung over my shoulder by its leash in the smooth manner of Sinatra holding a raincoat.

The day was clear but windy. Waves broke along the shore as if detonated. Although the air was warm, the water temperature in March would definitely be icy. The surfers wore wet suits (something I should have looked into), but the fact that a few swimmers braved the water in ordinary swimwear gave me hope.

Since we had to pass the fair to get to the water, I figured I could drag Deedee to check and see if there was an L.A. Rideshare booth-while I was at it, say hi to Elaine, the woman who worked weekend events for us. It occurred to me that my sudden interest in my co-worker Elaine might have had something to do with the size of those waves. I knew I’ d go through with the task before me, but I sure wasn’ t in any hurry.

We wandered past a couple of rows of booths until I saw the Los Angeles Rideshare banner. Brie was there alone, and she waved when she saw me trudge up with Deedee. She stood behind a table filled with various brochures as well as key chains, pens, antenna balls, and other cheap, crappy plastic items with our logo on them.

‘ What are you doing here?’ I asked, surprised to see her.

‘ Elaine got that flu that’ s going around. I’ d told her any time she wanted me to fill in for her I’ d be glad to. I get paid time and a half.’

Just then, who should walk up to join Brie but Martucci-carting a box, which he set with a thud on the table. ‘ Hey, Parker,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘ You here to work?’

‘ Do I look like I’ m here to work?’ I wore an oversize shirt as a swimsuit cover-up and was still holding the boogie board.

‘ How the hell would I know? But if you’ re here to work, I’ ve got more boxes that need hauling. Brie here’ s afraid she’ ll break a nail.’

‘ I just got ‘ em done,’ she explained, holding up her nails, which were each painted with tiny flowers.

‘ Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said without sincerity to Martucci. ‘ I’ m just stopping by.’

When I introduced them to Deedee, Brie exclaimed, ‘ So this is your Little Sister! We’ ve heard so much about you. Hold on-’ She reached into the box Martucci had brought to hand Deedee a logo pen with a tip like a lava lamp that changed colors as you clicked it. ‘ This is for you. I’ m only giving the good stuff to friends.’

‘ Cool,’ Deedee said, clicking. ‘ Thanks.’

Brie turned to Martucci. ‘ How about you go get that box with the T-shirts? I’ ll bet this girl would like one of those.’

‘ Jesus, you women think I’ m a plow horse,’ he groused. ‘ You know, Elaine pulls her own weight when she’ s working with me.’

‘ That’ s because she doesn’ t have my skills. My job is to attract customers,’ Brie said. ‘ I can’ t do that if my nails are all nasty.’

He looked wearily at Deedee. ‘ What size you want?’

‘ Large?’ she replied.

He left, muttering something under his breath. When he was out of earshot, I said, ‘ Forget time and a half. If you’ re forced to work with him, they ought to pay triple your hourly rate.’

‘ What-you don’ t like Martucci?’

‘ You do?’

‘ He’ s all right.’

‘ I just hate the way he sucks up to Lizbeth. And that rattail braid of his is so gross. He’ s always feeling it.’

‘ He’ s probably scared it might’ ve crawled away,’ Brie said. ‘ Anyway, I figure I can get him to pick up hoagie sandwiches when he gets back. All this standing here is making me starved. You want a hoagie?’

‘ I’ ll pass.’ Although it occurred to me that if I ate something big, I’ d have an excuse to wait thirty minutes before going in the water.

Brie turned her attention to Deedee. ‘ So, hon, you got yourself a boyfriend?’

I couldn’ t believe she’ d ask her such a prying question right off. I expected Deedee to do the clamshell imitation I knew so well, but she made a noise like pbbbbt and rolled her eyes as if to say, Boys.

‘ I know that face,’ Brie said, nodding wisely. ‘ Go on, tell Mama Brie all about it. Who’ s the bum, and what’ d he do?’

‘ Carlos,’ she answered, as if saying ‘ dog turd.’

‘ Mm-hmm& ‘

‘ And he all says he likes me, that I’ m hot and all that& ‘

‘ I know that one.’

‘ And then I find out he’ s going out with& ‘ She paused because it was clearly too awful to say. ‘ Theresa.’

I cut in. ‘ Theresa from the movies?’

‘ Yeah. He was there that day, which she conveniently forgot to mention.’

Brie shook her head in disgust. ‘ You don’ t want Carlos anyway. He’ s a fool, going for a skank like Theresa. You know what I think?’ She leaned over and pulled the oversize tank top Deedee wore snug against her. ‘ You got a cute little figure there. You oughta dress real sexy and show that Carlos what he’ s missing. I got some clothes that I don’ t wear anymore. They’ re small on me, but I’ ll bet they’ d fit you real nice. How about if I give them to June to pass on to you? You can keep anything you like and throw away what you don’ t.’

Deedee wearing Brie’ s castoffs? Her bright and tight Lycra and spandex? That was good for a laugh! That was about as likely as-

‘ Sure.’ Deedee beamed. ‘ You got stuff like what you’ re wearing now?’

‘ This old thing?’ Brie wore a fuchsia tank top over matching short-shorts. ‘ Oh, way better.’

Well, isn’ t that swell? In five minutes she’ d managed to do more bonding with Deedee than I had in over a month. Although it was nice to see Deedee open up, even if it wasn’ t to me. At least it was in my general vicinity.

‘ Hey, I almost forgot,’ Brie said to me. ‘ That traffic reporter guy stopped by to see if you were here. Trey& ?’

‘ Troy Jones?’

‘ Yeah, that’ s it. He said he’ s here with K-JAM helping with the beach cleanup. Oh, speaking of that, watch this.’ She crumpled a brochure and tossed it into the sand. Within seconds, two children holding trash bags ran up and began to fight over who got there first to pick it up. ‘ Works every time! I guess they got more people showing up to pick up trash than they got trash.’

Deedee appeared delighted, but I was busy looking for Troy Jones. Hopefully he was gone by now. I didn’ t need him nosing around while I attempted to check a task off the list-especially one that required so little clothing on my part. ‘ I hope Martucci gets back with that T-shirt soon. We should get going,’ I said.

Brie eyed the boogie board. ‘ Looks like you’ ve got some fun planned. By the way, we still on for tomorrow night?’

‘ Yep.’ Brie was going to accompany me to the Oasis bar so I could cross off another task.

‘ You still buying?’

‘ Yep.’

We chatted a bit longer until Martucci returned, chucking a box onto the sand this time. Then he rifled through it and tossed a T-shirt at Deedee. ‘ There you go,’ he said. ‘ Wear it proudly.’

‘ Thanks.’ She held it up to inspect it. ‘ It’ s cute.’

‘ You think that shirt’ s cute,’ Brie said, ‘ you ought to see what I picked out for June to wear for tomorrow. Hoo-ee, it’ s nice. The top’ s this silvery blue, real shiny, you know? And it’ s got these sparkly things right along the-’

‘ Okay, then!’ I interrupted, not wanting Brie to elaborate in front of Martucci as to the location of those sparkly things.

Too late. ‘ Along the what, exactly?’ he asked a bit too innocently, his gaze dropping to indicate he was making a pretty good guess.

‘ We’ ll be leaving now,’ I said, trying to ignore him, but Brie, clueless, gestured across her chest as an answer.

‘ Nice,’ Martucci said. ‘ So what’ s going on tomorrow?’

‘ Girls’ night out,’ Brie replied. I began to worry she might start talking about the list, but she simply said, ‘ We’ re going to this bar called Oasis. That’ s the name of it, right, June? Oasis?’ I nodded, and she continued, ‘ Anyway, the guys there are going to have to pick up their tongues off the floor when June here walks in. She’ s definitely going to be& ‘ She paused to give me an exaggerated wink. ‘ The hottest girl there.’

Okay, shoot me now. I wasn’ t sure who was more amused by Brie’ s carrying on about me being hot, Martucci or Deedee. Luckily, an actual customer approached, preventing Brie from inflicting any further humiliation. I grabbed our beach stuff and said a quick good-bye, and Deedee and I started the trek to the water before I lost my nerve.

Although I had done a fair amount of body surfing in my day, I’ d never surfed on a boogie board. I may be a California girl by birth, but I grew up in the Valley, land of air-conditioning and outdoor pools. Anyone who’ s ever been in Van Nuys during an August heat wave would understand how Valley girls earned such a reputation for hanging out at the mall. It’ s shop or melt. And the beach-the beautiful, breezy beach that was over the hill and a forty-five-minute drive away-may as well have been a thousand miles for my parents’ willingness to drive us there. (Although I have to admit, now living in Santa Monica, it’ s embarrassing how few times I’ ve made the short trip to the beach myself.)

Chase had given me pointers when I’ d stopped by Susan’ s to borrow their boogie board. He’ d told me to paddle out to where the waves crash. Wait until one is about to break, lie on the board, then paddle like crazy and ride it gloriously into shore. ‘ Wait for your wave,’ he’ d advised, as if I had any idea what that meant.

I set down our towels. I wore a blue flowered two-piece bathing suit from last season-one of the few I could find with a bottom that actually covered a bottom and an underwire on the top. If I’ d known at the time how precious and rare this combination would turn out to be-as I bitterly discovered when I tried and failed to buy a new suit in the current season-I’ d have bought the shop out of them. Sure, my bare stomach wasn’ t perfectly flat. But big deal. I’ ve seen women flaunt plenty worse on my bus ride to and from work. Whoever came up with the idea that Los Angeles was filled with tight bodies honed to perfection obviously never rode public transportation.

I grabbed the boogie board. The waves weren’ t quite the size of billboards, but they appeared ominous enough to a coward like me. Deedee had made good on her promise not to go in the water, settling on her towel.

‘ You coming to cheer me on?’ I asked.

‘ I’ ll go up to my ankles,’ she said, snatching a bag of Doritos to bring with her. ‘ But don’ t be thinking I’ m going any deeper.’

Maybe the girl was on to something-the water was so cold that I got brain freeze the second I dipped my feet in. Deedee said, ‘ This isn’ t so bad.’ Which, of course, was easy for her to say, not being the one about to go in full-body. It figured: The one time I didn’ t put something off was the one time it would have been wise to do so. Surely the water would be warmer come summer. Too late now, though: I was committed.

It took me a while to swim out with the board, what with my limbs being numb. Plus every time a wave came, it pushed me back. Eventually-huffing and groaning and cursing the fact that I never finished that junior lifesaving course at the Y back in eighth grade-I made it out past the break, where I gave catching a wave a few tries. The technique I established was to find a wave, fall off the board, and get buried alive in the water, the boogie board attached to my wrist banging into me.

Although growing weary, I dragged my tired body out again and again. I was about to call it a day (after all, the list only said try boogie boarding; there was nothing on it about going pro) when I saw what I was sure was my wave swelling gloriously behind me. Right before it hit, I realized I was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. This wasn’ t a wave at all. It was the Chrysler Building. It was Mount Kilimanjaro. It was the Great Wall of China-only standing on its end a thousand miles high and about to come crashing down on me.

Which it did-pummeling me and sending me spinning and tossing so I couldn’ t tell which was up or down. I hit sand hard a few times but was dragged back up& or down& or any direction but toward air. Lungs bursting, I made myself follow the instructions the lifeguards used to tell us-not to fight the wave. Just as I did that, it spat me with my board crudely and unceremoniously onto the shore.

There I lay, splayed on the sand, gasping for air, scraped and sputtering.

I heard a man’ s voice say in disgust, ‘ Watch out for the big lady, Tommy. Don’ t step on the big lady.’ A pair of toddler’ s feet stepped neatly over my head.

Nice. I quit.

I unleashed myself from the board and was about to pull myself up when two more feet appeared. ‘ You okay?’

That voice sounded familiar. I looked up-it was Troy Jones. I yanked myself to my feet, trying to brush the sand off me. It encrusted my face. I was human sandpaper. My swimsuit bottom felt like a full diaper. ‘ I’ m fine.’

‘ That was one helluva ride. A bit rough on the dismount.’

‘ I was hoping for style points.’ Sand fell from my brow into my eye. Trying to restore my dignity, I said as breezily as I could manage, ‘ How’ s the garbage cleanup going?’

‘ Good. Not enough garbage to go around, though.’

Deedee walked up. ‘ You should go under the pier. That’ s where the good stuff is. My girlfriend Janelle said she once found a bag of crystal meth under there.’

I raised an eyebrow at her. More sand fell.

‘ Troy,’ I said, attempting to change the subject and use the moment of distraction to pull the back of my swimsuit to dump some of the sand, ‘ this is Deedee, a friend of mine. Deedee, this is Troy.’

Troy put out his hand to shake hers, and Deedee took it, giving him a slow once-over. He wore a K-JAM T-shirt and shorts, and she must have approved of what she saw because she bore the same expression she had at the movie theater-shame at her association with the likes of me. ‘ You know, June don’ t always look this bad.’

‘ Thanks,’ I said, sneering.

She attempted to straighten my hair, which was matted on one side and lifting like a bird in flight on the other. ‘ Okay, so it’ s not so good now. But tomorrow night she’ s going out, and she’ s gonna be bangin’ . Go on, tell him how hot you’ ll be.’

Troy grinned. ‘ Yes& do.’

‘ For real!’ Deedee continued. ‘ Those guys at this Oasis place aren’ t going to know what hit ‘ em.’

‘ I clean up nicely,’ I said, deadpan.

‘ Did you say Oasis?’ Troy asked.

I nodded. ‘ It’ s a little bar over on-’

‘ Yeah,’ he said, ‘ I know it. Used to go there with my sister once in a while. She had a crush on the bartender.’

I pulled a soggy candy bar wrapper from my hair and, disgusted, tossed it on the ground. A boy shouted, ‘ I got it!’ and ran over to pick it up and put it in his trash bag. Deedee then chucked her empty Doritos bag on the beach and watched in delight as the same thing happened. ‘ I want to see what other garbage we got. This is fun.’

After she left, Troy said, ‘ So, you a big fan of boogie boarding?’

‘ Never did it before.’

‘ Any reason you decided to try it today?’

Sand kept falling in my eyes, and I feared it appeared as if I were winking. ‘ I see we’ re also going fishing today.’ When he gave me a curious look, I said, ‘ As in fishing to see if this might be something from the list?’

‘ Was I that obvious?’

‘ That’ s okay. And yes, it is.’

He gazed out at the ocean for a moment and then asked, ‘ Did you catch any good waves?’

‘ I’ m not sure. I got going a couple times, but I don’ t know if that was catching the wave.’ It occurred to me that catching waves might be like having orgasms-if you’ re not sure you’ ve ever done it, then you haven’ t. ‘ Probably not.’

‘ You going back out again?’

Back out? Was he joking? I intended to never go back in the water& ever. In fact, in the time since what I considered my near death experience, I was seriously toying with packing up and moving to Montana-or any other state that was dead center and as far away as possible from anything large, wet, and salty.

‘ Of course I am,’ I said boldly, my pride winning over anything resembling rational thought.

‘ I’ m going to give you a shove-off.’ Without saying anything else, he reached up and pulled off his T-shirt, then tossed it on the ground. Well now! He had strong shoulders and arms-working in the fields strong as opposed to standing in front of the mirror at the gym posing strong. And a bit of light brown hair on his chest that led down to firm but not six-pack abs. That was when I noticed the huge scar that ran almost the entire length of one of his legs, crossing from where his shorts ended to his shin at a diagonal.

‘ What’ s a shove-off?’ I asked, hoping I hadn’ t been staring too obviously. But he had, after all, removed clothing. It would be rude not to look.

‘ You’ ll see.’ He shouted to his fellow garbage collectors that he’ d be right back, then grabbed the board. I followed him into the water. It was easier to swim out past the break without the board-and getting back in the water did offer the benefit of allowing me to rinse the sand from my hair and from a few of my more critical orifices.

The water reached him midchest, and I bobbed, hanging on to the board. We were no closer than we’ d been when we chatted on the beach, but somehow being in the water made it seem strangely intimate.

Troy proceeded to give me the same instructions Chase had-only he said that when the right wave came, he’ d give me a shove.

‘ So do you surf?’ I asked, bobbing.

‘ Once in a while. Not so much now since I get up at three in the morning for work.’

‘ Gosh, that’ s the time I’ m usually stumbling home drunk.’

‘ Right. You strike me as that type.’

‘ You don’ t know-I could be,’ I said, finding myself mildly irritated that it was so obvious I wasn’ t a party girl, even though he’ d clearly meant it as a compliment.

We chatted a bit about his favorite surf spots, and then he told me to get ready-that the waves were picking up. I clambered onto the board, my arms reaching to grab the top end and my butt and legs dangling in the water. I was pointed toward shore like a rocket ready to launch. Troy was behind and slightly to the left of me-not the proximity to my rear I would have chosen had it come up for a vote.

‘ When I say go, start paddling,’ he instructed. I glanced behind me, and a swell began to build. When it reached me, he shouted, ‘ Go!’ My hands grabbed at the water, and the wave started to lift the board. Troy put one hand on the back of the board, the other on my lower back, and gave a strong, hard shove.

Suddenly I was soaring. This was catching a wave, and-my suspicions had been correct-I’ d never done anything like it before. It felt as if the water beneath me had turned into a sea of hands that kept spiriting my board up and forward-gliding and skipping and lifting until I was shrieking with the unexpected thrill of it and wishing that this amazing rush would never, ever have to end.

Chapter 9

I ‘ d driven past Oasis probably a hundred times but had never before been inside. I generally try to avoid tropical-themed bars located in minimalls. When Brie, her girlfriend Chanel, and I walked in, however, it was surprisingly large and lively and-for a Sunday evening-crowded.

‘ Good, there’ re mostly guys here. Less competition,’ Brie said, tugging on the snug tank top she wore especially for the occasion because it was the color of baby barf-no worries she might upstage me. Chanel had announced that surely there’ d be no brothers at a place called Oasis in a minimall so she might as well wear an ugly shirt, too-a gesture I would have appreciated more if I didn’ t happen to own the same shirt.

No matter. All that was important was that I meet the dictates of #8: Be the hottest girl at Oasis.

To that end, I wore the aforementioned silvery blue top with the sequin action going and the low-rider jeans I’ d bought for the blind date. I spent forever blow-drying my hair. Truly a child of the eighties, I can’ t help myself: When it comes to hair, I still equate bigger with better. I did, however, pass on Brie’ s offer to do my makeup for me. (I’ d almost taken her up on it until she’ d boasted, ‘ I do one face and it works on everybody.’ )

We took a seat at a high cocktail table in the center of the room. The waitress came by, and Brie and Chanel ordered pink ladies, and I asked for a Chardonnay.

‘ So now what?’ Chanel said when our drinks arrived.

I quickly surveyed the people around us. ‘ I suppose as long as we establish that I’ m the hottest woman in the room, then we’ re free to have our drinks and go.’

‘ I can’ t see everybody good from here-let’ s check it out,’ Brie said. She and Chanel grabbed their drinks and left to case the room. I stayed at the table, trying to be& hot? Ugh. Could I please go back to my idea of setting myself on fire? Truth was, I’ d never felt so ridiculous in my life. I felt silly because Brie and Chanel were walking around deciding if I was the prettiest girl in the room and even sillier because I kind of hoped I was. I understood what Marissa was after: that thrill of feeling that every eye is on you because you’ re beautiful, not because you’ re fat. But most of the eyes here weren’ t on women, but rather on the TVs in the corners broadcasting a Lakers game.

They returned, their faces a twist of pity. ‘ Over there, by the jukebox, behind that pillar,’ Brie said. ‘ She’ s hotter.’

Chanel nodded. ‘ The boobs are fake, but she’ s got kind of a Lindsay Lohan thing going. You know, real fresh but slutty.’

I craned my neck. Crap! She was hot! ‘ I can’ t compete with that! Now what am I supposed to do?’ I whined. ‘ Keep returning again and again hoping to hit a slow night? There’ s always going to be somebody more beautiful!’

‘ You don’ t need to worry about it,’ Brie said ominously. ‘ We’ ll get rid of her.’

‘ What are you planning to do?’ I asked, mildly alarmed.

She reached into her purse, and I feared what she might whip out. She merely freshened her lipstick. ‘ We got a few ideas. I figure we’ ll stand there and talk about a designer shoe sample sale in the parking lot. That ought to get her moving. If that doesn’ t work, maybe we’ ll say we saw a rat in the kitchen.’

After they took off for their second mission, I was left to sip my drink alone. I was in the midst of checking out the bartenders, wondering which one Marissa had a crush on, when up walked Troy Jones, a beer in his hand and a grin on his face. ‘ You were right, you do clean up nicely,’ he said.

‘ Ha, ha.’

‘ I hope you don’ t mind my stopping by. I was in the neighborhood, mooching dinner off the folks.’

‘ Aren’ t you fortunate. I have to drive to the Valley to get a decent home-cooked meal.’

‘ You here by yourself?’

‘ No, my girlfriends are off& ‘ Er, eliminating hot chicks? ‘ Saying hi to people they know.’ I glanced over to where Brie and Chanel stood. They were having what appeared to be a loud conversation with much gesturing behind the Lindsay Lohan look-alike’ s table and being completely ignored.

After I invited Troy to pull up a chair, he gave a nod toward the bar. ‘ That’ s the guy my sister had the crush on-in the pink polo shirt. She thought he looked like the lead singer from Nine Inch Nails.’

It was hard to decide what seemed stranger: that the sweet girl I pictured Marissa Jones to be would have had a thing for Nine Inch Nails or that she thought anyone in a pink polo shirt could resemble Trent Reznor.

‘ I see that,’ I said.

‘ Thought I’ d point it out-in case you needed to know.’

It took a second for it to sink in this time. ‘ Fishing again?’

He took a swig of his beer instead of answering.

‘ It’ s not about the bartender,’ I said.

‘ I didn’ t think it was. So you don’ t need to chat him up or anything?’

‘ Nope.’

I knew he was here hoping to see the list, and he had every right to-in fact, I had no claim to it in the first place. Still, I was worried he’ d be disappointed. There weren’ t many crossed off yet, not as many as should have been. To stall, I asked, ‘ So how did you get into traffic reporting?’

‘ Ah, cleverly changing the subject. I’ ll tell you, but I’ m saving the steamy stuff for my best-selling memoir.’ He leaned back and gave me an exaggerated dreamy stare. ‘ It started at the age of three when I got my first tricycle& .’

‘ Is this where everything goes murky and we have the flashback?’

‘ You prefer the short version? Basically, I’ m a motorhead through and through. Got my driver’ s license at sixteen. My motorcycle license the same year. Took me till seventeen to get the pilot’ s license-and they don’ t let you fly commercial until twenty.’

‘ So that’ s what you’ ve always done? Piloted?’

‘ Actually, I started out racing motorcycles out of high school. Picked up a few sponsors, too. Thought I might go pro. But then I took a spill& ‘ He paused to knock on his leg as if it were wooden. ‘ Split my leg open. Messed up my knee. That was the end of my racing career.’

I grimaced and said, ‘ That must have been terrifying.’

‘ You know what’ s weird? My family figured I’ d be the one to die young. At the rate I was going, none of us thought I’ d live to see thirty.’ With that reminder of why we were sitting across from each other, I shifted uncomfortably, and mercifully moving on to other topics, he said, ‘ So, what does your boyfriend think of all this?’ I tried to remember when I had mentioned Robert when Troy added, ‘ I assume that was your boyfriend who came with you to the funeral.’

‘ Oh yeah, we broke up a while back.’

‘ Sorry.’

I gave a brief flick of my hand, as if to say, No big deal, c’ est la vie, because nobody wants to admit they’ ve been dumped and, even worse, that it hurt.

‘ Hey, what’ s that you’ re drinking?’ Troy asked. ‘ Let me get you another& .’

‘ Oh, no thanks.’ I caught a glimpse of Brie and Chanel. They sat at the table with the hotter girl and her friends-whooping over the Lakers game and high-fiving one another.

‘ Come on,’ he urged. ‘ That one’ s almost empty.’

‘ Really, I’ m fine. I’ m driving.’

‘ Too bad.’ He gave me what my mom used to call a devil’ s grin, the corners of his mouth sneaking up. ‘ I was hoping if I got you good and drunk, you might show me that list.’

What could I do? It was stolen property as it was. ‘ Fine,’ I said begrudgingly. ‘ I’ ll show it to you-but first, I want to make sure you understand that a lot of the things aren’ t crossed off yet because they’ re in progress.’

‘ All right.’

‘ I’ m working on them.’

‘ Duly noted.’

‘ And it’ s not fair to cross them off until I’ ve finished them.’

He nodded.

‘ Done them proper justice.’

‘ June& ‘

‘ Yeah?’

He held out a hand. ‘ The list& ?’

I dug it out of where I kept it in my wallet and handed it to him.

He unfolded it and started to read.

20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday

1. Lose 100 pounds

2. Kiss a stranger

3. Change someone’ s life

4. Wear sexy shoes

5. Run a 5K

6. Dare to go braless

7. Make Buddy Fitch pay

8. Be the hottest girl at Oasis

9. Get on TV

10. Ride in a helicopter

11. Pitch an idea at work

12. Try boogie boarding

13. Eat ice cream in public

14. Go on a blind date

15. Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton

16. Get a massage

17. Throw away my bathroom scale

18. Watch a sunrise

19. Show my brother how grateful I am for him

20. Make a big donation to charity

His expression was serious as his eyes darted over the items. At one point, he blew out a breath and rubbed his forehead. I wasn’ t sure if I should say anything, so I tossed out a simple, ‘ You okay?’

‘ Number nineteen’ s a tough one.’ I knew the list well by now: #19 was Show my brother how grateful I am for him. ‘ It’ s just that& ,’ he began, and then he stopped. After a moment he said, ‘ Can you excuse me?’

‘ Of course.’

He left the list on the table and made his way to the men’ s room.

Brie scurried over the moment I was alone. ‘ We haven’ t been able to get her to leave, but we might be okay anyhow. She’ s got a bad tooth in the back.’

‘ Lucky me.’

‘ You’ re lucky all right-I see you got men making the moves on you. That one’ s a cutie.’

‘ You met him yesterday. He’ s Troy Jones-Marissa’ s brother.’

‘ Damn, that’ s right. I thought he looked familiar.’

‘ I showed him the list,’ I said, glancing toward the men’ s room door. ‘ He seemed upset.’

‘ Well, sure. It’ s hard to accept your sister wanting to go braless.’

I winced-I hadn’ t thought about how personal a few of the items were.

I made Brie leave before Troy returned, apologizing as he sat back down. ‘ Wasn’ t expecting it to hit me like that.’

‘ I take it you two were tight?’

‘ She was my baby sister-I was already five years old by the time she was born. I looked out for her, you know?’

A brother looking out for his sister? No, I wouldn’ t know. I tended to think of myself as an only child-one who happened to have a sibling.

‘ At any rate,’ he said, ‘ she expressed her gratitude to me fine in her lifetime. You can cross that one off the list.’

Oh, how tempting that was! Reluctantly I said, ‘ Not really.’ I went on to explain to him the rules Susan and I had set up for the list: that I didn’ t have to do the tasks in order, that I had to obey the spirit of the law, and that I had to try as best I could to make them my own. ‘ It’ d be too hard for me to predict what Marissa might have had in mind for that one, so it seemed more sincere to go after it from my own point of view.’ Which meant, I added, that I needed to let my brother know how grateful I was for him before I could mark it as complete. I didn’ t mention, however, that it was going to be interesting expressing how I felt about such Hallmark moments as the time he held me at butter-knife point in the kitchen to make me cry.

‘ Although there is that one here, number fifteen: Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton. That needs to be your mom and grandma,’ I said worriedly. I couldn’ t imagine they’ d want to go with me to see Wayne Newton-which obviously meant a trip to Les Vegas. I had no idea how I was going to pull that off.

‘ They’ d love it,’ he said as if reading my mind. ‘ They call themselves Wayniacs.’

I gave a mock sigh. ‘ Every family has its shameful secrets.’

He asked to see the list again, and this time when he read it, he seemed to be in lighter spirits. ‘ There are a few things on here a guy doesn’ t want to think of his sister doing.’

‘ I’ ll bet.’

‘ But I don’ t mind picturing you doing them.’

He gazed up at me, and instinctively I crossed my arms.

‘ So who’ d you kiss?’ he asked.

‘ Some busboy.’

‘ Bet that made his day.’

And at that point-damn it-there was no denying it anymore. Something inside me lit up. The groundhog had been awakened in her tunnel and was about to pop her head up to see if the long winter was over. I searched for a mental baseball bat to pound her down. With all the men in the world, couldn’ t I possibly aim my affections toward a man whose sister I hadn’ t killed? If we became a couple-and my God, how had my thoughts even progressed so far so fast?-we’ d for the rest of our lives have to lie anytime someone asked us, ‘ So& how did you two meet?’

‘ I’ ll help you with the one about riding in a helicopter,’ Troy said, and then drained the last of his beer. ‘ Marissa wrote that because I was always bugging her to do a ride-along.’

‘ Ride-along?’

‘ Coming with me while I do a traffic report.’

‘ I’ d love that!’ Stop it! I scolded myself. Stop with the eyelash fluttering!

Brie and Chanel walked up then, shaking their heads. ‘ They were robbed. There was no way that was a foul.’

After I made introductions, Troy stood to leave. ‘ I’ d better get going-I’ ve bothered you long enough.’ He slid the list toward me. ‘ And for the record, you have that one covered.’ He pointed to #8: the unbelievably embarrassing reason we were gathered here today.

I shook my head. ‘ Except for Miss Cutie Pie over there.’

Brie agreed sadly, ‘ It’ s true, she’ s hotter,’ and tipped her chin toward the competition. Troy’ s eyes followed our gaze.

He grabbed a pencil from the table display advertising the nachos special. Leaning over the list, he drew a neat line through Be the hottest girl at Oasis. Then he returned it me. ‘ Not even close.’

Chapter 10

T he gas giveaway project was stalling since we couldn’ t find a single gas station that would work with us. Seems there’ s this little thing called ‘ liability’ they were worried about. One gas station manager wanted me to take out a million-dollar insurance policy in case anyone had a heart attack from excitement when we offered to pay for their gas. Even when I tried to explain that the total value of each prize would be fifty dollars tops-and that would only be for those big gas-hog SUVs-he turned me down. ‘ You never know,’ he said. ‘ My sister-in-law had a spider drop in front of her when she was vacuuming, and it gave her such a bad fright that, boom, that was all she wrote.’

I’ d been calling gas stations for weeks with zero luck. The date was set for April 16, two weeks away. I was the bride who’ d booked the band and ordered the cake but couldn’ t find a groom that would have her.

At Lizbeth’ s weekly department meeting, Martucci offered up a lead, a guy he knew by the name of Armando who managed an Umpco station in Burbank. The location had me drooling since it was close to where so many of the major news studios were located.

‘ What’ s in it for me?’ Armando said when I called him to ask if we could have the gas giveaway at his station. He continued working the register as we talked. I could hear the chinging of the drawer opening and closing.

‘ It’ d be great publicity for your station-plus we’ d bring in lots of business.’

‘ How do you figure? Didn’ t you say you were going to surprise customers? So how would new people be coming to spend their money at my station?’

‘ Well, yes, but-’

I heard him shout away from the phone, ‘ Not that pump! That one’ s got a broken handle& pump five! Use pump five!’ Then he was back. ‘ How much new business you figure we’ ll get that day?’

‘ It’ s more about goodwill. You see-’

‘ Goodwill! Unless it’ s green and has a picture of a president on it, I can’ t use your goodwill. Pump five, I said! Jesus, can you count? One, two, three, four, five!’

‘ The idea is that people will see your station on TV or hear about it on the radio and-’

‘ No shit it’ s not working, Sherlock! You’ re at the wrong pump!’ he shouted. He came back to the phone. ‘ Not interested.’

When I reported to Martucci that I’ d struck out when I called, he said, ‘ You called? Well, no wonder. You’ re not going to get anywhere on the phone. You’ ve got to go there in person and talk to him.’ He pulled a scrap of paper from his desk and wrote down directions to the gas station. ‘ And for Christ’ s sake, Parker, wear something tight.’

‘ WE’ RE ON!’ I announced jubilantly at the department meeting later that week. Thanks to those five pounds I’ d gained-and possibly more, but having dumped my scale, how was I to know?-virtually every item of clothing I owned was tight. I’ d gone straight from work to seal the deal. While I’ d like to say that Armando was no match for my charms, to be truthful, he’ d put up quite a struggle. In the end, however, I prevailed-especially after I assured him that I’ d do everything in my power to make sure he got on camera. That, and yes, I’ d wear the red top again.

Although I could have gone through with the event with just one gas station committed, Brie had come through with another as well. Some friend of a friend owned a Union 76 near the airport. Everything was shaping up just as I’ d hoped.

My confidence was such that I even had T-shirts printed up at Kinko’ s for the staff to wear. I held up a shirt, which was bright purple with white lettering: The Great Gas Giveaway on the front and our logo and phone number on the back.

Lizbeth managed a wan smile. ‘ Cute& although I don’ t know how ‘ great’ it is seeing as we only have the two locations.’

I wanted to jab her with a sarcastic, ‘ Oh yeah?’ but besides the fact that it was hardly the sort of witty retort that she had coming, I absolutely refused to let that woman get to me. This event was going to be a huge success, and that was the best possible revenge for her sour attitude.

After the meeting, Brie pulled me aside and gave me a teasing nudge. ‘ This might be worth a call to your traffic reporter friend. The one who thinks you’ re hot?’

‘ Shut up,’ I said, reddening. ‘ I practically begged for that compliment.’

But she had a point. I should give Troy a call to tell him about the gas giveaway so he could mention it on air.

But not yet.

Two weeks’ notice to ask for a ten-second plug sounded desperate even to me.

‘ LOOK AT YOU! How adora-’ I started to exclaim, until Deedee widened her eyes and shook her head vigorously at me to stop me from continuing. ‘ -ble,’ I finished on a much quieter note.

‘ Let’ s go,’ she said stiffly.

She’ d answered the door wearing one of Brie’ s outfits-jeans jacket over a striped Lycra top and pink pants that rode low on the hips. Sure, the clothes might have been a size too small for her, but it was a refreshing change over the huge shirts and baggy pants. Even though I can’ t say the outfit was entirely flattering, it begged for comment.

‘ Buenos días,’ I called to her mother as I always did as Deedee ran out of the house.

When we got into my car, I said, ‘ What’ s the deal? Does your mom not want you wearing stuff like that?’

‘ Are you kidding? She’ d love it. She’ s been on my butt to stop the sagging and dragging for forever.’

‘ I see.’ I remembered back to Deedee’ s mother complaining to Rose Morales on my first visit. Deedee’ s choice of clothes had obviously turned into a power struggle between the two of them. She wanted Deedee to dress more femininely, and apparently Deedee had wanted the same thing but wouldn’ t admit it.

‘ The way I figure it, she only needs to think I’ m wearing the big clothes.’ She had a triumphant grin. ‘ I gotta be careful, though, because she’ s not totally blind. I need to keep it low on the colors if she’ s around.’

‘ Clever. Too bad you couldn’ t hide those good grades from her, too.’

She caught my sarcasm and returned it in kind. ‘ Rose ratted me out on those.’

‘ You’ re probably the only teenager in America hiding her good behavior from her mother. Anyway, what I was going to say is that you’ re adorable.’

‘ Thanks. You’ re not going to tell her, are you?’

‘ How?’

‘ Oh yeah. Heh.’ Then she added, ‘ She can speak some English, and she understands a lot more than she lets on. They talk English around her at the restaurant where she works.’

‘ She works?’

‘ Yeah, she works. She’ s a cook. Real fancy restaurant.’

‘ That’ s amazing. I’ m a terrible cook, and I don’ t even have a disability. You’ d think she’ d burn herself, or-’

‘ She never burns herself. She’ s too perfect.’ Deedee picked at a button on her jacket. ‘ I hear every damn day how much she can do even though she can’ t see. She’ s always harping on how I need to make something of myself like she has. Not follow so many of the girls who start popping out the kids right away. She wants me to go to college first and make a lot of money.’

‘ Isn’ t that what you want?’

‘ Sure, but maybe I want kids first. You know, before I’ m all old.’ She must have realized what she said as soon as she said it, because she added hurriedly, ‘ Not that being old when you have kids is bad.’ A few seconds passed before she asked, ‘ You ever thought about having kids?’

‘ Sure. Even though I’ m so aged that I’ m certain my ovaries are shriveled and filled with dust, I may give it a shot.’

‘ Or maybe you can adopt.’

‘ I’ m thirty-four. You act as if it’ s hopeless.’

‘ I didn’ t mean it that way. It’ s only that where I’ m from, women your age are grandmas.’

WE MET SEBASTIAN and Kip at a laser tag in Pasadena. That hadn’ t been the original plan. I’ d set up lunch so that Sebastian could talk to Deedee about her writing. He asked if Kip could come along, however, and since it’ d be the four of us, couldn’ t we have a little fun? I’ d switched plans, and watching them together, I was glad I had. They had a blast. Deedee let loose in a way she rarely did-screaming back and forth in Spanish with Kip, making up Mexican mafioso games, and laughing hysterically.