5

I set the empty, soggy ice cream carton in the kitchen sink and reached into the fridge for a bottle of Fiji water. “Not as good as the ice cream Dad and I had on my birthday every year.”

“Really? What kind was that?” Aixa asked as she clicked the remote to the Food Network channel.

“There was this stand on the corner.” I plopped back in the chair and took a swig of water. “Since my birthday’s in August, it was always open. Dad and I would walk up while Mom was making my birthday dinner. That was the fun of it when I was a kid. Even though it would spoil my appetite, it was my birthday, and I was queen for the day. I always got the same thing every year - a peanut butter banana split. Always a cherry on top.”

“You’re making me hungry. I’ll call for pizza.” Aixa pulled out her cell phone and looked through her contacts for Domino’s.

But there was no stopping me now. I was in full swing Memory-Lane mode. “When we got back we could smell Mom’s homemade macaroni and cheese wafting through the windows.”

“Can I get a large sausage, peppers, and extra cheese pizza delivered?” Aixa motioned me to hold that thought. She gave our address and after hanging up said, “Macaroni and cheese? I l-o-v-e that. What else did she make?”

“Asparagus. With browned butter. I usually had to wait an hour or two before I had room for the cake.”

“Cake?”

“And more ice cream. You wanna come with me next month? The stand’s gone, but we make due with Haagen Dazs in the freezer. They’d love to have you.”

“Sure. I’d love to meet your parents. I guess that means I have to bring a gift.”

I lobbed another pillow in her direction.”You better!”

Aixa returned it, right in my face. I jumped up and began pelting her with stuffed animals. This was war.

4

Or not.

I’m propped up in my one extravagance in life—a plush La-Z-Boy—flipping through the channels. Only there’s not a thing on. I hate that about tv. Every time I’ve ever loved a show it’s been canceled after one season, or worse, during a season, and I’m left hanging with character’s lives on the precipice. Sometimes literally. I’ve even stayed awake at night plotting out what I would’ve had happen in their lives just to keep myself from going crazy.

I throw the remote on the sofa and lay there sprawled in my La-Z-Boy like a dying fish. Okay, this isn’t a tv show. This is my life. I feel like I’m on a precipice and my show’s about to be canceled. There has to be more than this. Sometimes I feel so empty it’s pathetic.

That’s when I hear the key in the lock, and the apartment door swings open. Aixa walks in, her cheery face a sight for my sore eyes.

“Uh-oh,” Aixa says, dropping her purse (a handmade number she’s hoping to sell to some of the local boutiques) on the sofa beside the remote.

“What?” I say, still not moving from my dying fish position.

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one on your face right now.”

I make a move to sit up, then flop backwards again. “Do we have any ice cream?”

“And you’re about to drown your sorrow in Cherry Garcia. What happened?”

I roll my eyes.

Aixa sits down beside me, patting my arm. “Come on, girl. Spill the beans.”

"You really want to know?"

"That's what friends are for."

I tell her the whole story of my crappy day. When I'm finished, she cracks a smile. Then she starts laughing. I mean a full out, belly laugh that soon has me smiling too, despite my best efforts to stay somber.

"Some friend you are." I throw a pillow at her.

Aixa catches it, looking me right in the eye. "There are two pints of Cherry Garcia in there."

3

This was the worst day of my life.

I kick off my Manolo/Payless pumps as I trudge into the apartment I share with my best friend, Aixa. After I suffered through the humiliation of Gorgeous Guy seeing me in all my smiley faced glory, and listened to Marlene's repeated stings disguised as “as a friend” isms (and why is it that only people who aren't your friend say “I'm telling you as a friend”?) I still had to agree to meet her for dinner Friday night before she'd let me get back to work.

“Ow! What the...?”

I hop around on one foot while grabbing for the other one. A needle. Beautiful. Aixa, my stunningly attractive best friend, housemate, and personal torturer has taken up needlework in addition to her job as massage therapist. Ok, it's not too bad having a massage therapist for a roomie, but having a roomie that is into needlework and is a slob is not so much fun. Not that I'm much better, but at least my hobbies don't involve sharp objects.

Brrrriiing!

I hop over to the phone, still clutching my foot. “Hello?”

“Good Afternoon, My name is mumble mumble and I'm calling from mumble mumble, may I please speak to... ah...ah...Ike-sa... Alza- nay-do?”

Telemarketer. “She's not here, can I take a message?”

“Um. Okay. She can call us at mumble mumble mumble. Thank you, goodbye!”

I hang up feeling pretty sorry for the guy. Aixa's name isn't exactly easy to pronounce if you've never heard it before, and telemarketing isn't fun. I've been there.

I remember my day. And I might have to go back to it.

2

Ok. I had two options. One, I could try to button up my blouse as quickly as possible and try changing in the bathroom instead. Or two, I could still try slipping into the t-shirt and hope that no one noticed me. Of course, either way I’d still have to wait to leave until…

“Deni! I thought that was your car. White with a yellow interior? That’s something only you would have picked.”

Wham! I sat up so fast my head hit the roof. “Marley, hey. What are you doing here? And I didn‘t pick it, my dad…”

“It’s Marlene now.” Her brown eyes glared down at me for a second before switching over to a feline I’ve-got-a-canary look. “And I’m simply showing Kevin around town.” She flashed her bleached white teeth at her companion, who I’d forgotten in the shock of seeing the most manipulative woman on earth standing next to my car. Especially since she was supposed to be doing graduate work in Philadelphia. Marley, I mean, Marlene, slid her perfectly manicured hand under the massive bicep of the man next to her. “He’s new around here.”

“Marle- ene, you’re new around here. How could you be showing anyone around?” I glanced up to see what kind of low-life was hanging around her and froze. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen up close. Somewhere around 6’ tall, medium brown hair that the sun had lightened to a dirty blond in places, sea-green eyes, and the tan and physique of a man who works and plays all day in all kinds of weather. To be perfectly honest, he seemed far too masculine to be hanging out with the likes of Marlene. She always seemed to prefer the pampered rich types, not a man who, gasp, worked for a living. At least he had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Marlene’s grin widened. “You know, Deni, it’s not that I’m not proud of you for experimenting with fashion, but I think I should tell you as a friend, that look doesn’t work for you.”

Horror struck I looked down to realize that I’d just had an entire conversation with my high school rival in front of her gorgeous boyfriend while wearing nothing but my nice slacks and my not-so-nice bra.

Great, I managed to flash two men in one day.

1

My thumb hit the “unlock” button on my remote keypad as I walked through the parking garage. Thank goodness I remembered I had an extra t-shirt in my gym bag. My white Lexus 4-door sedan came into view. What a beautiful gift my parents had given me for my birthday last year. It sure took the pain out of turning twenty-six.

I always meant to keep it clean, but somehow life’s busy-ness always kept a sparkling, immaculate car just out of my reach. Opening the car door, I dug through the McDonald’s bags scattered on the back seat. I know I left that gym bag in here somewhere. Back when I promised myself I was going to hit that gym and work out four times a week. Back when I vowed I’d get into that two-piece bathing suit in time to wear it at the beach. Back when I got on Weight Watcher’s and swore off McDonald’s.

Eureka! I found the bag stuffed under the front seat. I’ll just change into it here. Nobody will notice me in this dark garage. I crawled into the back seat, kicking the dead soldiers of Dr. Pepper cans out of my way.

Just as I finished unbuttoning the last button on my blouse, I heard footsteps. Not just one set, but at least two. I could hear them talking loudly. When I heard the laugh I cringed. I’d know that laugh anywhere.

5

Only a handful of times in my life have seconds felt like minutes.

Age: 9: I flushed Mom’s antique diamond ring down the toilet (accidentally, of course). I still remember the horror as I watched the water swirl around and around and around in the bowl, taking the ring somewhere it never deserved to go.

Age 15: I backed Dad’s brand new truck into a neighbor’s mailbox---with him in the passenger seat. I could’ve died during those seconds of silence waiting for him to say something.

Age 22: The dentist’s drill hit a nerve during my first and last root canal. They had to peel me off the ceiling.

Age 26: Sitting in Mr. Zepp’s office, both of us staring at my gag gift bra.

To his credit, Mr. Zepp quickly glanced away and tried to meet my eyes again. Only I couldn’t meet his. Mortified is not a word I use to describe myself very often. I’m the kind of girl who’ll shrug off embarrassment, usually with a self-deprecating crack.

But this morning I wasn’t feeling like myself. I felt like crying. In front of Mr. Zepp. During my interview. So I did what anyone would’ve done in my position.

I ran back to the bathroom.

Shutting myself in the nearest stall, I slammed down the toilet seat and sat on it. Normally I wouldn’t do something like that, either. I’d watched enough Learning Channel documentaries to know what kind of germs lurked around here. But like I said, I wasn’t myself.

“It’s time for a change,” I whispered.

4

“T-Type?” I stuttered. I’d spent hours preparing for this interview, reading websites, books, anything I could get my hands on that would guarantee me success in every endeavor. I’d cleaned up my resume, practiced interview questions like ‘So tell me a little about yourself’ and ‘Where do you see yourself in 10 years?’. The one thing that I hadn’t practiced were my actual skills.

“Yes. How many words?” After a few horrified nanoseconds he added, “per minute?”

I couldn’t even stammer out an answer. How do I know how fast I typed? I don’t type- I don’t even text message if I can help it! My mind began to spin, taking me all the way back to the required typing classes in high school. I never did particularly well, but I was sure that I’d improved since then. Surely. With age comes wisdom and all that, right?

“Twenty.”

“Deni, you’ve applied to be the Vice President’s private secretary and you only type twenty words per minute? Do you even know how to take dictation?” I shook my head ‘no’ and he continued, “I really expected better from you. Perhaps you should go back to your station.”

Shaking, I rose. “Mr. Zepp, I’m really, really…” And there I stopped. Mr. Zepp’s eyes had stayed on my face through the whole, though brief, interview. But now they’d slid down to my chest. Righteous indignation took over.

“Mr. Zepp, I am not the kind of girl that will do just anything to get ahead! I have morals, I have standards. You should be ashamed, you should…”

That was when I felt something dry and crinkly brushing against my stomach.

“Deni-”

But I’d already seen it.

The paper towel that I’d stuffed into my shirt had slipped down at some point and my bra was showing through. That wasn’t the worst of it. A while back, one of my friends had found this bra in a specialty store and given it to me as a gag gift. I guess in my rush I didn’t pay too much attention to what I put on under my clothes. That was a big mistake, because I was now standing before the bank’s hiring manager wearing two faces. My usual, horrified one, and a great big yellow smiley faced one.