Table of Contents

Chapter One—Dancing Lessons

Chapter Two—Explanations

Chapter Three—Politics

Chapter Four—The Toy Store

Chapter Five—The Escape

Chapter Six—The Blob

Chapter Seven—Experiments

Chapter Eight—Map of Life

Chapter Nine—Decorum

Chapter Ten—Risk

Chapter Eleven—The Manicure

Chapter Twelve—The Undoing

Chapter Thirteen—Wrapping Alaska

Chapter Fourteen—Explosives

Chapter Fifteen—Group Therapy

Chapter Sixteen—Double Jeopardy

Chapter Seventeen—It’s a Wrap

Chapter Eighteen—The Marriage

Epilogue

Copyright © 2012 by Saxon Bennett

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First published 2012

Editor: Medora McDougall

Cover designer: Kiaro Creative

ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-297-7

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Other Bella Books by Saxon Bennett

Back Talk

Both Sides

Date Night Club

Family Affair

Higher Ground

Marching to a Different Accordion

Old Ties

A Question of Love

Sweet Fire

Talk of the Town

Talk of the Town Too

The Wish List

To Layce and Emma for helping me with ideas and getting those pages done.

About the Author

Saxon Bennett lives in Oklahoma with Layce, Emma and their two dogs Bear and Darla Sue. To read more about Saxon go to her website at saxonbennett@wordpress.com.

Chapter One—Dancing Lessons

“I am a safe, sane and successful person,” Chase said. She was plagued by thoughts of crepe paper.

“What did you say?” Bud asked.

“Nothing,” Chase replied. She plucked the jar of peanut butter from the pantry.

Bud made no further remark. It amazed Chase that people let her get away with that. Whenever someone else said “nothing” it drove Chase crazy. She wanted to say, “You said something because I heard it, and saying something out loud in the presence of another requires you, by the social contract that allows society to function, to repeat what you said and explain its relevance.”

Bud watched her. “Is there something on your mind?”

“Why?”

“You appear anxious, and you’ve made three separate trips to the pantry, so apparently you’re distracted.”

Chase stared at her daughter and let out a sigh. Bud knew her too well.

“I’m on the decorating committee for the Fall Frolic dance thing,” Chase said, as she made three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, one for Bud and the other two for Bud’s friends, Collins and Summer. Gitana teased her about being the head of the Albuquerque Academy’s Feed the World program, to which Chase responded, “If I don’t, the world eats Bud’s lunch.”

“That’s fantastic news. Now Collins owes me five dollars,” Bud said.

“You’re gambling. I thought that was against school policy.”

Bud rolled her eyes. “I donate all my winnings to charity.”

Chase finished the sandwiches and put them in Bud’s oversized lunchbox. There was barely room as she’d already filled it with copious amounts of fruit because Collins, who wanted to be a vegetarian but was not allowed, was also a follower of Epicurus and ate more fruit than seemed humanly possible. Collins’s mother was still basing her opinion of fruit upon the Joni Mitchell song which mentioned DDT. It was a good thing Chase was a well-paid author or the food budget alone would bankrupt her.

“What did you bet her?”

“That you would cave in to the peer pressure of the Coffee Clutch and do their bidding,” Bud said. She was checking the contents of her backpack in preparation for school because, as they both knew, Chase would check to insure that Bud had checked to insure that she had everything. There was a lot of insuring and checking in the Banter household.

“It’s the Coffee Klatch,” Chase informed her, alarmed that her brilliant child had made such an error. Bud remembered everything. It was Bud’s ability to store knowledge that produced her high IQ scores.

“I was being sardonic. I think ‘clutch’ more aptly describes the situation. Have you ever decorated anything in your life? Do you even know what crepe paper is?” Bud raised her eyebrow.

Chase wished she could do that. Bud’s proclivity was inherited from her biological mother, Gitana, who was also a master of the raised eyebrow.

“Of course I do. I’m in charge of procurement.”

“Hmm,” Bud said, setting her cereal bowl in the sink. At six, she wasn’t tall enough to rinse the bowl, but Bud was a firm believer in egalitarian housekeeping—an if-they-all-did-their-share-according-to-their-means kind of thing. There was that damn Marxist crap again, Chase thought as she rinsed the bowl and handed it back to Bud, who put it in the dishwasher.

“Where exactly do you get this crepe paper stuff anyway?” Chase said and then amended her statement. “I mean where would be the best place to get it?”

“I suppose you could try Home Depot,” Bud said, shrugging.

Gitana came bounding downstairs. “What do we need at Home Depot?” she asked. She had that alarmed look on her face that she got whenever Chase embarked on a major remodeling project. “You remember that I have the Orchid Expo in a week and we are swamped at work.” Gitana owned the nursery, Blooming Orchids. She poured herself coffee and looked anxiously in Chase’s direction.

Chase kissed her cheek and said, “I thought I’d add a second story to the writing studio, so I can have that library we’ve always talked about.”

Gitana’s eyes got big. “No, Chase, please, not now. I just can’t. I’m already stressed over the Expo.”

Bud smirked and Gitana caught it. “She’s yanking my chain, right?”

Bud nodded. “I wonder what the etymological origin of that phrase is?”

“We’ll Google it on the way to school,” Chase said.

“Chase is going to Home Depot to buy crepe paper for the school dance. She’s in charge of procurement.”

“Ha! Donna owes me five bucks,” Gitana said.

“Let me get this straight—you bet Collins I would cave on the decoration thing,” Chase said, waggling a finger at Bud before turning back to Gitana. “And you bet Donna?”

Gitana had the good grace to look guilty. “Well, I actually bet Donna that you would succumb to peer pressure. It didn’t have anything to do with crepe paper, really.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better?” Chase poured coffee in her to-go mug.

“Donna did bet five dollars that you wouldn’t go anywhere near the dance. She had faith in you.”

“Remind me to thank her,” Chase said. She thought for a moment. “Mistake me if I’m wrong…”

“The phrase is actually ‘correct me if I’m wrong,’” Bud interjected.

Chase sighed. Sometimes it was difficult having a Mensa child. “May I finish?”

“By all means.”

“Just because I am learning to be a more involved parent does not make me a pawn to the gavels of suburbanites. Is that what you people are betting on—that I cave as a consequence of my parental concern?”

Gitana looked at Bud. “Is there some kind of…you know, term for what she is doing to us?”

“Aristotle’s Fallacy of Consequence,” Bud said, zipping up her backpack.

Chase, having perfected the “Bud Smirk,” smirked. Then she remembered the crepe paper. “So, just offhand where would be the best place to buy this crepe paper stuff. I mean, where would you go?” She directed the question at both of them.

“Oh, Home Depot, I suppose,” Gitana said.

This time Bud smirked.

“Are you yanking my chain? Home Depot doesn’t sell crepe paper, right?” Chase said.

Gitana relented. “No, it doesn’t. Go to Hobby Lobby.”

Chase glanced over at Bud for confirmation. She nodded.

“What, you don’t trust me?” Gitana said, putting her hand across her heart in feigned hurt.

“I did mess with you so you’d be within your rights to mess with me,” Chase said.

“But I wouldn’t do that,” Gitana said, wrapping her arms around Chase’s neck and kissing her. “Well, I might…”

“I could help you pick out the crepe paper,” Bud said.

“Oh, now you’re all helpful. What do you need?”

“More paper, charcoal sticks and another eraser,” Bud said, looking hopeful.

Gitana smiled and ruffled Bud’s curls. Chase was impressed that Bud still tolerated this. That was one of the hardest things about Bud growing up. Kids, Chase had noticed, had this tendency to stop being little teddy bear people that you could cuddle and begin to develop their own sense of self and personal space. Chase understood about personal space in her own world, but allowing Bud her own space had been a trial. It was a weaning process. She waited for Bud to initiate it. Bud seemed to sense this and gave herself over when she felt Chase getting that I-just-want-to-scoop-you-up-in-my-arms-and-squeeze-so-hard look on her face. She would lean against Chase and take her hand. Chase felt the physical release and thought, Not yet, it hasn’t started yet. They’d talked about this proverbial cutting of the apron strings at the Coffee Klatch. Chase learned a lot from the suburbanites with gavels so she put up with the “crepe paper” incidents.

“Okay, let’s go,” Chase said. She kissed Gitana and then kissed the top of Bud’s head, which made no sense since they were riding into town together. Bud smiled.

They crept down the road in the Mini Cooper, carefully avoiding the crevasses that the spring rains had carved and the summer heat had baked. What dirt was left on the road was a series of ruts and rocks. Driving down the roller-coaster ride of baked dirt could upset your coffee cup, your stomach and everything in the car that wasn’t strapped down. Plastic grocery bags filled with food had to be tied and wedged together to prevent a tumbling of goods all over the backseat. The Mini Cooper shifted from side to side as Chase attempted to keep her wheels out of the ruts. It was like keeping a rollercoaster cart on the rails.

“I’ve been lobbying the state government in your name for a rescindment order of the private road clause as it was not grandfathered in,” Bud said.

“Fuck!” Chase said when the Mini Cooper bottomed out.

“Double fuck,” Bud said, looking smug.

“Don’t say that.”

“I only say it when we’re together. It’s like a bonding thing.” She leaned against Chase.

She looked at Bud. “Are you playing me?”

“Actually, I’m not. I know Collins’s mom has been telling you things about how children’s affections change and they don’t want their parents to fawn over them.” She stopped and glanced at Chase.

“Yes,” Chase said, awaiting the blow.

“But…” Bud looked uncertain. “This has to be our secret.”

Chase, despite being a serious advocate of two hands on the wheel, brought up her right hand. “I swear.” They weren’t on the county road yet, so she figured it was only a minor infraction.

“I like when you fawn over me.”

“I don’t fawn exactly, do I? I mean that would be kind of gross.”

“I think you mentally fawn and it sends out vibes.” Bud smiled.

“Maybe a little. Is that all right?”

“Sure.”

“Really?” Chase was ecstatic.

“Really,” Bud said, kissing Chase’s cheek now that the car had stopped rocking from the road and they were at the stop sign. “Just don’t do it in front of my peers.”

“I won’t.”

Bud leaned against her.

They drove in companionable silence until they hit the freeway. Bud pointed to the cottonwood trees that lined the valley that followed Old Route 66 and the freeway. “The leaves are starting to turn. Maybe we could go hiking in the Jemez and look at the colors. I have grown a half an inch.”

“I’ve never said anything about your height.”

“No, but don’t think that I didn’t hear you tell people that you had to wait until my legs grew longer before we could go hiking.” Bud was smaller than her peers, but Gitana was petite. Bud looked a lot like her mother, almond eyes, dark shoulder-length hair, full lips and a turned-up nose. Chase resembled a Scandinavian nanny with her blue eyes, lanky frame and long blond hair. Meeting other parents always entailed a certain amount of explanation.

“All right, maybe I did. Why are you so interested in the changing of the leaves?”

“I want to take some photographs. Stella gave me one of her old surveillance cameras. It’s digital. Her version of ‘old’ is by no means Paleolithic.”

This was true. Stella was Bud’s Private Investigator Grandmother, a title that Chase only used when she was irritated with her mother. The arrival of Bud had quelled the ongoing feud between mother and daughter over Chase’s decision to be a writer of lesbian fiction instead of a Newbery Award-winning writer. Now their mutual adoration and protection of Bud made them staunch allies.

“Now you want to be a photographer?” Chase glanced at the speedometer. She was only going fifty-seven. Shit, she was going to have to go around the slowpoke in the middle lane.

Bud noticed. “You have to or we’ll be queued up for miles at school.”

“I know.” Chase studied her options, decided it was safe and passed.

“See, no problem.”

“So about the dance thing…” Chase wavered.

“Yes?” Bud prodded. “You always give it away that something is distressing you by using the gestural ellipsis.”

“A what?”

“Like in fiction when a person starts to say something and then stops and the writer uses an ellipsis,” Bud said.

“Oh.”

“What were you going to ask?” Bud said.

“Who are you going to the dance with? Have you picked someone out?” Chase blurted as if saying it quick would make her seem less like an overprotective meddler. This was another one of the disturbingly progressive things Bud’s school did—Decisional Socialization based on the theories of some whacko named R.U. Barffield.

“I have.”

“Who?” Chase asked. She’d Facebook the little urchin for signs of being a sociopath.

“I’m taking Summer,” Bud said, looking out the window. “She wants to wear a dress.” She said it like it was a confession—a character flaw. Chase didn’t know if it was about going to the dance with Summer or Summer wearing a dress.

“What are you going to wear?” Chase inquired, keeping her voice level and tension free.

“My tux, and in case you were wondering, this isn’t a butch-femme thing. It’s what we like to wear. I respect Summer’s choice of feminine garb, and she said I look nice in my tux.”

“When did she see it?”

“The night she slept over.”

Chase thought about the sleepover, trying to remember how much supervision she’d given them. She hadn’t known about the clothes changing. “So the tux thing was like playing dress up?”

Bud furrowed her brow in that what-are-you-talking-about-dumbass way she used when exposed to inanity. “Dress up? We needed to ascertain how the tux would look in such circumstances, and I wanted Summer’s opinion.” She stared at Chase.

They entered the city limits proper, and Chase figured she had twelve minutes to suss up this dance thing or the discussion would be closed forever, because reopening it later would be construed as over-parenting by both Bud and Gitana. “So…”

Bud interjected. “Do you realize that you overuse the word ‘so’? You start a lot of sentences with it. If Stella notices you will be issued a citation.”

In addition to being a private investigator, Chase’s mother was also part of the Lynne Truss Grammar Society, and she’d created her own division of the Overused Word Choices, which issued citations for such offences.

“I’ll work on it.”

“You have until Thanksgiving to break it.”

Chase nodded and glanced down at the dashboard clock. She had ten minutes now. “Isn’t there a boy you want to go with?” Chase couldn’t believe that came out of her mouth. She studied the stoplight at Tramway. She didn’t want to meet Bud’s eye.

Bud appeared to be transfixed watching a pack of riders speeding down the bike path that lined both sides of Tramway.

This was not how Chase envisioned having the sex talk. In her mind, they’d sit down over coffee—Bud would be old enough to drink coffee—and they would have a reasonable discussion about sexual persuasion and how Bud felt and what genetics provided. Chase was of the “made” not “choice” school of thought, so in her mind Bud had a fifty-fifty. She hadn’t thought they would be having “The Discussion” when Bud was six and going to second grade.

“I don’t like boys,” Bud said matter-of-factly.

Chase drove through the light. “Well, I mean they are kind of gross, uncouth and disrespectful until they…” She stopped herself.

“And they smell bad.”

Chase scrambled for some male attribute that she could sell to Bud. It wasn’t forthcoming. “Some of them will grow up to be firemen and police officers, that’s got to count for something.”

“It’s all good,” Bud said. They had pulled into the school.

“So…I mean it’s okay with everyone?” Chase said.

“The school is not gender-biased. Each student is encouraged to choose a partner most in keeping with his or her current life views and perception. Melinda is adamant about each student exploring and thus forming his or her personality. I only have until I’m eight. One kid is bringing his border collie, which I think is a unique choice. The dog has a tuxedo, and I guess she’s a good dancer. Collins is taking Judy. They’re both wearing suits.”

“I see.” She sounded just like Gitana, but Bud kept chattering on about personality forming and kids bringing their dogs as dates and that Collins was certain she was gay and this personality-forming-by-the-time-you’re-eight-years-old thing and calling the principal by her first name. Chase checked the queue. She had six cars and at an estimated time of two minutes for drop-off that gave her twelve minutes. She would start small.

“So you guys always call the principal by her first name?”

“Melinda prefers it that way. She says that a center for learning should not be a totalitarian regime but rather an egalitarian society where each person receives according to his or her needs.”

“That sounds like Marx’s Communist Manifesto,” Chase said.

“It has vestiges,” Bud replied.

“Have you read it?”

“Last summer. He made some valid points, but I am rather fond of my private property.”

They were down to three cars. “Now what’s this thing about your personality being formed by the time you’re eight?” Chase’s mind raced. Could that be true? Did they have only two more years to make sure Bud turned out to be a normal, decent, tax-paying citizen who was driven to get her Ph.D. at an early age and make a distinguished career for herself and win the Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer or both?

“It’s a psychological fact. Our personality, the one that will be ours for life, is created from the time we are born until the age of eight. That’s why early childhood development is so imperative for the creation of a well-adjusted human being.”

Chase’s brain took off on two tangents simultaneously. First, had there been any traumatic experiences to date that had malformed or maladjusted Bud’s personality? And second, what had been her own transformative experiences? Because she’d turned out to be neurotic on many levels, and she didn’t want Bud to have any of her phobias—excessive hand sanitizer usage, debit machine performance anxiety, burying roadkill and risk management strategies, just to name a few.

She gave further thought to her phobias. The world was a germy place, debit machines meant spending and excessive spending was a bad thing. Burying roadkill was simply giving the dead dignity, and as long as Bud didn’t grow up to be a mortician that was not a bad thing. Risk management was the basis of the insurance industry, so it was a viable pursuit as long as Bud didn’t grow up to be an insurance salesperson. She meant no offense to those professions. She just couldn’t see Bud doing them.

Bud scrutinized Chase’s face and appeared to ascertain the current neurosis Chase was experiencing. “If you were worried that you’ve done anything to make me weird—you haven’t.” She quickly kissed Chase’s cheek and popped out of the car. Summer and Collins were waiting for her. Bud took Summer’s hand as they went up the stairs to the front door of the school. Chase’s mind went into overdrive when she saw that. Could you be gay at six? Was Bud gay? Should the school be egalitarian? And what about the dog going to the dance as someone’s date? That was going too far. Anyone could see that.

She glanced at the dashboard. It was ten to eight. Her board meeting at the Institute was at nine thirty. She had to talk to Gitana and not on the phone. This warranted a face-to-facer. She’d go to the Blooming Orchid nursery and tell Gitana all this stuff. Gitana was the voice of reason. She could sort this mess out. She would know what to do.

Chapter Two—Explanations

Chase sent gravel flying as she pulled into the nursery’s parking lot. Under normal circumstances, she would have made note of how spiffed up the place looked with its new sage green paint job with the giant purple and white orchids painted on the front and around one side, but she’d worked herself into such a panic that she left the Mini Cooper running and the car door wide open as she ran inside. Nora, who was Gitana’s right-hand woman, was coming out of the nursery office when Chase almost floored her, which would have been an accomplishment because Nora was built like a rich guy’s bodyguard. “Where’s Gitana?”

“In her office like she usually is.”

“Right.” She ran down the hall.

“Chase?”

Chase turned to look at her.

“Is Bud all right?”

“Yes, well…” She didn’t want to start her diatribe here.

“Jacinda and Stella?”

“As far as I know.”

“Has there been a nuclear attack in Albuquerque we need to know about so we can begin evacuating?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

Nora glanced out the open door. “Would you like me to turn your car off?”

Chase followed Nora’s gaze and saw the car. “Uh, yeah, that would be great,” she said and ran into Gitana’s office.

The awareness of reality Nora had attempted to instill in Chase evaporated the instant Chase saw Gitana at her desk with stacks of pink invoices, references guides, catalogs and her laptop. The disarray added to Chase’s high alert stress level.

“Bud is gay. The school is communist, and a kid is bringing his dog as a date to the dance. What the fuck! We’ve got to move to the Midwest—it’s too crazy here,” she blurted, trying to catch her breath.

Gitana adopted her patient face. “Chase, let’s go through your concerns issue by issue, okay?” She pointed to the chair in the corner where Nora sat when they were doing consultations on business matters.

“That’s Nora’s chair.”

“Nora won’t mind.”

Chase sat down.

“Let’s start at the top. How old is Bud?”

“Six, but her entire personality will be formed by the time she’s eight.”

“Who told you that?” Gitana said, folding her hands on the desktop.

This was a new gesture of hers, Chase noted. She resembled a guidance counselor patiently dealing with an overwrought child. Thank goodness she had an appointment with her therapist Dr. Robicheck so they could discuss these new developments in Chase’s life.

“Bud did on the way to school.”

“Bud?”

Chase furrowed her brow. Didn’t she just say that? Bud, six, personality, was this part of the hand-folding thing? Why ask obvious questions when an obvious crisis was at hand?

“Are you sure she’s not yanking your chain?” Gitana asked.

She thought about it. Chain yanking seemed to be a new family sport. “Hold on.” Chase whipped out her BlackBerry and Googled it.

Gitana waited, shuffling papers.

Chase pulled up Wikipedia and scrolled through the pages. “Nope, she is spot-on—Jung says eight.”

“I don’t think we’ve done anything horrid. Besides Bud is smart—she pretty much knows who she is and what she wants to do with her life.”

“She has read most of the major philosophers,” Chase admitted.

“If anything we take her guidance,” Gitana said.

Chase contemplated this. It was true. Usually either Donna or Bud came up with the solutions to difficult situations. “What about the gay thing?”

“How did you ascertain this?”

“She’s taking Summer to the dance, and she held her hand going into school today. I’d say that was an overt indication,” Chase said.

“Did she grab her ass or do anything else sexually suggestive?” Gitana was now tapping her pen—a Montblanc that Chase had given her for her birthday last year. It was a lovely pen, sleek, silver and black. This pen tapping was another new gesture.

“She’s six!”

“My point exactly.” Gitana raised her eyebrows.

This, at least, was an old familiar gesture, Chase thought.

“Chase, little girls have these infatuations with each other—it’s perfectly normal, and it doesn’t make them gay.”

“But what if she turns out gay because of us?” Chase was back at her BlackBerry. Surely, there was something with statistics about gay kids with gay parents versus having straight parents.

“Will you put that thing down and look at me?”

There was something more—what was it? She enlarged the image size. How had she ever lived without a BlackBerry? Life must have been archaic.

“Chase!”

“Huh?”

“Put that thing down before I confiscate it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Chase clutched it to her chest.

“Then put it down and listen to me.”

Chase quickly bookmarked the website and slipped the BlackBerry into her pocket. Nobody was takin’ nothing. Her psyche did a mental head swivel.

“We have agreed on the philosophy that gay people are not made as in the inculcated sense, right?”

Chase nodded and then sprang to her feet. “She has a fifty-fifty chance or maybe more. What if Bud’s freaky-rocket-scientist-genius sperm donor is gay?”

Gitana raised her eyebrows. “And what if he’s not and what if Bud didn’t get it from me? What would that make her?”

“Straight. It’s going to be really hard for me to let her date boys.”

“I know. It’s going to be hard for you to let her date anyone.”

Chase let out a heavy sigh and studied her thumb. She wanted to bite the cuticle bad, but she controlled herself, pulling out her now constant companion—a cuticle cutter. She trimmed it so the excess skin would be surgically removed and wouldn’t tear and bleed.

“You know, that is a rather disconcerting habit,” Gitana said, pointing at the cuticle cutter.

“I only do it in front of people I know and love.” Chase sat back down.

“Why are you so concerned that she might turn out gay?”

“Because people will think we brainwashed her.”

“What people?”

Chase thought for a moment. She scrambled. “The Religious Right…Dr. Laura and Pat Robertson and the PTA.”

“Do we know any of those people?”

“Well, not directly, exactly. But they could know us.”

“And if the United States ever got taken over by the right wing and a totalitarian regime ensued and they were going to round up the PLUs and put us in camps, what would we do?”

“We would take Bud and all our friends and family and the fur kids, of course, and make a run for the Canadian border and head for Saltzspring Island where all the hippie draft dodgers went to avoid the Vietnam War. We would bring medical supplies, bottled water, duct tape, Vaseline…”

Gitana put her hand up. “In other words, we have a plan.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now what’s wrong with the school? Remember how you tortured the poor postal worker by sending for all those school catalogs so you could research every aspect school?

“I gave her a big tip,” Chase said.

“That’s not the point. The point is you did an astonishing amount of research and the academy is the best place on the planet for Bud right now. Why do you think the school is Communist?”

“I swear Bud was spouting stuff straight out of the Communist Manifesto—that to-each-according-to-their-needs stuff.”

Gitana did look concerned. “Has she read the Manifesto?”

Chase gave her the what-do-you-think look.

“Never mind.” Gitana rubbed her temples. “Explain to me the context of the conversation and then I’ll tell you if it’s Commie or not.”

Chase searched her verbatim file. It was sketchy. She’d discovered that the minute a conversation went Code Red chunks of conversation evaporated. She needed to train herself to freak after the fact so as not to impair her fact gathering. Facts were ammo—shit, she used the word “fact” three times in one inner diatribe. Good thing she didn’t have an inner editor complete with red pencil. “Can I paraphrase?”

Gitana looked skeptical. “If you have to. I would prefer the straight version—not the amped-up this-is-the-end-of-the-world version.”

“I’ll give it my best effort.”

“Shoot.”

“She was referring to how the school was not a totalitarian regime, but an egalitarian society and then she spouted the ‘according to the need’ thing.”

Gitana tapped her pen again. “I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Do you want her getting her knuckles smacked with the ruler by a passive-aggressive nun like we did?”

Chase was mortified. She’d gone to Saint Mary’s Catholic School and was well aware of the evils of ruler smacking. “Well, no.”

“Then egalitarian is an improvement.”

Chase frowned. “I guess.”

Nora brought in Chase’s keys. “Does Lacey have a GPS tracking device on your car?”

“What?”

“She just called me because she wanted to know if you were here or if it was only your car on the premises.”

“Why would my car and not my person be here?”

“I could have driven it because something was wrong with the Land Rover,” Gitana said.

“Why didn’t she call me? Not that I would have answered. Being a Luddite does have its advantages.”

“Everyone knows you can’t live without your BlackBerry,” Gitana said, pointing to the bulge in Chase’s pants.

Chase smirked at her. “I could just be happy to see you.”

Nora and Gitana stared at her.

“What?”

“Sexual innuendo isn’t really your gig,” Nora replied.

“I am capable of change.” Chase checked her call log. Lacey had called seven times. She checked the sound profile. The ringer was off. Odd things happened to her phone. Perhaps her pants had a mind of their own. “Next question, why didn’t she call you?”

“Because Gitana’s phone is in an undisclosed location,” Nora replied.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Lacey calls a lot. I keep Gitana’s phone so that her unhealthy Catholic guilt complex won’t kick in because she doesn’t know that she is getting Lacey’s call. I hit ‘Ignore’ unless it comes up as you or Bud, in which case I come and get her.”

“I always wondered why I get sent to voice mail and then like two minutes later you call me back,” Chase said.

Chase fixed her ringer. Stuff seemed to happen when she stuck her phone in her pocket. Gitana had bought her a nice holder, but Chase was a BlackBerry closet case. She didn’t want people to see her phone attached to her belt like she thought she was all that. It had proved a pleasant surprise that the phone was thin enough to fit in her front pocket along with her super thin wallet, because she did not do purses. However, the pocket thing did have odd effects on the BlackBerry’s keyboard. Sometimes she pulled it out of her pocket to discover a new language on the screen, one without vowels. “But why is she calling all the time, anyhow?”

“To find out where you are,” Nora said.

“So let me get this straight, she called your phone because I wasn’t answering, and Gitana never answers, but somehow she knows my car is here.”

“Yep,” Nora said.

“Can you buy those GPS thingy-jiggers for real?” Chase asked. “I thought it was like a thriller novel kind of thing—possible but imaginary.”

“Actually, they are available for public purchase,” Eliza said as she entered the office. She was Nora’s girlfriend and head of the botanicals. “Lacey just called me.” She held up her phone to demonstrate the point.

“What the hell does she want?” Chase said, exasperated.

“You, obviously,” Gitana said.

“And why is she calling Eliza now?”

“Because it appears Nora was noncommittal in her response. I agreed to ascertain your whereabouts, and I want you to know that Lacey used more swear words in one sentence than I have ever heard in my entire life. It was a linguistic marvel.” Eliza pushed her red-framed glasses up her slim nose.

Besides being Nora’s girlfriend and head of botanicals, the woman was brilliant. Chase made it a point for Bud to spend time with Eliza whenever Bud was at the nursery. At first Eliza wasn’t comfortable with Bud because she claimed to be awkward with children. Then she figured out she had another creepy-weird-smart kindred spirit on her hands. They were best buds—no pun intended, as Eliza would say.

“Did you discover what the problem was?” Gitana said.

Chase was still trying to figure out the GPS thingy-jigger. She glanced at Nora. “Where would you put something like that?”

“We’ll look under the car,” Nora said.

“I’m quoting. She said you’re seriously late for the super-serious board meeting and that you had better get your ass, followed by sixteen—I counted—expletive-deletives, to the meeting before she is forced to do something serious,” Eliza said.

“Would that include firing you?” Gitana said.

“I wish. I’ve been trying to extricate myself from the Institute ever since Lacey first got the idea, and it hasn’t worked yet.”

“You should buy her a thesaurus because she seriously needs another word for serious,” Eliza said.

“And tell her to stop swearing around Bud,” Gitana said, rapidly tapping her pen now.

Everyone rolled their eyes in universal acknowledgment of that never happening.

Gitana shrugged. “We can at least try.”

“Okay, well, I better go,” Chase said reluctantly. “If she calls any more people, my mother will use her APD influence and get a missing person’s bulletin going.” Chase’s mother, Stella, had friends in high places.

“Preferably before she sends out Dixon and Chino to haul you in,” Gitana said.

Chase shuddered. Dixon and Chino, part of the Pink Mafia, were currently employed as Lacey’s henchwomen. She wasn’t even sure if those were their first names or their last names. No one seemed to know. She’d met them in OfficeMax, where they had cornered her in the binder aisle and forced her to consider writing lesbian novels again, something she had quit after the mainstream mystery series she’d written as Shelby McCall had started to sell and make the big bucks. The book that resulted, her lesbian novel about life in a commune, had inadvertently illuminated Lacey’s brain, becoming the operating manual for Lacey’s Illumination Institute. The Pink Mafia never let up. Sometimes Chase felt that between Lacey and the Pink Mafia that she was a prisoner on the Isle of Lesbos.

“Speak of the devil.” Nora pointed out the window of Gitana’s office at a black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows. Dixon and Chino were getting out of it and making their way toward the office.

“Are they on steroids?” Eliza asked.

“I don’t know, but Lacey’s tailor, Joseph, is making a killing off their black suits,” Chase said.

“With those suits and dark sunglasses they look like FBI agents or friends and family of the Sopranos,” Nora said.

“I guess we can’t all be Girl Scouts,” Chase muttered. She handed Gitana her car keys. “I might not be back for a while.”

Chino and Dixon didn’t have to say a word as they stood in the doorway. Well, as parts of each of them stood in the doorway. Chase kissed Gitana’s cheek and dutifully followed them out.

Chapter Three—Politics

Chase was escorted into the boardroom of the Institute. “Like I’m going to run off,” Chase muttered as she tried to wriggle free of their grasp.

Chino grunted.

“There you are,” Lacey said, leaping up from her high-backed leather chair. “We have a major fucking emergency here and I needed you.”

Lacey had been Chase’s best friend for as long as she could remember. It was a documented fact that children began forming memories at the age of four, so Lacey must have been there then. In moments like this Chase wondered if she preferred the happy-go-lucky-man-chaser Lacey had once been to this radical lesbian megalomaniac with her brown tight-bun hairdo and trim somber business suit intent on changing the face of the lesbian nation. Chase glanced around the long boardroom table looking for an ally.

She saw Isabel, the Institute librarian and archivist. Isabel at least was still recognizable with her long, dark hair and tie-dyed T-shirts. When they first met, Isabel had been a member of Chase’s SUP class—a group program for socially unacceptable persons. Their mentor, Lily Hirack, now taught at the Institute. It appeared from the attendance rolls that there were a lot of socially unacceptable lesbian persons on the premises. If someone was reported and then cited for SUP behavior they had to attend Lily’s class—like when you got a speeding ticket and you had to go to driving school.

Donna sat next to Isabel. She had the squeezed colon look she often got when presented with a Lacey-istic Problem. Donna was Chase’s personal assistant as well as the Chief Financial Advisor of the Institute. Out of consideration and necessity for Donna’s increased workload, Chase had learned to be more self-sufficient. Well, kind of—she had Bud to help her with her tech snafus, and she had Myrna, her publicist, to handle all the stuff on the ongoing mainstream mystery series she wrote under the pen name of Shelby “Fucking” McCall. Donna did not approve of the middle name she had given Shelby of late, but Chase hadn’t planned on being the next Sue Grafton when she started the series, and she now harbored a great dislike of Shelby. Shelby, however, didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about her creator’s discomfort—the fucking little bitch in her penny loafers and elbow-patch herringbone blazers.

Chase scowled as she sat by Donna. “Are you thinking about Shelby?” Donna whispered.

“Why do you ask?” Chase said, taking a Dasani from the tray in the middle of the long mahogany table.

“Because you have that look.”

“Myrna is in the process of scheduling my annual New York trip and Eliza P. Newman is planning a big gala party for Shelby, which is going to require an expensive new suit.” Chase groaned. “I’ll have to take her to see Joseph. At least now that I am on a first -name basis with my tailor we can tell each other inappropriate Jew and lesbian jokes while Shelby gets fitted.”

“Chase, you do realize that you are talking about yourself, right?” Donna said, her face a portrait of concern.

“Of course, I do,” Chase said petulantly. She glanced around to see if anyone had been listening. On the opposite side of the table was Dixon, who along with henchman duty was also in charge of lesbian protocol. Dixon was busy glaring at everyone and apparently hadn’t heard.

Chase smiled at Sophia, a lovely Italian woman with long black tresses and seductive eyes. She should have been a movie star in a spaghetti western instead of a chef in charge of the three kitchens—a vegan one, a meat and potatoes one and an epicurean, eclectic one. Chase referred to them as the Rabbit, Cow and Orchard kitchens. To the dismay of all, the monikers stuck.

Next to her was Gloria, the head of maintenance—a proud butch of the old-school ways, dressed in Dickies work pants and a black T-shirt with “Maintenance” written across the front. Only you couldn’t quite make out all the letters because of the Appalachian-like formation of her breasts, which she fondly called her bazooms. Chase looked up “breasts” in the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus and “bazooms” was listed as a synonym much to her surprise. Bazooms made her think of weapons of mass destruction, which Gloria’s breasts could be. On one occasion, Chase had come out of Lacey’s office, not paying attention to where she was going, and walked right into Gloria’s bazooms. Chase had been so stunned she actually nestled there for a moment until Gloria plucked her from the crevasse between the letters “E” and “N.”

“That’s a danger zone, darlin’. I’ve lost women in there,” Gloria twanged. She referred to herself as a big-breasted woman from southern Oklahoma in homage to a k.d. lang song about big bones and a Canadian province. Chase found her accent charming; it had a calming affect on her. When the Institute got too much for her, Chase would stop by Gloria’s cave of a maintenance office and talk. Gloria ran a tight ship, and Chase was not only amazed by her bazooms but also her organizational skills. Gloria’s maintenance office and workroom was like Badger’s hole in Wind in the Willows.

Chase often had the inexplicable desire to sit on Gloria’s lap and nestle between her breasts—not in a sexual way, more like a child in need of comfort. She wanted to stick her face in between the “E” and the “N.” Was that really too much to ask to relieve a boatload of stress? And why, she wondered, does that particular metaphor still have a descriptive place in this world when boats are no longer as prevalent in delivering supplies to port cities? Why didn’t we use a fifty-seven-foot semi-tractor trailer as a source of measurement instead—a semi-load of stress?

Gloria must have sensed Chase’s desire because when it was a particularly bad day, she would give Chase a long hug and then “talk her down from the ledge,” as they called it. Chase tried to imagine how she would explain being found in the nestling position.

Lacey banged her gavel. Chase had a hard time with this corporate incarnation of Lacey.

“Okay, listen up everybody—let’s get this party started.”

If this was a party, Chase thought, she’d rather attend a Southern Baptist revival under a tent with ninety percent humidity, a hundred and five degrees temperature and a seat in a rickety folding chair next to someone who smelled bad.

Gloria must have been thinking the same thing. “If this is a party, I’d prefer a funeral.”

Chase snickered.

“What did you say, Gloria? Is it something you should share with the group?” Lacey widened her eyes, in her what-the-fuck expression that made Chase think of Marty Feldman after corrective surgery.

“I was telling Chase that the pipes in the lavatory…” Gloria said.

Lacey interjected, “You mean the Human Relief Room.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Chase muttered under her breath. Why did Lacey have to rename everything?

Lacey eyed her suspiciously. Chase wondered if she had heard her muttering. “The pipes in the Human Relief Room are…” she prodded Gloria.

“Working perfectly after I replaced the P-trap.” Gloria smiled at her.

“P-trap? We trap pee now? Is that a civil liberties issue that we need to address?” Lacey said.

Chase and Gloria looked at each other in astonishment.

“You’re kidding, right?” Chase said. Chase wasn’t a plumbing expert, but Lacey had to know something about under-the-sink pipes and even if she didn’t the context would supply clues.

“No,” Lacey said, adamantly. “The Institute, as we all know, is very concerned with the rights of its citizenry. If we are trapping people’s urine, they should be informed.”

Chase stared at Lacey. “We have citizenry? When exactly did we become a country?”

“I am speaking metaphorically. As a weaver of words, you should understand the use of a political metaphor.”

Chase shot her a dirty look. Was there such a thing as a political metaphor—politics used metaphor but could it be a metaphor in and of itself? It dawned on Chase that she didn’t understand the political term anymore than Lacey understood plumbing.

Dixon cleared her throat. “Could we get this meeting started? Some of us are on a tight time schedule.”

What, Chase thought, could be so urgent? Rounding up socially errant lesbians?

“I want to get this P-trap thing settled first,” Lacey snapped.

Chase’s stress and annoyance level had reached its beyond-the-tolerable level notch on her psychic meter. First, this school thing and Commies and then getting hauled in here by the thug-girls only to become embroiled in the politics of the Republik of Lesbekistan. Then to top it off, Lacey’s ignorance when it came to plumbing.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lacey, a P-trap is the U-shaped pipe under the sink—it has absolutely nothing to do with urine entrapment,” Chase blurted.

Gloria smiled as Lacey scowled at her. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Lacey said.

“And when would I have inserted the proverbial word-in-edgewise with you going on about lesbian civil liberties?” Gloria inquired.

“Hmmph, I just think you could stand to be more specific in your reports,” Lacey said.

Feeling the need to defend Gloria, Chase said, “With your current level of the understanding of building mechanics and maintenance issues, it should be no problem.”

Lacey ignored her. She organized her notes, straightened her shoulders and began. “There is a serious rift here at the Institute that must be addressed. The Left Ovaries have, in effect, declared war on the Menopausals. We cannot have this kind of division in our beloved community. We live in a new and tender country and this is the first incident of this nature.”

“Does she really believe in this Lesbekistan thing?” Gloria whispered to Chase.

Chase nodded. Gloria raised her eyebrows in that this-is-absurd-you-realize-that look.

Chase wanted to be part of the eyebrow raising club like Gloria, Gitana and Bud, but her one gesture of note was the ability to smirk. Whenever she raised her eyebrows she resembled a silent screen actress feigning fright. She looked ridiculous, which was why she didn’t do it publically.

“The Left Ovaries?” Chase said. This was the first time she’d heard of them. She knew about the Menopausals because of the three bearded ladies. The first time she met them she had her sunglasses on—for which she was grateful as she was certain her eyes had been popping out. As it was, she choked on a Mento. One of the bearded ladies was on the verge of performing the Heimlich maneuver after a moment of beard stroking on the part of all three ladies as to the best course of action. Luckily, Chase had regained control of her breathing and some of her decorum. She thanked them and introduced herself. In turn, she learned they were Jessica, Emily and Edith. Edith was in charge of the Menopausals.

Lacey shook her head at Chase like she should know. “The Left Ovaries are suffering from loss-of-organs syndrome or L.O.S.”

“What an original title,” Chase muttered.

“And some even have ghost pain.” She glared at Chase.

“Oh.” Chase said. She was not unsympathetic to abdominal pain as she had a sensitive stomach.

“The Left Ovaries no longer feel women-indentified because they have lost the ability to bear children,” Lacey read from the document.

“So now they feel like men?” Donna asked, evidently confused.

“No. They just don’t feel like women,” Lacey said, and she continued to read. “The Menopausals are offended because they do not believe femininity is tied to menses. Just because the Left Ovaries are missing equipment and don’t bleed doesn’t mean they’re less of a woman according to the Menopausals. But the Left Ovaries feel that the Menopausals are ignoring their loss.”

“What the fuck is she talking about?” Chase said.

Gloria furrowed her brow, “Well…”

Chase loved the way Gloria spoke, how “well” came out as three syllables.

“I think, from what I can gather, it’s about Kotex. I swear to Goddess, I keep that machine routinely stocked to the hilt. I got one gal who spends half a day filling those machines up. With two hundred women having periods, it’s a monster task,” Gloria said.

This made Chase think of two hundred women having PMS. “Do you realize how dangerous this place is?” she said.

Gloria stared at her, apparently grasping her import. “Are you suggesting…”

Chase nodded. “Perhaps we should put the Pink Mafia on this.” Chase refrained from saying, “in other words, doing something constructive.” “We might need extra security and perhaps a PowerPoint presentation on the cycling chart of the Institute’s bleeding occupants.”

Lacey snapped at them. “What the fucking hellshitonfire kind of assholebullshitmotherfuckingkissingass shit are you two fucking talking about?”

Chase stared at her in utter astonishment.

“What?” Lacey said.

“That was nine profanities in one sentence and we’re in a board room. What are you capable of in everyday situations?” Chase said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lacey replied, shuffling papers again.

Chase looked around the room. Did Lacey have multiple personalities? Was Chase the only one who noticed that Lacey had switched from being Regan from the movie The Exorcist to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, who wanted everyone to have what they most needed. It was frightening. No one else seemed to have noticed.

“Now, if I have everyone’s attention, I’d like to discuss possible solutions to resolving the rift.” She passed around copies of her solution-solving guidelines. Each packet contained the cover sheet with the Institute’s logo of a giant eyeball with a candle inside the pupil. Chase had always thought it was creepy. On the next page the problem was listed. Lacey had titled it To Bleed or Not to Bleed. Chase nearly spewed water out her nostrils when she read that. The following page had a pie chart of how many women were missing organs, were menopausal, or were still menstruating. Did they really need to know this stuff? Chase thought. After that Lacey laid out her problem-solving method in numerical order with bullet points.

Chase barely contained her urge to make a fleet of paper airplanes and aim them at Lacey’s head. Instead, she made herself read the guidelines.

“Number One: Don’t bother with the obvious because it’s obvious.”

What the fuck, Chase thought. Lacey is the one in charge and she’s bonkers. She is in charge of the fate of the Republik of Lesbekistan—a two hundred strong hunk of dykeness—and she’s nuts. She is currently in charge of my life and she’s certifiably crazy.

Damn! She was going to need another appointment with Dr. Robicheck. Her synapsis was overriding her ability to edit her mental monologues—she’d used “currently,” “in charge” and a thesaurial variation of mentally unstable three times in a row. She looked askance at Lacey, who was tapping her pen as if the repetitive noise was going to speed up the problem solving.

Chase slipped her BlackBerry out of her front pocket and covertly texted Dr. Robicheck’s secretary. “When can I get in?”

While she waited for the return text, she read the next bullet point.

“Number Two: The solution should contain a minimum of twenty-four contingency plans.”

Sweet Jesus, even the United Nations couldn’t come up with that many solutions and they are professional diplomats. Chase rubbed her temples. She checked her phone. The tiny red light in the top corner of her BlackBerry blinked. Thank fucking God. It read, “She’s not available until next Wednesday at one forty-five. Is it life-threatening?”

Chase considered this. It wasn’t her own life she was concerned about—it was Lacey’s. She regarded her friend, who had stopped tapping her pen and was perusing a file folder full of papers. Chase missed her happy-go-lucky goofy friend, the one who took very few of life’s problems seriously. Had aliens abducted the real Lacey and replaced her with this megalomaniac? Was this what happened to people in power? They lost their senses of humor? Chase suppressed the urge to get up and tickle Lacey just to make her laugh. She texted back, “That will be fine.” It was only a week. She’d let this alien Lacey live another five days.

“Okay, I think that’s enough time. Who wants to go first?” Lacey demanded, eyeing the group and homing in on Chase.

Chase froze. She hadn’t given the problem any thought. This was as bad as being in college, not paying attention and then getting called on. Instinctively sensing inattention, the powers-that-be zoom in for the kill and wham! You find yourself in the crosshairs.

Donna knocked on the table. Lacey had decided that raising your hand was juvenile and smacked of patriarchal control so you knocked on the table when you wanted to speak. Well, Chase supposed, it could be worse.

“I really think that we should create a joint task force from the Menos and the Lefties to examine the issues concerning both parties,” Donna said.

“I’ll make the food,” Sophia said. “As we all know the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach.”

Lacey smiled and nodded. She seemed pleased, Chase thought.

“Gloria, your suggestion?” Lacey said, assuming she was the next in line for brilliant ideas.

Chase studied Gloria’s paper. She hadn’t written anything down either.

“I think Sophia should prepare Mexican food so we can have margaritas—there’s nothing a few pitchers of margaritas can’t solve,” Gloria said.

Chase smirked. Lacey would never let that one fly.

“That’s a well thought-out plan,” Lacey said.

“Get them all drunk?” Chase screeched.

“I prefer to refer to it as happy and cooperative,” Lacey said. She stared at Chase. “And what, pray tell, is your suggestion?”

Chase fumbled. Donna saved her. “The three bearded ladies are very fond of Chase. They did save her life. We could send her as our ambassador.”

Chase wasn’t certain which was the lesser evil—not having an answer or being an ambassador.

Lacey cocked her head and peered at Chase, who squirmed. “I think we’ll do all three—the fiesta, the margaritas and Chase’s ambassadorial debut.”

“And let’s do it on a full moon as indicative of menses,” Donna said.

“Perfect,” Lacey said. She clapped her hands in delight. “Problem solved. Thank you, my sisters.”

The group dispersed, and Chase almost made it to the door.

“Chase, a word please,” Lacey said.

Where had Lacey picked up that particular Briticism? It was straight out of PBS. It seemed unlikely Lacey watched PBS, but then she was no longer sure of any of Lacey’s behaviors.

Chase felt like she was back in the second grade when she had tied the shoelaces together on the sneakers of the little fucker who sat behind her and pulled her hair every day. He’d gotten up and fallen flat on his face.

She leaned up against the boardroom table and eyed Lacey warily. Either Chase or Lacey had done something wrong. Chase assumed it was the former. Besides Lacey never actually used the word “wrong,” but instead “behavior that needed to be modified,” to which Chase would mutter the word “laconic” under her breath.

Lacey closed the door and smiled at Chase in that way that said, “I love you so much, but you’re exasperating me.”

“Chase, sweetie darling,” Lacey said.

Oh, no, Chase thought, this was serious behavior modification.

“It was noted that yesterday you walked out of your writing class of which you are the instructor,” Lacey said, doing the Marty Feldman in that way that said, “You better have a good explanation for this.”

“Well,” she began. She couldn’t blame Divine Vulva for this. She had tried to explain to her various cohorts about the Divine Vulva and her counterpoint muse, Commercial Endeavor, but everyone, including Gitana, thought she was being metaphorical—everyone except Dr. Robicheck who squinted her eyes and rubbed her chin. Chase wondered if the chin rubbing was a tribute to Freud.

Dr. Robicheck had met the muses during one of Chase’s sessions. Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor had been seated on either side of Chase, eagerly awaiting this moment of coming out. Commercial Endeavor was dressed in a well-tailored gabardine suit and Divine Vulva had her best little black dress on. Commercial Endeavor had protested about this being an inappropriate outfit in which to meet Chase’s esteemed psychiatrist. However, after having seen the LBD, Commercial Endeavor blushed and ran her hand across Divine Vulva’s comely behind. She changed her mind, justifying it by saying that “someone as brilliant as Dr. Robicheck would not be interested in how one dressed, but rather in their mind.”

“Tell me about them,” Dr. Robicheck had said.

Chase introduced them and gave her a quick bio on each one. It had not been an easy process coming up with those. Good God, Chase thought, that had been like an act of Parliament.

“I see,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“I dressed up for an ‘I see’?” Divine Vulva muttered.

“Shush,” Commercial Endeavor said, putting her finger to her lips. “Wait.”

“Chase, is it possible that the Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor are products of your rather active imagination—a manifestation of the left and right sides of your brain?”

Chase sucked in her upper lip and winced. This was going to be très ugly.

“A manifestation! A fucking manifestation,” Divine Vulva said, leaping up. “Does a manifestation look this good in a little black dress—I think not.” She was screaming now.

Commercial Endeavor and Chase sat quietly watching her rant. “I didn’t think this coming out thing was a good idea,” Chase said.

“I know, but Vulva had her heart set on it,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“It’s hanging around all those lesbians at the Institute that brings it out in her—she gets militant,” Chase said.

“Muses have a long history in the creative arts,” Dr. Robicheck was saying.

“What the hell does she know?” Divine Vulva said, stamping her foot down and then flouncing back down on the couch next to Chase.

“You know, I’ve always thought it best for the human-muse connection to be kept under wraps. People outside the group just don’t get it,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“And it’s perfectly understandable that when a creative person experiences a spark of invention, she views these instances as divine intervention. As a writer it is entirely plausible to make up two different entities and give them names and personalities,” Dr. Robicheck said, staring blandly at Chase like she was rattling off a grocery list and Chase was acting as scribe.

“She thinks we’re your fucking imaginary friends,” Divine Vulva said, jumping up in a fury.

“Can you do something about her?” Chase said, pointing at Divine Vulva.

Commercial Endeavor looked dubious. “Like what?”

“Control her,” Chase suggested, glancing in Divine Vulva’s direction. She had her forefinger placed against her lower lip and was studying the artwork on the mocha-colored walls. Some of it looked original and expensive—nice watercolors of Southwestern vistas and adobe houses with ristras.

“Oh, like I can do that when you can’t. You’re the one in charge here. You should never have given her such free rein when she was a teenager—this is what happens to muses when there is no structure,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Great! That’s just what I need right now—a lecture from you on muse control. Thank you.”

“Now that we have discussed your muses and put them in context, I think we can better understand your psyche. I do find the names you’ve chosen for them interesting.”

“You didn’t name us. We named ourselves,” Commercial Endeavor hissed.

“All right. I’ve had enough of this psycho-babble. It’s time for action,” Divine Vulva said, taking a watercolor from the wall. Before Chase could stop her, she hurled it across the room. The painting hit the opposite wall and the protective glass cracked and tinkled to the floor.

Chase watched as Dr. Robicheck took in this new development. She wrinkled her brow and studied the damage and glanced at Chase. “Did I make one or both of them angry?”

“Divine Vulva—she’s the more volatile one,” Chase said.

“I see.”

“I guess you did,” Divine Vulva said, swinging her neck from side to side and putting her hands on her hips. She resembled a pissy Queen Latifah.

Chase leapt up and went to sort out the mess.

“No, leave it. I want to study this phenomena,” Dr. Robicheck said, getting up and contemplating the distance from one wall to the next.

By this time Commercial Endeavor had wrestled Divine Vulva to the door. “We’ll meet you at home for a family conference,” she said, wrenching Divine Vulva’s arm.

“Good idea,” Chase said.

Dr. Robicheck was now on her haunches and picking up pieces of glass as if making certain that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. “So this Divine Vulva…” she glanced around as if looking for her.

Chase, sensing her trepidation, said, “They’ve left.”

“I suppose under the circumstances that’s a prudent course of action. Now Divine Vulva, your muse, picked up and threw this painting because she didn’t like what I said.”

“It was your explanation of her existence. I think the painting is okay. It’s just the glass. I’ll pay for the repairs,” Chase said. She didn’t like the look in Dr. Robicheck’s eyes. She’d seen it before. Oh God, please, she thought, not again. She couldn’t bear being in another one of Dr. Robicheck’s papers in Abnormal Psychology Monthly. Chase had already been in one issue for her “Role Reversal Therapy.” She’d put Dr. Robicheck in the patient’s place as an empathetic learning experience for both parties. Now Chase had supplied more fodder.

“So, were you angry when I denied the muses’ existence?”

Chase didn’t meet her eye. “I told her this wasn’t a good idea, but Divine Vulva insisted and since Commercial Endeavor is pussy-whipped she’d do anything Vulva asked her to.”

“Pussy-whipped?”

It had gone downhill from there. Chase had to explain what pussy-whipped meant, which was not as easy as one would think. Chase had to Google the Urban Dictionary. The definition was helpful and Chase decided the “answering to another’s beck and call” was the best explanation. Dr. Robicheck got it.

It occurred to Chase that perhaps she was pussy-whipped by Lacey. Instead of blaming Divine Vulva for the defection, Chase hoisted up her big girl panties and said, “I’d like to resign.”

Her response sent Lacey into hyper-control drive. “You what?” Lacey’s eyes turned to slits—hostile slits to be exact. She looked terrifying.

“I just don’t think this whole Institute thing is working out for me. I’m a writer, not a teacher. I don’t make a good board member because I’m not punctual and I have a short attention span…” She would have gone on coming up with excuses except that Lacey grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

She stared hard into Chase’s eyes and said, “You can’t abandon ship. It’s not allowed and I’m not going to let you.”

“Yes, I can,” Chase said, feeling her ire getting up. “I’m a free citizen the minute I walk out of here, well, after I get my notebooks and pencils, I will be free.”

“You used ‘free’ twice in one sentence. You should be a writer,” Lacey taunted.

Chase colored. “I don’t write like that. I’m under duress at the moment.”

“No, you’re under house arrest,” Lacey said.

“Arrest? You can’t arrest me.”

“Are you aware of tribal law?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“The Native Americans are a sovereign nation.” Lacey was now into her President of the Boardroom mode. She assumed the posture—legs spread, arms akimbo.

“So?” Chase attempted to ease sideways and away from Lacey, but she was up against the cherry wood table.

“The Institute is also a sovereign nation.”

“You’re making that up,” Chase said, watching as Lacey fished in the pocket of her gray pinstriped suit.

“No, I’m not. I applied for and received a charter,” Lacey said, still patting herself down.

Chase wondered what she was fishing around for? Who carried the charter for the Republik of Lesbekistan around in the breast pocket of their suit coat? Maybe it was like the laminated card of lesbian rules that the Pink Mafia handed out.

Instead of pulling out the charter, Lacey produced a pair of handcuffs. She clicked them open. “Chase Banter, you are under arrest for desertion.”

Before Chase knew what happened her left wrist was handcuffed. Gathering her wits, she held her right arm as far away from Lacey as possible.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I don’t need your other hand,” Lacey said as she clamped the other cuff on her own wrist.

Chase was dumbstruck. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Lacey smiled at her. “We’re going to be spending some serious time together until you come to your senses.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, I am protecting my assets.”

“This is illegal.”

“Not in the Republik of Lesbekistan.”

Chapter Four—The Toy Store

“She’s what?” Gitana said, taking Bud’s hand as they sat on the couch in the den as Donna paced.

“She’s under house arrest,” Donna said.

“How can they arrest her?” Bud let go of her hand and fished around in her backpack.

“What has she been doing?” Gitana asked.

Bud took out her Panasonic HDC TM900 camcorder, switched it on and zoomed in on Gitana, who was biting her lip.

“Honey, do you really have to do that now?” Gitana said, looking disconcertedly at the camera.

“I need footage of interesting things. Chase getting arrested constitutes interesting.” She pointed the camera at Donna, who paid no mind as she paced. Bud climbed up on the back of the couch so she wasn’t recording Donna’s knees going back and forth. From this angle, Bud could see Donna’s upper body pacing back and forth. She looked like one of those ducks at the carnival shooting range.

“Actually, they can arrest her. The Institute is now the sovereign nation of Lesbekistan.”

Gitana’s eyes widened. Bud caught it on film. “Is she in a cell?” Gitana said.

Bud climbed down on the couch and nestled in next to her mother. The TM900 shook slightly. “Can we bring her food?” Bud said.

“This isn’t like that going-to-the-Gulag thing, is it?” Gitana said. She picked up the Communist Manifesto off the coffee table. “Is this for school?”

Bud turned the camera on herself. “Not exactly, but I am interested in Communism because I think it has relevance when it comes to state control. This house arrest thing with Chase is a perfect example.”

Donna stopped pacing. “She’s not in a cell. I don’t think Lacey has gotten around to building a prison yet. At the moment, according to my sources, she’s handcuffed to Lacey.”

Bud panned the TM900 over to Donna. “That’s worse than being in a cell.”

Donna looked down at the camcorder. “Is that a 3MOS 3D compatible?”

“Yes, with a Leica Dicomar lens with intelligent zoom with a hybrid O.I.S.”

“Can we get back to the task at hand?” Gitana said.

“You know, it occurred to me that from your height you are filming a lot of people’s nose hairs,” Donna said.

“I know.”

“Is that a good idea?” Gitana said, touching her nose.

“Yours don’t need trimming,” Bud said.

“I hope Lacey is smart enough to keep Chase away from sharp objects. I don’t want to be a prison wife,” Gitana said.

“And Chase doesn’t draw well, so we won’t get those artistic hand-drawn pictures on the envelopes,” Bud said, turning the TM900 back on herself.

“What are you talking about?” Gitana said.

“Prisoners write letters to their girlfriends and they draw pictures on the envelopes of things they like,” Bud said.

Donna regarded her quizzically or rather the camera that had become Bud’s face. “How do you know about those?”

“Jimmy Ferrari’s brother is in prison for burglary. Jimmy brings the envelopes from the letters he writes to show us.”

Gitana glanced at Donna. “What kind of drawings?” Gitana said.

“Usually, he brings the anatomical ones,” Bud said.

“What kind of anatomy?” Donna inquired. She watched as Bud set the camcorder on a tripod that she had positioned in the corner of the den for when group discussions were going to ensue.

“Breasts, mostly, and sometimes…” Bud pointed to her nether regions.

“Breasts and vaginas!” Donna squeaked.

Bud appeared nonplussed. “Like I haven’t seen those before. What I really need to see is a penis.” She stared at the TM900 pointedly as if it could produce one on the spot.

“What?” Gitana said.

“For my life drawing studies. I can draw women fairly well, but I need to learn to draw men complete with genitalia. I looked at all the dolls I could find and not one of them has any anatomical parts except Barbie with her pointy breasts and those are hardly lifelike by any stretch of the imagination.”

Gitana sighed and put her head in her hands. “What are we going to do?”

“About the penis or Chase?” Bud asked, watching as Donna stood behind the tripod and looked through the camcorder lens at the two of them.

“Right now, I think we should focus on Chase. We’ll deal with the penis issue later,” Donna said, adjusting the TM900 slightly and putting herself in the frame as she spoke.

“Can we get a lawyer or something?” Gitana said.

“Let’s not go that extreme just yet. We’ll try negotiation first,” Donna said. “I pulled up the charter on the Republik. Bud can read it to us while I drive and we’ll look for a loophole. Three heads are better then one.”

“Especially when one of us is a genius,” Gitana said, ruffling Bud’s curls.

Bud got up and started packing her video gear, which included the camcorder as well as her Contour HD 1080P helmet video camera.

“Is that a good idea?” Gitana said.

Donna stared from the helmet camera to Bud. “Bring it. We might be able to work it to our advantage. People act differently in front of the camera.”

Bud packed the camcorder and the tripod and checked to insure there was a spare battery.

Gitana grabbed some granola bars and two bottles of water for Chase. “Not that I lack confidence that we’ll get her out, but just in case. You never know what Lacey is capable of.”

In the car on the way down the road, Bud said, “Can we stop and get the mail? I’m expecting a packet.”

“Bud…” Gitana said, swiveling in her seat to find the camcorder back on. Bud saw her face jumping around as the TM900 moved with the car hitting the rocks and ruts.

“It’s not like Chase is going anywhere.”

“A packet?” Donna asked, peering in the rearview mirror. She glanced over at Gitana, who appeared nonplussed that Bud was receiving packets in the mail at the advanced age of six. “For what?”

“I’m going to get this fucking road paved.”

“Bud! Please don’t say that word.”

“That’s what everyone calls it,” she said, and as if to accentuate this fact the car lurched to one side and then bottomed out on a particularly bad patch.

“Fucking road,” Donna muttered as she maneuvered her car to avoid the ruts.

Bud panned the camcorder to Gitana, who’d turned to look at her. “Point taken.”

“So what exactly do you have planned?” Donna inquired as they pulled alongside the mailboxes at the end of the road.

“I’m petitioning the state government to argue that as tax-paying members of the community we are being discriminated against and give notice that I intend to put a stop to it,” Bud said, putting the camcorder on the seat and hopping out of the car.

“Hey, don’t you need the key?” Gitana said, rummaging around in her purse.

“I have my own.”

Gitana furrowed her brow and looked over at Donna, who shrugged.

“I had it made so I would have access to my mail,” Bud said.

“Do you get mail?” Gitana called out as Bud opened the mailbox.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Bud said, which became evident as Bud handed Gitana hers and Chase’s mail. She kept the bulk of the delivery for herself.

Donna appeared intrigued as she turned in her seat to survey the stack of stuff in Bud’s lap. “What is all that?”

“I get fan mail,” she pointed to one stack of letters. “And trade publications on painting, writing and illustrating.”

“I see,” Donna said. She pointed to a large packet. “Is that the state one?”

“No, these are my reviews and my to-do list from Myrna,” Bud said, perusing the list. She panned the TM900 in so the list came into the focus. “My life,” she spoke to the built-in microphone.

“Myrna does realize you’re six,” Gitana said.

Bud opened her eyes wide in her surely-you’re-kidding look which she captured with the camcorder by pointing it back at herself.

“Never mind,” Gitana said.

“Everyone buckled in?” Donna said.

“In this family we don’t go to the bathroom without a risk assessment chart,” Bud said. “Of course, we’re buckled in.”

Donna and Gitana both swiveled to look at her.

“I just said that for the benefit of the documentary,” Bud said.

Donna nodded.

“Are you setting the cruise control?” Bud asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Because I want you to tell the future viewing audience of the documentary about why you have a fear of the police,” Bud said.

“Bud!” Gitana said.

“No, it’s fine really. Well, last year I was running late and got a speeding ticket, which was bad enough, but it was the traffic school debacle that clinched it for me.”

“Because?” Bud prompted. She had the camcorder pointed at the rearview mirror so that Donna was visible but still had her eyes on the road.

“I attended the class with Chase, who insisted on going because she wanted to improve her safe driving skills, which is admirable in itself. However, she nearly got us lynched by the other students in the parking lot after the class finally got out because she asked so many questions that the class ran over two hours. Ever since then, I never speed and one place where a person is prone to speed is on the highway, so I set the cruise control.”

“Well done,” Bud said, setting the TM900 back on the seat.

“Can’t we go at least five over, since it is an emergency?” Gitana said.

Donna didn’t waver. “No.”

Gitana sighed. “Maybe the documentarian shouldn’t have reminded her about the speeding ticket debacle.”

“I could not withstand another trauma,” Donna said.

As they drove down the road at exactly the speed limit of sixty-five, Bud tapped Gitana on the shoulder with a pen. “You’ll need to sign this as I am a minor.” She handed her a set of official forms from the state of New Mexico Roads and Circulations Bureau.

Gitana took the documents. “Do you really think you can convince the state government to give us a new road?”

“Oh shit!” Donna said, studying the rearview mirror.

“What?” Gitana said, so alarmed that she forgot to admonish her for swearing in front of Bud.

“It’s the police,” Donna said, swerving slightly as she turned around to make certain.

“Donna!” Gitana said.

“I had to make sure.”

“You’re going the speed limit,” Gitana said.

“That’s what is making him suspicious,” Bud said, panning the camcorder at the police cruiser as it followed them. “No one goes the speed limit in New Mexico.”

“Well, let’s all act normal and he’ll just pass us by because we aren’t doing anything,” Gitana said.

“You’re right. We need to behave as if having a police car behind us is nothing out of the ordinary,” Donna said.

“Okay. So Bud, tell me what is your plan for persuading the most obstinate entity on the planet—the state government—to pave our road?” Gitana inquired.

Donna was still peering in the rearview mirror.

“I’m going to schedule a presentation and demonstrate what happens to a person’s internal organs when they are constantly barraged by jolting.”

“What?” Gitana said, her confusion evident.

Bud now had the camcorder set up on the shelf behind the backseat. She explained, “The road is slowly damaging our internal organs. I plan to show how, over time, we are suffering this damage. I am making it a health and safety issue, which falls under state law on traffic safety.”

“But how?” Gitana studied Donna’s white knuckles on the steering wheel as Bud panned in on them.

“Collins and I are building a machine that we have tentatively named the Jolt-A-Matic. I know it sounds corny, but it suits the purpose. We’re going to measure the amount of force the bumpy road exerts on kidneys, hearts and livers.”

“Where exactly are you going to get these body parts?” Gitana said.

“The university morgue. Collins’s cousin works there and he’s getting us a loaner set.”

Both she and Bud noticed how Donna, who normally would have been extremely inquisitive over Bud’s proposal, hadn’t said a word. Instead, she kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the police cruiser, who was now tailgating them. As if on cue, he flipped on the lights.

“Oh, my fucking God! What have I done?” Donna said, slowing down and pulling to the side of the road. Her face was beet red and she was shaking.

Gitana rummaged in the glove box for the registration.

“Top right in the black leather holder,” Donna said in an automaton’s voice.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Bud offered.

“No!” Gitana said.

Bud captured her urgency on film.

“Let Donna do the talking.” She eyed Donna. “Are you going to be able to talk?”

“I don’t know,” she screeched. “Oh, God, oh God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Gitana pinched her shoulder hard.

“Ouch! Why’d you do that?”

“To pinch you out of it. You were in shock,” Gitana said.

The bullhorn from the police car boomed out, “Everyone out of the car and keep your hands above your head and put them on the roof of the car.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what did I do?” Donna said, trying to unclick the seat belt that she had succeeded in jamming.

“Donna, calm down,” Gitana said, leaning over and unbuckling it for her. “Bud, get out of the car on my side. Donna, here is the registration and your wallet.”

“Okay, I need to be calm, cool and collected.”

“I’m taking the 1080,” Bud said. She put on her Contour HD 1080P helmet camera. It wasn’t the best for filming as it captured a lot of kneecaps and nose hairs, but it was better than nothing in certain situations.

Gitana looked skeptical. “Just in case we encounter anything untoward,” Bud said.

“Untoward?” Gitana said.

“Police brutality,” Bud said.

“But we haven’t done anything,” Gitana said.

“Then why have we been pulled over?” Bud retorted.

Gitana frowned. “You’ve got a point,” she said, as they exited   the car.

“Put your hands on top of the car,” the police officer said. He was as tall as he was wide and wore mirrored sunglasses. His nametag read “Officer Juan Baca.” He swaggered over and looked down at Bud, who had her hands up in the air. “I said, put your hands on the roof of the car,” he said imperiously.

“I can’t. I’m too short,” Bud replied.

“Are you getting smart with me?”

“Officer…” Gitana interjected.

He held up his hand for silence.

“No, sir, I am simply stating the obvious, but if you give me a minute I will comply to the best of my abilities,” Bud said.

She climbed on the bumper, then up the hood and onto the roof of the car. She sat down with her palms flat on the roof of the car.

The police officer nodded approvingly. “She’s a smart little bugger.” He studied her helmet for a moment but said nothing.

“Officer, what exactly have we done?” Gitana asked.

Twenty minutes later, Donna banged her head on the steering wheel and said, “I should never have put that stuff in my trunk.”

She was about to do it again, when Gitana put out a restraining arm.

“Well, at least it wasn’t the illegal aliens he was looking for. It could’ve been worse,” Bud said as she scrolled back through the entire affair, which she had captured on film. This footage was priceless, and she couldn’t wait to see it.

Donna turned on them. “We will never, under any circumstances whatsoever, speak of this again. I want you to swear that you won’t tell anyone, I mean anyone. It’s like the whole thing never happened. In fact, I am erasing it from my memory as we speak.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Bud said.

Gitana studied her. Bud looked at her innocently. Showing, after all, isn’t telling, is it?

Chapter Five—The Escape

Chase stared at the Norton Anthology of American Lierature, Volume One. This was definitely torture above and beyond something as horrid as waterboarding. There wasn’t anything else to do or read unless she recanted her resignation. Despite being in a library, she could only pine after a good book, because she was handcuffed to a library chair.

“That bitch,” Chase muttered, as she skimmed the table of contents in search of something tolerable. Early American fiction left a lot to be desired. She remembered the dreadful class that spawned this book. The only enlightening part of it was when she wrote the term paper on women in fiction in which she compared how English writers felt American writers were lesser beings similar to the way male writers viewed female writers of the time. “Sweet Jesus on the cross,” she said. Holy shit, she was beginning to sound like Gitana.

“Are you praying?” a disembodied voice said from the gloom.

“No, I was swearing,” Chase said, peering into the dimness.

“Why?” the voice said.

“Because I was thinking about the convoluted term paper I wrote in my Early American Lit class.” Chase knew she was desperate because she was exhibiting chatty behavior.

“I hated that class,” the woman said, coming out of the stacks.

It was Eve, one of the students in Chase’s lesfic class. Relief at the prospect of having someone to alleviate the boredom and perhaps get her a decent book turned to trepidation as Eve sat on the edge of the library table close to Chase—too close. This was worse than when she’d gotten trapped in the kitchen by that lecherous linguist who cornered her up against the kitchen island and tried to kiss her. At least in a kitchen, you had a chance of extricating yourself. Being handcuffed to a chair did not afford this luxury. She was going to kill Lacey for this.

“Lacey told me you were in here. She said you were incarcerated for attempting to subvert the ruling party. She called you a Trotsky.”

“Well, you can tell her she’s acting like Stalin without the hair gel and mustache,” Chase retorted. “So, I am a political prisoner?”

“Apparently.” Eve crossed her legs and studied Chase, who squirmed under her attention. “Do you need anything?”

“Other than the key to the handcuffs or…” she thought for a moment, “perhaps a hacksaw.” The chair was metal and possibly the chair rail she was attached to could be sawed off.

Eve glanced down at the Norton Anthology. “This is definitely cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I know. Just wait until I get my hands on her.”

“It’s going to be okay. She needs you, and she’s really freaked out at the thought that you might leave. She loves you so much.”

Chase eyed Eve. There was nothing worse than having a long-haired, tie-dye-wearing, green-eyed goddess tell you about peace, love and understanding.

“She’s got an awfully funny way of showing it. Thank God, she doesn’t have access to Siberia or I’d already be on the train, and I highly doubt I’d be given long underwear.”

Eve laughed. “How about I get you another book to read?”

“Well…it would make the time go faster,” Chase conceded. “If I can’t have the hacksaw.”

“What would you like?”

Chase pondered. “How about Catch-22?”

Eve laughed again. “Really?”

Chase was indignant. “What’s wrong with Catch-22?” Chase worked herself into a fervor. “Joseph Heller was absolutely brilliant when he wrote that, and I think his ability to chronicle the absurd stands by itself in the literary landscape. It’s the grown-up version of Alice in Wonderland,” Chase said.

“Okay, okay, calm down.” Eve came up behind her and began rubbing her shoulders. Chase didn’t notice because she was still ranting about Joseph Heller.

“That was the first book he ever wrote, and as one interviewer put forth, it was his best and when asked how he felt about that, he said, ‘At least I have one.’”

Chase was still diatribing when Donna, Gitana and Bud came in. They stood staring. Eve stopped rubbing Chase’s shoulders and stepped back.

“Thank God, you’re here. How’d you find me?”

“I have my inside sources,” Donna said.

“You’ve got to get me out of here before I go stark raving mad.”

“I was just going to get her another book to read, to pass the time,” Eve said, not meeting Gitana’s eye.

“Sure you were,” Gitana said, glaring at Eve.

“Instead of giving Chase a back rub while you look for a book, you could find Lacey and keep her busy,” Donna said curtly.

“Good idea,” Eve said, blushing slightly.

Bud gave her the stink eye.

Chase was quizzical about their behavior toward Eve, but it wasn’t foremost in her mind. “Can’t you guys do something?” she pleaded. She was getting panicky.

Bud surveyed the handcuff, as did Donna. Bud looked up at her. “Reciprocating saw with a metal cutting blade,” Bud suggested.

“If there’s enough clearance,” Donna said. “Chase, how far can you scoot to the right?”

Chase moved as far as she could without dislocating her shoulder.

Bud and Donna nodded simultaneously. “I’ll go find Gloria,” Donna said.

“No, send Bud. She’s less noticeable,” Gitana said.

“You’re right. If Lacey sees her she won’t be inclined to ask a lot of questions,” Donna said.

“Why not?” Chase asked.

“Because it would be embarrassing and politically damaging if Bud had a wailing fit when she found out that Lacey had incarcerated her mother,” Donna said.

“Precisely, she’s gonna steer clear of me,” Bud said. She measured the width of the chair backing with her finger.

“Don’t use ‘gonna’ please,” Chase said.

“I have to use some thug talk so I don’t appear too precocious—remember?” Bud replied.

Chase had advised Bud to slip in some slang from time to time to tone down her already vast vocabulary, telling Bud that she sounded like the New York Times crossword puzzle. “Just throw in some slangy stuff,” she had told Bud.

“Like what?” Bud asked.

Chase had been stuck for an example and then Dorothy Sayers came to mind. Her famous protagonist, Peter Wimsey, dropped the ends of words. “I know, drop the final ‘g’ on verbs.”

“I’ll try.”

“Now, get a move on. We don’t know how much time we have before someone comes to check on Chase,” Donna said.

“I think we have some time. Lacey left Chase to read a thousand-page anthology,” Gitana said.

“True,” Donna said. She peered out the door. “It’s all clear. Go.” She gave Bud a gentle shove like she was pushing her out of an airplane on some reconnaissance mission. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Donna kept lookout until Bud was down the hall and then went to examine the handcuff. “We should be able to extricate you from the chair, but I’m not so sure about getting the handcuff off your wrist. It doesn’t look like regulation police issue.”

“How do you know about that?” Gitana asked.

Donna blushed slightly. “Well…it’s kind of a long story.”

Chase’s interest was piqued. “It’s not like we have anything to do right now while we wait for the reciprocating saw. Tell us.”

“Oh, I had a friend who had a set of cuffs and one of the cuffs was clamped to the bed and my friend misplaced the key.”

“A friend?” Chase said. Had Donna had a sordid past before Chase knew her? What if Chase’s fans found out that her PA was a sex addict or porn freak?

Donna must have sensed Chase’s anxiety. “It’s not like that.”

“Like what?” Gitana inquired.

“I swear I haven’t done anything untoward, and it really was a friend. Her mother was coming for a visit and she needed the handcuff removed. Her mother is a Southern Baptist.”

“Oh,” Chase said.

“How’d you get it off?” Gitana asked.

“We didn’t.”

“Fuck,” Chase said.

“So what did you do about the Southern Baptist mother?” Gitana said.

“My friend,” Donna said, emphasizing the word “friend,” “had to purchase another headboard.”

Chase wasn’t completely sold on the “friend” scenario. She supposed it was plausible.

“Who is this friend?” She used her free hand to do air quotes first on one side of the word “friend” and then on the other. Being one handed evidently was not conducive to certain activities. She wondered how amputees managed. How did a person cut her food with only one hand? Getting dressed would definitely be a trial. And what about tying your shoes or even trying to write or turn the page of a book? Things scooted around a lot if there was no other hand to hold them still. Of course, there was that one guy who typed an entire book with his left foot.

“I am not at liberty to say,” Donna replied.

“At liberty to say what?” Chase said.

“To talk about my friend who had the handcuff problem,” Donna said.

“Oh, that. What are you, part of the CIA Department of Kinky?” Chase said.

“Chase, leave her be,” Gitana said.

Donna was saved by the timely arrival of Bud and Gloria.
“You weren’t seen, were you?” Donna said, once again peering down the long corridor.

“No, Lacey and her henchmen are in another meeting on the State of the Union,” Gloria said, setting the reciprocating saw and a collection of blades down on the library table. Bud was testing the sharpness and quality of the blades as well as their condition by running her thumb across the teeth of each blade and then twisting it to check for strength.

“Be careful; those are sharp,” Chase said.

Bud raised an eyebrow and said, “I may only be six, but I am not an idiot when it comes to dangerous power tools. I am only seeking to ascertain which blade will be most suited to the task at hand.”

“Damn, that kid uses a lot of ten-dollar words,” Gloria said.

Chase shot Bud a look, but she only shrugged and said, “I can’t help myself.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. If Mensa hasn’t called by noon, I think we’re safe,” Gitana said.

Gloria put her fingers to her lips. “Mum’s the word.”

“I wonder where that colloquialism originated,” Chase said.

“No wonder Bud talks the way she does,” Gloria said.

“We can Google it later,” Donna said, looking around furtively. “I think we’d be better off moving her back by the carrels. That way if someone comes in they won’t see us immediately.”

“And if anyone hears the saw, I can say that I’m doing some maintenance work,” Gloria said.

“Good plan,” Donna said.

“How are we going to get her back there?” Gitana said.

“Actually, you can move,” Bud said.

“How?” Chase inquired.

“Stand up,” Bud instructed.

Chase did so. She could scoot with the chair. Not very fast, but she could move. “I wish I’d thought of that when I desperately needed a book.”

“Just sayin’…” Bud said.

“However,” Donna said, as Chase inched forward laboriously. “She doesn’t move very fast.”

“Carry her,” Gloria said, preparing to lift one side of the chair. “You two get the other side,” she said, pointing to Donna and Gitana.

“I’m not that heavy,” Chase said, pinching her stomach to see if she had more than the doctor-advised inch.

“It’s called balance,” Gloria said.

“I’ll bring the tools,” Bud said.

“Good idea, kid,” Gloria said.

“How come you let Gloria call you ‘kid’ and no one else?” Chase inquired as they lifted her chair.

“Because when Gloria says it, I view it as a term of endearment. When others say it, I find it derogatory,” Bud said.

“Oh,” Chase said. Perhaps it was like when straight people used the word “dyke,” a word which was acceptable for a lesbian to use but was derogatory when used by others.

“Where is Isabel?” Gitana asked.

“She’s on a book-buying trip in Denver—Lord knows you can’t get shit here,” Chase said, as they carried her along like some Indian—the red-dot-on-the-forehead kind—in a litter. At least she felt no guilt for her portage, not thinking it an entitlement as it had been in times of old. How could one class of human being do that to another?

They set her down among the carrels. Gloria and Bud surveyed the library chair. Bud tapped at a chair rail with the saw blade. It didn’t sound hollow.

“What do you think?” Gloria asked Bud.

Chase wasn’t certain whether Gloria really needed Bud’s input or was just being polite. But why would she feel the need to be polite? Bud was proficient at discerning patronization. However, Chase ruminated, no one here, barring Donna who’d been unsuccessful, had ever attempted the removal of handcuffs.

“I think we’re going to have to make two cuts, above and below the cuff and release it that way with her hand still cuffed and then deal with getting it off her wrist later,” Bud said.

“But what if you slip and cut her hand off?” Gitana said.

“We’ll be careful,” Gloria said.

“Are you partial to that hand?” Chase said, wiggling her fingers suggestively.

Gitana smiled. “Well, yes.”

“I mean, I could probably live without it,” Chase teased.

“This is not the time to get flirty, you two,” Donna said, giving them disapproving looks. “We need to get her free before the Pink Mafia arrives and we all end up being handcuffed to library chairs. This is the Republik of Lesbekistan.”

“Don’t remind me—the country where anything goes,” Chase said.

“But how are we going to get her hand out of the cuff?” Gitana said.

“Once we remove it from the chair, Chase can go on a hunger strike until her hand shrinks enough to slip out,” Gloria said.

Chase looked alarmed.

“I’m kidding,” Gloria said. “We’ll figure something out.” She handed Bud a pair of safety glasses and put on her own. “I’ll need you to supervise and tap my forearm as the signal that I am getting too close to her hand. I’d hate to be responsible for adversely affecting her career.” She glanced over at Gitana.

“She’s right-handed and that’s her left,” Bud pointed out.

“I meant as a lesbian,” Gloria said.

“Oh.”

Chase wondered if Bud used “oh” in the sense she did—a monosyllabic way of acknowledging that something had been said, but that one was unable to come up with an acceptable response to an awkward situation.

Gloria turned the reciprocating saw on, and Chase watched as Gitana winced and Donna bit her lip. John Irving’s book The Fourth Hand came to mind. In the novel, the loss of the hand served as a metaphor as well as a prop. What would the metaphor in her case be? Don’t cross a crazy lesbian dictator or you’ll lose a hand and ruin a perfectly good library chair. The chair vibrated with the motion of the saw, and Chase hoped it wouldn’t take long, but when Gloria turned off the saw and she was not released, Chase became concerned. “It’s not working?” she said in a panic.

“Yes, it’s working. The saw got hot and we need to let it cool down,” Gloria said.

Bud put her hand on Chase’s shoulder and said, “We will get you out of this.”

Chase made a gallant effort not to be overwhelmed as well as claustrophobic. “Maybe we could take me home and unweld me or something.”

“We’d more than likely light you on fire in the process,” Gloria said.

Bud nodded. “It would take an acetylene torch to do it and that is dangerous,” Bud said.

“How do you know so much about tools?” Gloria asked.

“I study the Northern Tools catalog and then cross-reference the tools I am interested in and that might prove useful in my life and then I learn how to use them, even if only in a theoretical sense…” Bud was saying.

“Get me out of this fucking chair!” Chase bellowed.

Donna clapped a hand over her mouth. “Keep it down or the Pink Mafia will get wise and you’ll be living in this chair.”

Chase muttered about sixteen expletive deletives before Donna removed her hand. It wasn’t apparent whether she let go out of pity or because Chase licked the palm of her hand. She knew that would gross Donna out.

Donna wiped her hand on a Kleenex, and Bud handed her a dollop of antibacterial gel from the small container she always kept in her pocket for such emergencies.

“That was disgusting,” Donna said.

“It was an extreme measure,” Chase admitted. “I hope your hand was clean.”

Donna pursed her lips. “I sanitized them after I entered the building—door handles are a germ convention in the making, especially in a high-traffic environment.”

“I think we’d better get going on that chair again,” Gitana suggested.

“Right,” Gloria said. She appeared to be contemplating heavy traffic germ factories also. Bud must have sensed this and gave her a dollop of gel. Gloria looked relieved. “Thanks, kid.” She rubbed her hands clean, waited for the alcohol to dry and then changed out the saw blade.

“Good thing we have four more,” Bud said, examining the discarded one.

“Two for the top and two for the bottom?” Donna said. “I mean, can’t we just make one cut and bend it?”

“Have you felt the metal? This is heavy-duty stuff,” Gloria said.

“Do you think Lacey has done this before?” Gitana said, leaning down to inspect the chair back.

Chase consided this. “Perhaps. When I was first taken, Lacey told Chino and Dixon to take me to the library. I thought she was being somewhat conciliatory by putting me in a place where I’d be comfortable. Of course, I didn’t imagine being handcuffed to a library chair with only the Norton Anthology to keep me company. I mean, that was cruel. Of course, if I’d figured out that I could walk with the chair…” she said, looking at Bud embarrassed.

“It’s not a big deal. There’s always a learning curve when one is presented with a new situation,” Bud said.

Gitana studied the chair ruefully. Bud took her hand. “We’ll get her out of this, don’t worry.”

“The problem is that the chair back rails are solid metal. I figured on them being hollow,” Gloria said, sucking in her bottom lip.

“What are you saying—that you can’t get me out of here?” Chase said, her voice getting high and squeaky.

“Shhh…someone will hear you,” Donna said.

“We’re the only ones in here,” Chase retorted. “Which is sad when you think about it. Does this mean that Isabel has gone to all this trouble to essentially create the Library of Alexandria for lesbian writings and no one is interested?”

“Chase, I don’t think now is the time to discuss library politics,” Gitana said.

“I know, but it is a depressing commentary on the state of lesbian literary affairs.”

“Chase, right now we need to get you out of this chair—we can work on library science issues later,” Gitana said.

“Actually, I think everyone is busy attending seminars. Today is packed with three of the most sought-after ones,” Gloria said.

“Which are?” Chase inquired.

“The first one is ‘Contrarian Minimalism,’ followed by ‘Working through Coffee Crash Burnout,’ and finally ‘Lesbian Mannerial Proclivities,’” Gloria said.

“Wow,” Gitana said. “What does all that mean?”

“Contrarian Minimalism is about narrowing down your focus of the things that bother a person prone to curmudgery. Coffee Crash Burnout is like an AA meeting where everyone sits around and tells stories about their caffeine addiction and what led to it and how they are handling a caffeine-free life. Lesbian Mannerial Proclivities is kind of complicated, and it involves a lot of role-playing activities,” Gloria said.

“Yikes,” Gitana said.

Chase hoped that Lacey wouldn’t put her in any of those classes as a punishment for insurrection.

“It probably helped that I put a sign up that said the library is closed for dusting,” Bud informed them as she dug around in her backpack.

“Dusting?” Chase said. “And people believed that?”

“I’ve discovered that most people believe most of what they are told—giving very little thought to the actual problem or incident. The media and the powers-that-be tell them something is one way or another and they believe it. You’d be surprised at how much disinformation is taken as absolute truth, especially by the talk radio crowd. No one really spends any time reflecting on a subject—it’s absolutely reprehensible,” Bud said.

Gloria stood wide-eyed. “Is she like a genius or something?”

Chase gave Bud an I-told-you-so look.

Bud shrugged and pulled out her TM900 camcorder. She started filming.

Gitana confessed. “She is extremely advanced for her age.”

Donna, normally the sane, well-mannered one, hissed, “Yes, Bud is a genius, and yes, the state of the world is essentially an idiocracy in the making, and yes, library usage is statistically in decline, but right now the only thing that is of any FUCKING importance is getting Chase out of that chair.”

As if on cue, Bud zoomed in on Chase and the chair and then moved behind her so she got the handcuff in view.

“She’s right,” Gitana said, checking her watch. “It’s eleven thirty. I’m sure no matter how angry Lacey is, she will send you lunch.”

“What exactly are you doing?” Chase asked, watching as Bud panned the group.

“I’m creating a docudrama of our lives,” Bud said, setting the camcorder on the edge of a carrel and coming to Gloria’s side.

Gloria and Bud simultaneously put their hands on their hips and studied the chair. If Bud had had on a dark blue Dickies uniform with her name on the pocket, she’d have looked just like Gloria’s maintenance apprentice.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Gloria said to Bud, who shook her head resignedly.

“Not with our current time constraints,” Bud agreed.

Chase whirled around as best she could. “What does that mean? I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a chair. How am I going to pee?”

She shouldn’t have brought that up because her bladder took the hint.

“Stop it!” Gitana said.

“Stop what?” Chase said.

“The panic attack you are about to have,” Gitana replied.

“Oh, that.” Chase took some deep breaths like Dr. Robicheck had instructed her to in an effort to stave off the impending panic attack. She inhaled, held it for five seconds and then tried to visualize her lungs pushing the air out. This usually made her dizzy, which stopped the panic attack because she focused on not fainting instead of panicking—a classic diversionary tactic.

“I think we need to remove her from the premises and then work on the chair,” Donna said.

As if to accentuate Donna’s point, the oversized wood doors of the library opened and they heard Lacey’s voice. “I think we’ve given her enough time to reconsider her errant behavior.”

One thing Chase could say for Lacey was that ever since she’d become a dictator her vocabulary had improved.

“I wouldn’t be certain about that. She’s a loose cannon,” Chino said.

“You don’t know how much she hates the Norton Anthology of Early American Literature,” Lacey said.

Gitana, Donna and Gloria stood frozen. It was Bud, who, with the quick reflexes of a child, took action. “Grab the chair. We’ve got to move, now.” She pointed to the rear exit that opened into the old observatory-turned-meditation room.

Gloria and Donna each grabbed a side of the chair and tiptoed toward the door. Chase didn’t think carrying a person in a chair while tiptoeing was a good idea, but under the circumstances she held her tongue. Gitana pushed on the exit door slowly to avoid making noise. They all held their breath as she eased it open. Donna backed out the door, looking over her shoulder so she could see where she was going. Gloria followed her lead. Bud lingered to listen to what was transpiring in the center of the library.

“What the fuck?” Lacey said.

“She’s escaped,” Chino said.

“In a chair?” Lacey said.

“That woman is capable of anything. You go that way and I’ll go this way.”

Gitana grabbed Bud’s hand. “We’ve got to go,” she whispered.

They went through the door to find themselves in the middle of a meditation class. The “ooommms” from the class masked the clattering of their footfalls across the hardwood floor. Good thing the meditators had mats, Chase thought, or they’d have hemorrhoids from sitting on a hard surface for hours on end—it was a medically documented fact that too much sitting caused the condition.

“Excuse me, pardon us,” Donna said, as they shuffled their way through the classroom and to the exit on the east wall of the room, which opened onto a Zen garden. The garden was artfully arranged with several smooth, round, granite stones and a stunted juniper tree trimmed to resemble a bonsai. The even strokes of a rake had carved rows across the surface of the sand. Their footprints destroyed the serenity of the garden. Bud dragged a rake behind them.

“Bud, do you really think this is the time for being persnickety?” Gitana said.

“I’m covering our tracks,” Bud said.

Chase turned around in her chair. “Don’t talk to your mother in that tone of voice.”

“Perhaps we could have this family discussion elsewhere,” Gloria said. She was sweating from the effort.

Chase regretted having that cheesecake yesterday. She would have abstained had she known she was going to be carried across a field. Donna tripped on a rock and they nearly dropped her.

“Gitana, you and Bud go get my car and we’ll meet you on the bypass. Bud, dig in my pocket for the keys,” Donna said, as they stopped for breath and the car key removal.

Bud complied and they both took off running. Bud still had the TM900 on her shoulder, and Chase knew that she’d never be able to watch that scene without getting motion sickness.

Chase kept glancing behind her. She sniggered. Lacey and Chino hadn’t spent much time in the library or they’d know there was a back exit door.

They reached the bypass as Gitana and Bud sped into the empty dirt circle that marked the end of the road. The dirt cloud and spinning of tires alarmed Chase, who reprimanded Gitana. “Do you know how dangerous it is to drive fast on gravel? The tires slide over the top of the gravel and create a hydroplaning effect.”

“Do you want to be recaptured?” Gitana said as she got out of the driver’s seat so Donna could take over. “And God-only-knows what she’d give you for reading material after this shenanigan.”

“Well, no, of course not. What the fuck?” Chase said, alarmed as Donna and Gloria tipped the chair on its side and shoved it in the backseat.

Gloria patted her ankle, the only part of her that was accessible. “No worries, buddy. I’ll keep you all posted on the activities here.” She shut the back door.

“Chase, I thought as a family we would use the letters WTF instead of the F word,” Gitana said.

“Please, can’t we discuss family politics after we’ve completed the mission?” Donna said, her voice laced with exasperation.

Poor Donna, Chase thought. She was feeling generous toward her until Donna took off at high speed and motion sickness kicked in. “I’m going to puke,” Chase said.

“Hold on,” Bud said, digging around in her backpack and pulling out a first-aid kit.

“Where’d you get that?” Chase asked.

“Addison set it up for me.” Bud pulled out a Dramamine patch and slapped it on Chase’s wrist. “This will help—just give it a minute.”

“Please, don’t puke in my car,” Donna said. “Vomit is extremely difficult to remove.”

“And it smells disgusting,” Bud said.

“What did you have for breakfast?” Donna asked.

“An omelet,” Chase replied. Just thinking about it made her queasy.

“Double disgusting,” Donna said, turning off the bumpy dirt road and onto Highway 41.

“I’m so glad everyone is concerned with my welfare.”

“Oh, we are, baby,” Gitana said, patting Chase’s head.

“Now, I understand how Jane feels when she’s going to puke in the car and I pat her,” Chase said.

“Who’s Jane?” Gitana said, glancing over Chase’s head and out the rear window.

“Our dog, duh,” Chase said.

“Oh, that Jane. Well, at the moment your head is your most accessible part.”

“We need a plan,” Donna said, as she exceeded the posted speed limit, Chase noticed.

Gitana noticed as well. “What about that police officer we…uh saw on the way in?”

“We’ll just have to take the risk,” Donna said.

“So do you have a plan yet?” Chase said, hoping five seconds was long enough for Donna to come up with something. She felt less nauseous. The Dramamine must have kicked in.

Donna hit the steering wheel with her palm.

“Eureka!” Bud said.

“I’ve got it. Louie can pick the lock on the handcuff. Fuck sawing the chair.” She glanced at Gitana apologetically. She slowed down and flipped the car around.

“Where are we going?” Gitana asked.

“Santa Fe, to see a friend of mine.”

“A friend who picks locks? Is he a locksmith?” Chase said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Donna said.

“Can he get me out of them?” Chase said.

“I’m hoping,” Donna said, still holding the car at a solid eighty miles an hour and periodically glancing in the rearview mirror.

She did slow as they approached the outskirts of Santa Fe, which Chase thought prudent considering how difficult it would be for Donna to explain why she had a woman handcuffed to a chair in her backseat.

“Are you feeling any better?” Bud asked, taking Chase’s free hand and squeezing it.

“Yes, thank you for being concerned.”

“We are ALL concerned,” Donna snapped as they exited onto Old Pecos Trail.

“I wasn’t saying you weren’t,” Chase said.

“I’m sorry,” Donna said. “I’m just so stressed out. What with the dildo thing and now this.”

“The dildo thing?” Chase said.

“Let’s not get into that just now,” Gitana said.

“What dildo thing?” Chase said, looking at Bud and wondering if she should be asking about dildos in front of Bud.

“I’ll show you the footage later. It’s pretty funny,” Bud said.

“You’re filming dildos?” Chase said, her voice getting high-pitched.

“Stop talking about it, right this minute,” Gitana said, shooting both Bud and Donna warning looks.

“She’s right. We’ll explain later,” Donna said. She glanced in the rearview mirror and then made a quick right into a narrow street that resembled an alley. It dead-ended at a solid adobe wall. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

“What is this place?” Chase said.

Donna was out the door before Chase could make any further inquiries.

Bud piped up, “It looks like a den of iniquity.”

“I’m thinking Donna has a checkered past,” Gitana said, rolling down the window and peering out to get a better look. Chase wished she could see.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bud said.

“Why?” Gitana asked.

“Because we’re under survelliance,” Bud said, scanning the building and then pointing discreetly to the small video camera hidden by a ristra.

“What the fuck kind of place is this?” Chase said, squirming around in the chair trying to get a better look at the place. This proved futile. “Goddamnit!”

Bud dug around in her backpack for the Mentos, located them and gave one to Chase. “Only for medicinal purposes.”

“I know,” Chase said, her anxiety and distress abating. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chase’s heart swelled. Not only did Bud have a great vocabulary, she had good manners. What more could a parent want? Excepting a Pulitzer, but there was time for that.

Donna quickly returned. She slid into the driver’s seat and said, “It’s all set. Louie says it’s no problem.”

“Louie the locksmith,” Chase said dubiously.

“Look, the guy is a pro—he can pick, crack and blow up any lock on the planet. I thought you’d be grateful. Bud, you need to put the camera away, though. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I am grateful, well, I will be when he gets me out of this chair.”

“Donna, is Louie a criminal?” Gitana said.

The adobe wall swung inward and Donna maneuvered the car through it. “Define criminal.”

“Is the wall supposed to shut behind us like that?” Gitana said, alarm registering in her voice as she gazed out the back window.

“We’re trapped inside a compound with a criminal or criminals,” Chase said, her voice growing high-pitched again.

“I think we should let Donna explain about Louie before we go jumping to conclusions,” Bud said.

“Thank you, Bud,” Donna said as she slowly drove the car to the rear of the compound. There was quiet.

“So?” Gitana said.

“Louie is retired.”

“From?” Chase prodded.

“He worked for some corporations of, shall we say, less than upright business dealings,” Donna said.

“So he’s a criminal,” Chase said, starting to wiggle in her chair again as images of The Godfather popped into her head.

“No, he worked for criminals.”

“There’s a difference?” Chase said, her agitation growing. Bud handed her another Mento like she was a seal at the zoo.

“Actually, there is,” Bud said.

“How so?” Gitana inquired her left eyebrow raised in a gesture of I-can’t-wait-to-see-how-you-are-going-pull-this-out-of-your-ass. Chase was undecided if this was an inappropriate gesture to give your child.

“He could have been forced into this criminal life through blackmail or circumstances such as the bad guys holding his only begotten son for ransom or a threat to his own life if he did not perform the criminal tasks set before him,” Bud said.

“Please don’t talk like that in front of these people,” Gitana said.

At least now, Gitana was on the bandwagon about keeping Bud’s IQ in low-profile mode, Chase thought.

“Is that the case?” Chase said, the Mentos clicking against her teeth. She hoped talking with a mouthful of Mentos didn’t fall into the bad manners category.

“Well, not exactly,” Donna hedged.

“How not exactly?” Chase inquired.

“Like I said, he’s retired,” Donna said as she pulled the car around the side of the massive adobe house where a six-car garage was located. One of the garage doors opened slowly and Donna pulled the car inside.

Now, Chase was completely creeped out. “So you like really know this guy?”

“It appears you have a somewhat checkered past,” Gitana said.

“Actually, he’s a relative,” Donna said, turning the car off.

“A relative?” Chase screeched.

Donna turned in her seat to look at Chase. “He’s my uncle. Chase, how do you think I get all the stuff I do? I’m well-connected.”

“You’re part of a Mafia family?” Chase said.

“Not all of them are Mafia, but suffice it to say as a family we assist one another from time to time.”

Chase’s mind shot back to the first time she met Donna. It was at a Halloween party where Donna was dressed as Dorothy from the The Wizard of Oz complete with blue and white gingham dress. She compared that Donna with this one who had mobsters for relatives.

Could this really be happening? Perhaps she was dreaming that she was handcuffed to a chair while in reality she was caught up in the sheets. She almost had herself convinced until two large men dressed in identical black suits and looking physically identical—strong, dark features and the kind of facial hair that needed to be shaved twice a day—peered in the backseat at her.

“This is Huey and Dewey, my cousins,” Donna said.

Chase looked up at them, terrified.

Bud hopped out of the car and greeted them. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Bud.” She stuck out her hand.

Good God, now Chase wished Bud wasn’t so polite.

Huey offered his giant paw and took Bud’s and then said, in the highest, squeakiest voice Chase had ever heard outside of CD recordings of whales, “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“That’s why they’re house guards,” Donna said, patting Dewey’s arm.

“It proved to be a disability in our particular line of work,” Huey squeaked.

“I can understand that, but I’m sure your work here is very important,” Bud said.

“This is Gitana, and Chase is the one in the chair,” Donna said as if they were at a company barbeque.

“Nice to meet you. Would it be too much to ask to be removed from the car?”

“No problem,” Huey said.

Huey and Dewey pulled her out of the car as if she were no heavier than a grocery sack full of bread and eggs and set her down.

“I’m much obliged.” Chase felt better now that she was upright and could straighten her shoulders and crack her neck.

Dewey peered down at the handcuffs. “Oh, my, it’s a Santini.”

Huey nodded.

“Is that a bad thing?” Chase asked, feeling the panic arise again at the prospect of spending the rest of her life imprisoned in a library chair courtesy of her best friend. She did find satisfaction knowing Lacey would be furious and worse, frustrated by Chase’s escape. Fury, Lacey could handle. Frustration was an entirely new beast for Lacey since opening the Institute. Lacey hated when things didn’t go her way, and Chase’s defection would rate high on Lacey’s list of transgressions. So far as Chase knew there were only two other people who had qualified for inclusion on the list. The first one was the attractive Asian plumber who had come as a volunteer to teach household plumbing to a class of do-it-yourself lesbians as part of the curriculum for Empowerment. DIY could not only save a homeowner money, but it was a source of pride and self-reliance. The plumber, during a demonstration, had dismantled the first floor restroom sinks and flooded the Vegetarians’ kitchen because she neglected to turn off the water to the restroom, and this had not been the worst of it—the plumber was a fraud. After checking her records, Lacey had discovered the farce.

The other incident also involved the Vegetarians’ kitchen. Which made them wonder if they weren’t being picked on, facilitating another discussion group-panel thing in which the Vegetarians aired their grievances about the general hostility toward non-meat eaters living in a carnivorous world.

The debacle as Chase remembered it revolved around the slipping of lard into the Mexican food entrée and real hamburger being substituted for soy crumbles in the chili. This was done by a new cook who had also faked her credentials. Her goal was revenge. Her girlfriend had dumped her for a vegetarian, citing that she couldn’t possibly share bodily fluids with a person who was stewing in animal flesh. The ex-girlfriend had been making the rounds of lesbian communes and restaurants like a Typhoid Mary of meat, spreading “bit-o-meat,” as the woman called it, “into those creepy, hemp-wearing, Birkenstock-shod lentil heads.”

After these two debacles, Lacey was as thorough as an FBI agent when she screened potential candidates for the Institute. This helped the employment-related debacles, but not the residence-related incidents. Yes, Chase thought the Institute was suffering some cracks.

“Well, Steve Santini is the master inventor of handcuffs and is renowned for making handcuffs that are virtually impossible to get out of,” Dewey said.

“He published a book, Devices of Human Restraint, in which he describes the history of restraints, and the book includes many of his own inventions,” Huey said.

“Your particular handcuff is a Hiatt Hinge with a spring-loaded key cover,” Dewey said.

These guys do not talk like thugs, Chase thought. What? Did thugs go to Harvard now?

“What’s so unusual about the Hiatt?” Bud said.

“Handcuffs have what is known as a ‘universal’ key, but the Hiatt key cover requires that you have two keys because the key hole is covered by a sliding metal shield,” Huey said.

“This means that you have to hold that part open while using the other key to open the lock,” Dewey said.

“Oh,” Bud said.

“Let’s get her inside so Louie can take a good look at them,” Dewey said.

“This isn’t something you guys can do?” Chase asked. Huey and Dewey with their equally squeaky voices no longer intimidated her, but what about this guy, Louie—master criminal and mobster?

“The Hiatt requires a steady hand and a unique set of tools to re-create the key that we do not possess,” Huey said.

Dewey nodded his agreement.

“I thought you guys said there was a universal key?” Chase said.

“There is, but unfortunately this set has been rekeyed,” Huey said.

“I’m going to fucking kill Lacey when I get out,” Chase said. She glanced up. “I mean figuratively.”

They picked up Chase and carried her inside like a Maharani with her entourage following. Passing through the house, Chase noticed the expensive bronze sculptures of Indians, bears, elk and the like—massive pieces that lined the tiled hallway that led to Louie-the-mobster’s den of iniquity. Chase glanced over her shoulder at Gitana, who smiled at her with her we-can-do-this look. Chase felt like smiling back with her we-wouldn’t-be-in-this-situation-if-I-didn’t-have-a-lunatic-for-a-best-friend look.

“Huey?” Bud asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Do you think Louie might show me some tricks of the trade? I am, by no means, denigrating his skills as a master in his field of expertise—I am certain that the picking of locks has a long history. But what one man or person, I’m sure it is predominantly a male-dominated field, can lock, so another can unlock.”

Dewey looked at Huey and then said, “I am a great admirer of fellow savants. I would be most pleased to inquire on your behalf.”

Chase frowned at Bud, who shrugged. Who the hell were these two? They looked like Sopranos, talked liked Alvin and the Chipmunks and were overeducated. No wonder they didn’t fit in with the other mobsters. “Did you guys go to Harvard or something?” Chase said.

“We attended Harvard followed by two years at Oxford,” Dewey said.

“Actually,” Huey said, “there have been some very good women pickers throughout history. Women are not as noticeable. People don’t expect them to be—”

Donna gave him a warning look.

“Engaged in unlocking things,” he finished.

Dewey took it up. “Some women reached the pinnacle of the trade, picking some difficult locks as well as becoming safecrackers, which is by far the most difficult lock to pick, as well as having the highest monetary gain.”

Donna forgot to be taciturn about her relatives’ job description. “Really, I didn’t know there were women safecrackers.”

“Can we Google them?” Bud asked.

“Of course. Ah, the beauty of the Internet,” Dewey said.

The discussion might have continued had they not come to the end of the corridor and a massive set of ornately carved wooden doors.

“Donna, can you get the door?” Dewey said.

“Sure,” she said and touched a certain piece of scrollwork on the door’s frame. The buzzer sounded and the doors opened.

It was something akin to the parting of the Red Sea, and damned if Louie-the-mobster didn’t look like Moses with his mane of silky silver hair—only he wasn’t wearing a roughly woven robe. Instead, Louie wore a red velour running suit with a thick gold chain with a gold skeleton key around his neck.  He looked like an aged gansta rapper. Louie noticed Chase staring at the key as he introduced himself as Louie Salvatore.

Louie fingered it. “You like it? It was a retirement present from the boys.”

Chase nodded. “It’s very nice.”

Louie smiled and then studied Chase. “You know, Chase, I’ve read all your Shelby McCall mystery books—I’m a big fan. When Donna asked me if I could help, well, I have to admit I was excited that I was going to meet one of my favorite authors and as you can see,” he said, stretching his arms out to illustrate his point, the room was full of books and artwork, “I am a patron of the arts.”

Chase smiled, thinking at least he was a fan—that had to count for something.

“After I get you out of this—I would appreciate it if you would grant me one favor.”

Chase considered. What if he wanted her to hand over her firstborn child as payment? Bud would be raised as a mobster and with her brains she would become the criminal’s criminal—a mastermind of all things devious. Or did he want Chase to pose as some fancy art collector to distract one of the gallery owners in town so Louie and his gang of criminals could crack the safe? This was unlikely, she thought. In the electronic age, no one had gobs of cash stuffed in safes. It was all in Geneva or the Cayman Islands along with Mitt Romney’s money.

“Of course, she will,” Donna said, giving Chase a pointed look.

“I’d be glad to, Mr. Salvatore,” Chase said.

“Louie, please call me Louie,” he said, spreading out his large hands as if in supplication.

Chase wondered how a picker of locks could have such large hands—locks were small, except maybe locks on back of semi-trucks or bank safes. She would have gone on thinking about locks had it not been for Bud’s intervention.

“Would you like Chase to sign your books?” Bud inquired.

Louie looked flustered and blushed. “I would, very much,” he said, glancing at Chase.

“You get me out of this chair and I’ll autograph anything,” she said, her hopes of release rising.

Louie rubbed his hands together. “Perfect.” He ordered Huey to retrieve his tools and Dewey to set up lights so he could better see what he was doing. “We will have you out of this in no time.”

“See, no worries,” Donna said as she and Gitana sat down on one of the Italian leather sofas.

Bud stood by Chase.

“Are you standing by for moral support?” she asked.

“No, I want to see how he does it,” Bud said.

“Really?” Chase said.

“Since when does a person get the opportunity to see a master at work?” Bud said, her eyes gleaming with the overexcited look of the eager accolyte.

Louie smiled benevolently. “I would be pleased. You know, I don’t have anyone to pass this on to.”

“No,” Chase said. “I mean, Bud already has a lot of homework, and I don’t know when she would use such a skill.”

“We could have used it today. If I knew how to procure your freedom we wouldn’t have had to carry you around in a chair,” Bud said.

Chase gave her the I-am-an-adult look despite being cuffed to a chair.

Bud hung her head. “I apologize for my disrespectful tone of voice, but can’t I at least watch?”

Chase deliberated. “All right. It might come in handy in case this handcuffing-to-a-chair thingy is Lacey’s modus operandi when dealing with dissidents.”

“I think we should contact Amnesty International,” Gitana said.

Chase heard Louie’s labored breathing behind her as he held the small Maglite between his teeth and peered into the recesses of the lock. “Piece of cake.”

Donna, who’d risen to peer over his shoulder, said, “So you can do it? I knew you could.” She kissed his cheek.

Bud watched as Louie inserted tools, carefully opening the spring-loaded side and using a blunt-ended tool the width of a tongue depressor to keep it open while he picked the other lock. In less than two minutes the cuff was undone.

Chase leapt up, hugged Louie and then stretched her back. “I hate that chair.” She gave it a little kick. She noticed Louie giving Bud explicit instructions on how to unlock the cuffs. She looked over at Gitana and Donna who were also listening—what, now the entire household excluding herself would be lock pickers? Then she remembered Lacey. Hmm…maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It would serve Lacey right. They would know how to free other dissidents.

Chase signed Louie’s books and they said their goodbyes. In the car, Chase rode shotgun due to her ordeal and her propensity for motion sickness. She studied Donna as they pulled out of the compound. “Are there any other skeletons in your closet that we should know about?”

“Suffice it to say, that was the worst one,” Donna said.

Somehow that didn’t make Chase feel better.

“I like Louie,” Bud said, examining her new set of lock-picking tools and peering into the depths of the handcuff.

“Please don’t grow up to be a criminal,” Chase said.

“I won’t unless the economy is bad and I can’t find legitimate work.”

Chase whipped around in her seat.

“I’m kidding.”

Chapter Six—The Blob

Chase hit the Ignore button on her cell phone. She scanned her call log. Lacey had tried to reach her four hundred and eleven times in a twenty-four-hour period.

“How many times an hour has she called you?” Gitana asked.

Chase took a calculator from the cubbyhole in the kitchen marked neatly with a laminated tag that read, “Math Implements” and did the math. “To be exact, 17.125 calls per hour.”

Gitana’s math skills were not impeded like those of Chase, whose right brain refused to perform any task that involved numbers—a flashback to her algebra days where the “x” and the “y” thingies were a constant torture. She said, “Wow, that’s four hundred and eleven calls per day.” She didn’t need a calculator.

“According to the call log some were in the middle of the night,” Chase said. She could envision Lacey sitting in her office steaming mad and dialing away—a diabolic look on her scowling face—with Chino sitting off in the shadows smoking a cigar…even though smoking was banned at the Institute. Chino would be saying, “I can take care of this. You just say the word.”

“I can’t believe she hasn’t trucked herself up here yet,” Gitana said, pouring them both a glass of lemonade. It was October, yet the summer seemed to hold on, unable to let go for the season. Even the aspens hadn’t turned, something Chase and Bud had been awaiting so Bud could take photos of the changing of the leaves.

“She has meetings all day and can’t come up here, or I’m certain she would be,” Chase said. She watched the dogs in the yard. Annie was chasing Jane in figure eight patterns around the grove.

“And how do you know this?”

“Eve checked out Lacey’s schedule planner when Lacey’s PA, Heidi, was on break,” Chase said, hoping that Gitana had forgotten about Eve’s inappropriate behavior in the library.

“So now you’ve got a mole,” Gitana said, smirking.

“Who’d have thought, but—”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Gitana finished.

“That should be our mission statement.”

Gitana wrinkled her brow. “Where’s Bud? I haven’t seen her since I’ve been home.”

“Out in the studio with Donna. They’re working on some new project.”

“Speaking of projects, how do you feel about Bud’s filming project?”

“I haven’t decided. She agreed that we should have first viewing rights and then we can make some decisions.”

“But what’s it all about?” Gitana said, pulling the Joy of Cooking off the very top shelf where Chase had stashed it in hopes that its difficult location would be a deterrent to her finding and using it.

“She says that it’s a docudrama as well as a situational comedy of lesbian life in a whacked-out commune.”

“That’s going to either get us hung or we’ll win the Sundance Film Festival award,” Gitana said, licking her finger and thumbing through the pages.

“I told her that. She says living is about taking risks. I did three sets of three Hail Marys after she said that, just to insure we weren’t struck by lightning for poking the snake.” Bud had mentioned this risk-taking business on more than one occasion. Did she think Chase was fossilized in her approach to life or just scared of what might be?

“What snake?” Gitana asked.

“It’s an expression I got from Gloria. She calls it poking the snake when you antagonize an entity already prone to be antagonized—like pissing off someone who is waiting to be pissed off.”

“Oh. I’d say that idiom also describes your relationship with Lacey.” She found the page she’d been seeking.

Chase watched her nervously.

“I’m going to start dinner.”

“Is that such a good idea?” Chase did her best not to look dubious. Gitana had decided that her “womanly skills, a.k.a. survival skills” had fallen by the wayside. “Everyone should know how to cook,” she said. This sentiment and subsequent behavior would have been fine had Gitana not discovered the Joy of Cooking so that learning how to cook had gone into fine cuisine hyper-drive. Chase did the  bulk of the cooking because she was home most of the time, but she was a basic cook—quick, simple and requiring as few pans and kitchen implements as possible.

“I hope you’re not referring to the debacle. You promised not to bring it up again.”

Chase lowered her eyes as if in shame, but really it was to avoid bursting out laughing. The aforementioned “debacle” involved trout on a smoked shingle, and by the time Gitana was finished they had to use the fire extinguisher to put out the fire. At the time, Chase had been thrilled to get to use this piece of safety equipment. However, while she had put out the burning shingle with the fish on it, she discovered she’d also ruined the barbeque grill when she’d covered it with whatever flame retardant stuff the extinguisher contained.

Bud, in her usual philosophical manner, had said, “This is a prime example of the Fix-A-Flat quandary.”

“Which means?” Chase had inquired, staring down at the goopy mess that was now the grill.

“When the means to the end are worse than what you started with.”

“I don’t get it,” Chase said, poking at the charred fish with the grill fork.

“Perhaps you could make us grilled cheese sandwiches,” Gitana said, staring morosely at what was to have been a crowning achievement of her summer cooking lessons.

“Good idea,” Chase said.

“Have you ever read the Fix-A-Flat can?” Bud asked.

“No,” Chase admitted, but she was going to now.

“Yes, it does fix your tire, but it also ruins your tire in the process.”

“So what you’re saying is that I put the fire out, my initial goal, but I wrecked…”

Bud interjected, “Destroyed.”

“The grill in the process.”

“Precisely,” Bud said.

“What should I have done?” Both she and Gitana studied their genius child.

“Closed the vents,” Bud said.

Gitana nodded her agreement.

“Oh,” Chase said, considering it. “It might have taken too long and the danger could have escalated, threatening the house and the entire neighborhood, perhaps the region.”

“The fire can’t escalate without oxygen. It’s simple physics,” Bud replied.

Chase returned to the present moment and its particular challenges—her best friend turned dictator and her wife’s proclivity toward fires.

“I’m only going to make alfredo with fresh mushrooms on angel hair pasta. How badly can I mess that up?”

Chase shrugged noncommittally.

Gitana called her on it. “You don’t trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Chase said, pondering the state of long-term relationships where discussions on trust were not about fidelity, but rather about whether your wife was going to burn down the kitchen, or, in this instance, cut off a finger with a French chef knife. “Just be careful.”

Her cell phone rang again. She clicked ignore.

“Four hundred and twelve,” Gitana said, pulling the portabello mushrooms out of the fridge.

Chase didn’t have the heart to tell her that the portabellos would turn the alfredo sauce the color of baby shit. The best lessons were self-taught.

“It’s just a matter of time before Lacey shows up here,” Gitana said, washing the mushrooms.

“At least it will be on my turf, and she better take care that I don’t handcuff her to a chair.” Or make her eat Gitana’s cooking, Chase thought, but then felt bad. Gitana was trying something new. She was taking a risk at least.

“We really should show her how it feels,” Gitana said, cutting the mushrooms with fervor.

Chase winced. “Please, watch your fingers.”

“I am, don’t worry,” Gitana said, looking down at her fingers and then continuing her diatribe. “Just because she is the leading force of the Institute doesn’t give her the right to incarcerate people at will. I mean what’s next? You’re her best friend and look what she did to you. Imagine what she is capable of with someone she doesn’t like.”

“You’ve got a point.”

“I’m going to give her a piece of my mind when she does show up,” Gitana said, pointing the chef knife at Chase and gesticulating.

“Let’s hope it’s not for a while,” Chase said.

Gitana took a deep breath. “I will probably have calmed down in a few days. I wonder if that’s why she hasn’t come around.”

“Would you? Lacey knows how you feel when someone assaults anyone on your team.”

“Damn right.” She’d finished chopping the mushrooms and put the knife down. Chase felt safe to leave.

“I’m going to check on Bud and give her a heads-up on dinner,” Chase said. She refrained from saying “and I will keep an eye out for Lacey in case she does show up so I can keep her from harm.” She slipped around the corner and gathered up the “debacle equipment” that she had stored in the laundry room. She opened the first-aid kit, checking to see if there was a tourniquet, and then retrieved the extra fire extinguisher from the hot water closet. She set everything on the top of the washer where she could easily grab it and run for the kitchen in case of an emergency. Then she went to the studio.

When she opened the studio door, it took her a second to process what was going on and she still didn’t get it. “What on earth are you two doing?”

Donna was standing with a dildo attached to herself. Well, Chase assumed it was a dildo. Either that or she had a penis Chase didn’t know about. Of course, lately anything seemed possible. Bud was sitting on the couch sketching. “She’s doing a life drawing.” Donna was standing with one hand on her hip and the other in the air looking like a Roman orator.

“Why are you wearing that…” Chase pointed at the dildo. “That, that thing.”

“I needed a model. Like I know what a penis looks like,” Bud said.

This was true, but then Chase thought, she hadn’t seen one in years either. Ever? In movies, surely. “But…” Chase sputtered.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bud replied. She closed her sketchbook. “But I do need to have a working knowledge of male genitalia—they do make up half the world’s population.”

“I’m pretty sure women have surpassed men in terms of population—probably due to the outlawing of infanticide in countries like China,” Donna said.

Chase stared at her.

“I could be wrong.”

“It’s not that!” Chase said, nodding in Bud’s direction. She was busy putting her drawing materials away.

Bud looked up. “I know they used to kill girl babies because they figured we didn’t count for much—apparently, as we are slowly taking over the world, they figured wrong,” she said.

“This is true,” Chase said. She watched with interest as Donna extricated herself from the harness and with one quick snap removed the dildo. Before she knew it or could stop herself, she said, “You’re very proficient at that.”

Donna didn’t even blush.

“Knowledge is power,” Bud said.

“Exactly. The classes at the Institute are very informative,” Donna said, handing the apparatus to Bud, who put it in her desk drawer.

“Is that a good idea?” Chase said.

“I only did one drawing. I’m good, but I’m not that good. I’m going to need more practice. Maybe next time you can model for me,” Bud said.

Chase blushed. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Donna, ever helpful, said, “I can show you how it works.”

“Maybe some other time. Besides, Gitana is making dinner. Are you staying?”

“I’d love to, but I’m meeting Isabel at the Macaroni Grill. We’re going over the library budget.”

“That’s sounds fun,” Chase said.

“Oh, I think it will be. The food is good, and Isabel is very numbers oriented.”

Bud rolled at her eyes at Chase, who smiled sardonically.

“So I’m off,” Donna said, gathering her purse and briefcase.

After she left, Bud said, “Do you think that Donna has an interest in Isabel?”

Chase contemplated and then nixed the idea. “I don’t think so.”

“Hmm…” Bud said.

“We better get inside before there’s an accident,” Chase said.

“When you say things like that you’re manifesting the possibility of such a happening,” Bud said as they crossed the yard.

Apparently, Chase’s manifestation powers were amped up because when they entered the kitchen Gitana was standing with oven mitts on looking dismayed at the blob that filled the inside of the oven. The blob grew exponentially.

“What the hell is that?” Chase said, moving back as the thing inflated like an over-sized beach ball. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it all over her brand-new Nike trainers.

Gitana stared in mortification. “It was supposed to be rosemary and garlic bread from scratch. I wanted to surprise you guys. I’ve never baked bread before.”

“That’s bread?” Chase said, stepping back again.

The beach ball grew and grew covering the floor as it overflowed from the oven.

Gitana teared up. “It was supposed to be baking.”

Chase glanced over at Bud, who was perusing the cookbook. “How much yeast did you put in?”

“Two and a half cups per loaf like the recipe called for. Why?”

The blob surrounded the kitchen stools, smashing up against them and ballooning upward. Bud looked down, alarmed.

“How many loaves are we talking?” Chase asked.

“Five,” Gitana said, biting her lip. “I thought I might take some to work.”

“I think the yeast is the problem,” Bud said, tucking her legs under her as the dough crept higher.

Gitana looked imploringly at Bud.

“I think you mixed up the yeast to flour ratio. It may have been crucial. In terms of the physics…I’m just sayin’.”

Chase noticed the dropping of the “g” and winced but remembered she had told Bud to throw one of those grammatical slurs in once in a while. “She put in too much yeast?”

Gitana’s shoes were disappearing under the blob. She stepped back up against the fridge.

“The recipe calls for one and a half teaspoons of yeast. She put in two and a half cups.”

“Where’d you get that much yeast?” Chase inquired. “I mean, don’t they come in those small packages?”

“I got the economy can at Costco. You know, the kind restaurants use.”

“Oh,” Chase said, wondering if there was any left. If so, it needed to disappear. She stepped back and pulled Gitana with her, worrying that they both might get swallowed up.

“What am I going to do?” Gitana said, looking forlorn.

“Good question,” Chase said, taking another two steps back.

Bud hopped up on the kitchen island as the first kitchen stool was overtaken by the blob.

“Do you have a plan? What the hell are we going to do with this stuff?” Chase said. The blob reminded her of a bad horror movie where mutant yeast threatened to overtake the town.

“I’m still thinking,” Bud said, studying the mess. She gently poked a finger into the blob. It moved like an alien spore about to give birth.

Chase stared as the blob threatened to take over the kitchen. She was the household safety master, but industrial-size blobs were outside her ken.

“We have to contain it first,” Bud said.

“But how?” Chase said.

“I know,” Gitana said. She rummaged in the cutlery drawer and pulled out an ice pick. She dashed at the blob like a knight jousting an opponent. She stabbed viciously.

“I don’t think you should do that,” Bud said.

“Why not?” Gitana said, pulling a French chef knife from the kitchen island. She fenced the blob and then the blob exploded.

Instantly, like a water balloon bursting, dough covered them. Chase flipped into safety mode. “Clear your airways,” she shouted. She dug dough out of her eyes and went for Bud, trying to find her mouth. Bud was covered head to toe and Chase couldn’t see her mouth. She thrust a finger into the doughy mess.

Bud screeched, “Ouch. I can breathe. Get your finger out of my ear.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“What?” Bud said. “I can’t hear you. There’s too much dough in my ear.”

“That’s not dough. It’s my finger.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Chase said.

Chase dashed for Gitana, who lay back against the wall, having taken the full force of the explosion. She’d managed to clear her face, but she looked like she was lying beneath an ecru-colored, overstuffed feather comforter. Chase helped her to her feet.

“Holy mother of fucking Christ,” Gitana said.

“I don’t think even the Virgin Mary could have stopped this,” Chase said.

“I say we stick to unleavened bread,” Bud said.

“How are we going to clean this up?” Chase said.

“Can you pass me the phone book if it’s still available?” Bud said.

“Why?”

“We need a specialist.”

Within thirty minutes the You Make Them—We Clean Them van pulled up in the driveway. The dogs, who thankfully had been out in the yard when the blob disaster occurred, barked in full guard mode as two burly men dressed in yellow biohazard suits approached the house.

“This is so embarrassing,” Gitana said, as the two men examined the kitchen.

“We’ve seen worse, ma’am,” one of them said.

“Really, what?” Bud asked. She pulled a piece of dough out of her hair.

“Well…” said Bill. His name was on his pocket.

“I’m sure there’s been one, it just doesn’t come to mind,” the man named Dusty replied.

After a brief consultation between themselves they got their equipment—a snow shovel and a large wet-dry vac. They lubed the dough with a solvent. Bill shoveled the blob toward the vacuum hose while Dusty held the hose in place. The whole process took an hour and a half and they even cleaned the oven.

“Good as new,” Bill said, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Thank you so much,” Chase said, adding a forty-dollar tip to the bill.

Dusty handed her a card. “Just in case,” he said.

Bud walked them out. Chase suspected she wanted a peek in their truck. Knowledge was power.

After the disaster cleanup and three long showers, they sat down to dinner. “At least the alfredo turned out,” Gitana said, looking down at her plate. “Well, sort of.”

“It’s a very earthy color. It makes me think of Vermeer,” Bud said.

“I didn’t realize the portabello mushrooms would do that,” Gitana said.

“It tastes fabulous,” Chase said, and it did. In the kitchen, Chase’s phone rang again.

“Four hundred and thirteen,” Gitana said.

“She must be out of her meeting,” Chase said, taking a second helping, which made Gitana smile.

“Would anyone like some garlic bread?” Bud said.

“NO!” they all bellowed.

“Just askin’.”

Chapter Seven—Experiments

Chase lay in bed, her arms above her head, feeling smug. Lacey still hadn’t shown her face; Chase was inclined to think that perhaps Lacey was feeling remorse. If not that stiff an emotion, Chase would settle for shame. Gitana snuggled up next to her.

“What are you thinking about?” Gitana asked, as she ran her hand under Chase’s T-shirt and around her nipple.

“I am willing remorse and shame on Lacey so that she will come to see the error of her ways.”

“Is this your manifesting thing?”

“Yes.” Chase had read The Secret and had been profoundly, at least for her, influenced by it. She liked the idea of manifesting the direction of one’s life through the act of willing.

“Is it going to work?” Gitana said in between kisses to Chase’s stomach.

“I trust in the Universe,” Chase said, experiencing a sharp intake of breath as Gitana ran her tongue under the waistband of her boxers. “Did we have this penciled in and I missed the memo?”

“I’m manifesting us being more organic and spontaneous,” Gitana said, pulling off Chase’s boxers.

“The Universe knows what it’s doing.”

Gitana flicked her tongue along the insides of Chase’s thighs and ran her fingers along the sides of her breasts. She took Chase in her mouth. Chase was really liking the Universe at this particular moment, and then Gitana got up and left right when Chase was about to forget her own name in the land of milk and honey. “Where are you going?” she panicked.

“Just stay put. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Chase remained in the position favored by gynecologists and thought about the trip she’d like to take to Tasmania. Coming up with travel guide ideas was her latest way of dealing with stress, and she considered being about to get laid and then getting unlaid a stressful moment.

Gitana returned as Chase was conjuring up mental images of Mount Wellington and the tessalite formations, two of her must-see items. “Did you have to pee?”

“No.”

Chase was about to make further inquiries when Gitana entered her slowly. Chase didn’t exactly know what she was experiencing, only that her insides felt uncommonly full. Gitana was expertly thrusting into her, and she thought some heretofore uncharted area was being explored—maybe her Grafenberg spot, which, as she recalled, was three inches to the front of her vagina and near her urethra. She tried to re-create the chart on her physician’s wall of the interior regions of her vagina.

She reached for Gitana’s buttocks and pulled her in further. Gitana was moaning and whispering, “Oh yes, oh yes.”

Chase’s hands felt the harness thing. Startled, she said, “Is this a…”

“Yes,” Gitana said, still moving against her. “I found it in the studio and thought you were too shy to propose it.”

“So you took matters into your own hands,” Chase said, moving against her.

“Could we talk about this later?”

“Oh, yes. Does this do something for you?”

“Uh-huh.”

They finished, satiated and sweaty. Gitana collapsed on top of her. “My God, that was fabulous.” She slowly pulled out and then disengaged herself from the now, in both their opinions, marvelous device. She nestled in the crook of Chase’s arm.

“When did you get that?” Gitana asked.

“It’s not mine. It’s Bud’s.”

Gitana leaned up on one elbow so she could look at Chase. “Bud’s?”

“Donna gave it to her because she doesn’t know what a penis looks like, and she needs it for her life drawing studies.”

Gitana laughed. “I just found it when I was looking for a Sharpie. There wasn’t one in the house, and I know you two have every office supply known to man, or rather woman, out there. When I found the...thingy I thought maybe you were getting more sexually explorative—we are being exposed to a lot more lesbians now.”

“It was a rather nice mistake,” Chase said.

“Do you want to try it?”

Thank God it was dark, because Chase blushed profusely.

“If you’re embarrassed or uncomfortable, that’s all right too.”

Chase grew bold or rather convinced herself she was bold. Wasn’t Bud always telling her to experience some of life’s unplanned moments without examining the minutia? “I might be persuaded to take her for a test drive.”

“Her?”

“I thought since we’re all so intimate we’d call her Phyllis.”

“As in Phyllis Dildo?” Gitana giggled.

“Yes, now show me how it works,” Chase said, before she lost her nerve.

“Oh, I will,” Gitana said, drawing her near.

After Gitana made animal noises and begged her to stop, Chase figured she’d done all right. It felt a lot like learning to ride your first bike without the aid of training wheels.

****

In the kitchen the next morning as Chase was making breakfast, Bud said, “Have you seen my penis? I can’t find it in the studio—its last known location.”

Chase and Gitana exchanged embarrassed glances. Chase hoped Bud hadn’t noticed. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told her conscience.

“As in your bedroom,” Bud replied, whipping the eggs in preparation for making the French toast.

“Why would you think that?” Chase asked, as she dunked the first piece of bread in the egg mixture.

Gitana did not look at Bud. “I think the French toast needs cinnamon.” She dug around in the spice cupboard.

Good job, Chase thought. When in a tight spot—divert your opponent’s attention.

“It’s right here,” Bud said, pointing to the container on the counter right next to the egg mixture.

“Oh, yes, there it is,” Gitana said, dumping more in.

“I can hear you. Our bedrooms are not that far apart,” Bud said.

“Well, honey…” Gitana said.

“I’m finished with it. You can have it.”

“If you knew that, why are you putting us through this embarrassing charade?” Chase said, her face flushed.

“Because part of a healthy childhood is learning to torment your parents,” Bud said.

After breakfast Chase went upstairs to change into her muck-about gardening clothes and discovered to her horror that Phyllis was sitting openly displayed on the nightstand. Chase snatched her up. Good God, now they were leaving sex toys lying about.

Chase supposed Phyllis should be washed off with soapy water and then dried and stored in a dark airtight location, but she wasn’t certain. She’d have to research the proper care of dildos after she finished rototilling the garden. She put Phyllis in what seemed an obvious place, too obvious, Chase thought as she nestled her in with the sports bras. She was about to move it and then realized Bud already knew about it so there was no point in moving it. She wondered why of all the choices in Donna’s Dildo Store, as Gitana referred to it, Bud picked this one. It was purple, a favorite color of Bud’s, and six inches long. Bud would know the average length of a penis. Color and anatomical precision were most likely the reasons behind her choice, Chase decided.

Bud and Gitana were going into town to visit Gitana’s mother, Jacinda. They would attend Mass while Chase worked in the garden. Chase changed into her dark green coveralls and mentally prepared herself for using this particular piece of garden equipment. She always dismantled the garden at this time of year by pulling up the soaker hoses, spreading horse manure and then tilling the soil so it could rest and feed all winter. She was never excited about using the rototiller because she feared bodily harm. What if it got away from her and then turned savage, churning her feet into something that resembled a cube steak? She banned the image from her mind with the “good thoughts” mantra that she’d learned from her self-improvement guide. Don’t manifest negative energy with negative thoughts, she reminded herself.

She came downstairs to kiss Gitana and Bud goodbye. They were both dressed nicely for church—Gitana in a light blue sundress and Bud in a khaki linen trouser suit. “You two look fab.” Chase made an effort not to think lascivious thoughts. Gitana, in a dress, often had this effect on her.

Gitana raised her eyebrows in a blatantly sexual manner. “Why thank you.”

“We’ll say a prayer for your salvation,” Bud said.

“Give Jacinda my love,” Chase said, ignoring the salvation comment.

“I made excuses for you. I told Jacinda you’d rather cut off a limb than recite a rosary,” Bud said.

“Bud!” Gitana reprimanded.

“But you will say a prayer so I don’t cut my foot off,” Chase said.

“Chase!” Gitana said, looking from her wife to her daughter.

They were going to church at Bud’s request because it was October 4th, the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, and it was customary for the church to bless animals in homage to him. Bud was fascinated by rituals, as she’d been reading The Golden Bough by James George Frazer. Jacinda was ecstatic they were going.

Chase looked down at the dogs. They were going to be blessed because, as Bud pointed out, it was their day. Annie and Jane were dressed in the garb of friars, rough-woven cloth with rope belts. Jane was pulling on Annie’s belt in an effort to get her to play tug-of-war. “Are you sure you want to take them to church?”

“It’ll be fine,” Bud said, straightening Annie’s belt and giving Jane the command to sit.

“It’s just that dogs don’t usually go to church. Won’t there be other animals there as well?” Chase inquired, trying to imagine the cacophony. Then she smiled. “Are you bringing your video camera?”

“I hadn’t planned on it. But maybe…” Bud got the same glimmer in her eye. “It might be a good idea.”

“You can use it as a comic interlude in your docudrama—I mean if something amusing does happen.”

“Well, get it quick then or we’ll be late,” Gitana said.

Bud ran upstairs and got her TM900. Chase kissed Gitana. Bud returned and hugged her thigh. Chase couldn’t wait until Bud was tall enough so these spontaneous hugs would be higher up on her body, but then she remembered from her extensive reading that when Bud was taller she wouldn’t be interested in hugs.

“Okay, remember we’re taking the dogs to the Three Dog Bakery when we’re done so it’ll be after twelve when we get back,” Gitana said.

“Are you telling me this so I can make sure my other girlfriend will be gone by the time you return?” Chase teased.

“No, I’m telling you this so you know that if you cut your leg off you’ll bleed to death by the time we get back.”

“I have several contingency plans.”

“I’m sure you do,” Gitana said.

Chase was pulling the rototiller out of the garden shed when a black-gloved hand clapped itself over her mouth. She tried to scream, well, she did scream but nothing came out.

“Shh! It’s just me. You have to promise not to run away. You have to promise to listen,” Lacey said.

She had Chase wrapped in a wrestling hold. There was nothing to do but comply.

“Agreed?” Lacey said.

Chase nodded and Lacey released her. She turned around to discover Lacey dressed all in black like a Ninja Turtle, including a face mask that she removed with much ceremony as if her job of being tough girl with a mission had been accomplished much to her satisfaction.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

“I am attempting to communicate with the uncooperative enemy.” Lacey removed her black leather gloves. It may have been the first week of October, but it was still warm. Chase wondered how long the black cable-knit sweater was going to remain on.

“How’d you get here?” Chase asked, noting the lack of an automobile in the drive.

“I hiked in. I couldn’t risk you seeing me.” She whipped out a hip flask of water from her tool belt and guzzled it.

“You’re insane,” Chase said.

“Well, you wouldn’t answer your phone,” Lacey said, going from commando-tank girl to whiney-pitch-a-fit-tantrum girl.

“I would’ve most likely answered the door,” Chase said in her own defense but without conviction.

“Operative words being ‘most likely,’” Lacey sniffed.

“Well…”

“I figured you would have locked the gate.”

Chase didn’t meet her gaze. She had wanted to lock the gate, but Gitana wouldn’t let her.

Lacey caught it. “See, this was the only way in.”

Chase bit her lip.

“Did you know they’re working on the road?”

“What!” Chase said.

“Yeah, they’re putting those long silver tube-thingies in the ground right now.” Lacey removed the black sweater. She wore a black T-shirt underneath.

“Are you wearing black underwear?”

“Of course.”

“And those long cylinder thingies are culverts. They’re putting culverts in the road as in digging trenches and putting down gravel?” Chase inquired, certain that Lacey knew not of what she spoke. Chase peered around Lacey trying to see down onto the road. Sure enough, there was yellow equipment. Had one of the neighbors finally gotten fed up after all these years and decided to do something about it? Chase was torn between excitement and panic.

Lacey put her arm around Chase’s shoulder. “Let’s not talk about the road right now. We have more important things to discuss.” Lacey looked deep into Chase’s eyes. “You know that I love you, and that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

She would have gone on had Chase not interjected. “You handcuffed me to a chair, and I had to have a mobster pick the lock. Something like that does not fit into my risk management strategy of friendship. You understand that, right? I don’t have a chapter on ‘How not to get cuffed and secure your release courtesy of the Mafia,’” Chase screeched.

“I wondered how you managed to do that. Those handcuffs are specially made and extremely difficult to escape from.”

“Well, it took a professional to get me out.”

“I’m glad to know that, however, I was not overly surprised to discover you were gone. Your critical thinking skills are what I need in my organization.”

Chase frowned. She wasn’t going there. “You want some coffee?”

“Please. I think I need a pick-me-up. This commando gig is harder than it looks,” Lacey said, as they entered the studio. She undid her belt, which appeared to contain every tool Chase had ever seen in the Spyware catalog.

“Nice Maglite,” Chase said, pointing at the flashlight in the holster on the belt.

“I’ll give it to you if you come back to the Institute,” Lacey said, looking hopeful.

“It’ll take more than that,” Chase said, making the coffee and wondering if this diversionary tactic would work. They would have coffee and Lacey would go away in a Panglossian haze of “the best of all possible worlds.”

“I had a feeling it would,” Lacey said as she flounced down on the couch.

Chase got cups and poured milk while Lacey sighed heavily several times.

“So, what’s it going to take?”

Chase didn’t immediately respond.

“Well?”

“I’m thinking.” She poured their coffee and handed Lacey her cup and two packets of Sweet’N Low. “You know this stuff is like the ingredients found in alien spawn.”

Dumping them in her coffee, Lacey said, “Yes, I did know that and I approve. It makes me who I am and the person I will become.”

“The crazed power freak, you mean?”

“I am not a crazed power freak. I am the inspiration, the keeper of the flame, the desire pent up in the breast of each and every lesbian. Are you all right?”

Chase laughed so hard she appeared apoplectic. She gasped, tears running down her face. Having studied the Asberger’s card set of emotions as research for a book, Chase watched as Lacey’s face went from concern (card number seventeen) to anger (number twenty-three) to sad (card number six) in the span of five seconds.

“You know this thing is really important to me,” she said, pouting.

“A little too important. You can’t remake the world. People are who they are, which is not necessarily who you want them to be, and that’s what bothers you. Sovereign nation or not, you can’t go around incarcerating people because they don’t agree with you or they will resign.” Chase poured more milk into her coffee. Her stomach was rebelling. Experiencing acid reflux every time you were around your best friend was not a sign of a healthy relationship.

“I mean it, Chase, the Institute is very important to me and I don’t know why you don’t understand that—why you belittle my efforts. I don’t understand why you are so subversive.”

“Subversive?”

“Yes, you’re not being a good team player,” Lacey said, slurping her coffee and eyeing Chase over the top of the mug.

“How long have you known me?”

Lacey acted like this was a difficult mathematical equation and she needed time to think.

“Let me help you. Since the beginning of time and we were in our nappies. I’ve never been a team player.” Chase leaned back in her office chair.

“Okay, I will grant you that, but what if I created a new position for you and put someone else in charge of the writing class?”

Divine Vulva appeared hands on hips. “Over my dead body,” she said petulantly.

Chase didn’t mention she didn’t have a body to give over to death.

Commercial Endeavor looked up from one of Chase’s writing books on creating plausible dialogue. She wanted to start a blog on writing tips. She had not been successful at persuading Chase to write it, but she wasn’t through trying.

“I thought you hated the writing class,” Chase replied.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. We owe it to the readers to produce some decent writers,” Divine Vulva said. She took a sip of Chase’s coffee. “Can’t you buy that flavored coffee mix stuff?”

“It’s called creamer,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Whatever. She knows what I mean.” She brushed her hand in a wave of annoyance.

“The coffee has a ton of milk in it,” Chase said, snatching the cup back, thinking best friend, acid reflux and a muse who morphed into a barista were equal pains in the ass. “Maybe you should get a job at Starbucks, and then you could make coffee anyway you like and impose your desires on other people instead of me.”

“Very funny. You know I don’t have a Social Security card.”

“Oh my God,” Commercial Endeavor said, feigning horror. “You’re an illegal alien.”

“Chase?” Lacey said, breaking the connection.

“I’m talking to my muses. They don’t want to stop the writing class.”

“Oh, well, carry on talking to them. Don’t mind me.” Lacey faded into the background again.

“You know, for an ingrate she does have manners sometimes,” Divine Vulva said, taking another sip of Chase’s coffee and making a point of wincing.

“Well, then, don’t drink it,” Chase said.

“But I’m tired,” Divine Vulva whined. “I need a pick-me-up.”

“I’d hardly call you overworked,” Chase said.

“It’s my P.M. aerobics sessions,” Divine Vulva said.

“Aerobics? Where the hell do you take aerobics?”

Divine Vulva lowered her eyes demurely and glanced over at Commercial Endeavor, who blushed. “In the bedroom,” she replied.

“I wish you guys wouldn’t do that.” Chase was still in denial about her two muses having a tumultuously passionate relationship. “What if you break up?”

“You’ll be a casuality of divorce and treated accordingly,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“But that’s not going to happen,” Divine Vulva said, running her hand up Commercial Endeavor’s inner thigh. “Now back to the writer’s class gig. I want to do it and since it has been previously noted I do not have a Social Security card, you will have to be the primary job holder. However, you can be the figurehead and get all the credit, but I want to run the show,” Divine Vulva said, whipping a clipboard out of nowhere. “Now, let’s draw up a syllabus and get serious about this thing.”

Chase glanced at Commercial Endeavor, who looked just as puzzled as Chase felt. “Syllabus?” Chase said.

“Yes, your problem is that you’ve been pissing in the wind. It’s time you organize and actually teach these people the craft of writing. Leave the imagination part to us—you teach them how to do it.”

Commercial Endeavor nodded. “And while we are at it, what about my blog idea?”

“Give an inch, take a mile,” Chase said.

Both Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor visibly cringed. One of the best ways to get at your muse, Chase thought, was to use a cliché. “But I will give it my best shot. I don’t want to put all my eggs in one basket because I am definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

“Stop it!” Divine Vulva yelled, putting her hands over her ears and looking at Commercial Endeavor. “Make her stop.”

Commercial Endeavor tried to appear unruffled, but Chase smirked at her efforts. She said, “Please refrain. We get the point. You’re feeling railroaded into this, but it is a good idea and I think you could do it. All you really need is a proper attitude adjustment.”

“Like what?”

“Negotiate,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“For what? What could Lacey give me that I want or can’t live without?”

“Peace, love and revolution, as Lucinda Williams says at the end of her concerts,” Divine Vulva said.

“That sounds rather oxymoronic,” Commercial Endeavor pointed out.

Chase contemplated this and drew no conclusions.

“It means freedom. You start telling Lacey exactly how you feel about things. It will give you a sense of peace through empowerment. You love Lacey, but you need to change your relationship. She bosses you around and you don’t like it,” Divine Vulva said. She cocked her head in Lacey’s direction. Lacey was scrolling through her BlackBerry and muttering to herself.

“Do you believe any of the crap she just said?” Chase asked of Commercial Endeavor.

“Actually, aside from the histrionics and bloated sentimentality, she does have a point,” Commercial Endeavor said.

Divine Vulva blew on her knuckles and rubbed them on her chest.

Chase smiled sardonically. “Gesture can also be a cliché.”

Divine Vulva immediately stopped doing it.

“The look on your face closely resembled someone caught with their pants down.” Chase blanched. Holy shit, she was trapped in cliché-ville.

Commercial Endeavor stared at her. “I hope this isn’t going to be an ongoing problem.”

Chase hoped so too.

Lacey broke in. “Have you all come to some sort of a consensus?”

Chase blinked and then stared at Lacey. “Not yet, I’ll be right back.”

“You’ve got her attention. Now bargain for what you want,” Divine Vulva said.

“But I don’t know what I want,” Chase said. She looked at Commercial Endeavor, who seemed to sense that she was Chase’s rock.

“You want more time and space and to use another cliché…” Commercial Endeavor said.

They all shuddered.

“To stop being at her beck and call,” Commercial Endeavor finished.

This was true, Chase thought. Lacey told her what to do and she did it.

“You need to dictate your terms of engagement,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“So what do I tell her?”

“That you’ll teach the writing class and that’s it, no board meetings, no pep rallies, no day-to-day operations. The Institute is her problem—not yours. She doesn’t need you there. She just wants you there because she doubts herself,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“I don’t think it’ll work,” Chase said.

“Give it a whirl,” Commercial Endeavor said, but Chase noted the lack of conviction in her tone.

“No! Give it your all,” Divine Vulva said, punching Chase in the shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“Pussy,” Divine Vulva said.

Chase rubbed her arm. She wasn’t convinced.

“I’ll put money on it,” Divine Vulva said.

“You don’t have any legal tender,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“I have other things.” She whispered something in Commercial Endeavor’s ear that made her blush.

“What do I get if you lose?” Chase said. Sometimes this camaraderie between her muses felt like an us-them dichotomy, especially since they had started sleeping together. She didn’t think a romance was good idea, but she didn’t want to pull a Romeo and Juliet parental intervention. Besides, it would only fuel Divine Vulva’s histrionics.

“I promise you one really good idea,” Divine Vulva said, stealing another sip of Chase’s coffee.

“Do you want your own cup?” Chase asked.

“Would you mind?” Divine Vulva said.

“Stop that! People already think she’s weird without pouring coffee for her imaginary friends,” Commercial Endeavor said, giving Divine Vulva a can’t-you-behave-yourself look.

“Well, then she will just have to share,” Divine Vulva said, pointing at Chase’s cup. “It’s not like I have germs.”

“Oh, all right. Forget I said anything.”

“I already have.”

“Now about this wager—aren’t you supposed to be handing over your ideas as part of your job description?” Chase said.

“Well…” Divine Vulva hedged.

“And if you win the wager what do I give you?”

“My own coffee cup, which I will drink from discreetly.”

“You’re not going to give up.”

“Nope.” She popped the “p.”

“She’s got to win first,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“You want what I got,” Divine Vulva said, swinging her neck around. She winked at Commercial Endeavor, who blushed from either sheer embarrassment or lust. Chase hoped it was the former.

“So go ahead and present your demands,” Divine Vulva said, assuming the Warrior Pose, which she pointed in Lacey’s direction.

“Since when have you taken up yoga?” Chase said.

“Since I decided I need to be more flexible.”

Lacey must have sensed Chase had finished her discussion or she’d grown impatient. “Well?”

Chase took a deep breath and said, “I will teach the writing class…”

“See, I told you. It wasn’t that bad,” Lacey interrupted.

“But nothing else.”

Lacey’s face on the Asberger chart went from happy (card number fourteen) to surprise (card number twenty-eight) to mad (card number seven). “You can’t desert me like this!” She looked around the room as if trying to locate another chair in which to handcuff Chase.

“Need I remind you that I am on my turf, and yes, I can desert you, which technically I am not doing because I didn’t sign up for lifelong fealty.”

Lacey sensed she’d gone too far. “Chase…please. I really do need you.” She looked piteous.

Chase got up and went to sit next to Lacey on the cracked leather couch. She took her hand. “You’re my best friend…”

Divine Vulva whispered in her ear, “Make this good.” Chase swatted her away. “I will always be there for you—I just can’t be part of the day-to-day. It’s not me. The Institute is a reflection of you and who you’ve become…”

“Oh, I know. The Institute has made me into the amazing lesbian that I am, and I want the same thing to happen to you.” Lacey’s eyes gleamed with joy. Her zeal was frightening.

“Well…” Chase started.

Commercial Endeavor poked her in the ribs. “Don’t go down without a fight.”

“Do you want to lose the bet?” Chase hissed.

Commercial Endeavor didn’t look at her.

For such a business hard-ass, Commercial Endeavor was incredibly sentimental when it came to love. Of course, she had started her career out as a romance writer muse before she hired on with Chase as a mystery writer consultant.

“It’s kind of a win-win sort of bet,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“What is it?”

“I can’t say,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Why not?” Chase said.

“Well…”

“You’re getting as bad as me with the ‘wells,’” Chase muttered.

“Where do you think I get it from?” Commercial Endeavor said snappishly.

“So now you’re blaming me for your linguistic banalities.”

“Well…”

“Will you two stop it?” Divine Vulva said.

They glanced sheepishly at each other and simultaneously said, “I’m sorry.”

“Now, back to the negotiations,” Divine Vulva said.

Lacey had resumed her diatribe. “I know how important the Institute is to you—despite,” there was a pregnant pause, “your behavior of late.”

“Maybe I could phase out of it slowly,” Chase suggested.

Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor both buried their heads in their hands. “Can we say C-A-V-E?” Divine Vulva said.

“Well…” Chase said. Oh shit, was she ever going to stop saying that word?

Lacey poured them both more coffee and handed Chase the milk.

“Chase, can’t you give it another try for me?” Lacey’s voice filled with her best rendition of plaintive.

“I’ve agreed to the writing class only because Divine Vulva wants to do it and keeping one’s muse happy is imperative to the creative process.”

“I see.” She looked around and then said, “Thank you, Ms. Vulva, wherever you are.” She waved her hand in the air.

Divine Vulva rolled her eyes, but whispered, “Use the muse card to get the rest of what you want.”

“Exactly,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Like what?” Chase said.

“Like I don’t think it’s good for my career to spend so much time in the boardroom,” Divine Vulva said.

“Oh,” Chase said.

“What I mean, Chase, is that I value your opinion on matters pertaining to the Institute—I actually need your help.”

The “actually” word caught Chase’s attention. “What do you mean ‘actually’?”

Lacey must have caught the tone in her voice. “What I mean was that you’ve turned out to be more of an asset than I anticipated.”

“Great.”

“Aren’t you excited that you’re such an integral part of the Revolution?”

“Not really. How about we discuss your ideas like we used to in pre-revolutionary times? When you have a problem, you come see me, and we’ll go over it together instead of sticking me in a boardroom where my creative problem-solving skills get cramped up and I’m of no use to you. It would be so much better than me sitting there listening to people argue about whether they have ovaries or not. I mean, who cares if you don’t have female parts…”

“Have them removed,” Lacey interjected.

Chase’s brow furrowed. “May I continue?”

“By all means,” Lacey said.

“Or if you still have them? It’s pretty much a nonissue. The removed cannot be reinstated and the ‘have parts’ group could have them removed. Either way no one is the lesser person.”

“I know that and you know that, but that’s not how they feel.”

“So, the schism is still there?”

Lacey nodded. “See, that’s why I need your help.”

“No, you need a group shrink.”

Lacey’s face lit up. “Do you think Dr. Robicheck would do it?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m completely serious. This rift is getting larger by the day.”

Chase considered. If she aided Lacey this way maybe it would keep her in a consulting status. “I could ask her. I suppose there is no harm in that.”

Lacey leapt up and hugged her. “This is what I mean—you have such insight into my problems.”

Chase held her a minute. This was the Lacey she missed—the one full of energy and exuberance, not the psychomaniacal executive of a lesbian circus. She pulled back and looked at Lacey.

Divine Vulva hissed in her ear. “Do it now!”

“All right,” Chase muttered to her.

“See, isn’t this nice?” Lacey cooed.

“It is, and I think it’s in this capacity that I can serve you best—as your confidante who has outside perspective.”

Lacey eyed her and then sat back down on the couch. “So what you’re saying is that you want out, but you’ll stay in as long as it’s one on one.”

Chase was confused. It sounded more like a poker game than a solution. “If it means I’m done with going to meetings.”

“Yes, you’ll stand as my personal advisor—like that guy Lord-something or other that Queen Elizabeth had.”

“Lord Cecil.”

“Yeah, that guy.”

“Deal.” They shook hands. Chase glanced over her shoulder to see Divine Vulva rifling the cupboard for a coffee cup to her liking.

Chapter Eight—Map of Life

“She let you get off with that?” Gitana said.

“Yup,” Chase said.

“All you have to do is teach the writing class and talk to her when she has a problem.”

“Yup.”

“Chase, could you possibly put those down and talk to me?”

Chase swung around with the enormous binoculars still glued to her face. Gitana appeared as a blur of hair follicles and epidermis. She tipped the binoculars down and waited while her pupils adjusted to the dimmer light of the dining room.

“What exactly are you looking at?”

“The road,” Chase said, her voice heavy with gritty malevolence as if “the road” had become a serious force of contention in her life.

“It’s coming along nicely. I can’t wait until they’ve finished—what with all the noise and dust,” Gitana said.

“Yup,” Chase said. She had the look of someone being interrupted from an engrossing task. She read it in Gitana’s face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

Gitana cocked her head and raised an eyebrow—her quintessential what’s-up look.

Bud came bouncing down the stairs, grabbed her lunchbox and called out from the kitchen, “She’s freaked about the road being paved.”

Having heard Bud stuffing her lunchbox in her backpack, Chase said, “Don’t forget to put the ice pack in. I don’t want E. coli breeding in your lunchbox.”

“E. coli is specific to meat, and I am a vegetarian,” Bud informed her.

“Like that proclivity would slip my mind,” Chase said. “I was simply using an example of what can happen with poor food safety.”

Bud stood beside her. “I think it’s a case of displacement—food safety for a change in road conditions.”

Gitana looked puzzled. “I would think having a paved road was a good thing. We’ve all complained about it for years, and now our wish has come true because of Bud’s diligent efforts.”

“It’s the change thing that’s getting to her,” Bud said.

Chase was back to peering through the binoculars. The workers in their orange vests were removing rocks that the backhoe had unearthed, the same rocks they had driven over for so many years that their tops had been worn smooth. She felt like running down there and saving them from the ignominy of being tossed to the side like pieces of geological trash. Each one, it seemed, had its own personality. “We should have given them names,” Chase opined.

“Given who names?” Gitana called from the kitchen where she was now organizing her work bag.

Chase felt Bud take her hand. She put the binoculars down on the dining room table. “The rocks.”

Bud looked up at her. “I didn’t know this would upset you. I was simply concerned for the health and preservation of our internal organs.”

“I know.”

“The internal organ thing was what sold the governor on it. She’d just had abdominal surgery and couldn’t imagine having to drive home on such a road.”

Gitana returned holding her bag. “Don’t you have an appointment with Dr. Robicheck this afternoon?”

Chase gave her the look—the one that said the “don’t you have an appointment with your shrink?” question was on par with “did you take your medication?”

Gitana put her arms around Chase’s shoulders. “I meant it in a good way.”

“I know. And yes, I do after I help with the decorations for the Fall Frolic dance.” She glanced in Bud’s direction. She still wasn’t comfortable with Bud taking a girl, Summer in particular, as her date for the dance.

Gitana’s take on the whole thing was, “Isn’t it better that she goes with a good friend? She adores Summer.”

“That’s what I am afraid of,” Chase had said.

“Do you want her to go with a boy?”

That had cinched the discussion.

“Okay, we’d better get a move on. You know it takes longer to get down the road now,” Gitana said.

“It appears,” Bud said as she peered through the binoculars, “that they have completed paving one side of the road.”

“I hope it’s dry. I don’t want tar splats on the side of the Mini Cooper.”

“It looks solidified,” Bud said.

“Let me see,” Chase said, taking the binoculars. She peered down at the road. “How can you tell?” It just looked black to her.

“The color. It was apparently done yesterday around one thirty. I had in-service so I got out early.”

Chase loved in-service days. She didn’t understand what they were—she imagined that the teachers cleaned up their desks or something. She didn’t care because they meant she got to spend more time with Bud. What was the bane of most parents—an afternoon where they had to find a sitter—was a delight to Chase. They’d gone to Starbucks and had lattes as a treat. Chase wasn’t certain how she should feel about Bud having caffeine at her age, but being a major consumer herself, it seemed hypocritical to forbid it to Bud. It was legal after all. French kids did it, she rationalized—rationalization was always a slippery slope.

“And they were finishing up the one side when I got home so I think she’s right—it’s dry. Is this road thing going to be like the gazebo thing?” Gitana asked.

“‘Thing’? What do you mean by ‘thing’?” Chase said, studying the road again.

“Your obsession with finding, planning and building the gazebo,” Gitana said, taking the binoculars.

Chase sighed. She was quiet for a moment, ruminating. “I suppose it is. Did I ever tell you about my very first obsession?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Gitana said, glancing at her watch.

“I haven’t heard about it,” Bud piped in.

“It lasted four years.”

“Four years!” Gitana said.

Bud patted her arm. “The gazebo only lasted about three months, which included building time, and it is very nice,” she said.

“Thank you,” Chase said. “I have matured and my obsession time line has greatly reduced itself—so no worries.”

“What was your first obsession?” Gitana asked with a look of I-can-only-imagine.

“It had to do with finding the perfect Halloween costume,” Chase said, putting the binoculars that Gitana had set on the dining room table into their case.

“That’s not so bad,” Gitana said. “All kids spend time thinking about what they’ll wear that night—it was like this special magical time,” she glanced at Bud. “Well, most children.”

“Some of us do have better things to do with our time,” Bud said.

“Oh, so you’re implying I was shallow as a child.”

“No, you were relatively normal,” Bud said.

That was a compliment, Chase thought.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with planning out your Halloween costume?” Bud said.

“I would start planning my costume on November first and work my way through the rest of the year exploring all the possibilities.”

“You worked on your Halloween costume idea for three hundred and sixty-four days,” Gitana said incredulously.

“Yup.”

“Well, you could be commended for your thoroughness,” Bud said.

“Or committed for signs of early obsessive disorders,” Gitana said, fishing about for her car keys.

Chase and Bud both looked at her with bruised assault written on their faces.

“Did I say that out loud?” she said.

“She has improved and needs nothing more than the occasional tune-up with a qualified mental health expert,” Bud said.

“Thank you,” Chase said.

“Okay, let’s go try the road out,” Gitana said, rubbing her hands together.

On the way to the garage, Chase did three Hail Marys to ward off the evil of impending change.

Bud took her hand. “Do you have the crepe paper for the decorating committee?”

“I do. I loaded the car last night so I wouldn’t forget anything,” Chase said as they followed Gitana toward the cars.

Bud nodded. “You may be obsessive, but no one can fault your organizational skills.”

They kissed Gitana goodbye and then climbed in the car. Chase started down the road with trepidation. She tried her best to acknowledge the improvement, but she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. She did have to admit that not having one’s internal organs bounced from side to side was a bonus.

She could feel Bud’s intense gaze upon her. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. I’m just a little stressed over this hanging crepe paper business. I mean, I’ve never decorated anything before.”

“It’s really quite simple. I bought this magazine that has explicit do-it-yourself directions and tips on how to improve. I think if you give it a quick perusal before you arrive, you’ll be fine.” Bud dug the magazine out of her backpack.

“Perfect. I appreciate you looking out for me.” She turned off the road and onto the county road. The transition was smooth, she noted.

Gitana stuck her arm out the window of the Land Rover and waved at them before she turned onto the county road and headed toward the nursery.

“Do you want me to read the particulars while we drive and then you can study the pictures after you drop me off?”

“By all means.”

Chapter Nine—Decorum

Chase was standing in Dr. Robicheck’s office. “I mean how hard can it be to hang crepe paper and tape up decorations? The Coffee Klatch relegated me to dispensing tape. It was embarrassing.”

Dr. Robicheck stared at her. “Because you were doing what?”

“Did you redecorate again? You know how I feel about that.”

“Yes, now why did you feel inadequate to the task?”

“You painted and changed the pillows,” Chase said, feeling her heart pump faster.

“Is it because this is an activity you haven’t done before?”

“Is this sage green?” Chase said, pointing to the walls. Even the prints had changed from calla lilies and Southwestern scenes to reprints of forest paintings something along the lines of Emily Carr. Chase asked if the paintings were by artist Emily Carr.

Dr. Robicheck looked at the prints as if seeing them for the first time. Sometimes Chase swore her therapist was myopic.

“I seem to remember being told that. I hired an interior designer. I thought my office needed sprucing up. I gave her free rein. I rather like it.” She studied the room.

“You know I don’t like change.”

“I realize that change is unsettling for you. Now, why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about this crepe paper business.”

Chase sat down. “I do like the rug. It accents the wall colors and ties into the pillows, and that vase is new too,” she said, pointing at the hand-blown glass vase sitting on the end table.

“Chase, focus. Tell me what happened at the decorating party.”

“It’s the road, really, more than the crepe paper.” She fingered one of the couch pillows.

“The road? What road?” Dr. Robicheck had opened an embossed green leather notepad.

“That looks new.” Chase was on the verge of a panic attack. She looked around the room searching for every new thing—there was the pen and pencil holder, the ink blotter and two books by Anthony Trollope, The Eustace Diamonds and The Warden, two of Chase’s favorites. “This is awful. When did you do all this?”

Chase quickly calculated. It had been six weeks since her last appointment. Dr. Robicheck had gone to a conference and Chase had been in New York with Eliza P. Newman planning a new detective series. Divine Vulva was supposedly working out a killer hook and had yet to do so. Commercial Endeavor was at least doing her part by creating character biographies and researching the locale for the novel. The combination of these events resulted in enough time for the remodel.

Chase recalled her first visit to Dr. Robicheck’s. The entire room was brown—it was like sitting inside a walnut with brown furniture and brown walls, and Dr. Robicheck wore a brown polyester get-up. Then Dr. Robicheck fell in love and all hell broke loose in the world of change. Dr. Robicheck got a new wardrobe and redecorated her office, and now she was doing it again—like the first time hadn’t been traumatic enough.

“What happened to this road you’re talking about?”

“How come you remodeled again? Do you have a new boyfriend?”

“I felt like a change—green is supposed to be a very soothing color.”

“Well, it’s not working for me,” Chase said, getting up to examine the print on the wall. It was nicely framed and thank God, Divine Vulva had given up coming to therapy or this artwork could be in danger.

“Evidently.”

“And before you ask, yes, I have been taking my meds.”

“That’s good, but I wasn’t going to inquire. Stress does this to you. Now, let’s talk about the cause of this episode,” she inquired, pen poised.

Chase studied the embossed signature on the lower right corner of the print. It was a reproduction of an Emily Carr. “Did you know about her?”

“About who?”

“Emily Carr.”

“Who’s Emily Carr?” Dr. Robicheck had that genuinely puzzled look that Chase, in her more passive-aggressive moments, found amusing. Confusing the therapist who was supposed to lead you out of your own personal confusion was surely a patient-therapist confidentiality achievement. Your mind was so confidential that even your therapist couldn’t breach it.

“She painted this,” Chase said, indicating the print.

“She’s not here, is she?”

“No, Emily Carr’s been dead for a long time,” Chase said.

“I figured that by the dates on the paintings.”

“Who are you talking about then?” Chase said.

“You know,” Dr. Robicheck said, cocking her head toward the paintings.

“No, I don’t know.” They were definitely not connecting today, Chase thought.

“Your muse, the one that throws artwork,” Dr. Robicheck said, looking around anxiously as if searching for tangible proof, and then she pointed at the framed reproduction of Emily Carr’s painting of a cedar forest.

“Oh, no. Divine Vulva had decided that therapy is not her thing,” Chase said, being diplomatic. What Divine Vulva had actually said was, “Therapy is fucking voodoo shit and you might as well piss your money down a hole.” Chase knew that each person’s profession was sacred to them. She didn’t want to offend Dr. Robicheck. “She’s been really busy working on her new series.”

“So basically she’s too busy to seek the professional care that she needs—that’s not healthy. I think I could really help her,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chase stared at her in astonishment. Dr. Robicheck was never a promoter of her shrink skills. This was outright recruitment. It was Chase’s turn to glance around to make sure Divine Vulva hadn’t heard any of this.

Dr. Robicheck continued, “I would start with hypnosis and then move on to anger management.”

“Uh, well, you know, Divine Vulva just really has her own gig going on.” Chase studied her thumbnail, thinking this was getting awkward. “I mean, anger management is probably a good idea.”

Dr. Robicheck chuckled, or at least that’s what it sounded like. Either that or she was aspirating.

Then Chase noticed her smiling.

“I’m kidding, Chase. Your muse views therapy as some sort of voodoo crap, correct?”

Chase furrowed her brow, and for half a second, she thought Dr. Robicheck had not only redecorated her office but had also taken a successful Continuing Education class in mind-reading.

“I don’t think kidding should be allowed in therapy. It’s disconcerting,” Chase said, going for a forefinger cuticle chew. Her left hand slapped her right hand in an automatic response.

“Nor should it be allowed that a patient, to use your lexicon, freak out over a therapist redecorating her office. It is my office, after all. So can we get back on task and talk roads and crepe paper?”

Chase nodded. She went to the water cooler to get a drink and noticed the new Dixie cup design but said nothing. She turned to see Dr. Robicheck watching her as if waiting for her to say something. “I didn’t say a word.” She gulped the water and sat down on the green corduroy couch with satin cording. “You know this isn’t going to wear as well as leather.”

Dr. Robicheck raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Your opinion has been noted—the office furniture is a tax write-off.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of that.” Chase’s mind began turning. She despised paying taxes. “Do you think that rule would apply to my writing studio?”

“I suppose so if you renamed it for tax purposes as your office.”

Chase furrowed her brow. Why hadn’t anyone brought this up to her before?

“The road or crepe paper?” Dr. Robicheck prodded. “Whichever one came first or is of more importance.”

“The crepe paper incident really isn’t that important, but it is part of the larger picture of the problem at hand and thus I don’t think should be discounted because the crepe paper incident is linked to Bud’s sexuality.”

“Perhaps we better have another session next week. I don’t think we can get all this done in the next forty minutes.”

“You’re right. I’ll make another appointment.”

“So tell me about the crepe paper incident.”

Chase recounted the particulars for Dr. Robicheck—the dance, Bud’s choice of partner and the Coffee Klatch.

“Do these women intimidate you?” Dr. Robicheck inquired, her brow raised.

“No, I mean, not really, well perhaps just a little,” Chase said, avoiding her gaze. “All right, yes, they do—all except one who is more tormented than I am.”

“Then why do you associate with them if they make you feel this way?”

Chase thought for a moment. She’d gone to the Coffee Klatch in the beginning because Summer’s mom had asked her to, saying, “I’ll go if you go.” Chase was a sucker for that kind of thing—the need-to-be-needed phenomena, as Donna dubbed it. She told Chase that personal assistants are born of that need and, as she said, “Some of us turn it into very satisfying careers. For others it’s a curse.”

“Why is it a curse?” Chase had inquired.

“Because it’s about guilt and not altruism. Whereas in my case, I am using another person’s needs as a focus of my desire to serve.”

Chase brought herself back to the present. “It’s not like they’re bad people or that they’re mean and spiteful—it’s just that they’re so damned organized and confident and seem to have no known neurosis. They’re so normal.”

“I thought you were past this normal thing?” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chase looked at her. If she wasn’t imagining it, Dr. Robicheck was getting rather slangy. During their last session she’d said, “That’s a double burn on you.” Chase had heard Summer say that to Bud, who responded with something about physics and the actuality of such a proposal.

“I learn stuff about parenting, and because I am not normal I need to expose myself to other parents who are normal, so I know what normal looks like.”

Dr. Robicheck chuckled.

Now, Chase was completely disconcerted. Her therapist had kidded her, talked like a Valley girl and now she chuckled. “What’s happened to you?” Chase said, peering at her as if her piercing gaze might disintegrate the plastic mask to reveal the imposter pretending to be her therapist.

“Chase, people do change. They experience minor shifts in their behaviors. They, either by their own hand or the hand of providence, expose themselves to new experiences and it alters them.”

“What new experience has altered you?” Chase asked.

“Promise not to laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” Chase said, thinking Dr. Robicheck had either lost her mind or was on drugs.

“Because it’s a new kind of therapy group I’m leading down at the Better Life Behavioral Center. Remember the conference I went to?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve continued my studies and and now I’m teaching a class, well, more of a focus group, with my fellow therapists about laugh therapy.”

Chase smirked. “Yeah, right.”

Dr. Robicheck looked affronted. “This is serious. It’s the cutting edge of therapy for patients suffering from depression.”

“Do you have any guinea pigs yet?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate to call patients guinea pigs.”

“You are experimenting on them.”

“Now, about the crepe paper incident,” Dr. Robicheck said, tapping her pen on her pad as if calling the session to order.

Chase waved her hands. “Oh, it really wasn’t that bad. I got tied up in it, and then I didn’t like how it draped from the ceiling and I kept redoing it until I got demoted to sticking up pumpkin heads and black cat placards on the walls. I overbought the crepe paper so I suppose I could practice at home for next year.”

“I don’t think it’s imperative, unless you intend to become a permanent part of the decorating committee.”

Chase thought about it. She didn’t want to do it again. “I’ll consider begging off next time. I could donate the crepe paper.”

“Perhaps that’s a better solution. It sounds like your heart wasn’t in it.”

“I think you’re right.” Chase glanced at the clock. It was time.

“We’ll deal with your road issue next week. Remember: Change can be fun, and it is a known constant in the human condition.”

“So what you’re saying is that I better get used to it.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Robicheck said.

On the way out the door, the idea hit her. “You know this group-therapy-laugh thingamabob you’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it would work on hormonally challenged lesbians?”

“Hormonally challenged?” Dr. Robicheck folded her fingers into themselves.

“Menopausals and left ovary only women.”

“Why do they need laugh therapy?”

“Because they need to relax and grasp the concept of humor. Lacey’s Institute needs you. Lesbians are not exactly the most humorous of people when you group them together in a compound. It’s positively frightening.” Chase refrained from telling her about the handcuffed-to-the-chair incident. She didn’t want to scare her off.

“Frightening, in what way?”

“They’re at war.”

“At war with what?”

“Each other. The Left Ovary women started it by saying that they didn’t feel like real women because they were no longer completely female, having only a left ovary.”

Dr. Robicheck nodded.

“So the menopausals got all twisted up because female identity should not be tied up to monthly menses.”

“That’s the war?”

“Yes.”

“I can fix that.”

“You can?” Chase was incredulous. “How?”

“For me to know and you to find out,” Dr. Robicheck said, in a wry imitation of a Valley girl. Moon Zappa would have been proud.

“Okay,” Chase said, clearly disconcerted.

“I’ll pencil you in,” Dr. Robicheck said, waggling her eyebrows up and down and affecting having a cigar using her pencil. Groucho Marx came to mind.

“That’s weird.”

“Get used to it,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chapter Ten—Risk

Chase studied the design on the underside of the skateboard. It was a pterodactyl. She contemplated the symbolism. Was it indicative of her advanced age, as in being fossilized? The flying above the treetops could be a sign of aspiration. Or was it fleeing from an enemy?

“I picked it out because of its organic quality,” Bud said, adjusting her helmet strap.

“I’m not certain I agree with this,” Chase said, studying the elbow and kneepads that went along with the helmet—all necessary safety equipment, according to Bud.

“What’s not to agree with? Look at all the precautionary equipment,” Bud said, putting on the padded gloves.

“But should we be interested in a sport that requires so much safety equipment? What is going to potentially happen that requires most of my body to be encased in padding?” Chase inquired, as she double-knotted her new navy-blue-with-white-piping Van’s skateboarding shoes with no-slip soles.

“All the important stuff is padded in case of an emergency ejection.”

“Should we be doing something that requires bailing out?” Chase stared down the freshly blacktopped road, thinking that the county should really have used that red oxide-colored tint like the pavement in Zion National Park so that it wouldn’t clash with the natural environs.

“I think you need to explore new things,” Bud said. She stepped on the edge of her skateboard and flipped it upright.

Chase stared at her and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve done this before.”

Bud didn’t meet her gaze. “I always made sure to wear a helmet,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to risk brain damage. I knew that would really make you mad.”

“Getting brain damaged? Yes, it would, although I would get you the best medical care available.”

“I appreciate that. Besides, I only practiced tricks. I didn’t hurl myself down a hill or anything.”

Chase studied the grade of the road. Bud seemed to sense what she was thinking. “The skateboard doesn’t go as fast as you think, and we’ll start slow.”

“Don’t you think…,” Chase hated to admit this, “I’m a little too old for this?”

“Tony Hawk is in your age bracket.”

 “Who’s he?”

“Just the most amazing skater on the planet as well as a marketing genius and mentor for up-and-coming skaters. He even has his own clothing line.”

“You seem to know a lot about a sport you’re new to,” Chase said and then admonished herself. Bud knew everything about everything. She was worse than Addison in that respect. Bud, she was certain, knew the entire history of skateboarding.

Bud nodded. “It really started out with these kids in southern California who were originally surfers, but the waves were unpredictable, so they…”

Chase held up a hand. “I get the gist.”

“There’s a documentary called Lords of Dogtown which explains the history. They embraced their situation and ran, or rather, rolled with it.”

“We’ll watch it later if I need to learn more.”

Bud raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sayin’ I’m not interested.”

“I have it on loan from the library for another week.”

“I’m thinking, as I’m sure you are, that after I do this I will either fall in love with skateboarding and want to watch the video, or I will never want to hear about skateboarding again.”

“I kept the receipts, but I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised,” Bud said and winked at her.

Has everyone gone weird? Her therapist kidded around and talked like a Valley girl and now her daughter had taken up winking.

Chase surveyed the skateboard. “What do I need to know?”

“Stance, position and weight distribution. Watch me.”

Chase mimicked Bud and put her right foot parallel to the skateboard.

“You’re going to push with your left foot, get the board going and step on, putting your arms out for balance.” Bud demonstrated.

“Be careful,” Chase called after her as she took off.

Bud didn’t go far, only about twenty yards. “See, I told you so. Try it.”

Chase pushed off and the board wobbled a little and then glided. At first, she panicked as the ground beneath her moved, but as she stepped off and gave herself another push she realized that she was only two inches off the ground. All she had to do was step off the board and she would stop. She watched as Bud made small side-to-side movements that made the board turn. Chase did the same. By the time they’d gotten to the bottom of the road, Chase was hooked. It was a worse addiction than her Mentos problem, which was under managed control. Her Mentos addiction was a crutch. Skateboarding was a blast. Chase glowed. She could even feel the glow—she was awash in what she knew was the brain chemical dopamine, the result of fear and exhilaration. It was like learning to use Phyllis Dildo—sex and skateboarding.

Bud glanced over at her and smiled with what Chase took to be trepidation. “Are you all right?”

“All right? I am fucking fantastic. Let’s do it again.”

After they’d gone up and down what they now referred to as the “Silk Road,” Chase had entered a state of bliss. The sky seemed bluer, the mountains more purple, the air fresher, the dying Indian paintbrush alongside the road more tragically poetic, and even the old codger up the road almost seemed benevolent as he crept slowly past them in his burgundy Jeep Liberty. For half a second, Chase’s hand wanted to reach out and grab the rear door handle and let Ralph E. Severson and his SUV pull her down the road. She’d seen kids do it in town and she’d been outraged at their complete disregard for personal safety and now here she was, moth-to-flame, wanting to do it herself. The only thing that stopped her was that Bud, who followed behind, would have seen her do it and disapproved.

After Ralph E. Severson and his tempting door handle passed by and turned on the county road, Bud said, “You weren’t going to…”

“Like those kids we’ve seen in town?” Chase said before she realized she’d indicted herself. She put her foot on the back of the board and flipped it up like she’d seen Bud do. “Of course not. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, good, because I thought for a minute there you were going to—”

Chase interjected. “I’m not like that.”

Bud backpedaled. “Of course you’re not.”

“Now can we do it one more time?” She couldn’t get enough. It was the thrill that drew her.

“Sure, and then I have to do my homework,” Bud said, picking up her board.

When Gitana got home, Chase was making angel hair pasta with marinara sauce and soy meatballs. She didn’t know how the vegetarian food scientists had done it, but they’d managed to make the stuff stick together into something that resembled a meatball.

Gitana pulled her Day-Timer from her work bag and then put it in the kitchen nook labeled “Gitana’s stuff.” She slumped in the chair at the kitchen island. Fall was a tough time for the nursery, Chase recalled. Corporate parties requiring centerpieces, the Food and Beverage Conference at the Expo Center, as well as Chase’s publisher, Eliza P. Newman, who sent her clients orchids at the slightest provocation, all kept the nursery hopping. Eliza’s clients generated even more orders from New York as buyers insisted on purchasing “the Gitana orchids.” They drew out the syllables of Gitana’s name from its customary three to the Eastern linguistic proclivity of nine so that Gitana’s name seemed to stretch across the state of Rhode Island. These sales were a boon for the nursery, but the packing was a nightmare.

“How are you holding up?” Chase asked.

Gitana rubbed her temples. “As best I can. Did you know that China recycles Great Britain’s cardboard and turns it back into cardboard?”

“No, I did not know that.” She rolled over toward the stove and stirred the sauce.

“This cardboard is essentially reconstituted, which is not as strong or durable and does not qualify for a weight allotment like the stuff produced here.”

“Cardboard sounds a lot more complicated than I was aware,” Chase said, rolling over to the fridge and pulling out a Gatorade for herself and a Dasani for Gitana.

Gitana took a sip and then continued her diatribe while Chase washed and dried the mixed greens. She was proud of them as they were the first salad greens to come out of the small greenhouse she’d constructed over the summer. She wanted to have fresh salad stuff into the fall and winter if possible. Chase was still ruminating on what else she could grow when Gitana thumped the kitchen counter as if calling court into session.

“And you know what the fucking stupid idiot said? She said cardboard is cardboard and if I don’t think it’s strong enough, double it up, honey. If I could have crawled through the fiber optic network to her desk I would have throttled her.”

Chase stared at her.

“What?” Gitana said.

“You never talk like that.”

“Well, it was bound to happen one day or another. That’s what going big will do. Look at you. You turn psychotic when you have to become Shelby McCall. Sometimes I don’t even recognize you when you go into that mode.”

“Really? Am I that bad?” Chase angled up on her skateboard. It was if the skateboard had become part of her and this was her new thinking posture. Perhaps Gitana was right. She did adopt certain mannerisms as Shelby McCall. Shelby was far more confident than Chase. Shelby was pushy when she didn’t get her way, and if you pissed her off, she exhibited unrestrained petulance. Shelby McCall was a bitch.

“Chase?”

“Yes?”

“Are you standing on something? You look taller.”

“I’m learning a new sport and I need to practice weight and balance distribution.”

Gitana came around the kitchen island and peered down at the skateboard with what the Asberger card labeled as “anger.” She narrowed her eyes and said, “Do you know how dangerous skateboards are?”

“Only to the unskilled and unprotected, of which I am neither.”

“Because you’ve been doing this for how long and where is the protection?”

Chase took the offensive. “I am just practicing standing on it. When I am riding it, I put on full combat gear, and I’ve been riding with Bud all afternoon.”

“Bud is doing it too?”

“It was her idea,” Chase said, adjusting the board so she could roll around Gitana.

“Have you lost your mind?” Gitana stepped back as Chase came toward her.

“Recently or previously?”

“Chase!”

“I know, baby, but I feel like this is opening me up to be a more available and capable person who not only exists but embraces the ever-changing Universe.”

“Through skateboarding?” Gitana said incredulously.

“We all find our way using different paths. Should I put the pasta in?”

Gitana ignored her. “Head injuries, broken collarbones, dislocated shoulders, sprained ankles…”

The litany would have continued if Bud hadn’t come in the room, carrying a file folder stuffed with papers. Chase looked at her for aid in staving off the assault.

“I anticipated this,” Bud said, handing the file to Gitana, who set it down on the counter without even looking at it. “This is documentation of the risk factor for various sports. You must also know that we are not availing ourselves of skate parks, which is where most injuries occur. We are street riders or, technically speaking, rural private road riders.”

“Is there a category for that?” Gitana said.

“Not exactly, but we do fall into the low-risk group,” Bud said.

Chase added pasta to the boiling water, and Bud slid the file toward Gitana.

“I don’t like it, but if it makes you all feel at one with the Universe I will tolerate it. One injury, though, and that’s it. Skateboard es fini, comprendez-vous?” Gitana said. She was listening to French language CDs on her way to and from work. Chase didn’t know why. They weren’t planning a trip to Paris anytime soon.

“That’s fair,” Bud said, looking at Chase for agreement.

“It’s perfectly reasonable,” Chase said.

“Do you want to read this?” Bud asked.

“Not really. I’m exhausted,” Gitana said, staring at the enormous file with a look of defeat.

“Why don’t you go take a quick shower? I can hold the noodles.”

“Okay.” Gitana went upstairs. Even her footfalls sounded tired.

Chase picked up the file folder. “How’d you get all this stuff so quickly?”

“I didn’t. It’s an old manuscript of yours from the time of dinosaurs when you had to use hard copies.”

“Bud!”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Do you want to keep boarding?”

“Yes, but that was deceitful.”

“I didn’t say that these papers were documentation. I said there was documentation. She just assumed it was.”

“That’s an omissionary truth.”

“Precisely.”

“I hope when you are of legal employment age you work for good and not evil causes.”

“I have a finely tuned moral compass.”

Chase flipped up on the board. It slid out from under her and jetted into the kitchen stool. Bud grabbed for the stool. She hit the cutting board with her elbow, sending the bowl of greens off the counter. Chase ducked down to grab the skateboard as it headed for the coat rack. She slipped on the salad greens, landing on her ass. The skateboard hit the coat rack and it fell on her. She looked up at Bud.

“You should really wear a helmet if you’re going to do stuff like that,” Bud said.

Chapter Eleven—The Manicure

It didn’t take long for people to get used to Chase skateboarding down the halls of the Institute. The painted concrete floors were perfect for the skateboard—smooth and free of ruts. Riding the board allowed for more personal space. People couldn’t keep up with her, and if they had any sense, they kept out of her way. Lacey had complained only once, but when Chase made it evident that the skateboard stayed or she went, the “No Skateboarding” signs were removed.

Ollie, one of the maintenance techs, growled, “I just finished putting them up all over the building and now she wants them taken down. You were the only one skateboarding. Couldn’t she have told you not to do it?”

Chase volunteered to help her take them down. As she helped her, Chase said, “Historically, the Establishment has always been against skateboarding because of the anarchist tendency of the culture.”

“If you say so,” Ollie replied, giving her a dubious expression.

Chase skateboarded into Lacey’s office to find her getting a manicure of immense proportion. Either that or she was being prepped for hand surgery.

“I revisited my stance on skateboarding, as you have probably noticed.”

“I saw that. I’m glad you came to realize the therapeutic value of my new way of life.”

“I wasn’t aware it was so important to you,” Lacey said, allowing the Asian woman to dip her hand in an interesting smelling liquid.

Chase thought it smelled like a combination of seaweed, turpentine and eau d’ butterscotch pudding. “It is important to me,” she said, as she executed a flawless three-sixty.

Lacey raised an eyebrow. “Then you won’t mind signing this waiver.” She pointed to a folder with a sheet of paper clipped to the outside of it.

“Waiver?” Chase looked at it.

“It releases the Institute from any legal liability if you injure yourself—like falling and receiving a blunt trauma to the head resulting in vegetablization.”

“Is that a word?”

“It is now,” Lacey said, with conviction.

Chase read the document and considered not signing it. Would she be removed from the Institute and all its obligations if she refused to sign it? She considered this, realizing it would take an Act of Parliament to get her free of the Institute. Not signing it would mean not riding her skateboard. She signed it. Her odds of getting vegetablized were much lower than of getting mowed down by an angry mob of PMS-suffering bearded Amazons, which had almost happened the week before. At least on her skateboard she could outrun or rather outskate them.

“Thank you,” Lacey said.

Chase glanced down at the file folder. “What’s this?” The folder was thick and it had her name on it.

Lacey dipped her other hand in the strange-smelling liquid. The Asian woman set about pushing back the cuticles on her other hand.

“It’s your dossier,” Lacey said.

“My what?”

“Your personnel file,” she said as if Chase didn’t know what dossier meant.

“Why do I have a file?”

“Everyone does,” Lacey said. Forgetting that her hand was submerged in gunk, she waved her hand nonchalantly, flinging it everywhere.

Chase ducked as some of the smelly shit came her way.

“Sorry about that,” Lacey said as the manicurist began wiping up the mess.

“It no problem, but keep hand in stuff,” the manicurist said.

Chase took the rag the woman handed her and wiped smelly goo-shit off her shoe.

“What’s in my dossier?”

“Everything about you.”

Chase fingered the file, contemplating whether she wanted to look.

“How come mine is so thick?”

“Because there is a lot to know about you,” Lacey said. She must have sensed Chase’s unease. “It’s more like a biography than a KGB thing.”

Chase relaxed. “Can I look at it?”

“Sure,” Lacey said, studying the manicurist’s movements like she was concerned she might lose a finger through an untimely accident with the cuticle scissors.

Chase sat down on her skateboard. She’d found it made a useful portable chair, seeing as Lacey’s office was full of feminine accoutrements and an Asian woman. She opened the file. It had tax stuff and then it went into a This is Your Life mode. She was bowled over by her lifetime achievements or rather the breadth of them. There was a list of every award and in some cases a photocopy of the award itself, including her sixth grade spelling bee. She came in second place because she missed the word “weltschmerz.” She’d never forget that word. For shit sakes, she managed supercalifragilisticexpialidocious—her sixth-grade teacher was a new-wave import from Slovenia and was a freak about American culture yet felt nostalgic for her lost homeland, so she went for odd terms like “flibbertigibbet” and everyday words with as many letters as possible in them. It was weirdest spelling bee any of the kids had ever encountered. The boy who won first place had to spell Engelbert Humperdinck.

Then her file moved on to the college scholarship awards that she had received for writing odd term papers that seemed to awaken her English professors from their normal state of narcosis. She wrote about Chaucer’s Wife of Bath and Defoe’s Moll Flanders as businesswomen in a male-dominated society, and about early American male writers being discriminated against by European critics much in the same way women writers were denigrated as mere scribblers. Chase looked up at Lacey. “Where the hell did you get this stuff?”

“Your mom,” Lacey said. She’d chosen a nail polish color from the array offered. She held it up to the light. It was a sparkly bronze color.

“Stella kept all this stuff?”

“Sure did. I had to pare it down some.”

 “Why would she save all this?”

“Duh, like she’s proud of you.”

This was news, well, not so much these days. She and her mother, Stella, hadn’t fought much since Chase became a parent and a successful mystery writer. Their relationship had gotten rather banal, but it wasn’t like she could call her mother up and pick a fight. “Do you realize that Stella and I haven’t fought about anything for a long time?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s been dull on the home front.”

“It good to get along with your mother,” the Asian woman said.

Chase looked at the woman. The woman was small but sturdy. “Did you fight with your mother?” Chase said, picking up one of the bottles of nail polish. It was cerulean blue.

The woman stopped painting Lacey’s nails, which was a good thing seeing as she burst out laughing. “Oh, no, we fight, like how you say, cats and dogs.”

Chase smiled.

“You like color. I do for you,” the woman said.

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

Lacey admired the woman’s work. “You should. Look at how nice my hands are.” She held them out for Chase’s inspection.

“What’s this all about? I thought you laid off this girlie stuff and became an au naturale girl.”

It was true. Lacey had gone from foo-foo girl—makeup, hair, shoes, pretty undergarments—to a businesswoman with a no-nonsense ponytail and lip gloss with SPF 45 sunblock. Chase thought she looked prettier this way. She checked Lacey’s face for makeup—there wasn’t any.

“Do you realize that a woman’s hands, specifically a lesbian’s hands, are her penis?” Lacey asked.

Chase, who’d been tipped up on the end of her skateboard, clunked down. “What?”

“A lesbian’s hand is her lover’s organ of delight, the manifestation of her sexuality.”

“She right,” the Asian woman said. “Women fuckety-fuck and rubby-dubby with hand so it good for it to look nice,” she said, wiggling her hands.

Chase was mortified. “Well, yes, but…”

“I’m reading this book about the history of the clitoris,” Lacey said, admiring her hands.

“There’s a book devoted solely to the clitoris?” Chase said.

Lacey gave her the if-you’d-get-out-of-the-cave-more look. “Uh, yeah, it’s called The Clitoral Truth.”

Then to redeem herself and nettle Lacey, another activity that had gone by the wayside, Chase asked, “Is it part of a series, the next book being Labia Majora—A Study of Pink Folds? This would be followed by a look at the labia minora complete with easy-to-follow instructions for manual stimulation.”

Lacey turned crimson.

Chase had forgotten how fun it was to poke the snake. Perhaps she’d call her mother later. They’d both been so busy—Stella with chasing errant husbands, and Chase with writing and perfecting her alter ego, Shelby McCall.

“I do not find that amusing. This is serious business. I want you to do something for me.”

“Let me guess—organize a festival for the glorification of the clitoris,” Chase said. This felt good.

Lacey’s eyes lit up. “No, but that’s a fabulous idea and you,” she pointed at the manicurist, “can set up a booth and give manicures and maybe even do a seminar on good hand care.”

Chase tried to envision an Asian woman with broken English teaching a seminar on “hands as penises.” However, she did glance down at her own hands. Both Lacey and the manicurist caught her, and then, like Bruce Lee, the woman had Chase in a chair and her hand stuck in the odd-smelling liquid.

“I make hand pretty,” she said.

Lacey was at the dry erase board, which was as large as a grade school classroom chalkboard. Marker poised, she said, “I envision something along the lines of a medieval May Day. We’d exchange the traditional pole for a giant clitoris.”

Chase looked at the Asian woman, who aptly expressed both their opinions. “Wow, that big, very big.”

“And frightening,” Chase said, hoping she wouldn’t have a nightmare about an army of  Brobdingnagian clitorises—or was the correct spelling clitori?—chasing her down and demanding her attention.

Lacey was studying the empty board.

“I think we should have a brainstorming board meeting about this,” Chase said, thinking that with a group discussion Lacey could be pared down to having a brief but informative seminar.

“You hate board meetings and refused to attend them and now you’re suggesting one?” Lacey said.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“What’s desperate?”

“A six-foot-tall clitoris,” Chase said.

The Asian woman smiled and pushed back Chase’s cuticles.

Chapter Twelve—The Undoing

Chase was Photoshopping Bud’s pictures from the dance. Unfortunately, the photos of the “tiny dancers” as she referred to them in homage to Elton John had been taken by Collins and as a consequence no one had feet.

“See, I told you,” Chase had said to Gitana. “No feet. I knew this would happen.”

“Perhaps you should give photo taking lessons for six-year-olds so they will photo document their lives better,” Gitana said.

“No, I should’ve been a chaperone. I should have been allowed to be a chaperone,” Chase said. She glowered at both Gitana and Bud, who avoided her gaze by studiously buttering their toast.

Having not gotten their attention, Chase continued, “And then this feet-chopping debacle would not have occurred. It’s not like I can glue feet on.”

At present, this was what she was attempting to do. She’d taken other pictures of Bud and her friends, and now she was doing a cut-and-paste and trying to insert feet. Not usually tech-saavy, Chase had managed to learn Photoshop. She’d taken over the family photo documentation from Gitana, who wasn’t home enough to capture all the crucial Bud photo ops. Chase worried she’d miss a never-to-be-repeated moment of Bud’s childhood. She didn’t think she had so far, but eternal vigilance was required.

There was a tap at the door and Donna came in, carrying her enormous Day-Timer and looking different. Granted it was a different kind of day—the seasons had changed from a lingering fall of sunny-but-crisp days to an ominous Jane-Eyre-and-Rochester-on-the-moors kind of day with the hint of a snowstorm.

Donna had a definite Rochester vibe. Not feeling like Jane Eyre and yet having a great regard for Charlotte Brontë, Chase inquired, “Is something wrong?”

Uncharacteristically, Donna lied and Chase knew it. “No, nothing is wrong.”

It was the pregnant kind of “nothing”—the one full of so much “something” that it could fill an Olympic-size swimming pool.

Chase bit her lip and contemplated the situation. She wasn’t good at this stuff. Should she approach Donna from the Dr. Robicheck point of view—sitting back and allowing Donna to explain the problem in her own time? Or should she do it her own way—which was to ignore the problem altogether? Or she could approach it like the neurotic Tigger from The Hundred Acre Wood and just pounce.

Donna poured coffee, sat on the couch and then buried her face in her hands. Chase ruminated. She opted for the Dr. Robicheck approach.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

Donna nodded.

The problem with nodding and gestural non-sequiturs was the ambiguity. Chase moved on to the Tigger method—at least that involved action. She leapt at Donna, pushed her on her back and sat on her chest.

Donna was startled, to say the least.

“Don’t make me do the Chinese Water Torture,” Chase said.

Donna blinked rapidly as if only just taking in the odd situation. “What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“If I tell you what’s wrong, will you get off me?”

“Yes.” Chase removed herself and sat on the couch next to Donna.

Donna glanced at her and then looked away.

Chase raised her eyebrows. She still couldn’t do the one arch eyebrow thing that Gitana and Bud were so adept at, but she had mastered doing both eyebrows and moving her eyes to one side in an expression of “really.” Chase gave Donna an extended version and when this produced nothing, she said, “Did you kill someone?”

“Well, no.”

“Maim, dismember, rob?”

“No.”

“Despoil?”

“No.”

Donna seemed to reconsider. This alarmed Chase.

“I may have broken a heart, maimed a soul and despoiled a destiny.”

“Wow,” Chase looked at the wall clock. “All that and it’s only one thirty. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.”

“You mean before I destroy the planet by cocktail hour?”

Chase laughed and Donna smiled at least. Chase took her hand. “What happened?”

Chase imagined it was some plan or event that Donna thought she had failed at because it didn’t come out perfectly—a few platitudes and all would be put right. “I’m sure whatever it is we can fix it.” She patted Donna’s hand.

Donna still looked bleak. “I don’t think it can be fixed. It’s not a can-be-fixed kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, it’s not like an undo kind of thing. It’s a what’s-done-is-done kind of thing.”

“Did you run something over? Accidents do happen,” Chase said, trying to sound consoling.

“Oh, no, I didn’t do that.”

“Good. So it seems to me death is the only thing that can’t be undone or rectified,” Chase said.

“Except in those cases where people come back from the dead,” Donna said.

“True, but this thing you’ve done…” Chase said, looking at her beseechingly. Is this what she put Dr. Robicheck through? It was awful.

“There’s another thing that can’t be undone, and that’s the thing I did.” Donna was the epitome of the trying-to-gather-enough-courage-to-enter-the-confessional-booth sinner.

“Maybe you could tell me what the undone-done-fixed-not-fixable thing is that you did, and then we can evaluate the situation. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Donna bit her thumbnail and her eyes widened as she stared at Chase, and then she said it really fast, running all the words together, “IsleptwithIsabel.”

Chase didn’t catch it. It sounded all slurred. “You did what?”

“I knew you wouldn’t approve. I knew it was wrong. It was unprofessional, and I swear to you I have never ever done it before. I’m not certain how it happened. It just did, and now I don’t know what to do about it. I have feelings. I am willing to recognize I have feelings.”

Chase grabbed Donna by the shoulders and peered into her face. “I didn’t understand you.”

“I know. I don’t understand it myself.”

“No, not that. I didn’t understand what you said. You said it too fast.”

“Oh, my God, I have to say it again?” She looked pleadingly at Chase. “Can I write it down instead?”

“Sure.”

Donna opened her Day-Timer and pulled out a packet of orange Post-it notes. She hesitated and then wrote quickly, ripped it off, folded it and handed the orange paper to Chase.

Chase opened it up and read. “Holy shit, really?”

Donna wrote on another Post-it and handed it to Chase. “Really.”

On another Post-it, she wrote “Yes,” and then buried her head in her hands.

“How did it happen?” Chase said.

Donna sighed and wrote out another note. Chase hoped they might talk about it, but if the only way she could get Donna to tell her story was on Post-its she’d have to go with it. She handed the note over. “I don’t know.”

Chase was about to say something when Donna handed her another note. “We were having dinner at Isabel’s and talking.”

“Do you go to dinner a lot, like you’re dating?”

Donna handed her another note. “Well…”

“Did you know you were dating?”

Donna scribbled. “Not exactly. I thought maybe…” She ripped off the note and started another. “I was in denial.”

Chase had known Donna for seven years and in all that time Donna had never dated. She’d never mentioned an old girlfriend, not even in passing. “Donna, when was the last time you had a girlfriend?”

“It’s been a while,” Donna wrote. Her face was the epitome of evasion.

“How long?”

“Well…” she stopped and handed Chase that note.

“Think hard.”

Donna furrowed her brow. She wrote, “1984.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Donna shook her head. She began to write again, but Chase snatched the Post-its. “Can we talk?”

“It was a really bad breakup and I needed time to heal.”

Chase did the math. “Twenty-seven years.”

“Has it been that long? Time flies.”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” Chase asked, trying to keep her voice even. Her mind went reeling into what-the-fuck land—twenty-seven years to get over a breakup. It was absurd.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“So evidently you didn’t seduce Isabel then.” Chase got up and poured them both coffee while she ruminated on this fact. She’d seen Isabel and Donna together a lot, but then Donna was also involved in organizing seminars, as was Isabel—it was easy to see how they would end up working together. Chase attempted to recall Isabel’s romantic past. She appeared not to have one. She set the mismatched coffee mugs down on the table and they each doctored their own—Donna with milk and sugar and Chase with half milk, half coffee. She rued the day she’d have to give up coffee because her stomach lining couldn’t take it anymore. For now café au lait—the drink of French children—would have to do.

Chase sipped her coffee and waited like Dr. Robicheck would under the circumstances, until her patient was ready to talk and then she waited some more. At this rate, she’d be collecting Social Security by the time Donna got around to it. She needed prodding. “Why don’t you tell me what happened from the beginning and we’ll go from there?” Damn that was good, she thought—very Dr. Robicheckian.

Donna stared at her, obviously mortified.

“I don’t want the details.” Chase put air quotes around “details.”

“Oh, good.”

“I thought if you talked about it and subsequently processed it like I do with Dr. Robicheck, you’d feel better—that’s all.”

“Oh, good.”

“You’ve said that twice.”

“I know.”

“Talk! Please talk.”

“All right…well…” She looked uncertain.

Chase patted her hand in a motherly-confessor-counselor kind of way, although she couldn’t recall Dr. Robicheck ever doing so, but Chase figured she was catching flyballs here as best she could here. “Go ahead.”

“Well…”

Chase groaned, and Donna gave her a dirty look. “I know. All right. We finished dinner and I was straightening out the placemats and putting the centerpiece back on the table. It was very tastefully done, a pumpkin filled with fall foliage.”

“Go on.”

“And then Isabel came up behind me, and I did my best to avert a confrontation,” she stopped.

“You didn’t run around the table, did you?”

“Only once.” She blushed.

“Then what happened?”

“Thankfully, I realized how absurd I was being and I stood still. I tried to explain the straight-gay dichotomy and how potentially heart-rending this could be for both of us and…”

“And what?”

“Well…”

Chase was starting to hate that word. “Do you realize you’ve used the word ‘well’ about twenty million times in the course of this discussion?”

“No, I’ve only used it six times; however, from an editor’s viewpoint, I suppose I would be asked to improve my word choices.”

“So what happened, and better yet, is it really that bad? What harm can come from it?”

Donna looked aghast. “What harm? Have you lost your mind? The ramifications are mind-boggling.”

Chase’s cell phone rang. She looked at Donna tentatively.

She waved a hand. “I need to collect myself anyway.”

Chase clicked on.

“Ms. Banter?”

“Yes.”

The woman with a Southern drawl and lilt to match informed Chase that she’d been hired and could start work Monday morning from eight a.m. to noon. “I’ll be there,” Chase said.

Donna eyed her narrowly. “What’s going on? Please get me in the loop. You know what it does to me when I’m caught unawares.”

Chase refrained from saying, “Evidently, when you’re caught unawares you sleep with someone.” Instead, she said, “I got a job.”

“A job? You have a job. You’re a writer, and that is not something you mess with. You’re not going to write for magazines? Because that will ruin your creativity, drain your juices and zap your imagination.”

“No, this is something totally different.”

“Like what? And it better be part-time. You are already booked.”

“It is. Relax. Besides it’s seasonal and I’m going to get fired.”

“What?”

“I’ve never had a job.”

“You write for a living,” Donna said emphatically.

“I mean a work-for-the-man job and consequently, I want to experience getting fired. Now, enough about me, let’s get back to you and Isabel.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Chase studied her. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

Donna considered this. “Only if you go first. I still need time to collect myself.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” She eyed Donna.

“Don’t worry. I won’t renege. I’m your personal assistant. You have to trust me.”

“Because?”

“I could bring your whole world down.”

Chase anxiously bit her lip.

“Don’t worry. I would never do it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go first and get it over with?” Chase asked.

“Uh, no. Perhaps what you’re going to say will have bearing on what I’m going to say,” Donna said.

Chase couldn’t tell if Donna was stalling for time or seeking salvation in Chase’s new life choices. She thought back to her epiphany on the road. She went skateboarding every morning before she started writing. One morning, she’d stood at the bottom of the road and stared at the perfect blue sky, seeing it with the wonder of having done something thrilling and survived it without worry, better yet without the threat of worry—this was a state of being foreign to her. She had not manifested fear or risk and she’d had fun—actual unadulterated fun. But how to explain to others her newfound philosophy of wanting to experience the things she was afraid of so that she could overcome them?

“I want to…” she amended. “I need to acknowledge my fears and conquer them.” Chase topped off their coffees to give her wiggle time. Then the dogs scratched at the door. They’d been chasing rabbits and both panted. Their entire beings exuded joy. “See? Look at them—happy and without worry.”

They plunked down. Annie’s black-and-white body next to her sister’s black and tan—they looked like mismatched bookends, only a willful set that refused to sit at the end of the shelves, each preferring the company of the other.

“I like when they pant. They look like they’re smiling,” Donna said.

“Maybe they are,” Chase said. She refilled their water bowls. Annie got up to drink and Jane followed. They drank greedily, slapping their tongues in the water, and Chase watched them, feeling benevolent and at one with the Universe. Sometimes she wished to be reincarnated as a dog cared for by lesbians—could life be any better? But then she recanted. Best not to tempt the reincarnation department with animal incarnations. What if your file got mixed up accidently and got stuck in the icky insect group and you came back as a centipede? She pushed the thought from her mind.

“What you’re saying is that by following their heart’s desire, it makes them pant and subsequently smile.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting take,” Donna said.

They were silent, listening to the panting. Donna cleared her throat. Jane barked, looked at Annie, and both made for the door at full speed.

“I wish I had that kind of joie de vivre,” Donna said, sighing heavily.

“Did you have it once?”

Donna ran her finger around the lip of her coffee mug, her finger stopping at the chipped section. “You should really get new coffee cups.”

She looked out the window at the dogs. Chase followed her gaze. They watched the dogs leaping and chasing each other in a gleeful frolic.

“I like my down-and-out décor—it keeps me humble. Now about the joie.”

“I know. I love my work, you know that.” She looked at Chase for reassurance.

“Of course, you do and you are amazing.” There was a part of Chase that couldn’t believe she was instigating a personal discussion. Normally, she shied away from them as if they were plague-infested rats. Now, as part of her new fearless self, she approached the subject. She’d accomplished two goals in one day—she got a job and had a conversation of a delicate and intimate nature.

“But, as you have figured out, my personal life is non-existent,” Donna said.

“You have us.”

“I mean girlfriend-wise.”

“Oh.” It’s hard to argue an obvious point, Chase conceded.

“So this Isabel thing threw me for a loop.”

“Loop me in,” Chase said, remembering the line from the Dean Koontz novel Odd Thomas that she’d recently finished reading.

“Dinner, dining room table, seduction on the table.”

“Boy, that’s a zero-to-sixty-miles-an-hour on your part, Miss Haven’t-Had-a-Girlfriend-in-Twenty-Seven-Years. I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t seduce her. She seduced me.”

“What!”

“She said that she knew how to do it from reading the sex scenes in all the lesfic books in the library—which makes sense considering she’s a librarian.”

Chase nodded. She adhered to the theory that one could learn anything if one spent sixty days in a well-stocked library. She imagined what Isabel learned in the lesbian library of the Institute. She had every lesbian novel ever written at her disposal. Yikes, Chase thought.

Donna read her mind. “She learned a lot.” She blushed.

“Well, if I can learn to lead a fearless life, I think you should give Isabel a chance.”

Donna didn’t look convinced.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could get my heart broken and never trust love again.”

“You’ve already done that. Besides it’s too late, you’ve already slept with Isabel. You better make a reservation for a U-Haul.”

Donna put her hands over her ears. “Don’t say that.”

“Okay, here’s the deal, I will suffer the humiliation of getting fired if you date Isabel. You don’t have to get the U-Haul yet.”

“But you want to get fired.”

“And you obviously wanted Isabel or you wouldn’t have let your panties down.”

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“It’s the new me.”

They heard the crunch of gravel and the engine ping as Gitana pulled up in the drive. Donna put a hand to her forehead. “I can’t confess it again.”

“I’ll give her the lowdown. You get back to town and buy a bottle of wine and some flowers.”

“Why?”

“So you can do the romance thing with Isabel.”

Donna did some deep breathing. “I can do this.”

“Yes, you can. Now go.”

Chase walked her out. Donna waved at Gitana. She didn’t say a word as she walked past looking like she had a stick up her ass. She quickly passed out of the gate and then ran to her car.

“What was that about?” Gitana said.

“I’ll tell you later,” Chase said, wrapping her arm around Gitana’s waist. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” Gitana said, winking at Chase, who gave her a nod.

“Did you get the stuff?” She looked around furtively. They were like drug dealers talking covertly to one another.

“I got meat,” Gitana said without moving her lips.

“Yes,” Chase said, examining the grocery bags in the back of the car. Vegetarians be damned tonight. She pulled out the two packets of neatly wrapped filet mignon. “Did you get bacon too?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure we can get the smell out of the kitchen by the time she gets home in the morning,” Gitana said, sniffing the butcher paper that the bacon came in.

“Oh, essence of bacon,” Chase said, sniffing it as well. They looked at each.

“I think we have a monkey on our backs—I dream about bacon,” Gitana said.

“Me too,” Chase said.

“Quick, let’s get this inside,” Gitana said, looking around again.

“You go upstairs and see how her packing is coming along while I sneak the goods in,” Chase said.

By the time Bud came downstairs with her duffel bag, Chase had the meat stuffed under a bag of carrots and a celery stalk. She threw a couple of purple onions on top for good measure.

“I arranged my own transportation,” Bud said, setting her bag down by the door. Both dogs got up off the floor and sniffed the bag.

“Really?” Chase said, putting the rest of the groceries away. At the bottom of the second bag was a package of baby back ribs. She panicked. She swore Gitana said they were having filet mignon, not ribs. They needed to be in fridge. “I thought I was driving you in.”

“It won’t be necessary. Gloria is going into town for her line dancing class. She’ll drop me by Collins’s house.” Bud eyed her, looking for a response.

“Gloria line dances?” Chase tried to envision that.

“Not very well—that’s why she’s taking lessons. She wants to learn the Electric Slide really bad. I hope it’s all right. Gloria has a good driving record,” Bud said.

Chase folded the paper bag over, making it lay flat against the ribs, hoping this would make for a less noticible item to shove into the fridge.

“I’m sure she does,” Chase said, keeping her back to Bud while she inched to the fridge.

“So, it’s all right? I told her I’d call if it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s fine,” Chase said, her head in the fridge stashing the ribs behind condiments.

“Really?”

“I agreed to the sleepover, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Bud said.

This sleepover had been a big step for Chase, who had difficulty letting Bud stay with her grandmothers, let alone school chums. The new “Fearless Chase,” as she had taken to calling herself, had given her ready approval. “I think that’s a great idea. Sleepovers are part of a child’s ritualistic rite of passage into independence—gaining the ability to sleep elsewhere will make you a better traveler.”

Bud had shrugged and handed Chase a manila file folder full of research about the necessity of children attending sleep-overs.

Chase quickly perused it. “I absolutely concur. I will let you make the arrangements, and I promise not to inquire about the number of smoke detectors in the house.”

“We’ve already attended to that. Collins knew there would be a concern, so we checked them all and replaced the batteries just to be sure.”

“Ah, good. I knew I could trust you.”

Gitana had come over and felt Chase’s forehead. “She doesn’t have a fever.”

It had been settled and now the time had come, Chase thought, as headlights pulled up in the drive.

“There she is,” Bud said, picking up her duffel bag.

“Well, you better get going,” Chase said, putting her hands in her pockets.

“Yeah, I better.” They stared at each other. It was like some awkward movie scene.

Gloria saved them by knocking on the sunroom door. The dogs went wild, barking and licking Gloria’s hand as Chase let her in. Bud quickly hugged Chase’s thigh.

Gitana came downstairs. “All right, I expect you to be on your best behavior.” She waggled her finger.

Bud rolled her eyes. “I have a finely tuned moral compass.”

“Have fun,” Chase said. She had a lump in her throat and willed herself not to cry. If sleepovers did this, what was the leaving-Bud-at-the-college-dorm scene going to look like?

Gitana hugged Bud and ruffled her curls.

“Line dancing, huh?” Chase said as a diversionary tactic.

Gloria stuck her thumbs in her belt loops. “I’ve admitted to myself that I am a slow learner, but like the tortoise I shall get there.”

When they’d gone, Chase said, “I almost got us busted. I didn’t know you bought ribs too.”

“I couldn’t help myself.” She studied Chase. “Are you all right with letting her go?”

“Kind of,” Chase admitted. “I know it’s part of growing up.”

Gitana held her. “I’m proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now let’s get this party started.”

“I’ll be right back,” Chase said, darting upstairs.

Chase changed the sheets, got the patchouli candles out and tucked Phyllis Dildo under the pillow. The Fearless Chase was also amorous, she’d decided. If she was going to re-create herself, she might as well incorporate the carnal.

Gitana had begun preparations. She put a Memphis-style rub on the ribs. She looked over at Chase. “When did you start painting your fingernails?”

“Lacey had a manicurist come in and I was accosted, but then I attended Lacey’s L.I.P. seminar and rearranged my thinking on the subject.”

“What is L.I.P.?”

“It stands for Lover’s Instrument of Pleasure. I’ll try and nutshell it for you. Hands are the equivalent of a male sex organ. They are sources of pleasure to our lovers. They stroke, tease, delight and bring…” She glanced over at Gitana, who was gaping at her. “What’s wrong?”

“You never talk about stuff like this, much less attend a seminar.”

Chase shrugged. She almost had this gesture down. She wasn’t quite as good at it as Bud, but the shrug was more attainable than the eyebrow-raising thing. “It’s the new me. Shall I wash the potatoes and wrap them in tinfoil?”

She was embarrassed, but she didn’t want to show it because this was the person who let her only child risk her life at a sleep-over, who had a dildo hidden beneath her pillow, got a job she had no talent for and had taken up a dangerous sport. She couldn’t let sex talk embarrass her. It wouldn’t be right. She was fearless.

“Okay, but this hand business…” Gitana put more rub on the ribs after studying the photo in Martha Stewart’s Living magazine. Apparently, hers didn’t look like the photo. Chase had hidden the Joy of Cooking book after the fish debacle and then again after the blob debacle. Gitana had obviously not located it yet.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to start wearing tighty-whities and thinking I have a penis, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Her mind flashed to Phyllis. She worried this hand-as-penis thing might spoil the sexual escapade she had planned for later.

“Do you have anything in mind for after dinner?” Gitana said.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Chase said. She picked up the tray of ribs before they became more Memphis rub than rib.

Gitana looked uncertain. “I suppose they’re ready.”

“I’ll get them on the grill.”

“With the steaks,” Gitana said, pulling them out of the fridge.

“You wrapped them in bacon?”

“Just like in the picture,” Gitana said, pointing to the photo in the magazine.

“We do have a problem,” Chase said.

They stood outside under the crisp October sky with the stars as brilliant points of lights and inhaled deeply. “I love that smell,” Chase said.

Gitana wrapped her arms around Chase and nuzzled her neck. “After dinner, I’m going to take you upstairs and eat you like a cheeseburger.”

“We’ve got meat on the mind.”

“And I’m feeling carnal,” Gitana said, and she actually growled.

The dinner was fabulous. “I think,” Chase said, as she finished eating, “that your barbequing skills have definitely improved.”

Gitana smiled. “You’re the one that taught me that if you set your mind to something it can be achieved eventually.”

“We’ll see. I’m not convinced about Gloria’s line dancing.”

Gitana giggled as she collected the plates. “What’s next on your agenda for this evening?” she asked over her shoulder.

Chase faked a yawn and stood up and stretched. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

“Me too,” Gitana said, taking off her clothes in the middle of the kitchen.

“Oh my,” Chase said, moving toward her.

“Race you,” Gitana said.

They were both naked by the time they got to the bedroom. Laughing, they sprawled on the bed.

“What do we have here?” Gitana said, looking around the room and, like an airport drug-sniffing canine locating the drugs, she reached under the pillow where Chase had stashed Phyllis. “And right here,” she said, running Phyllis up between Chase’s now naked thighs.

“How’d you know she’d be there?” Chase said, feeling her face growing warm as Gitana rubbed Phyllis between Chase’s legs.

“Because I went looking for her while you were outside, and when I couldn’t find her I started looking around. Under the pillow is pretty obvious and accessible.” She kissed Chase deeply.

“So you had the same idea?” Chase inquired.

“I did,” Gitana said, kissing Chase’s ear.

“I think Lacey should have an ‘Ear as Second Clit’ seminar,” Chase said, opening her legs wider so Gitana could slip inside.

“Oh, God,” Chase said, as Gitana pushed Phyllis inside her. “Why did it take us so long to discover this?”

“We’re shy.”

“And we’re not shy now?” Chase said, rocking her pelvis against Gitana and pulling her ass to her in what she thought of as the “come grasp.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gitana said, climbing on top of Chase and pushing harder. She gently bit Chase’s nipple and then caressed her breast. “Tell me when you come.”

Chase felt it start in the middle of her back and then course downward until her hoo-hoo felt like it had been Tasered on a low-voltage setting, and she said, “I’m coming. I’m going to come so hard.”

“Wow,” Gitana said, leaning up and looking at Chase. “I never thought I’d get you to do sex talk.”

Chase took several deep breaths and then touched Gitana’s hand. “She needs to come out slowly and right now before I have a heart attack.”

Gitana did as instructed.

Later as they lay in each other’s arms, Gitana said, “You know that hand thing isn’t far off. Maybe I’ll take the seminar next time it comes around.”

“It was very informative,” Chase said, running her hand down Gitana’s stomach.

“Hmm… Maybe we should practice some more.”

“We could.”

Chapter Thirteen—Wrapping Alaska

The following week, with the full intent of getting fired, Chase started her gift-wrapping job. Mrs. Pauline Meadowbrook-Parks was her supervisor. Her name sent Chase into thoughts of parks and grassy meadows and Jane Austen and her novel Mansfield Park. This off-task tangent compromised Chase’s attention to detail during the gift-wrapping demonstration. According to Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, gift wrapping was an art form and a calling. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks was a maternal-looking woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and washed-out blue eyes. She made Chase think of a character in Mother Goose—the kindly grandmother who might live in a shoe or exhibit a talent for baked goods, which in fact she was, having five grandchildren and being the primary gift wrapper in the family.

“Someone has to do it what with all the baby showers, birthdays and holidays. It’s a necessity that at least one family member has the skill,” she told Chase.

Chase had gone off on another tangent of Mother Goose tales. She preferred Wind in the Willows, she decided, to the bizarre Grimm Brothers. Chase figured being fired by a kindly grandmother wouldn’t be traumatic but would serve her goal. She gave it one day, two days tops, and Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks would put her plump arm around Chase’s shoulders and say, “Honey, don’t feel bad. We can’t all be gift wrappers.”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks’s voice broke into Chase’s daydream. “It’s all about geometry. An isosceles triangle here, a ninety-degree angle there and everything done up tight and straight.” She demonstrated by wrapping a blender in white and silver paper covered with wedding bells. “Okay, now I want you to try.”

She pushed an electric wok over to Chase. The wok made Chase think of origami, and she mimicked Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks’s movements and the box came out looking decent. This was not her intention. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks studied the box. Chase waited. Certainly, having so little experience wrapping, combined with not being interested, should make one a poor gift wrapper. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

“This is quite good. Now, we stick a bow on it and some ribbon and voila we have a finished product,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, nodding her approval.

Okay, Chase thought, there was more to it than geometry, but this part looked fun. “So we can use all this stuff to spruce up the packages?”

“Oh, yes. This is the artistic part of the process, and frankly, my dear, this is where a gift wrapper is born not made. Either you have it or you don’t.” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks waggled a finger.

Well, there you have it, Chase decided. She could make good lines, but the decoration would bring her down.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks’s cell phone rang with the tune “Here Comes the Bride.” She glanced down at the screen. “Oh, my, I wonder who this could be? You’ll have to excuse me a moment.”

Chase sat listening to a series of “Oh my, I see, oh my, yes, this is dreadful, oh, my, I see, and well yes, and several of courses.”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks agreed to something and then clicked off. She let out a heavy sigh. Then she spotted Chase as if she’d forgotten about her. Chase felt like Max, the dog, when the Grinch looked at him and the eureka lightened his face.

“Of course,” she said.

“What?” Chase said with apprehension.

“We are going on assignment,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said. She opened her desk drawer and threw a set of keys at Chase. Luckily, Chase had good reflexes from her years of juggling her mother’s Fabergé eggs. She’d done this to piss her mother off when they were arguing—it didn’t. Stella was very good at appearing nonplussed that her precious eggs were being tossed about by an amateur juggler. Chase caught the keys.

“Assignment?”

“Yes, now go get the van in the back parking lot. You can’t miss it. It’s pink with a white bow painted on the side. I’ll get the supplies together and meet you on the back dock. We can do this. With your skills and my organizational abilities there is no disaster we cannot overcome.”

Chase had no idea what they were doing or what they could or couldn’t do, but this talk of disaster relief gave her heart palpitations. She went for the van but stopped and turned. “Am I going to be able to do this thing we are doing?”

“Yes. You may be a novice right now, but by this afternoon, you will be expert.”

“Where are we going?”

“Rio Rancho.”

“And our assignment?” Chase couldn’t believe she said “our.” An hour and a half in the workforce and she’d become part of the proletariat.

“To save a wedding.”

Chase went for the van and then helped Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks load packing supplies and gift-wrapping paraphernalia, lots of it. There was every conceivable size of box, tube, padding, rolls of wrapping paper, strange cutting implements, ribbons, markers, glue and plastic caddies full of God-knows-what. Chase was petrified.

“What happened? Did the wedding planner forget to have the presents wrapped?” Chase asked as she buckled up. She hoped Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks was a good driver. Driving with strangers made Chase nervous.

“They were wrapped and everything was ready and then the gardener turned the sprinklers on. He didn’t know the presents had been set up on a table on the lawn. All the wrapping paper is ruined and a lot of the boxes will have to be replaced.”

“Wow, this is big,” Chase said, watching as Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks merged onto the freeway from Carlyle using her signal and checking her mirrors. Chase glanced at the control panel to insure the passenger airbag was turned on.

“It is big. I know this is a huge step for one so young to the calling, but I have the utmost faith in you,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, trying to reassure her.

Chase felt like Luke becoming a Jedi. She was going into battle. She checked the tool belt Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks had given her. It looked like it had everything she needed. The soggy boxes would be ousted and the new regime installed. She felt confident until one her many fears popped up, like a mole in the Whack-A-Mole game. Performance anxiety kept poking its little head out of its hole, but before she could hit it with the balloon hammer the head disappeared. “Will people be watching us?”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks didn’t take her eyes off the road, which pleased Chase—it was a true sign of a professional driver. “Why?”

“Well, it just kind of, like, makes me, like, nervous and it could, like, affect my performance.” She sounded like a Valley girl—like, like, like.

“I see.”

She was going to get fired. Part of her felt good because she was achieving her goal. But the other part wanted to help. She liked Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, and she wanted to help save the wedding. The good Samaritan part of her nature clawed its way out of dross and declared her worthy. “I could try to overcome it.”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks put her indicator on and merged onto I-25 heading toward Rio Rancho. “I want to tell you a story.” There was a pause.

“Okay,” Chase said, uncertain about the nature of the pause. Pauses made Chase nervous because she had enough time to conjure up a hundred bad stories about to be revealed. A pause was like an abyss and the next sentence was the push.

“You see, I was once very neurotic, incapable of making the tiniest, most mundane choices,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks continued.

Chase sat, mouth agape, but quickly recovered herself. “Really?” She thought Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks was one of the elite people who knew what they were doing and why. There weren’t many people in that club and here she was confessing to being neurotic. If the Universe was a stage it had put Chase in the right place at the right time with the right person.

“Yes, and I overcame my burgeoning fears by approaching them head-on. It’s the only way.”

“What happened to make you change?” Chase hoped it wasn’t something like her husband dropped dead in the kitchen, or he cheated on her and left. It seemed husbands played integral parts when it came to these life changes.

“My family.”

Oh, here it comes with the husband, Chase thought. “Was it your husband?”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks chuckled. “Henry? Oh no, he’s one of those men that loves unconditionally. That’s not to say he isn’t glad that I can lead a fuller life, but it wasn’t him that changed me. It was my teenage daughters. I overheard them talking one day after school about what a coward I was and how they both were afraid it might be genetic and they’d end up just like me, nervous, scared and unable to experience new things.”

“Genetic?” Chase was confused. Could being afraid of experiencing new things be genetic?

“Oh, you know how kids learn that stuff about genes and gene therapy and how all human behavior is linked to your genes. Personally, I think a lot of it is just hogwaddle. But there you have it. I overheard them and I vowed to change. I got a job and every time I was scared about something, I made myself do it.”

“Have you always been a gift wrapper?”

“No, I started much smaller and worked my way into this. I volunteered at the hospital because if I got fired for incompetence I thought it would be less traumatic if I wasn’t a paid employee. If I messed up as a Pink Lady they’d just ask me not to come back—a little pat-pat on the arm and a ‘Maybe this isn’t for you, dear.’”

Chase nodded. Wow, just like her.

“I got through that and then started part-time at the library and that went well, but it didn’t pay much and my girls were going to college. I wanted to contribute financially to show them I was a viable member of the family, and my library job wasn’t much of a challenge, so I got into the gift-wrapping business because there’s no getting around a badly wrapped package. Your work is right out there for everyone to see.”

“What you’re saying is that I am going to have to do it in front of people.”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks smiled. “Is it going to matter? They’re going to see your work and like it or complain about it right there.” She did take her hand off the wheel for a moment and patted Chase’s hand. “But you’re going to do fine and you have to remember most people can’t wrap well so you are one up on them.”

“Okay.” Chase took a couple deep breaths and told herself she could do it. She had to. She didn’t want Bud to grow up and be embarrassed that she had a coward for a parent.

When they arrived, the household was in an uproar. It was a serious clusterfuck, Chase thought. The lawn and tents were a soaking mess and the ruined presents sat up on the cement veranda that overlooked the lawn. The house was amazing in its Eastern two-story Georgian style. It made Chase think of Isabel Dalhousie and her Edinburgh environs in Alexander McCall Smith novels. The house was definitely at odds with its environs in the Southwest desert. She half-expected a Scot to come out of the French doors and say, “Good God, man, what a right bonny mess we have here.”

Instead, a diminutive Hispanic woman came out, flapping her hands, followed by the bride, eyes swollen from crying. “Can you fix this? Please, Mary mother of God, please say you can fix this,” the mother of the bride said.

Chase assumed it was the mother because the bride looked like a younger, thinner version of her. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks studied the pile of soggy wrapping-papered boxes. She looked a little dubious. She didn’t say anything and the bride teared up.

“Of course, we can,” Chase said, acting more out of compassion than confidence.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks took up the call to action. “Yes, we can. Now you two carry on and let us get to work. You, young lady, need to put some cucumber slices on those eyes to get the red puffiness down.”

The bride nodded.

“Thank you, thank you,” the mother of the bride said, taking both their hands before ushering her daughter away.

“Poor thing,” Chase said, after the woman left. At least she’d never put her mother through a wedding. Then she thought if the gardener at Stella’s house had sprinkled the wedding presents, Stella would have had him beheaded on the spot. It would be best if she keep her mother away from weddings or gardeners.

“All right then, let’s get started,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“What’s the plan?” Chase said, suddenly overwhelmed by the task ahead. It was easy enough to placate the bride and mother with kind words, but now she was going to have to back it up with action.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks took the initiative and said, “Remove and restore. You get the supplies from the van, and I will get on with the removal part.”

Chase scurried back and forth, feeling less overwhelmed with every trip. Far from being fired, she was proving to be useful. Well, there you have it, Chase thought. The Universe had come around and instead of her being terrified, she’d taken on the fear proactively, and here she was being a valued employee and not fretting about her performance. This was better than getting fired. She set the last box down and wiped her forehead on her sleeve.

The bride bustled outside, carrying two bottles of water. She looked pleadingly at Chase.

“Thank you,” Chase said, and then she did another uncharacteristic thing—she patted the woman’s shoulder. “It will be all right, and your eyes already look better.”

The bride smiled. “I hope this isn’t a sign,” she said, looking tentative.

“A sign?” Chase said, puzzled, and then it hit her. “Oh, no. The only sign here is that you might need to get a smarter gardener.”

“Enrique is not the sharpest tool in the shed,” she said.

They both laughed.

“There we have it,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“You better go inside. We don’t want you seeing all the presents before the wedding,” Chase said.

“I suppose you’re right.” She looked at Chase and crossed herself.

Chase studied the mess of soggy cardboard. “How much is ruined?”

“Not as much as would be expected. Now, I want you to remove the wet cardboard and rebox the item. I’ll start wrapping.”

“We’ll do it like an assembly line,” Chase said brightly. She was catching on.

“Precisely.”

They set to work. Chase helped Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks set up a long wrapping table and then she began removal, reboxing and redistribution. When she’d caught up with Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, Chase began wrapping. Chase sized up each box, cut the perfect amount of paper and with dazzling speed wrapped it. It was like her mind was a computerized measuring and matching machine. Her hands flew. She discovered method.

“I didn’t realize that if you position the box this way—up on its side—you can eliminate a step. Like the Chinese-method-of-folding-the-T-shirt thing,” Chase said.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks looked at Chase, astonished. “I can’t believe I never thought of that. Why don’t I just hand you the stuff and you wrap? You’re even quicker than I am.”

She covertly timed Chase as she wrapped a blender.

“Will you do the bow thing? I haven’t got that part down yet,” Chase said, not looking up from her next assignment—a soup tureen.

For the next two hours, she wrapped steadily and was so focused she didn’t notice the time. She was reaching for yet another box when Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks stopped her.

“Chase, we’re done, honey.”

“We are?” Chase looked around to see Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks and the bride and her mother staring at her with admiration. The bride and her mother sandwiched Chase in a hug.

“You’re amazing!” the bride said, and she kissed Chase’s cheek.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks rubbed her hands in delight. “You are a genius, and I have big plans for you.”

Chase hoped they weren’t too big. She knew two things for certain—she loved gift wrapping and getting fired no longer interested her.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks discussed her plans for Chase’s future as Chase eyed the barbeque grill. “Your talents are wasted as a front-line worker. I am promoting you to our tech-demonstrator.”

The barbeque grill had a bow slapped on it. Chase said, “What about that?”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks looked at her dubiously.

“I can at least try,” Chase said.

“All right. Far be it from me to stand in the way of someone’s dharma.” She winked.

Chase studied the barbeque and figured out the geometrical planes, got cardboard tubes and broke down smaller boxes until she had made a larger structure into which they wheeled the barbeque. It was actually easier than it looked. She felt like one of the architectural students Frank Lloyd Wright had put at Taliesen, the desert outside of Phoenix, and bade to make a structure where they would live while they attended school. The only difference was she’d put a barbeque in hers.

The bride and her mother applaudedly madly when Chase was finished.

“You’ll demonstrate your methods of creation and then you’ll go to the Gift-Wrapping Competition held in December,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, continuing her litany on Chase’s future.

Chase interrupted, “Like you wrap in front of an audience?”

“Yes, the judges watch while you are given an item that is difficult to wrap. They keep making the objects more and more difficult until they are down to the last two contestants and then the wrapping magnum opus is brought out and whoever wraps it best wins.”

“And you think I can do that?”

“I know you can.”

Chase took a deep breath and thought about it. Wasn’t this her fear thing again? Instead of getting fired she was promoted and pressed into competition. This was much bigger. This was about conquering her performance anxiety. This was a better fear to overcome. “Well, I can try.”

“You’ll do better than try. You’ll win.”

Chase gulped.

When she got home, Gitana was putting away groceries. “How’d it go?”

Chase shrugged. She was still processing what had happened to her—how she had found her dharma. “I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?” Gitana said. “Did you get fired? Are you all right with it?”

Bud smirked. Chase bit her lip.

“What’s wrong?” Gitana said.

“She didn’t get fired,” Bud said. “She got promoted, and she’s in training for the Gift-Wrapping Olympics.”

“What?” Gitana said. She was still putting groceries away. Chase tried to figure out what she was up to. The house was stocked with food. She had gone shopping two days earlier.

“It’s this big competition for gift wrappers,” Bud said.

Chase would have kept this low profile, but Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks had called while she and Bud were driving home after school. The Mini Cooper was equipped with a synced-in phone line. Chase didn’t like to drive and talk on the phone even in a hands-free environment, but they’d been stuck in a traffic jam and it was her boss. Bud had heard the conversation about the “Olympics” and Chase had been forced to tell Bud the rest of the story.

“But I thought your goal was to get fired, not promoted,” Gitana said. She dug her phone out of her pocket and fiddled with the buttons.

“Enough of the ‘F’ word. I have new goals now,” Chase said.

Gitana put the ice cream in the freezer. Oh, Chase thought. She got dessert. That couldn’t be dangerous—ice cream in a bowl certainly wasn’t a fire extinguisher moment and the ribs had turned out fine the other night.

“So if you no longer have the fear of getting fired, do you have a new fear to take its place?” Gitana said. She went into the dining room and pulled a chair over to the china cabinet. She reached in and retrieved the Joy of Cooking book from the top shelf, where Chase had hidden it behind a full set of Stella’s cast-off special-occasion china dinner setting for twelve. She had to move several stacks of plates and a gravy boat to reach it.

No matter where Chase put the book, Gitana found it. She couldn’t for the life of her figure that out. It was like she had a GPS thingy attached to it or had gotten it micro-chipped. Chase was hoping that by hiding the dangerous book Gitana’s interest in cooking would shift toward simple fare so they wouldn’t keep having these cooking disasters. They never discussed the book. Chase hid it. Gitana found it.

“Performance anxiety,” Chase said, as she poured the iced tea for them and got Bud a grape juice box. She’d used the pretense of getting drinks so she could glance over Gitana’s shoulder at the book—she was thumbing through the dessert section.

Bud got out the fire extinguisher. “Is this one full?”

“Yes, I got a new one after the last ‘episode,’” Chase said.

Gitana rolled her eyes. “I’ve got this one under control. No worries, it doesn’t involve flame.”

“I bought two fire extinguishers just in case,” Chase said, opening the cupboard under the sink to check as if to make sure a fire extinguisher thief hadn’t entered the house and made away with the goods.

“Oh, good,” Bud said.

“I’m not going to light the place on fire, for goodness sakes. This is only a dessert. We’re having Schwan’s Alfredo and Broccoli.”

“Okay, well, that’s safe,” Chase said.

Bud nodded but eyed the cookbook.

“I still don’t understand your interest in cooking,” Chase said, cutting up a lemon for their iced teas as a pretense for checking out the place Gitana had marked with a yellow Post-it. It was Baked Alaska. What the fuck was that?

“I think it has to do with middle age,” Gitana said.

Bud looked at Chase for elucidation, which wasn’t forthcoming. Chase shrugged. Despite being middle-aged, she had no idea what any of it meant. She seemed the same as she always was…well, except for this new Fearless Chase thing. Maybe that was what Gitana meant.

“Fossilization,” Gitana said.

Bud nodded in what Chase construed as a sage-like manner. She was lost. “I don’t get it.”

Bud explained. “She’s concerned that not learning new things in middle age could result in the fossilization of her mind so she wants to keep challenging herself. The proverbial ‘use it or lose it’ thing.”

“Exactly.” Gitana went back to studying her book.

Chase found this disconcerting. Whatever she was planning to make wasn’t an easy concoction, obviously, Chase thought as Gitana furrowed her brow and traced her forefinger along the text.

“Okay,” Chase said, wondering if the fire extinguisher should be handy.

“Tell me about this promotion-competition thing,” Gitana said.

“I shouldn’t have wrapped that fully assembled barbeque. That was definitely a tactical error.”

“You wrapped a barbeque,” Gitana said, acting truly impressed.

“I just constructed an oversized box and wheeled the thing in.”

“But how did you do that without having seams on the box?” Bud said.

“What do you mean?” Gitana asked, flipping to the next page of the cookbook.

Holy shit, Chase thought, this dessert is a two-pager.

Bud noticed it too and grimaced. “In order to construct a box of those dimensions, she would have needed to break down and flatten out ready-made boxes and even if she did a really good tape job there would be seams that the wrapping paper would accentuate.”

Gitana appeared to consider this.

Chase sipped her iced tea and leaned toward the Joy of Cooking nonchalantly. Gitana put her hand over the page. “It’s a surprise.”

“You know how I feel about surprises,” Chase said, trying to read between Gitana’s fingers.

“You’ll like this one.”

Chase had a bad feeling.

“So how’d you do it?” Bud said.

“I took the cardboard tubes from the wrapping paper and made the armature, and then I took brown paper and secured it to the tubing and then wrapped that.”

“You made a four-sided sail,” Bud said, clearly impressed.

Gitana took her hand off the page and stared at Chase. “That is pretty cool. How’d you think of that?”

“I don’t know. I just look at things and then it comes to me and I wrap it. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks says I’m a natural.”

“Boy, don’t ever use a ‘Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks’ name in one of your books. It’d be hell to type out all the time,” Bud said.

“No kidding,” Chase replied. She tapped her fingers on the counter and then glanced at the cookbook and then Gitana.

Bud seemed to sense they needed to get out of the kitchen so they could regroup. “Maybe we should leave the chef alone while she works on her creation, and we can check out gift-wrapping sites to get pointers. What if you had to wrap a pony inside an Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty?”

Chase blanched and “what if” thoughts ran through her head.

“Although that is highly improbable,” Bud said, leading her from the room. They went upstairs to Bud’s room where they immediately Googled Baked Alaska.

“I don’t think she can really mess this one up,” Bud said.

“You’re right. No fire is involved. The meringue thing looks a little tricky,” Chase said. “She did make really good rib…I mean, rigatoni the other night.” Sweet Jesus, that was a quick save.

“I really don’t understand why she wants to cook when she almost got us swallowed up by a blob not two weeks ago,” Bud said. “I mean, cut your losses.”

“It’s kind of like Gloria’s line dancing.”

“Do you smell smoke?” Bud said.

“I think someone is having a fire—like in-their-fireplace kind of fire,” Chase said. She got up to look out the window. Their neighbor’s house up the road had a plume of smoke coming out of the chimney stack. Bud came up beside her. “See,” Chase said, pointing to the house. “It’s not us. She can’t light ice cream on fire.”

Bud opened the window and leaned forward, pressing the screen out slightly. “There’s smoke coming out of our kitchen window as well.”

“What?” Chase leaned out too pressing harder against the screen.

“Stop, you’ll bend it. We know something is on fire because any second now…”

The smoke detector went off. The dogs, who were outside, howled and barked.

“All hell is going to break loose,” Bud finished. She grabbed her Contour HD 1080P camera helmet off her bureau and strapped it on as they made their way downstairs.

“Is your camera going to be ever-present?” Chase asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“You have to admit,” Bud said, tightening down the chinstrap, “this is not a moment to miss.”

 Chase sighed. “I suppose not. I’ll get the fire extinguisher,” Chase said. “You are to ascertain and assault.”

Bud nodded. “Whatever happened, it’s going to be sticky.” She turned the camera on.

“Sticky?”

“Ice cream.”

When they got to the kitchen, Gitana was swatting at the howling smoke detector with a broom. The oven door was open and an oozing mess seeped across the floor. “It’s ruined,” she yelled.

Chase took the broom away from Gitana. She climbed up on the kitchen stool and pulled the battery out of the smoke detector.

“It will be extremely smoky in here if we don’t get that stuff out of the oven. Burnt ice cream isn’t going to smell very good,” Bud said.

“But what did I do wrong?” Gitana stared at her ruined concoction.

“I think the ice cream needed to be seriously frozen. It says in the recipe that the ice cream needs to be put in the pan and then kept in the freezer for a full two hours. That must be crucial,” Bud said. She’d taken a spatula and was scraping the ooze out of the oven and onto the floor.

“When did you read the recipe?” Gitana said.

Bud and Chase both looked guilty. “We looked it up while you were cooking,” Bud said. She grabbed her backpack and pulled a thick manual from it.

“What’s that?” Chase said.

“It’s a spill management guide I ordered off the Internet. Bill, the cleaner guy, recommended it.” She flipped through the index until she located the right page. “Okay, we need rain boots, rubber gloves.” She looked up at them. “I’m winging it here on the equipment. And lots of towels, duct tape and a bucket.”

“What are we doing?” Chase asked.

Gitana flung rain boots out of the closet, and Bud got the rubber gloves. She handed a pair to Chase.

“I’m going to get the wet-dry shop vacuum. You’re going to build dikes by rolling up towels and fastening them with duct tape. This will keep the water in and then we’ll hose down the floor with an eighty-five percent water, fifteen-percent detergent mix. The dilution of the ice cream will make it much easier to vacuum up,” Bud said.

“Wow,” Gitana said, staring with apparent admiration. She pulled a bucket out from the cleaning closet and filled it.

“Got it.” Chase ran for the towels and duct tape.

It took them twenty-three minutes to clean up the kitchen and that included the oven.

Bud smacked her hands together. “I think I may have found my dharma—spill management.”

Chase blanched.

“I’m kidding. But I do think it went well.”

“What about the dessert?” Gitana said, pulling off her rain boots.

“We still have ice cream,” Chase said, putting her arm around Gitana’s shoulders.

“Maybe you should take a cooking class instead of going solo,” Bud said.

Gitana shot her a perturbed look.

“I’m just sayin’,” Bud said.

“It’s not a bad idea. You’ll be with other like-minded people,” Chase said.

“You mean other people who are dangerous to themselves and their kitchens,” Gitana said.

“Look at it this way, you want to learn to cook and taking a class is not a defeat. Rather it’s a proactive solution to mastering your desire,” Bud said.

“Why does she always sound so sane and well grounded?” Gitana said.

Chase backed up to the cabinet and, making sure Gitana didn’t see, grabbed the Joy of Cooking. She kept it hidden behind her back as she replied, “Because she is.” She beamed at Bud for Gitana’s benefit. As soon as Gitana turned her back, Chase quickly handed the cookbook off to Bud. Bud shoved it behind her back a split second before Gitana turned back around.

Bud shrugged innocently, saying, “I want to put this on YouTube in case someone else needs to know how to clean up Baked Alaska.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Chase said, pushing Bud backward out of the room.

Once out of the kitchen, Bud yelled, “I’m all about community service.” Bud and Chase dashed down the hallway, stifling their laughter.

Chapter Fourteen—Explosives

“Safety goggles?” Chase said.

“Check,” Bud said.

“Rubberized gloves?” Chase said.

“Check,” Addison said, adjusting her gloves so they firmly fit in place.

“Helmets?” Chase said, putting hers on. They didn’t have construction hard hats so they were using their skateboarding helmets, one of which was Bud’s camera helmet, and Addison was wearing her bike helmet.

“Check,” Addison and Bud said, simultaneously.

“We are good to go then,” Chase said.

They were standing in the garage. Addison wore coveralls purchased at Nevell’s Uniform Emporium. Chase and Bud wore old clothes and leather aprons meant for welding. Chase had put together a makeshift table using a sheet of plywood set on two sawhorses. On top of the table sat an old microwave. Next to it was a tray containing items in sets of three—three peeled tangerines, three eggs, three sulfur matches, three rolled up balls of tinfoil, three CDs and finally a box of Peeps left over from last Easter.

“We’re really going to do this,” Addison said, looking uncertain.

“Yes,” Chase said.

“It’s part of her new approach to life,” Bud said, turning on the camera and looking down at the remote hand-held screen she had installed so she could view what the camera was taping.

“Tempting fate and throwing caution to the wind is not exactly a good life strategy,” Addison said, eyeing the table warily.

“We’re wearing safety equipment, aren’t we?” Bud pointed out.

“Exactly,” Chase said. “We are approaching risky behavior with a well-thought out plan to minimize the fallout.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re creating a disaster so you can practice damage control?” Addison said.

“No,” Chase said, putting a tangerine inside the microwave. “We are experiencing a risky behavior so I can conquer my fears.”

“You’re afraid of microwaves?” Addison said.

“No. I want to know how it feels to defy the rules, to do the things that warning labels advise not to,” Chase said.

“She’s already removed those labels on mattresses that say, ‘Do not remove.’”

“What is the deal with that?” Addison asked, her interest obviously piqued.

“See, you’re curious,” Chase said, studying Addison. She was so grown up now, but she had managed to retain her manners during the psychotic period known as adolescence. For Chrissakes, she drove a car now and she’d come to their house in the boondocks to see the science experiment. Chase hoped they didn’t let her down. Here Addison was dressed in black jeans and a gray cashmere sweater and her lab coat from science class. How much more could a parent want in a child? She was cute with her button nose, fashionable with her bobbed hair and best of all she wasn’t slutty. In fact, she wasn’t even interested in boys, only saying she was waiting for them to grow into decent human beings with sensitivities and better hygiene. Chase had to agree with her. She hoped Bud would grow up to be like her.

“So here’s the plan. We start small with the tangerines and see how that goes. Then we move up the scale until we perform the ultimate showstopper with the CD. That is supposed to seriously rock and will probably blow up the microwave,” Chase said, noticing she was more excited than both of them.

“Okay,” Bud said, zooming in on the tangerine.

Chase pushed the quick time button for one minute. She took a step back so she was standing next to them.

The tangerine sizzled and kind of oozed open, leaking juice but not exploding. They all looked at each other disappointed.

“I think we should increase the temperature and adjust the time,” Bud said.

“Is that why you have three of everything?” Addison said.

“Yes, we counted on the learning curve,” Chase said. She opened the microwave and stared at the tangerine. It was split on four sides but far from blown to bits. She removed it and put in the second tangerine. This time she pushed the button for the popcorn setting, figuring if it blew up kernels of corn, a tangerine should be no problem. She hit the button and in a minute and fifty-three seconds the tangerine went from a solid state to blown to smithereens. They jumped as the fruit screamed and then burst. Orange particles splatted everywhere inside the mircrowave and the pungent odor of burnt citrus filled the garage.

All their faces lit up.

“High fives!” Chase said, holding out her hands.

“I’d call that successful,” Bud said.

“Okay, that was cool,” Addison said.

“I’m stoked for the egg,” Bud said.

Chase felt like a cutting edge mad scientist. She put the egg in and tried the popcorn setting—which didn’t do anything. The egg just wobbled and rolled around. They contemplated the settings.

“If it takes several minutes to boil an egg we’re going to need to amp this way up,” Addison said.

“I think we should use the turbo inverter defrost button,” Bud said.

“Won’t it be slow?” Chase said.

“No, defrost starts at the inside and works out and that should work better for the egg because it will heat the yolk to a higher temperature than the shell and explode it quicker,” Bud said.

Addison and Chase stared at Bud in awe.

Bud shrugged.

Chase adjusted the setting to defrost. “Ready?” she asked, before pushing the button.

They nodded. Bud made a final adjustment on the camera.

The egg blew with a loud bing and pop and the inside of the microwave resembled a Jackson Pollock painting. Bud dubbed it “Egg in Yellow—1.”

“Let’s do the Peeps next,” Addison said, getting excited.

“Should we put them all in?” Chase said, staring at the twelve-pack of yellow Peeps.

“Definitely,” Bud said. “We haven’t explored the concept of mass explosive devices. This could be very interesting.”

They took them out of the box and put them in the microwave. Chase pushed the high button for five minutes. They watched as the Peeps grew and grew like some alien spawn baby, getting bigger and bigger until there was a succession of pops and then an ooze of something resembling meringue. It stank like chemical waste.

Chase was pleased. “Okay, that was definitely an example of metamorphosis if I’ve ever seen one, and I don’t think I have,” she said, taking the microwave tray out. “I think we need to decontaminate this.”

Bud took the tray outside and hosed it off before the Peeps had a chance to solidify into a sticky mess.

They made the preparation for the magnum opus—the CD surrounded by balls of tin foil. Chase was loading the microwave when Lacey’s car pulled up in the drive.

Lacey got out. She looked terrible. She’d been crying and her hair looked like she’d been pulling it. Could she be any more prosaic in the nervous breakdown department? Chase thought, as Lacey entered the garage, sure to ruin their fun.

Addison and Bud had similar looks of disappointment. “We have to finish our research,” Addison said as if Lacey’s arrival threatened their chance of getting a Nobel Prize.

“We will,” Chase said.

Lacey raised a limp hand in greeting. “Hi, whatcha doing?”

Chase was about to say, “What’s wrong?” when Bud interceded.

“We know something horrid has just happened, and it looks like your entire life plan has been derailed, and we will help if you will just let us blow this thing up first. Agreed?” Bud said.

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of greatness, being the lowly worm at the bottom of the manure pile or a bottom-sucking sturgeon, a cockroach in a subletted basement apartment with a moldy ceiling from the shower upstairs’ that’s always leaking…”

She would have gone on had Chase not interrupted by handing her a bike helmet, safety goggles and rubber gloves. “You have to put these on if you’re going to be on the workroom floor.”

“What exactly are you doing?” she said, looking around for the first time and seeing the equipment. She put the helmet on backwards.

“We are stretching the boundaries of risk management,” Bud said. She took the helmet from Lacey. “It goes this way.”

“Thank you. Why do I have to wear all this stuff?” Lacey asked, peering down at the table, which resembled a graveyard for the misshapen.

“In case the microwave explodes and something in it comes flying out,” Addison said.

“Oh, well, I’m not having a good day anyway so getting hit by a microwave wouldn’t be a surprise,” Lacey said, putting the bike helmet on correctly and donning her safely goggles with the resignation of the damned.

“Just wait until you see the light show,” Bud said.

“Okay, everybody ready?” Chase said.

Three simultaneous “readys” echoed back at her.

Chase pressed the button for meatloaf and stood back. Seven hundred watts of electricity arced across the tinfoil balls and hit the CD. The inside of the microwave looked like the lights of the aurora borealis. Rainbow arcs of light danced around in the microwave, making pinging and sizzling sounds, and then there was a high-pitched whining and an enormous popping sound like The Almighty Herself had opened a bottle of champagne. It was loud.

“Wow,” Lacey said.

“See, this is fun,” Bud said.

And then the microwave started on fire. It belched smoke, and the door flew off in the direction Chase had planned on so it hit the back wall, which was good. But the force behind it sent it flying at such high speed that when it hit the wall, it went halfway through it. The microwave door now looked like a shelf. Chase considered this. She would find something to put on it—a jar of screws, a potted air fern. A small fire was raging inside the microwave, sitting on top of the CD like it was a backyard firepit. Chase popped the ring on the fire extinguisher and sprayed. The fire went out after one good blast. Chase wiped her hands on her flame retardant apron. “Come on, baby, light my fire,” Chase sang and did a little jig.

They all stared at her in awe.

Even Lacey bent over to peer inside the charred microwave. “That was an impressive light show. Now, can we talk about me?”

“Let’s go inside and have lemonade, and then two of the best brains on the planet will study your problem and come up with a viable solution,” Bud said.

“Good idea,” Chase said. She thought for a moment. Did she say “two of the best brains?”

“It stinks in here,” Addison said. “What is your problem anyway?” she asked Lacey.

“My Institute is crumbling beneath me.”

“Oh, that should be easy to fix,” Addison said as they exited the garage.

Lacey grabbed her arm. “Do you really think so?”

Addison looked incredulous. “I’m kidding.”

Bud sighed and pried Lacey’s fingers from Addison’s arm where they were leaving red marks. “Lacey, I’m sure that whatever it is we can solve it. Do you mind if I docudrama our powwow?”

“Is powwow a politically correct term for what we are doing?” Lacey inquired.

Bud smiled, her face the picture of patience.

“I think that she was using it in a metaphorical way,” Chase said, walking briskly up to the house. The sooner she got the lemonade, sat Lacey down and came up with a few ideas Lacey would ignore, the sooner she would leave. Then she felt bad. She loved Lacey. They’d been friends their entire lives, but Chase just wanted to shake her and say, “You can’t fix the world.”

“Oh,” Lacey said, running a few steps to catch up with Chase. “I really do need your help on this one.”

“We’ll come up with a plan, don’t worry,” Chase said, sounding disingenuous even to herself. How Lacey couldn’t see this, she’d never know. One thing was certain: Lacey was so self-absorbed that if her ass weren’t firmly attached she’d walk off and leave it behind because it was not within her direct line of sight.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Lacey said, taking Chase’s hand.

Chase looked over at Lacey. She didn’t like holding hands. She felt claustrophobic and the subsequent sweaty-hand thing grossed her out. She overcame it and squeezed Lacey’s hand. “It’ll be all right.”

Once inside, Chase poured the lemonade while Addison and Bud set up the camera gear. Lacey actually carried the tray with the pitcher of lemonade and the four glasses into the den where Bud had the TM900 camcorder positioned in the corner so it would be as unobtrusive as possible.

Lacey must be in some serious deep shit if she’s being helpful and considerate, Chase thought, and this gave her trepidation.

Lacey poured the lemonade and sat next to Chase. The girls sat on the leather loveseat.

“So here’s my dilemma…” Lacey began. She cocked her head to one side and stared at them as they stared back at her.

“Yes,” Chase prodded.

“Well, I think it’s like a Moses thing, and I’m not liking it,” Lacey said.

Addison and Chase looked to Bud for a translation. Bud was adept at Lacey-speak. “What she means is the Institute is suffering a mass exodus from the homeland like when Moses led the Jews out of Egypt.”

Lacey thumped the coffee table. “Exactly. Now how are we going to stop it?”

“You offer free sex toys, a magazine subscription of your choice and a full season of the L-Word.”

They all stared at Addison. “I’m just saying.”

Lacey sipped her lemonade and considered it. “We might use that as a perk, but I’m going to need a more substantial way to keep those damn lesbians from all their bickering.”

Chase wondered what it was like to live in a world so literal—was it delusional or beneficial to one’s social welfare to take the world at face value?

“Since when have your ‘chosen people’ become those ‘damn lesbians’?” Bud said, adjusting the TM900 more to the left.

“Since time immemorial. I never realized how many factions there were in the lesbian community,” Lacey said, obviously puzzled by this epiphany about the community.

“I could’ve told you that. Why the hell do you think I stay as far away as I can from them?” Chase asked.

“But this kind of factionalism happens whenever groups of people are put together in the spirit of community,” Bud said. “Look at camping trips.”

“Camping trips? What do you mean?” Chase said, topping off everyone’s lemonade and passing around the plate of macadamia nut cookies.

“Think about it. Everyone starts off thinking it’s going to be so fun getting back to nature, hanging out together, cooking in the open air, listening to the crickets, etc., and the next thing you know everyone is getting cranky and overly critical and then the talk of going home early sets in,” Bud said.

She had a point, Chase thought. It no longer frightened her that Bud was so intuitively brilliant. She’d gotten used it. Maybe Bud and Addison with their outside perspectives could solve the “Lesbian Problem” as Chase had taken to calling it.

Lacey looked lost.

Addison elucidated. “What she means is that you put all these different kinds of women together and you’re going to get friction.”

“Especially if you put a bunch of progressive-save-the-world types together,” Chase added.

“I know. Everyone is so picky and agenda-oriented. I mean, can’t we just have some fun?” Lacey said.

Ah, now we are talking, Chase thought. The Institute wasn’t a fun place. Even the nail-care-as-love instrument had been a fiasco. The Vulva-Heads, who were aptly named for their intense orientation toward all things feminine, had been offended that the finger-as-manifestation-of-love-device people were interested in having nice cuticles. There were Vulva-Heads with figurative machetes who whacked down anything remotely masculine like insertion of a well-manicured fingernail into one’s vagina. They’d picketed the manicure session with signs about the dangers of nail care like it was some foreign evil that was threatening to take over the world.

Then the omnipresent shadow of Chino and Dixon came to mind.

“You have to get rid of the Pink Mafia,” Chase said.

“Why?” Lacey asked, taking another cookie.

Chase wondered if all the sugar was good for Lacey. A hopped-up depressed person could be a detriment to problem solving. “Should you really have another cookie?”

“Am I getting fat?” Lacey said, pinching the mythical inch on her stomach that indicated her body mass index.

“I’m concerned about the sugar intake affecting your energy level crash. The higher you go the harder you fall,” Chase said.

Addison and Bud studied Lacey. They were well-versed in sugar highs. “It might help her think better if we keep her at an optimum level. I’ll get her some water to keep the dilution-to-absorption rate constant,” Bud said.

Lacey eyed her. “Is that true?”

Addison and Chase simultaneously shrugged. “Sounds good,” Chase said.

Bud returned with the water. “Drink half of it now and then finish it in another fifteen minutes.”

“So we have about fifteen minutes to solve my problem? And why do I have to get rid of Chino and Dixon?”

“Yes on the time thing and because your totalitarian state is driving people away on the second thing,” Chase said.

Bud set the timer on her enormous watch. “Start the brainstorming.”

 “Number one: Stop the insanity of Stalinism at the Institute,” Addison said, pulling a legal pad from her leather backpack. She wrote that down.

“Number two: Start the healing process to eradicate the damage left behind by the radical factions by engaging a therapist,” Bud said.

“Number three: Hire Dr. Robicheck to teach a seminar using her new technique of laugh therapy,” Chase said.

“Isn’t that the same thing as number two?” Bud asked.

“No, number two is about eradication, and number three pertains to the eradicationary method,” Chase replied.

Bud looked dubious but said nothing.

“Number four: Create a task force using members from each group to come up with solutions,” Addison said.

“Number five: Give up on the whole Institute thing and turn it into a Club Med for lesbians who just want to have fun,” Bud said.

“Yeah, right,” Lacey said, but her brow furrowed.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Chase said.

“But then my whole mission would be worthless.”

“Not necessarily. You learned that there are a lot of lesbians out there who need a good laugh and to learn how to relax,” Bud said.

 Lacey appeared to contemplate this. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Can I have another cookie?”

“Only if you call Dr. Robicheck and set up the laugh therapy seminar,” Chase said, holding the cookie plate away from her.

“And you instruct Dixon and Chino that they can’t incarcerate people—sovereign nation or not,” Bud said.

Lacey looked sheepish. “I am sorry about handcuffing you to the chair. I’ll tell them to back off.” She whipped out her cell phone and told them to release the latest miscreants.

“Holy shit,” Chase said.

“They really deserved it,” Lacey said.

“What did they do?” Addison asked.

“They removed all the tampon machines and hijacked the refills from all the custodial closets so there wasn’t a tampon in the place. It was horrid. We had to make an emergency run.”

“Was it the Menopausals?” Chase said.

“Not directly, but I think they were behind it. We caught the culprits. They were twenty-somethings, so we couldn’t pin it on the Menopausals.”

“How’d you catch them?” Addison said.

“They were the only ones in the building with tampons. We still haven’t located the stash.”

Chase didn’t even want to know how Lacey discovered that they had tampons.

“Do you see what I have to deal with?” Lacey sighed.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Chapter Fifteen—Group Therapy

Dr. Robicheck followed Chase down the hallway of the Institute, her sensible but fashionable shoes clicking on the cement floor as Chase skateboarded ahead of her. She stopped at the intersection of two hallways and waited for Dr. Robicheck to catch up.

“When did you take this up?” Dr. Robicheck said, slightly out of breath.

“A couple of months ago. It’s part of my new fearless self.”

“Like the microwave experiment?”

“Yes,” Chase said, seeing some of her writing students and smiling. She was trying to be less socially phobic. They stopped and stared at her, exhibiting the Asberger card for surprise. It was really shocked surprise, but there wasn’t an Asberger card for that.

“Your new behavior seems to elicit shock,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“Oh, I skateboard all the time. It’s hard for people to accost you because you travel quicker than they do, and they get out of your way.”

“Then why were those women staring at you?”

“I smiled at them. I don’t usually do that, but it’s part of the new me.”

“I see.”

They walked together until they reached the door of the auditorium where Chino and Dixon stood, arms crossed on their chests, looking like thugs.

“Who are they?” Dr. Robicheck said.

“The Pink Mafia. Let me do the talking.”

“All right.”

Chino and Dixon glared at her. “I see you’re still getting your panties starched,” Chase said. “Or maybe it’s constipation that makes you look like that.”

“Piss off, you twerp,” Chino said.

Chase rolled over Chino’s toe with her skateboard. Chino leapt out of the way.

“Ouch! Why, you little piece of shit,” Dixon said. She lunged at Chase, but Dr. Robicheck stepped in her way.

“I teach anger management, perhaps you should come to one of our meetings,” she said and handed her a card.

Chino and Dixon both stood dumbstruck.

Chase smiled at Dr. Robicheck. “It’s nice knowing your therapist has your back.”

“You call that diplomacy?” Dr. Robicheck said.

“No, I call that fucking with the man.”

“The man?”

“The powers that be or that think they are,” Chase said.

“But why not call it ‘the woman’?”

“Oh, don’t get me started on the lesbian linguistic thing,” Chase said, putting her foot on the back of her board, flipping it up and grabbing it.

“That was pretty slick,” Dr. Robicheck said, nodding her approval.

Chase smiled appreciatively. “I practice a lot.”

At the front of the auditorium, Lacey was pacing beside the lectern. “There you are.”

“What’s wrong now?” Chase said.

“Oh, just everything, that’s all,” Lacey snapped.

“I think you’ll have to be more specific if you expect help,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“Who are you?” Lacey said.

Dr. Robicheck raised an eyebrow and looked at Chase, who shrugged. “I told you the whole place, including upper management, needs an attitude adjustment.”

“I can see that,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“Are you Dr. Robicheck? Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” Lacey said, looking downright penitent. She thrust out her hand and they shook.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what is wrong, and then we can get a handle on the situation,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“It’s all these fucking lesbians,” Lacey said, then, realizing her expletive deletive, covered her mouth.

Chase sniggered.

“It’s quite all right, I’ve heard it before,” Dr. Robicheck said, cocking her head in Chase’s direction.

“That hurts,” Chase said, holding her hand to her heart in mock indignation.

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“My sentiments exactly,” Dr. Robicheck said. She looked around the auditorium. All the chairs were set in a circle that wound around like a nautilus.

Chase followed her gaze. “Where is everyone?”

“That’s the problem. There is no everyone,” Lacey said. Her eyes filled with tears.

Dr. Robicheck pulled a small packet of unopened Kleenex out of her pocket and handed it to Lacey. Chase marveled at this. Were packets of Kleenex part of a therapist’s tools of the trade?

“Thank you,” Lacey said, blowing her nose.

“So why isn’t anyone coming?” Chase said.

Lacey glanced at Dr. Robicheck. She lowered her voice, which was silly because they were alone in the auditorium. “The consensus among some of the lesbians is that therapy is for wimps and entirely rooted in the patriarchy. I think they’re still pissed about the whole Freud-thing.”

“Freud-thing?” Dr. Robicheck said, looking quizzically at Chase.

“Let’s not go there,” Chase said.

“It’s something about Oedipus and Dora,” Lacey said. “I don’t know if they were a couple or what, but they are angry about the diagnostics.”

Dr. Robicheck looked at Lacey with the kind of astonishment reserved for when one saw an alien with a poor grasp of history and vocabulary for the first time. She recovered quickly. “It seems these people are in real need of laugh therapy.”

“Except that she can’t get anyone in here,” Chase said.

Bud came in, followed by Addison who pushed a dolly containing two clear plastic tubs full of AV equipment and an ice chest. Bud was carrying spools of orange electrical cords and her omnipresent camera bag.

As they made their way to the front of the auditorium, Dr. Robicheck said, “Well, here’s a couple of takers.”

“That’s Bud in front with the cords and her friend Addison,” Chase said. “They don’t really count. They like to laugh already.”

Dr. Robicheck’s eyes lit up. “The Bud and The Addison?”

Chase hadn’t realized that although she’d been talking about Addison and Bud for years, Dr. Robicheck had never seen them. “Yes.” She was nervous. Two sides of her life were about to intersect.

Bud walked up to Dr. Robicheck and stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, and I want to wholeheartedly thank you for doing such an amazing job of finding the necessary neural connections that allow Chase to function as well as she does.”

Dr. Robicheck stared at Bud and then smiled. “Well, I must say you’ve exceeded my expectations.”

“She has that effect on people,” Addison said. “But it is really cool to meet you.”

“What are you two doing here?” Chase asked.

“We thought you might encounter difficulties getting the ‘damned lesbians’”—she did air quotes—“to attend a seminar that involves a therapist,” Addison said.

“The Freud-thing,” Bud said.

Dr. Robicheck glanced again at Chase for elucidation. It wasn’t forthcoming.

“What can you do?” Lacey said, her voice taking on the pitch of the nearly panicked.

“Well, the first thing is to hand out the flyers and set up the projection equipment,” Addison said, pulling out the flyers and handing half the stack to Bud.

“I can help,” Lacey said.

Addison and Bud exchanged looks.

“What?” Lacey said.

“I think it’ll look biased and contrived if you’re involved,” Bud said.

“What do you mean?” Chase said.

“We’re going to play the kid angle,” Bud said, looking apologetic as if she was taking advantage of her status.

“I don’t get it,” Lacey said.

“We’re going to play a movie to lure the lesbians in and then after the movie Dr. Robicheck can have a spirited talk about the psychological nature of laughter and its benefits on the human mind,” Bud said.

“That’s kind of sneaky,” Chase said.

“Lesbians are not easy people to deal with,” Bud said.

“I know,” Chase said.

“We’re going to show a movie at a time like this?” Lacey said.

“Trust me,” Bud said.

“I think we should hand out the flyers and then come back and set up the AV equipment,” Bud said.

“Wait, what’s the movie about?” Chase said.

“It’s a series of short films about lesbians, which should entice this crowd since everyone is over-the-top lesbian here,” Bud said.

“They’re Bud’s films and they are so hilarious, I almost wet my pants,” Addison said. “And I’m not a card-carrying lesbian…yet.”

Chase wondered about this. Addison’s sexuality, despite the fact that she was sixteen, hadn’t been realized, but no one questioned her on it. Even her mother Peggy let it ride. “She’ll decide when she’s ready and I am happy either way.” To which Chase’s mother Stella replied, “And if it turns out to be boys I will see to it that nothing untoward ever happens to her.” Stella meant it. She and Peggy investigated the “untoward” a lot.

Bud and Addison exchanged knowing looks.

Chase zeroed in on them and was about to conduct a full investigation of the “look” she’d seen. Had Bud and Addison talked about sex—but Dr. Robicheck interrupted her.

“This might actually work. I will be able to explain how laughter heightens dopamine levels while the audience is directly experiencing the induced state.”

“You’ll have happy lesbians,” Lacey said, rubbing her hands together. “Who might listen to each other and be respectful of their unique POVs, and they won’t argue anymore.”

They all stared at her, mouths agape. Bud smirked and Addison attempted a reprimanding look, which failed. They started to giggle.

“You’re kidding, right?” Chase said.

“We can try, can’t we?” Lacey asked, looking to Dr. Robicheck for confirmation.

Dr. Robicheck lifted her eyebrows and smiled. “I don’t think laughing will bring peace, harmony, love and understanding.”

“If it did, we’d send Tina Fey to the United Nations and nuclear disarmament would be immediately achieved,” Addison said.

“Don’t you love her?” Chase said.

“I just finished reading her biography Bossy Pants. It was hilarious,” Addison said.

“Can we get back on task?” Lacey said, drumming her fingers on the podium and then taking a drink of water from the glass that was meant for the speaker.

“She’s right,” Chase said, glancing at the huge wall clock at the back of the auditorium. They’d had to install it because whenever they had visiting lesbian writers in for a reading they always went over the allotted time limit or, at least the bad ones did, or maybe tedious fiction just made the audience feel that way.

“We’ll pass out flyers,” Bud said, eyeing Chase. “Do you think you can set up the projection equipment? It’ll save time.”

Chase looked at her indignantly and then remembered that she was tech-challenged. “Of course.” The new Fearless Chase would figure it out.

“I think I can be of some assistance. I do it for the seminars I teach,” Dr. Robicheck said.

It did come in handy having your therapist on hand while learning a new skill, Chase thought. She wondered if she could engage Dr. Robicheck to attend the Gift-Wrapping Championship and be her on-site performance advisor.

“Perfect,” Bud said. “Everything you need is in the tubs. Put the speakers down here, two in the front of the stage and two in the back and then run the cords up the sides of the aisle. I brought duct tape so you can tack them down so they won’t be a safety hazard.”

After they left, it occurred to Chase that she had no idea what the short films were about. Bud had been, as she put it, “chronicling the lives of ordinary lesbians.” Chase should have been suspicious as there was no such thing as an ordinary lesbian. In this environment, it was an oxymoron.

Lacey instructed Ollie, one of the maintenance techs, to run the cords for the speakers. She went up with them to the projection room at the back of the auditorium but was no help in setting up the equipment. Instead, she made a conference call to the three head chefs. Chase eavesdropped.

“I want finger food, like après fresco or whatever—little sandwich things full of Chia Pet stuff.”

“Alfalfa sprouts,” Chase interjected.

Lacey nodded like she was agreeing with her.

“How about pigs in a blanket?” Chase suggested.

Dr. Robicheck smiled—maybe she did get the Freud-thing.

“Hold on,” Lacey said, glaring at Chase. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Do you realize the phallic implications of pigs in a blanket?”

Someone else on the kitchen end must have found it amusing as well because Lacey said, “No, I don’t care if they are soy hotdogs. I want politically correct food—like those blue tortilla chips and the hubris stuff they put on Jew bread.”

Dr. Robicheck stared at Lacey.

“I know, right,” Chase said. “Lacey, it’s not hubris, it’s hummus and pita bread is Greek, not Jewish.”

Lacey waved an impatient hand. “They know what I mean.”

Chase smiled at Dr. Robicheck, who was lifting a projector out of one of the AV tubs.

“Whatever you do make it look homey,” Lacey instructed and clicked off.

Chase dug cords out of the tub. “Why do you want homey?” To Chase, one did homey things at home and outy things outside the home.

“Because potlucks are like a lesbian community staple, bringing back the time when folk singers ate tofu pigs in a blanket, and people read lesbian poetry, and there were no factions. Just a bunch of women who enjoyed being around other women,” Lacey said.

“How do you know all this? You weren’t even around in the Our Bodies, Ourselves period,” Chase said.

“I’ve seen pictures and aside from the unfashionable hair and clothes the women looked happy.”

“Did you get the rest of the electrical cords?” Dr. Robicheck called from the back.

“Yes, I’m on my way,” Chase said, and she hurried up the aisle.

Bud and Addison returned out of breath. Both had flushed faces and broad smiles.

“I think it’s going to work. The show will start in thirty minutes. We ran into Gloria, and she’s rustling up some of the hard-cores.”

“Who are the hard-cores?” Dr. Robicheck asked, adjusting the LCD 1080 video projector lens so the circle of light hit dead center on the screen below. Chase was impressed with Dr. Robicheck’s confidence with the AV equipment.

“Hard-cores are the women who are pissed off about everything and everyone. I think it started with Eve,” Lacey said.

“Who’s Eve?” Dr. Robicheck asked.

“You know, Adam and Eve. They think that the world would’ve been perfect if there had been an Eve and Eve in a garden of Eden of their own making with a purposeful lack of fruit trees,” Chase said.

Dr. Robicheck furrowed her brow, and Chase thought she looked alarmed. She patted Dr. Robicheck’s shoulder. “Do you see why we need you?”

“This is a daunting task,” she said.

“I think if we just ease them into peace, love and understanding, they might get used to it,” Chase said.

Lacey came racing back. “I’ve got the potluck finger food thing going, and the dishwasher also knows all of Phranc’s songs.”

“Who is Phranc?” Chase said.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Bud said.

“Why not?” Lacey said.

“Because Phranc is associated with Queercore. You might be stirring up the very sentiment you’re trying to smooth over,” Bud said.

“Who is Phranc and what is Queercore?” Chase asked, concerned that her six-year-old knew more about lesbian dynamics than she did until she remembered the reason was because she didn’t like most lesbians. Was she a lesbophobic lesbian?

“It’s this group that rejects the lesbian and gay agendas. They see them as oppressive, and they’re into DIY art,” Bud said, loading the DVD into the LCD 1080 video projector.

Lacey dialed her phone. “No music,” she yelled into the phone. “I don’t care if it’s already been arranged. Cancel it.”

“Good call,” Bud said.

Gloria came rushing in. “No folk music, please. We want to avoid Queercore issues all together.”

“Were you just in the kitchen?” Lacey said.

“Yes, and I hid the guitar after I removed all the strings,” Gloria said, pulling a bandana from her back pocket and wiping her face. “Do you have any idea what you almost started?”

“I just thought potluck and folk music would be nice,” Lacey said and pouted.

“Should we see if Gitana can come?” Chase asked. “I mean, this is Bud’s big film debut. It’s a very special moment.”

“Oh, she doesn’t need to see it. She already experienced it,” Bud said. “Besides she’s up to her eyeballs in orchids.”

Chase wasn’t convinced. She took several photos of Bud checking the AV equipment with her BlackBerry and sent them to Gitana.

“This isn’t technically my debut. It’s more like a focus group. I’m only showing two clips.”

“Do they have titles?” Chase asked.

“Yes, the first one is called Dog Days, and the second is called Rearview.”

Chase looked at Dr. Robicheck to see her response to the titles. They sounded innocuous, but Chase was not an underestimator. She would have inquired more had the auditorium not begun to fill with people.

Lacey hugged Chase and Dr. Robicheck and then knocked Addison’s and Bud’s heads together like two of those clacker balls that Chase had played with as a child. Now those were unsafe toys. “You guys are like mini-geniuses,” Lacey said.

Bud scowled. Chase knew she hated the diminutive in any form. “I think she meant it as a compliment,” Chase whispered. Bud rolled her eyes.

“Are you all set?” Lacey asked, her eyes beaming with delight. “If you build it they will come,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “I’m going down to the stage. Flick the lights or something to let me know when you’re ready. I will do a short intro and then we’ll get started.”

Chase thought it was that particular movie slogan that got Lacey in this mess in the first place. Maybe the Club Med for lesbians wasn’t such a bad idea.

Donna and Isabel came in holding hands. Donna looked radiant. Chase smiled at them but refrained from making any of the inane remarks the long-coupled often say to the newly-in-love. She knew Donna was still in the early stages of doubtful love, and since it had taken her twenty-seven years to go on a date, Chase didn’t want to be responsible for messing anything up.

“Now, what’s this about a movie?” Donna said, letting go of Isabel’s hand and peering down at the projector where Bud was making final adjustments.

“Ugh, I will need you to sign this release form,” Bud said, handing Donna a sheet of paper.

“What’s this for?” Donna said.

“You’re in one of the short films.”

“I am?” Donna inquired. Her face flushed.

Chase stared at Bud. “Who else is in the film?”

“You and Gitana, but since we’re family, I don’t see that it’s necessary for you to sign off. You can if you want to,” Bud said, reaching in to get another form.

“No, I trust you.”

“I bet you look great in the film,” Isabel said, squeezing Donna around the waist.

“Is this your docudrama series?” Donna asked. She still didn’t look convinced about signing the release.

“Yes, but it’s the funny stuff,” Bud said. “I’m using the audience as a target group. If I can get these people to laugh I know I have a chance in the Short Lesbian Film contest in February.”

“That’s great, Bud,” Isabel said. “We need filmmakers like you.”

Chase studied Isabel, trying to decide if she looked more lesbian than she did before. She still dressed the same kind of femme chic. Today she wore dark brown Capri pants and a black rayon blouse. Her hair was the same to-the-shoulder-cut put up in a messy bun. She hadn’t gone for the Phranc flattop. Chase had Googled Phranc and Queercore on her BlackBerry in the interim.

Isabel caught Chase staring at her. “What are you looking at? Do you think I look more lesbian now?”

Chase blushed. “I was…just.” She couldn’t lie. “No, you look exactly the same except maybe happier.”

Isabel touched her arm. “I am happier.”

“I just hope hanging out with all these pissed-off lesbians won’t color your perspective on the nation as a whole.” She looked around to see people filing in.

“Chase, I have been hanging around with them. Yes, I will admit they can be a difficult group to handle, but Donna is wonderful, and so are you and Gitana—I have good role models.”

Bud was whispering to Donna, who was biting her lip. “Oh, Bud, I don’t know—that was pretty embarrassing.”

“But it was so funny,” Bud said, looking earnest. “And you were smashing—standing up to the police officer like that and then regaining your composure. It’s just the kind of scene that these women need—something that says yes, you can fight the establishment, but you can do it with humor.”

“What’s wrong?” Isabel said.

“She wants to do the ‘Incident,’” Donna said, looking grim.

“Oh,” Isabel said.

“What’s that?” Chase asked.

“That little run-in with the police officer over the stuff in the trunk,” Donna said.

“That’s one of the movies? I haven’t seen this episode,” Chase said. Then it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen any of Bud’s film clips and it further occurred to her that this could have dire consequences.

Bud smiled at Chase with the look of a smooth-talking car salesman contemplating the location and possible pain level of the sucker punch. Chase watched her. “Tell me this isn’t going to become a debacle.”

Bud said with apparent confidence, “It’s good, all good—no worries.”

Whenever someone said, “no worries,” Chase was instantly on guard and prepared to worry.

Lacey went on stage and tapped the microphone and instead of saying “testing, testing,” she said, “Vulva, vulva.”

“There’s room in the projection center for all of us,” Addison said.

“We’ve set up chairs. It’ll be kind of like a semiprivate screening,” Bud said.

“Vulva, Vulva, that’s absurd,” Chase muttered.

“She’s trying to appease the masses and ‘testing, testing’ annoys the Animal Rights Lesbians because it speaks of lab rats,” Donna said, as they moved up the aisle past the groups of people taking their seats. “And it sounds too much like testes, testes.”

Chase caught Dr. Robicheck rolling her eyes.

“There’s a lot of people here,” Isabel said.

“More than I’ve seen in quite a while,” Donna observed.

“Interest in Lesbian Cultural Seminars is at an all-time low,” Isabel informed them.

“Maybe Cyndi Lauper was right. Girls just want to have fun,” Chase said. She saw Bud and Addison exchange another knowing look again. What were they up to?

“Now, would anyone like something to drink?” Addison said, reaching toward the ice chest she and Bud had wrestled up there.

Donna, Isabel and Chase smiled at each other with adult recognition of pre-adult planning.

“We have green tea, water, grape juice and Corona with an optional lime,” Addison said.

“Beer all around,” Bud said.

“I think they’re going to need it,” Addison said quietly.

“Where did you two get beer?” Chase said, envisioning them standing outside a liquor store persuading a grown-up to make an illegal purchase for them.

“Our fridge,” Bud said.

“Oh, right. Yes, I would like a beer,” Chase said. “With lime.”

Bud flicked the lights.

Lacey tapped the mike to get everyone’s attention.

Bud fretted. “I hope she doesn’t piss them off before I get to show my stuff.”

“She won’t. This place needs an attitude adjustment and they,” Addison pointed down at the audience, “know it.”

Lacey said, “Tonight, it is my pleasure to introduce to you someone very dear to my heart. She is talented in so many ways.”

“Wow, how do you rate?” Addison said to Bud.

“She’s just sucking up because we saved her ass,” Bud said.

Chase stared at her. “That sounded downright thugess,” she said.

Bud smiled angelically.

Lacey continued. “I want to introduce you to her latest talent—filmmaking. We decided it was time to experience some levity, so with no further ado, I present two short films directed by Bud…” Lacey didn’t get to finish because everyone clapped.

“Wow, one-name status,” Chase said. “Just like Cher, Madonna and Radclyffe.”

They expected Lacey to move on to a speech about the purpose of lesbian film and how important it was to the community, but to their surprise, she turned off the mike and left the podium.

“Let’s get this party started,” Bud said, turning to the projector.

Chase patted Bud’s shoulder. “No matter what happens, I love you.” They bumped knuckles in solidarity.

Bud turned on the video projector. The first scene showed Bud explaining what they were doing. “Today, we,” she pointed at the dogs, “are going to Church of the Blessed Virgin in honor of Saint Francis of Assisi so Annie and Jane can be blessed.”

Chase entered the room and looked at the dogs dressed in brown frocks. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The audience murmured—perhaps in assent.

“That line was my inspiration,” Bud whispered in Chase’s ear so she wouldn’t disturb the others in the screening room.

“I’m here to serve,” Chase whispered back.

Jane pulled at Annie’s Friar Tuck burlap ensemble. A tug-of-war ensued with Annie tugging to keep her frock and Jane ripping it off. Gitana came in the room and with Chase’s help got the dogs apart and redressed.

“Good luck,” Chase said, waving at the camera.

“I have a feeling we’re going to need it,” Gitana said, giving Chase a quick peck on the cheek.

There was a collective “Aw…” from the audience.

“See, I told you lesbians are suckers for animals and good love affairs,” Bud said.

The dogs followed Gitana to the Land Rover. Annie jumped in the backseat, but not before Jane pulled the rope belt of Annie’s frock and it came off. Jane panted. It looked like she was smirking.

“Damn it, Jane,” Gitana said, dressing Annie again and shutting the rear door.

The audience chuckled.

Chase gripped Bud’s arm. “You made them laugh.”

“Vaudeville gets them every time,” Bud replied.

In the car as they headed down the road, Gitana laid out the rules. “I don’t want excessive barking or butt sniffing, beyond what is polite.” Gitana turned to Annie while she stopped at the stop sign. “That applies to human crotches as well—no TSA cavity sniffing, I mean it.” She pointed at Annie who was looking out the window. “And Jane, you are strictly forbidden to bite any dogs, period. I don’t care if you’re provoked.”

Chase laughed. Jane was notorious for doing a play bow to lure in an unsuspecting dog and making a surgical strike when they came within range. She usually went for an ear or a front leg—she had been known to get a chunk of ass.

Jane smirked at the camera. The audience laughed.

“She’s such a ham,” Addison said.

When they got to the church, Gitana started in again. “I want you to remember this is a church.”

Jane panted and Annie did not make eye contact. They got out of the Land Rover.

“Okay, now you are on your best behavior, remember,” Gitana said, as the dogs pulled at their leashes.

There was complete pandemonium at the church door. A monk directed traffic.

“Dogs over here.” He pointed to the right door. “And cats over here,” he said, pointing to the left door.

The camera panned to a parrot sitting atop a short man dressed in all green with an orange beanie, a girl clutching an enormous iguana to her chest like a baby doll, and a boy holding the leash of an armadillo.

“Where did that kid get an armadillo?” Donna said. She appeared truly impressed, as if the child had better procurement skills than her own.

“A rescue case from Oklahoma. The rest of its family was plowed over on Highway 62 outside of Muskogee,” Bud said.

Annie and Jane sniffed the armadillo, which seemed snooty, paying them no mind. Jane went to bite the armadillo’s armored tail, but Gitana yanked the leash just before Jane was about to bite down.

The monk saw the exchange. “All right, now those of you with unusual pets come forward, and we will bless them first as a safety precaution.” He waved them forward.

The next scene showed Annie and Jane sitting in a pew next to Gitana. They appeared to attentively watch the service. The priest held up an enormous black-and-white, floppy-eared rabbit.

Gitana glared at the dogs. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned them. Jane licked her lips.

“It’s a church for God’s sake,” Gitana said. They paid her no mind.

The priest was blessing the rabbit when a Boston terrier got loose and walked up to the priest. The dog sniffed the priest’s robe and clamped onto the priest’s leg in a death grip of copulation. The priest tried to ignore him, shaking his leg in an attempt to dislodge the dog, but the dog was giving it his all. He kept looking side to side as if to say, “Hey, hey look at me, I’m humping the big guy.”

The audience roared with laughter. Chase looked at Bud. “They like it.”

“I knew they would. Everyone, including an angry lesbian, is a sucker for animal antics. It gets better.”

Addison passed Donna and Isabel a packet of Kleenex because they were laughing so hard tears were running down their faces. “Oh, my God, Bud,” Isabel gasped.

What happened next was really the cat’s fault. During the blessing, the cat shrieked and madly clawed out at the priest. In terror, the priest dropped the cat, who went scampering down the aisle to be followed by a slew of dogs chasing it. Annie and Jane took advantage of the chaos. They made their way up front. Gitana tried to grab their leashes but lost hold in the tide of animals and people trying to gain control of their pets. In a sea of fur, two brown frocks made their way to the altar. The first thing Jane did when they got there was bite the Boston terrier in the ass as it had resumed humping the priest. The long-eared rabbit came into view.

Gitana gasped, “Oh, my God, no, not the bunny—this is going to be like Thomas à Becket. Don’t they realize this is a church?”

The frocked girls went to the cage, and Annie tripped the latch with her nose. Jane poked her head into the rabbit cage. No one noticed, not even the owner of the rabbit. Jane picked the bunny up by the scruff of its neck and the creature benignly agreed as if Jane were a fireman carrying it to safety. Then the bunny did the queerest thing—it climbed on top of Jane’s back and balanced herself—it would later be revealed that it was a she-bunny. Jane looked at Annie as if to confer, and they began to move toward the door.

Gitana looked into the camera lens and screamed, “We’ve got to stop this!” Her face loomed large in the camera lens. “Don’t they realize this is a church?”

“You said that before. I don’t think they care,” Bud said. “That’s the beauty of animals, they have a certain amorality when it comes to the instinctual.”

The camera lurched, and it became apparent that Bud had been yanked off the pew and forceably moved down the aisle against the crowd as the pets and their people were resuming their seats.

“We’ve got to save the bunny,” Gitana said.

They rushed outside the church, but Annie, Jane and the bunny were nowhere in sight.

“Oh my, God, they’ve gone and done it. They’re murderers,” Gitana said, wringing her hands.

“There is no evidence of that,” Bud said. She panned the church garden.

“There they are,” Bud said, pointing to the corner of the garden dedicated to Saint Francis of Assissi. Annie and Jane lay on the grass, their frocks spread out, intently watching the rabbit eat grass. It looked benignly pastoral.

Gitana went to lunge, Bud put up a restraining arm. “Don’t startle them.”

“But the rabbit is still alive,” Gitana said.

“And if you go at them like that it might not continue to be,” Bud said.

Gitana considered this.

There was such a thing as a “considering face,” Chase thought as the camera captured it. She glanced around at her companions. Everyone was rapt, waiting to see how the drama would play out, to see whether what they thought would happen happened or if the miraculous would occur.

Chase realized she was a doubter when she whispered to Bud, “Is this going to get gory?” The dogs chased rabbits, but they’d never caught one so Chase didn’t know for certain what they would do if they ever did.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Bud replied.

Chase went to chew a cuticle. Bud slapped her hand.

Jane sniffed the bunny. They touched noses, and Jane licked the bunny’s face. Annie did the same and then the three of them sat in companionable silence.

“What the hell?” Chase said.

Donna shushed her. The auditorium was silent. Everyone held their breath.

The whole thing was downright bizarre, Chase thought. She waited for the ugly denouement that seemed certain, but then it didn’t happen. The rabbit hopped over and sat between the dogs and all three ate grass. Gitana, Bud and the camera stopped. The film no longer joggled. Everything in time stopped—a window where a still frame replaced the whirl of activity. Jane must have heard Gitana and Bud. She turned her head slowly and observed. She licked her lips and appeared to study them. Then, instead of mauling the rabbit, she licked it as if to say to the humans, “Do you see? I know you assumed the worst and it didn’t happen—there is love here, not hate.”

The man whose rabbit it was stood next to Gitana and Bud watching the dogs and the rabbit. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said. He noticed his slip. “Pardon me.”

Gitana smiled at him.

“And when the lion lays down with the lamb,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

That was the end of the film. The auditorium erupted in applause.

Chase hugged Bud while the rest of them clapped. “That was fucking great,” Chase said.

“Wait until you see the next one.”

Donna stared down at the crowd. “Wow. Do you think they got it?”

“Got what?” Chase said, sitting down with relief that the dogs didn’t eat the rabbit.

“That the lesbian nation needs to get out of faction-land and just be together as a community—not all this us-them dichotomy,” Donna said.

“That’s deep,” Chase said, “but I wouldn’t count on a miraculous solution to Lacey’s problem of overseeing a war zone of hegemonies.”

Bud nodded.

“Do you think all the time that Annie and Jane chased rabbits that they were just curious and wanted to know a rabbit?” Addison said. “Maybe there is such a thing as Wind in the Willows.”

“I don’t know,” Chase said.

The audience sat back down, and Bud started the next film. “This one is going to warm them up for Dr. Robicheck.”

“What is it about?” Chase said.

Donna looked away. “I am only doing this for the sake of community, and I hope you will all understand that I did my best in a disasterous situation.”

“What?” Chase said.

“Just watch,” Bud said.

The film began with red flashing lights—Bud had worn her Contour HD 1080P helmet camera and set her Panasonic Digital camera in the back window of Donna’s car. In this way she’d been able to catch most of the angles and all of the sound when she combined both videos during the editing process.

“Officer, what exactly have we done?” Gitana asked.

“I was going the speed limit, my tags are current, the taillights are operable and I didn’t have an obstructed windshield,” Donna blurted.

“Ma’am, I need your license and registration. Hand them over slowly and keep your hands in plain sight. Do you understand?” He pulled his trousers up about his hips and wiggled from side to side.

Bud whispered to Gitana, “Chase would have had a heyday with that gesture except that she’s incarcerated as a political prisoner and at this rate the rest of the family might end up in the pokey.”

“No talking,” the officer said, glaring at Gitana and then Bud. He seemed to notice the helmet but went back to studying Donna’s paperwork, which had become crumpled and sweaty from Donna holding it too tightly. “I’m going to run this,” he said, backing away slowly. “No one move.” He eyed them warily. He went to the cruiser door and ran Donna’s information on his computer.

“I have a clean record,” Donna blathered.

“I need you to open the trunk,” he said as he checked out the rest of the car.

“Can I get down from here? It’s getting really hot,” Bud said. She’d used the Contour 1080 to show her hand on the roof and the heat rising from it so the viewers would get a sense of her location as well as her predicament.

The police officer squinted at her as if assessing the threat. “Do it slowly and keep your hands where I can see them, and what is that thing on your head?”

“It’s a bike helmet.”

“She’s fucking six and not overly large for her age. What do you think she is, a miniature Bugsy Malone?” Gitana said.

“Ma’am,” the police officer said in a warning tone.

Bud made the slashing-her-throat motion at her mother, who ignored her. The TM900 caught this gesture on video.

“No, really, what have we done?” Gitana said, her face getting red. “Surely, we are entitled to know.”

“Officer, pay her no mind. She is going through the change of life and you know what that can do to a person,” Donna said.

“Change of life? What the hell does that mean?” he said as he looked under the car.

Bud felt the need to be helpful. She looked under the car with him. He stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Bud responded. “What are you doing?”

“Looking under the car.”

“So am I. What are we looking for?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said.

“This is not the school playground,” Gitana yelled. “What are we being charged with?”

“You’re going to get charged with…” he appeared to be thinking.

“Being rude,” Donna suggested. “I mean you haven’t arrested her so it can’t be resisting arrest.”

“And there is the change of life thing,” Bud added.

“The change thing. What exactly is that?” he inquired.

Bud supplied the info. “It’s when a woman stops having her period…”

He put up his hand. “Stop right there.”

“And her ovaries stop producing as much estrogen,” Bud continued undaunted.

“Hot flashes ensue and then it is advisable to start some sort of hormone therapy in order to correct that and help with the erratic mood swings, some of which you may have noticed.” She pointed at Gitana.

“Cease and desist or you will all being going downtown—I mean it.”

“But I really feel that natural hormone therapy using—” Gitana clamped her hand over Donna’s mouth.

“Yes, sir. Now what do you need us to do?” Gitana said, coming back to her senses.

“Open the trunk. Your car fits the description called in by the border patrol—we are looking for illegal aliens. Now, I need your vehicle keys.” He held out his enormous hairy-knuckled hand.

Donna shook her head.

“Give him the keys. We don’t have illegal aliens in the trunk,” Gitana said.

Bud was standing close to the police officer capturing everything on tape. He looked down at her. “Is that a camera?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I am making a documentary,” Bud replied.

“You’re filming me?”

“If it’s all right with you. If I use this footage, I would send you a release form.”

He smoothed back his hair and pulled up his pants again. “I don’t see a problem with it. Now, open the trunk.”

“I can’t. I won’t!” Donna said, getting angry.

“It’s just as I suspected,” he said, playing to the camera. He moved toward the trunk. He turned to Bud, “Are you getting this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open the trunk, or I will be forced to blow the lock.”

“No! It’s my trunk and what is in my trunk stays in my trunk.”

The standoff began. Bud panned from one stern, resolute face to another.

“Donna, for fuck’s sake open the trunk,” Gitana said.

“Not in front of the child,” the officer said.

“You weren’t concerned with her before when she was frying on top of the car,” Gitana said curtly.

“I didn’t know she was a filmmaker then,” he replied. “Now, open the trunk, or I will be forced to compromise the lock.” He pulled out his revolver to illustrate the point.

“What if there are people in the trunk? You’ll kill someone,” Gitana said.

“Are there?” he said.

“No. But if there were,” Gitana said. She glanced over at Donna. “There aren’t, are there?”

Donna eyed the gun. She must have realized the gravity of the situation because without another word she handed the keys over.

The police officer eyed her warily and went to the trunk. “I’m coming in. Put your hands where I can see them,” he said to the trunk.

Donna covered her face with her hands.

Gitana and Bud stared at her. “Do you know what’s in the trunk?” Gitana asked.

“No, but it must be something bad or Donna wouldn’t be freaking like this,” Bud replied.

“It’s bad,” Donna said through splayed fingers.

“What is it?” Gitana said, alarmed.

“You’ll see.”

“Ma’am, can you explain this?” His face was beet red.

Donna walked over, her head bowed. Gitana and Bud followed her and they all peered in the trunk. It looked like a mobile sex toy shop. There were boxes of dildos in every conceivable color of the rainbow according to the cover photos on the top of each box. There were black leather harnesses and boxes of lubricant in a variety of flavors along with vibrators, butt plugs and clitoral-stimulating devices that resembled a human forefinger.

“Donna?” Gitana said.

“It’s for a demonstration class at the Institute,” Donna blurted.

“Are those rubber penises?” the police officer asked, his face getting redder.

“They are commonly referred to as dildos, and they have a long history dating back to Roman times,” Bud said.

They all stared at her.

“It’s all on Wikipedia,” Bud explained.

“Do you have a license for these?” he asked, picking up a box and staring at the photo on the top of the box. He opened it slowly and peered inside. He shut the lid quickly. “What on earth is that thing?”

“It’s a Muffin Mucker,” Donna said, seeming to regain some of her confidence.

Bud reached up to the camera and hit the zoom feature. Gitana saw Bud do it and put her hand over the lens. “That’s censorship,” Bud said. It wouldn’t matter. The Panasonic digital camera was filming away from the back of the car through the crack between the trunk and the rear of the car. It added an interesting perspective.

“No, it’s parental control.” She took the box from the now shell-shocked police officer. “It appears to vibrate as well, you know…” she glanced down at Bud, who now had the camera off her head and was cleaning the smudged lens. “And it has this added attachment for…”

The police officer held up his hand. “That’s enough.”

“What does she need a license for? It’s not like she’s going to drive a penis,” Bud said.

“A business license to sell those…things,” he sputtered, pointing at the trunk with distaste.

“But I’m not selling them. They’re for a class on ‘Sex Toys for the Novice.’ Believe it or not there are a lot of women out there who know nothing about sexual aids,” Donna said, her composure now intact. “I have the invoice that proves I purchased them at full price, and I am not selling them. I am simply delivering them to the Institute. I am the CFO, which more or less makes me a purchasing agent of sorts, especially for purchases of this sort.”

He held up his hand again. “That is enough, more than enough information.” He shut the trunk and handed over Donna’s license and registration. “You may go.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Donna said pleasantly as if he’d only given her directions to a museum or tourist attraction.

Once in the car, Donna said, “Well, that didn’t go as badly as I thought.”

Bud had edited out the part where Donna had banged her head on the steering wheel and swore them all to silence. She had restarted the video after everyone had calmed down a bit, but that was a director’s prerogative.

Gitana leaned back on the headrest and said, “Great mother of God, that had to be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.”

“I think you handled it pretty well. I mean you did explain the Muffin Mucker rather succinctly,” Donna said. She started the car. She glanced in the rearview mirror and put on her turn indicator.

“You’re a very good driver,” Bud said. She patted Gitana’s shoulder. “Those things are just a natural part of people’s sexual lives.”

“How do you know about people’s sexual lives?” Gitana said, turning around to look at her daughter. “Oh, never mind. I keep forgetting you know everything.”

“Except what a penis looks like in 3-D.”

“Well, you got an eyeful of facsimiles today,” Gitana said.

“Yup.”

“See this whole thing was rather educational, after all,” Donna said, setting the cruise control for sixty-five. Then she changed her mind. “I think I’ll set it for seventy-two.”

“I was going to suggest that,” Bud said.

Bud did a “That’s all folks” imitation using a dildo instead of a carrot and the screen ran the credits.

Bud turned to smile at Chase.

The angry lesbians were laughing so hard the auditorium echoed with it. Donna, sitting in the screening room, had her face in her hands. “It was awful, so awful.”

“I thought it was hilarious,” Isabel said, rubbing Donna’s back.

Chase sat with her mouth open. “No one ever mentioned any of this to me. In fact, it’s news to me.”

Addison appeared to be musing. “It was definitely enlightening. That Muffin Mucker could put a dent in teen pregnancy.”

“You are sworn to silence on this,” Chase said. “Your mom might not be too mad, but Stella would hang me upside down by my toes and make me eat oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal?” Addison said.

“Ever tried to eat something that thick and viscous while hanging upside down?” Chase said.

“Uh, no,” Addison said.

“I’ve seen it done and stuff comes out your nose. Regatta Vasquez ate an oatmeal cookie while hanging from the monkey bars, and it wasn’t pretty,” Chase said.

They all stared at her. “What?” Chase said.

“Let’s go see what’s happening in the war zone, shall we?” Donna said.

When they got to the stage, Dr. Robicheck and Lacey were speaking to some women who were smiling. Lacey gave them a thumbs-up motion. Chase took this to be a good sign. She lost Bud and Addison in the crowd of admirers. She watched as Bud’s head of curls moved along with people. She tried to be okay with this—Addison was with her. It wasn’t like someone would abduct her…

Chase suddenly imagined a group of paramilitary lesbians taking hold of Bud and holding her for ransom so they could gain control of the Institute. She took a few deep breaths and tried to feel normal, which, as usual, didn’t work. She never had mastered normal. Instead, she contemplated getting a GPS bracelet for Bud so she could be located anywhere. Oh, God, now she was really getting off track.

Lacey and Donna broke her train of paranoid thoughts. “We’ve got them to agree to meet with Dr. Robicheck in the library right now. Donna and I are going with,” Lacey said, beaming with enthusiasm.

Chase touched Donna’s arm before she followed Lacey. “How long do you think the effects of laughter last?”

Donna shrugged. “Not long enough.”

Chapter Sixteen—Double Jeopardy

“Chase, don’t you think you might be overextending yourself?” Gitana asked, looking around the writing studio.

“What do you mean?” Chase turned off the microphone but continued wrapping the refrigerator in floral pattern silver on white—standard issue wedding paper. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks had given her scads of wrapping paper remnants so she could practice her wrapping skills for the upcoming competition.

“Well, for starters you no longer have time to type your book; you dictate because you’re busy wrapping every conceivable thing in your office.”

Chase looked around. She had wrapped everything in her office. The couch had been the most difficult or was it the office chair, and the lamp hadn’t been a piece of cake by any means. She was thankful her muses weren’t there to reprimand her for thinking in clichés. She studied Gitana. Was it possible to wrap a person?

Gitana must have realized what she was doing. “Don’t even think about it and that includes the dogs.”

Chase sighed. Her mind began to churn as it contemplated first the tail, keeping it a separate piece would be best…

Gitana interrupted. “I think you need to give this a break. How is your book coming?”

“Pretty good. Wrapping seems to soothe my mind and gives my hands something to do and this new voice-activated program works great once you teach it to understand you. That’s the hardest part.”

“Teach it? Doesn’t it just record what you say?”

“Well, in theory,” Chase said, as she taped down the final seam on the fridge and then stuck an enormous silver bow on the freezer door. “Until it gets used to your voice, you have to teach it things. Like when you say ‘I can’t find it’ and it thinks you said, ‘It’s my hind end.’ Stuff like that.”

Gitana sniggered. “That has possibilities.”

“You should see what it does with the lesbian sex scenes. It took me forever to get it to understand that I said ‘clitoris,’ not ‘it tore us.’”

“You actually wrote the word ‘clitoris’?” Gitana asked, her face the picture of incredulity—a facial expression not noted on any of the Asberger cards.

“The publisher says I have to get more graphic. Eliza P. Newman told me, in no uncertain terms,” Chase glanced around for a muse to see if they heard her use the clichéd phrase, “that the new trends no longer accept ‘pink folds and nub’ as euphemisms. The writer has to say what the part is. You should see what the voice-activated program does with labia majora and minora.”

“But it sounds so clinical,” Gitana said.

“Believe me—now a sex scene reads like a human physiology textbook. I’m not liking it, but my options are limited, especially when I’ve got the Pink Mafia breathing down my neck.”

“I hope the muses aren’t around—that’s the second clichéd phrase you’ve used in this conversation.”

“I know. My protagonist in the mystery novel has an aunt who only talks in clichés, which is amusing in a book as a character trait, but I think it’s rubbing off on me.”

Bud came into the writing studio wearing oversized blue jeans and a white hoodie. She looked like a gangster rapper. She had her camera bag slung over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Is this your new look?” Chase asked.

“I’m trying to get into my role of hip, cutting edge, indie filmmaker. Is it working?” Bud said, yanking up her pants.

Chase winced. “I don’t know.”

“Ready for what?” Gitana asked. “It’s Saturday. I thought you wanted to go to a movie.”

“We have to do something more extreme first. You can wait in the car. We just need ten minutes.”

“I told Addison we’d pick her up, run by Urgent Care and then on to the movie,” Bud said.

“Great,” Chase said, shutting down the computer.

“I love what you’ve done with the décor,” Bud said.

“Why thank you,” Chase said. “I call it ‘Wondrous in White.’”

“Are you sure you want to see this movie?” Bud asked, patting Annie’s and Jane’s heads as they stared at the paper-covered furniture in apparent confusion.

“Of course, it’s all part of the plan,” Chase said.

“What plan?” Gitana said.

“The multiple risk-taking plan,” Chase said.

“Why are we going to Urgent Care?” Gitana said as they headed for the house. “Is Addison sick?”

“No, we’re going to intentionally expose ourselves to germs so we—I say we, because Addison, Bud and myself are all suffering from a certain phobia—so we’re facing it together.”

In the house, while Gitana gathered her bag, Chase prepared her and Bud’s cocktail. As it bubbled and gurgled, they studied it. “Maybe we should risk catching something,” Bud said, eyeing the milky, fizzing drink.

“We are still taking the risk, but hedging our bets.” Chase looked around, thinking that was her third cliché infraction and she had not heard a peep out of her muses. Or was it her fourth? What were they up to?

“We’re exposing ourselves, but with an amped-up immune system,” Bud said.

“Exactly.”

“Ick, what’s that?” Gitana said, coming back into the kitchen and pointing at the two glasses.

“Our protection,” Chase replied.

Chase plugged her nose and gulped down the drink. Bud frowned, pinched her nose and did the same. “See, it’s not that bad,” Chase said.

“No, it’s horrible,” Bud said.

“It smells awful,” Gitana said.

“It’s full of vitamins,” Chase said, rinsing out the glasses so the foamy stuff wouldn’t stick to them forever.

“We better get going,” Bud said, giving Chase the eye so Gitana couldn’t see.

“Right,” Chase said. The less Gitana knew of their plans the simpler it would be. Hopefully, she wouldn’t ask about the movie until it was too late to do anything about it. They could count on Gitana’s decorum. She’d never get up in the middle of a movie because she didn’t like it—that would be rude.

On the way down the road, Gitana said, “Is going to see a movie part of the risk-taking experience?”

Chase glanced in the rearview mirror at Bud.

“It’s more like taking a risk in that she is having a new experience. Chase hasn’t been to a movie theater since seeing The Mummy in 2000,” Bud said.

“Has it been that long?” Gitana said.

Chase nodded. “I checked out the prices. We’re going to be in for sticker shock.”

“I suppose. I’m still trying to wrap my head around not having been in a movie theater in eleven years. Why did we stop going?”

“I have a phobia about sitting in a dark public space with lots of other people I don’t know, and then there’s the finger juice issue,” Chase said.

Chase pulled onto the county road, thinking how nice it was to have the road paved. Her internal organs did feel better not being jostled every time she left the house. That was one of the qualities she loved about Bud—she was a fixer. It was a wonderful attribute, being able to recognize a problem and work toward a viable solution. Instead of complaining about something or ignoring it, Bud took a problem by the horns and wrestled it to a satisfactory conclusion. Was that five clichés or six?

“Finger juice?” Gitana asked with the look of someone who didn’t really want an answer.

“It’s the oil that comes off your fingers, like when a book has been read over and over and the pages have this film on them,” Bud said. “That’s finger juice, and it pretty much covers everything on the planet.”

“So what makes a movie theater any different?” Gitana asked.

“Butter,” Chase replied.

“Butter?” Gitana asked, turning to look at Bud.

Bud shrugged.

Chase pulled up in the drive at Addison’s house. Bud got out and went to the door. Chase was adamant about going to the door when picking up people. One did not sit in the drive and honk.

Gitana reached over and took Chase’s hand. “I am really proud of you for stretching your horizons.”

“Even if it’s in my own unique way?”

“I wouldn’t have you do it any other way.” She kissed her cheek and then stuck her tongue in Chase’s ear. “I like the new stuff in the bedroom too.”

“I didn’t realize we redecorated,” Chase said.

Gitana ran her hand up the inside of Chase’s thigh.

“Oh, that new stuff,” Chase said. She remembered how they got each other so worked up in the foreplay department that when they got to Phyllis it was like fire in her veins. She would have gone on had she not been interrupted.

Bud knocked on the driver’s side window. Chase rolled it down.

“We have a situation,” Bud said. She opened the back door and pulled her Panasonic TM900 3MOS camcorder out of her backpack.

“What’s wrong?” Chase said.

“You need to come in and talk to her.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” Chase said, hopping out of the car before Gitana could inquire further.

“What is it?” Chase said as they approached the house.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s starting to be a habit with you,” Chase said.

“I know, but to use a cliché, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

They both looked around. “I don’t know where Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor have gone,” Chase said. She was getting concerned. Had they taken a vacation and not told her?

“Writers’ retreat?” Bud suggested.

“I don’t think so. Muses aren’t group kind of entities.”

Addison was sitting on her bed, dressed in a biohazard suit.

“Can I film?” Bud asked.

Addison waved her begloved hand. “By all means. This might be funny one day.”

“Where’d you get that?” Chase was impressed.

“Online,” Addison said, taking off the helmet with attached facemask. Her face had red marks from the mask.

“It’s definitely a step up from the homemade one you used to have,” Chase said.

“The germs have gotten worse.  I felt that I needed to upgrade my equipment.”

Chase sat down next to her on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Addison said, removing her gloves.

“Why not?” Chase said.

Bud sat down on the bed after having set the camcorder on Addison’s dresser so that it faced them and could film the event. She took Addison’s hand.

“Germs and my fear of them are such a part of me that I don’t know that I can get past it.”

“Did you drink the immune booster?” Chase said.

“Yes.”

“The way I see is that we are taking a risk, but with a built-in safety device—it’s a managed risk. It’s not like we won’t wash our hands when we’re done,” Chase said.

“Actually, minimum exposure to germs is beneficial toward building a healthy immune system,” Bud said.

“We’ve been too clean?” Addison said, taking off the yellow bio suit jacket. She flapped the left sleeve, trying to get it off.

“Exactly, so not only are we overcoming a fear, but we’re improving our chances of surviving an epidemic by building antibodies,” Bud said.

“All right,” Addison said, standing up and almost landing face-first on the bed as she tripped getting out of the biohazard pants. She sat back down on the bed and finished removing them.

“It’s easier if you take your boots off first,” Bud said.

“Let’s do our chant,” Chase said after she helped pull off Addison’s boots.

They stood in a circle and clasped hands. In unison they said, “We are safe, sane and successful people.”

“Let’s go,” Chase said.

Once everyone was in the car, Gitana said, “Is everything all right?”

“Now it is,” Bud said.

Addison looked out the window. “I had a meltdown.”

“About going to Urgent Care?” Gitana said.

“I couldn’t get past my biohazard suit,” Addison said, her voice low.

Gitana reached back and patted Addison’s knee. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. How do I expect to travel? To live a normal life if I can’t get over finger juice and germ susceptibility.”

“You’re into the finger juice too?” Gitana asked.

“I’m okay with it if I don’t think about it because if I did think about it I wouldn’t leave my room,” Addison said.

Chase kept her eyes on the traffic light at Tramway. Gitana glared at her. Chase knew what it was about. “I didn’t do it. She came that way. I admit to coloring Bud’s opinion on the world. I will own that.”

“I have come to terms with my germ phobia,” Bud said.

“And that’s what I want to do,” Addison said. “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding my antibacterial gel and fearing a handshake and doorknobs, not to mention public restrooms.”

They all shivered at that one—even Gitana.

“Bud, how did you come to terms with your phobia?” Gitana asked.

Chase glanced at Bud in the rearview mirror. She was interested as well. If Bud the fixer could do it, Chase and Addison could find a way.

“Well, it’s a matter of perspective. Bacteria is part of us and the world and it does have a beneficial side and as I know I am covered with it and so is the world. I am one with the world, so I embrace my bacteria,” Bud said.

“That sounds like pseudo-science combined with religious overtones,” Chase said.

“Whatever it takes,” Gitana said, pinching Chase.

“I suppose,” Chase said. She did refrain from rolling her eyes—it seemed more like denial than a cure.

Chase pulled into the strip mall where Urgent Care was located next to a Mexican bakery and a taxidermist shop, in which two large stuffed black bears snuffled at a stuffed salmon. She parked and no one made any move to get out of the car.

It was Gitana who broke the silence. “You guys don’t have to do this.”

“We do,” Addison said, getting out of the car. Chase and Bud followed. Chase leaned in and kissed Gitana through the open car window. “If we don’t return, always remember my love for you,” Chase said.

Addison looked stricken. Another condition not noted on the Asberger cards.

“I’m kidding,” Chase said. “According to Dr. Robicheck, humor in times of stress is a good thing. It serves as a tension reducer as well as releasing dopamine into one’s system.”

“Ha ha,” Addison said sardonically.

“It’s going to be all right,” Bud said, taking her hand.

Without apparent trepidation, they strode through the sliding doors like Charlie’s Angels ready for their next assignment. They sat down in the waiting room, which contained twelve other people. Like the Last Supper, Chase thought. There were boxes of Kleenex and several plastic containers of antibacterial gel. Everyone in the waiting room looked sick—bags under the eyes, sniffling and coughing. One guy was red-faced and sweaty. Chase hoped he didn’t have malaria. A few of the women didn’t look sick. They apparently were the insistent caregivers who had driven the sick and dying to the Urgent Care.

“It’s a multiple of three,” Bud whispered.

“I’m taking that as a good sign,” Chase said.

They looked around for chairs. Chase wanted them to sit together if possible. The room had four rows of chairs that faced the reception area. Chase looked at Bud, who cocked her head toward the first bank of chairs near the front. A woman with a sick toddler, who was squirming and flinging his arms about, sat at the end of the row. The three of them took the chairs at the other end. Chase sat closest to the snot-flinging toddler—for about ten seconds.

“Bad spot, let’s move,” Chase said.

Addison stared at the baby in horror. “That child is a biohazard,” she said as they all watched the small boy wipe his nose with his hands and then wipe it on the back of the chair.

“Don’t look,” Bud said, taking Addison’s elbow and leading her to the second set of chairs.

They’d drawn attention to themselves by moving, but now Bud was sitting next to the sweaty guy who Chase was convinced had malaria or swine flu. He looked bad. She studied the floor plan. The bank of chairs by the wall seemed the safest. It was empty and had only four chairs with an end table stacked with magazines.

“I think we should sit over there,” Chase said. She cocked her head at the sick guy by Bud. Addison leaned over and studied her fingernails. She nodded. They moved again. It was like playing the cakewalk game or musical chairs. The receptionist stared at them but went back to her paperwork.

Chase noticed they were all sitting with their hands in their laps, not touching anything.

A woman sitting across from them, said, “I think you need to sign in at the front desk.” She sniffled.

They all leaned away from her.

“We don’t have an appointment. We’re just waiting,” Bud said.

“Waiting to catch an infectious disease,” Addison mumbled under her breath.

The nurse called the next patient. They sat. Chase felt reckless. She picked up a magazine. Bud and Addison looked at her in awe, then did the same. People started to take notice of them. Chase smiled and nodded.

“I think they’re wondering if we’re terrorists,” Addison whispered.

“Naw,” Chase said, flipping the magazine pages and ridding her mind of finger juice thoughts. She took a perfume sample and rubbed it on her shirt. People stopped wheezing and sniffling and stared at her.

The woman who had spoken to Chase got up. She went to the receptionist and whispered something. Both women stared at them. Chase caught the woman gesturing to the receptionist about them. Hmm…Chase thought, maybe it was time to leave.

“I think we’ve been outed,” Bud said.

“Let’s go,” Addison said, leaping up.

Before Chase could stow the magazine and stand up, a nurse opened the door to the exam rooms and stopped them. “Can I help you with something?” She eyed them.

“Uh, no, we were just looking,” Chase said, backing away.

“No one is ill or injured?” the nurse said.

“Not yet,” Addison said.

“Oh, look there’s Grandma in her walker,” Bud said, pointing out the sliding glass doors to an elderly woman coming out of the taxidermist carrying a stuffed orange tabby cat.

“We better go help her,” Addison said.

“Thanks for everything,” Chase said to the nurse.

They ran toward the elderly woman and then veered toward the car, hopping in like they were in a getaway.

“How’d it go?” Gitana said.

“Fine. The nurse caught on to us,” Chase said, lathering her hands and arms with antibacterial gel. Addison and Bud were doing the same thing. Bud scrubbed at her face and then pulled out Q-tips.

Chase looked alarmed.

“I know it’s gross, but nasal swabs are in order,” Bud said, handing out the swabs and a bottle of saline solution.

Addison and Chase both grimaced.

“Trust me. Just do it,” Bud said.

“One word—yuck,” Gitana said. “Can we go to the movie, now?”

“Yes,” Chase said. They’d conquered one fear, now onto the next adventure. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to Tramway and on to the movie theater.

“What movie are we going to see?” Gitana said.

Chase glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Addison and Bud both shaking their heads.

“Oh, it’s just this movie that has had some interesting reviews,” Chase said.

“It’s a cult classic,” Addison added.

“What’s the title?” Gitana said.

Chase pulled in the parking lot of the theater. “Gosh, I don’t remember, something about insects,” Chase said.

They went up to the ticket booth where Chase bought four tickets. She whispered, “Three adults and one child for The Human Centipede.”

“Three and one coming up for The Human Centipede,” the pimpled-faced boy said into the mike for everyone to hear.

“Did he say The Human Centipede?” Gitana inquired. She examined the movie poster.

Bud yanked on her hand and said, “Come on, we’re going to be late.” Bud pulled her along to the theater doors and past the concession stand.

“Don’t we get popcorn and Milk Duds?” Gitana said. “I mean, how can we not?”

“Addison and I will get the necessary provisions while you and Bud get seats. It’s probably going to be standing room only in there.”

Bud whisked her off.

“Whew, that was two close calls. First, Nurse Ratched and then the movie guy,” Chase said.

“I wonder what the previews to a movie like this will be?” Addison said.

They got four medium popcorns because, as Addison pointed out, they were about the same size of an airline barf bag and could be used as such if necessary. “The airlines must have done research about how much space a vomit will require in order to be contained.”

“You sound like Bud.”

“I know, right. I don’t know how I feel about it,” Addison said.

“I’m with you. What do you think about beverage size?”

“I would go with larges because soda will help with a sour stomach,” Addison said.

“Are we sure we want to do this?”

“If we can watch this we can get through any cultural experience, even a marketplace in a Third World country,” Chase said. They both shuddered.

The concession man handed them their order. In addition to Milk Duds they got York Peppermint Patties, for the breath issue in case anyone did toss their cookies. They went to the theater where the centipede awaited them.

Other movies in the multiplex theater had lines waiting to get into them. They were the only people in this theater. Chase handed Gitana and Bud their popcorn and drink.

“I thought you said this was a popular movie,” Gitana said.

“Maybe everyone is running late,” Chase said.

Gitana furrowed her brow but dug into her popcorn.

The previews were tame enough—alien spores, giant worms coming out of people’s brains, a shoot-em-up scene with a car crash, but when the movie started, Gitana whispered, “Are you sure you want to see this?”

Chase nodded. She ate her popcorn and stared at the screen as children were abducted and operated on by a seriously creepy man. All her fears—kidnap, surgery, gore rolled into one hideous movie.

When it got to the sewing together of body parts, Chase, Addison and Bud pulled their T-shirts over their heads. Gitana continued to eat her popcorn and then theirs. “It’s not that bad. It’s downright kitsch. I mean look how fake that is,” she said, thrusting a finger at the screen.

Chase knew she’d have nightmares for years if she watched any more, so she was forced into turtle mode. Bud and Addison had quickly mimicked her. She plugged her ears and tried to think of pleasant things—like a calendar of puppies, a funny British sitcom, clean sheets, the soft petals of a morning glory after it just opened and before the insects got to it. Her mind reeled—insects, centipedes, body parts. She had to start over. Calendars with pictures of kittens, the serenity of falling snow…

“Tell us when the gross stuff is over,” Bud said. “We can watch the thriller part.”

“That’ll count,” Addison said.

Chase didn’t come out for the thriller part. She stayed in her cocoon of nice thoughts or tried to except that Gitana kept poking her and saying, “You got to see this.”

When the movie was over, the three of them staggered out of the theater—shell-shocked. Gitana was fine. “Some parts of the movie were downright funny,” she said.

“I’m so glad that’s over with, and I don’t think I’ll be going to another movie for eleven years,” Chase said.

“No,” Gitana whined. “I like the movie theater. It’s like going to another planet for two hours,” she said. “But I’ll pick out the movies from now on.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have such a good visual memory,” Addison said.

“Bud, are you all right?” Chase said as they walked to the car.

“Why would someone write that and then make a film about it?” Bud said.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Chase said, and they all blanched, thinking back to the movie and the feeding part of the centipede. Except for Gitana, who pulled the Milk Duds out of her jacket pocket and popped two in her mouth.

“Anyone else?” Gitana said.

Silence and then a three-way, “No, thank you.”

Chapter Seventeen—It’s a Wrap

The Expo Center in downtown Albuquerque was filled with vendors of wrapping paraphernalia that Gitana found interesting as they passed through the maze. There were long tables lined up and filled with samples of wrapping papers, bows and ribbons, different kinds of boxes and packing supplies.

“Hey, look at this,” Gitana said, picking up a small implement that looked like it had been misplaced by a surgeon.

“That’s a paper cutter. It’s an enclosed razor and cuts perfectly straight lines,” the buxom woman dressed in purple chiffon explained to Gitana.

“Oh, that’s ingenious,” Gitana said.

“Half the battle in wrapping something well is getting the paper cut straight,” the woman continued. “Would you like to try it?”

“Okay,” Gitana said. She looked around for Chase, who was staring at the stage.

The stage was divided into two-sided cubicles, each with a table and a cart of wrapping supplies. The audience could watch the contestants, but the contestants couldn’t see each other. Chase and Bud had viewed all the websites, so none of this was a surprise. Still, seeing it up close and personal with all the chairs packed in the middle of the Expo Center and the people already waiting made Chase break out in a sweat.

Bud squeezed her hand. “You can do this,” Bud said. “Remember, you can wrap anything.”

“Just so long as it’s not a pony in the Eiffel Tower, right?” Chase said, scanning the crowd for Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks.

“Sure, but I bet you could,” Bud said.

Gitana caught up with them. “I had no idea this was such a big business,” she said.

Bud and Chase threw her a see-I-told-you-so look.

“I mean this is serious stuff and a lot of money is at stake,” Gitana said, looking around the Expo. “These people mean business. I thought the Orchid Show was a big deal. We just all walk around and look at the new products and talk smack. I had no idea there’d be so many people.”

Chase stopped and stood, catatonic, in the middle of the crowd.

“Look what you did,” Bud said.

“What?” Gitana said.

“You can’t talk about big things—big important things, big business things, with someone who suffers from performance anxiety. I don’t know if we’re going to get her through this now.” She snapped her fingers. Chase continued to stand erect, but her eyes were vacant.

Gitana said, “Oh, no. What are we going to do?”

“Stop saying the word ‘big’ for starters,” Bud said.

“Okay,” Gitana said. “I won’t say big. Oops, I won’t say that word.”

Bud nodded. “Or enormous, gigantic or humonguous.”

“What shall we do?” Gitana said.

“We need to shock her out of it with a pleasure or pain stimuli,” Bud said.

“I know. You step on her toe and I’ll stick my tongue in her ear,” Gitana said.

Bud made a face. “Your tongue in her ear?”

“It’s a grown-up thing,” Gitana said.

“I am well aware of erogenous zones.”

Gitana raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I can draw you a map.”

Gitana smiled. “Okay, ready.” She stood on tiptoe and stuck her tongue in Chase’s ear and Bud stomped on her toe.

Chase said, “Ouch and oh my…”

Gitana and Bud bumped knuckles in a show of solidarity and success.

“What happened?” Chase asked, wiping her ear out with the cuff of her dress shirt. She bent down and rubbed off the smudge Bud had left on her shoe. She’d dressed in her favorite sage-colored Gap oxford shirt and a pair of black jeans with matching black Converse sneakers.

“You had stress shell shock. Now, come on, I see Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks waving at us,” Bud said.

“Oh, my goodness, I am so excited and nervous. I’ve never been this close before. You’re going to win, I can feel it,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, leading them backstage.

Chase was pale and felt sick to her stomach. “Is my therapist here yet?”

“Yes, honey. She’s in the green room waiting for you.”

“There’s a green room?” Gitana said.

“Of course, this is a—” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks stopped. Bud slashed her finger across her throat, interrupting.

“It’s this way,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, leading them backstage.

Chase heard Bud whisper to her about the “performance anxiety issue.” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks nodded.

Dr. Robicheck looked the picture and essence of relaxation. Chase couldn’t decide if she was doing it so Chase could catch her vibe, or she was taunting her with the fact that she didn’t have to perform and Chase did. The green room smelled of sandalwood from the three candles burning on the table. There was a pot of tea and a bottle of lavender oil on the end table next to the couch.

“I thought we’d do some relaxation exercises and then some visualization,” Dr. Robicheck said. She pushed the remote that lowered the lights and hit the CD player. Enya’s soft music and soothing lyrics poured forth.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks touched Chase’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s going to be fun.”

Chase looked at her dubiously, thinking there wasn’t an Asberger card for that emotion either.

“I’ll let you get at it,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“Right,” Gitana said. “We should go too.”

“No, don’t go please,” Chase said, clutching at Gitana’s arm. She looked at Dr. Robicheck. “They can stay, can’t they? I need them.”

“Of course. It’ll be good if your support team is de-stressed as well. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, you’re welcome to stay as well,” Dr. Robicheck said, her voice soft and melodious like on one of those relaxation CDs.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks looked at her like she was some Cajun voodoo queen inviting her to a chicken dinner. “Uh, I can’t really. I’ve still got a lot to do, but I certainly appreciate your offer.” She made a hasty exit, bumping into the doorframe in her rush to be free.

“I think I scared her,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Gitana said, “It does look pretty New Wave in here.”

“This is a holistic approach to relaxation therapy,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“What do we do?” Bud said, pouring them all tea. “It’s red bush tea. That’s good. It doesn’t have any caffeine.” She handed Chase a cup.

Chase beamed at her. Bud was so capable. It made her proud.

“Yes, let’s start with the tea,” Dr. Robicheck said. She put some lavender oil in a small dish by Chase on the end table. “Dab some on your temples.”

Bud and Gitana dabbed some on their temples, and then Bud handed the dish to Chase, who did the same, feeling a little foolish and hoping the oil didn’t produce an unsightly pimple in the next five minutes before showtime.

Chase sipped the tea, and Dr. Robicheck said, in a melodious voice that was several octaves lower than her normal voice, “Breathe deeply, clearing your mind of all its concerns. Relax your body, beginning with your toes and working your way up.”

Gitana and Bud closed their eyes and relaxed. Chase tried to envision what relaxed toes looked like. Did toes harbor stress? Her neck hurt when she was stressed but never her toes.

“Next, I want you think about the contest.”

Oh, great, Chase thought, that’ll really relax me. Maybe her toes did feel stress. She swore her big toe was cramping. She shouldn’t think about body parts. Her brain might cramp up and she’d forget her wrapping skills.

“Now, keep taking deep breaths and relax your shoulders and neck. Chase, I want you to envision winning the contest. See yourself doing it—you’re declared the winner and everyone is clapping and the judges hand you the trophy.”

Chase tried, but the only visual that came to mind was sitting at the wrapping table and getting stage fright so bad that her hands shook and she couldn’t even hold the scissors still enough to cut the paper. She didn’t know how to make her mind envision victory. She wasn’t hard-wired like that. She thought she wrote like shit, and yet people liked her books. She constantly questioned her parenting skills, yet Bud was an exceptional child with good manners and a caring heart. Gitana loved her so she had to be a good partner, yet it, self-assurance, wasn’t part of her. Victory seemed unimaginable.

Dr. Robicheck sidled up to her on the couch. Bud and Gitana nestled in the comfy armchairs in a relaxed, slack-jawed stupor. “Chase, I just want you to remember you’re good at what you set your mind to—focus on that. This will be the day your new life starts.”

Chase didn’t want to wake Gitana and Bud from their deep relaxation by screaming at Dr. Robicheck. Did she really think that Chase would become her ultimate self by winning a fucking gift-wrapping competition? Had this New Age shit baked her therapist’s brain?

Dr. Robicheck sensed her unvoiced snub. “I’m serious, Chase. I know this is an odd way to realize your potential, but it is the crux of your confidence problem—if you can conquer your performance anxiety, it means you accept yourself.”

“This is crazy,” Chase whispered.

“No, it’s life. Now, drink your tea, rub your temples and visualize winning.”

Chase tried, until Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks swung open the door and turned on the lights.

“It’s showtime,” she said.

They all blinked at her like underground forest animals whose den had suddenly been exposed. She scrutinized them. “All better?”

Chase felt like saying, “We would’ve been if not for the reality jolt,” but she didn’t. For some unknown reason that Chase didn’t understand, she never said anything smart-ass to her gift-wrapping mentor. It was unfathomable—like kicking Santa Claus in the balls. You didn’t do it.

Chase glanced at Dr. Robicheck’s and Mrs. Meadowbrook-Park’s expectant faces. How could she let them down? Guilt was always a powerful motivator. Gitana’s mother, Jacinda, had taught her that. Jacinda was a devout Catholic, excepting for the gay thing, and she knew the power of guilt. Chase tapped into her inner guilt at letting people down and said, “I am unstoppable.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, putting her arm around Chase. “We can do it.”

“I will do my utmost. Thank you, Dr. Robicheck,” Chase said, not catching Gitana’s eye. She knew Gitana was studying her, and she would know that Chase wasn’t sold on any of this voodoo visualization shit. She had to learn to perform, and she would playact herself into first place—or give it the old college try—what was the line? One for the Zipper? Or was it the Gipper, whoever the fuck that was?

Bud took her hand and squeezed it. “I love you no matter what happens,” she said.

Gitana kissed her cheek.

Chase followed Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks to the contestants’ area like a prize pony at the state fair.

The second she walked in the room, Chase recognized her competition—a petite Asian woman with the fastest hands Chase had ever seen. They almost were a blur when she wrapped. There were other contenders, but Chase knew it would come down to the two of them.

They eyed each other as Chase went by. Chase noticed a small crease in one of the folds of the wrapping paper—an imperfection in Kim Lee’s work. It was a standard two by two gift box. Kim Lee was fast, but she wasn’t perfect. Chase was perfect…she hoped.

“Over here, Chase,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, indicating which cubicle was hers.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks rubbed Chase’s shoulders. Chase felt like Rocky Balboa.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said in a low voice, “I want you to think long term. You don’t have to ace every category. You just have to get enough points to get into the semifinals and then the final. It’s the wrapping finale where you will shine.”

The Master of Ceremonies tapped the mike and introduced herself as Mrs. Eleanor Valponne. “Tonight, we are making history. This is the arena where our wrapping gladiators will do battle.”

Mrs. Valponne was a Yankee—no doubt about it. Gloria had taught Chase about Yankees. People from Oklahoma had Southern manners and social mores. They found Yankees loud, bossy and aggressive. Mrs. Valponne with her tight velvet dress and piled high hair was all Yank. Gladiators, Chase thought, pish.

“There are four categories that are judged—appearance, speed, technical craft and creativity,” Mrs. Valponne said. “At the end of the first three rounds the contestants’ points will be tallied by the judges and the two highest scoring competitors will face off for the final round.” She glared at the audience. “You will refrain from clapping or any outbursts until the end of the round. Is that understood?”

The audience murmured their assent.

Kim Lee leaned back in her chair and caught Chase’s eye. They stared at each other. How did she know? Chase thought. Was there a smell that contenders had that only they could smell? Did Chase really care whether she won or not? Actually, she did. She was sick of having people think she was a performance wreck. So what if she had her therapist on the premises to deal with her anxiety? It didn’t mean she couldn’t handle it.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks whispered behind her, “The creativity part scores the most points and that is right up your alley.”

Chase nodded absentmindedly. She wondered where that clichéd phrase came from. Was it a bowling reference? Or did it refer to alleys as transportation devices to allow for waste disposal?

“First round is appearance,” Mrs. Valponne announced. “No bows and ribbons. In this round, we are checking for craft only. We will do a sixty-five-inch box and a ninety-five-inch box as well as a jewelry-size box. The three boxes will be scored separately and those points put toward each contestant’s overall point total which will determine the two finalists. I am setting the clock at nine minutes. Ladies, ready, set, go.”

Chase wrapped quickly but with care. She did the first box in two and a half minutes. The next two each took two minutes and forty-five seconds. She knew this because Mrs. Valponne called out the time in fifteen-second intervals. She had chosen simple wedding white paper with a lacy silver filigree. It was smooth but with just enough texture to wrap quickly and neatly. She would use the same for the next round.

Chase wiped her hands on a hand towel provided by Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, who was well aware of the detrimental effect of sweaty palms on wrapping paper. Chase thought of a bowling competition where men in tight polyester pants and striped shirts wiped their hands before picking up their bowling balls. The “right up your alley” phrase applied to bowling, Chase decided. She searched the audience for her family. Bud waved.

“Next is the speed competition. You will be timed start to finish. You will begin when I say go,” Mrs. Valponne said.

“For shit’s sake, we got that part already,” Chase muttered under her breath. She looked up to find one of the judges staring at her. She tried to pass off her smart-ass muttering as a prayer, “Hail Mary, full of grace...” Chase smiled. The judge smiled back.

“Go,” Mrs. Valponne called out.

Chase wrapped as if her life depended on it. She heard rustling from the other cubicles long after she finished and until time was called. Never had the sound of swishing paper brought her such delight. She did notice, however, that there was no rustling in her neighbor Kim Lee’s cubicle. She looked down at her perfectly wrapped wedding white packages. They were solid testimonies to her skill. She wouldn’t start worrying yet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the next event is about decorative technique—the craft part of our competition,” Mrs. Valponne said, pausing for emphasis. “This is where our wrapping gladiators get to show off their stuff. This is where the bells and whistles come in and I know,” she stared hard at the contestants as if commanding them to be stunning, “our contestants will give us their all and surprise and delight us.” She allowed for applause.

Chase wanted to roll her eyes really bad but was afraid one of the judges would see. Yankees were also showy, she thought. She could hardly wait to re-create this tableau for Gloria. They’d have a good laugh. Chase looked out at her family. Bud and Gitana waved madly. Stella gave her the thumbs-up sign, which about floored her. Stella using a common gesture was downright weird, but Chase waved back. Jacinda was fingering her rosary beads and muttering. If God was in the vicinity, Jacinda’s prayers couldn’t help but reach him.

“Are you ready? Get set and go,” Mrs. Valponne said.

Chase quickly wrapped the box and then went for what Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks referred to as the “Crosstown Stick-Up,” which was a combination of ribbon wrapped around the box and bows placed at one corner. Chase decided because of the available surface space remaining on the box to add the “Box Car Bow-Regard,” which was a succession of bows across the diagonal ribbon run. It was simple, yet tastefully interesting. Chase wondered what Kim Lee was up to in her cubicle.

“Time! We will allow the contestants to see each other’s works while the judges make their decisions,” Mrs. Valponne said, excitedly rubbing her hands together.

Chase casually strolled to the end of the lineup so not to appear too eager to see Kim Lee’s work. There was definitely some good stuff, most of it simple, but then three minutes didn’t give one a lot of time to work with the accoutrements. She came to Kim Lee’s package. She had decided on the ambitious three-tiered “Fountain of Fluff,” which was a series of string bows, one on top of the other in succession from large to small. It was good, Chase admitted, although on a ninety-six-inch box it got lost. Chase suspected that given more time the scale would have been much larger.

“Now, the contestants will be seated and the judges will examine the work and determine their totals,” Mrs. Valponne said.

Chase sat and scrutinized the judges—two women and one man. The women looked like judges of a gift-wrapping competition with their well-tailored tasteful paisley dresses—one in crimson and blue and the other in burnt orange and brown. Chase stared. Well, for fuck’s sake, they were identical twins. What were the chances of that? A better consideration would be, how did that affect their judging abilities? They had similar clothes and the same slightly dowdy football helmet hair Sallie Fields had had in Steel Magnolias. Would they be capable of making different decisions?

The man was odd as well. He was dressed like Agatha Christie’s Poirot minus the spats. He was gray at the temples of his combed-over hair. Examining the packages minutely side by side, he looked up, scowled at the contestant and made hash marks on his clipboard. When he came to Chase, he must have run out of scowls. He ran his finger along her creases and the corners of his mouth turned up a little. It could have been a grin. Chase hoped this was a good sign.

The judges finished their markups and resumed their seats. Mrs. Valponne got on the microphone.

“Now, I know how emotional moments like this can be. However, I will tolerate no scenes of tears, cries of disappointment or argumentative statements. We are professionals here and I expect decorum. Is that understood?” She whirled on the audience. “That goes for you too,” she pointed a finger at them. There was a visible drawing back of the crowd.

Damn, this woman was really a bitch. Chase knew she wouldn’t cry, but she felt like stepping on Mrs. Valponne’s toes for being such a mean person.

“I will read the names of the two final contestants. They will remain onstage until the others have left and then will be granted a half-hour break before the final competition begins.

There was absolute silence in the room as Mrs. Valponne opened the envelope one of the twin ladies handed her. “And the two finalists will be…” Mrs. Valponne made a big show of pulling the piece of paper out. “Kim Lee and…Chase Banter.”

The audience erupted in applause. Chase looked out to find her people and she saw with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it otherwise, her mother jumping up and down. Stella was jumping up and down like a contestant on The Price is Right. “Holy fucking shit,” Chase said.

“I knew you could do it!” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said as she squeezed Chase around the shoulders and ushered her back to the green room where everyone was waiting. They all clapped when she came in.

“Mija, I lit a candle for you,” Jacinda said.

“Thank you, Jacinda,” Chase said, giving her a hug.

“I could not find a Patron Saint for gift wrapping, but Saint Nicholas was blessed in gift giving, si?”

“Exactly.”

Stella patted her shoulder. “I thought you would cave. You surprised me,” she said, with evident pride.

“It’s the new me,” Chase replied.

Gitana hugged her and so did Bud. “I made a video on my phone for Addison. She was really disappointed she couldn’t come, but her debate team was scheduled for an out-of-town meet. They wouldn’t let me film,” Bud said, cocking her head in the direction of Mrs. Valponne.

“Commie bastards,” Chase said. “But they let you use your phone?”

Bud smiled. “Not exactly. Cameras and phones were also forbidden.”

“Then how?”

Bud pulled out a teddy bear. “I had to belittle myself and pretend to be a toddler. I modified the bear so that his eyeball is really a camera lens. I wish I could have fit the movie camera, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”

“Something about rights to reproduce,” Stella said and rolled her eyes.

Dr. Robicheck smiled at her sardonically—another facial gesture not covered by the Asberger cards. She was leaning back in a chair with her legs crossed and looking a bit like the Cheshire cat, Chase thought.

“What?” Chase said.

“Impressive. You’ve learned to be a competitor who has conquered performance anxiety because you want to win.” She looked at Chase as if to say, “My work here is done.”

“I still think I’m a work in progress,” Chase said, getting antsy at the prospect of losing her therapist.

“Oh, you shouldn’t worry. I’ve got a lot of work to do at the Institute. In fact, I will be having office hours on site for a while. Lacey has it all set up.”

“Do I get a referral fee?” Chase asked.

Dr. Robicheck chuckled. A chuckling therapist seemed as incongruous as her mother giving her the thumbs-up sign and jumping around. Would wonders never cease? She blanched—another cliché. She had to deprogram herself when she finished her mystery novel. In the future, she would consider her characters’ proclivities with care, lest they prove contagious and affect their creator. She wondered if the cliché monster wasn’t some kind of voodoo placed on her by Divine Vulva—that seemed right up her alley. Oh, my god, Chase thought. There it is again.

“Chase?” Gitana said, breaking in. “Do you want a bottle of water or some Gatorade?”

“Sure,” Chase said, still feeling rattled.

Dr. Robicheck and Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks glanced at each other, worried. Chase caught it. “I’m fine. I didn’t come this far to crumple at the end. Kim Lee is going to get her money’s worth, don’t you worry.” She ignored the cliché monster. Clichés could be construed as verbal sign language—a quick way to get your point across. Besides, it seemed Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor had forsaken her. She could cliché all she wanted. She took the bottle of Gatorade and the bottle of water from Gitana.

“You didn’t specify so I decided some of each would be best in order to keep your electrolytes balanced,” Gitana said.

Damn, they were all starting to sound like Bud, Chase thought. She gulped half of each bottle.

“Let’s do a final manifestation. With the power of our combined energy, we manifest what it will look like when Chase wins,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“This is like a prayer circle—very powerful,” Jacinda said. “There is this woman at church, Veronica de Santos, who writes in the prayer book what she thinks people need most, and she prays over it and the help she prays for always comes, always except for the Cadillac. She prays one day Oprah will bring it.”

Chase wondered if this wasn’t more voodoo shit, but doubting the power of the Universe right now was not a good idea. She closed her eyes and gripped Gitana’s and Bud’s hands.

“I want you to envision the stage, the wrapping paper, the audience—set the scene in your mind,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chase did this and then she saw the pony and the Eiffel Tower. She knew what the final competition would be. A better question would be, how had Bud known?

“Now, imagine Chase wrapping her magnum opus and the judges giving her all the points. See the audience clapping,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chase broke in and questioned Bud, “How did you know about the pony and the Eiffel Tower?”

“It’s a mini horse actually,” Bud said.

The group opened their collective eyes and stared at Chase and Bud.

“What are you talking about?” Gitana said.

“Or you can pick the Smart Car wrapped in the Statue of Liberty, seeing as you won the coin toss. Personally, I’d go for the mini horse since you know how to wrap a dog, which has a skeletal system similar to a horse, including the tail aspect,” Bud said.

“How do you know that?” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“It’s on the website. Well, not exactly what the final wrapping will be, but I was standing by Kim Lee’s wrapping coach when she asked,” Bud said. “On the website they have archives and the last event is always something inside of something. Last year it was an ATV inside the Taj Mahal. They always pick a landmark.”

“Did you know this?” Chase said.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks didn’t meet her eye. “Chase, I’ve never had anyone who wrapped well enough to compete.”

“Are you telling me we’re both newbies?” Chase said, her voice getting high and squeaky.

“Chase, relax. If anything, this is a good thing. If Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks had been aware of this, she would have emanated bad vibes, which you are very in tune with,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Chase wondered if having a New Age therapist instead of an old-school Freudian was such a good idea. Of course, a Freudian wouldn’t be as versatile as Dr. Robicheck, and with a Freudian there was always a lot of hair involved—hairy face, hairy neck and most likely hairy knuckles and she’d have to talk about her mother’s hair a lot. Perhaps Dr. Robicheck was a better choice despite the manifestation, vibe and hand-holding things.

“I told you not to practice on the dogs by wrapping them,” Gitana said.

“I don’t think now is a good time for scolding,” Bud said. “Besides, it’ll come in handy.”

“They didn’t mind really,” Chase said.

“We rolled it all up into a ball when we were done, and they played soccer with it,” Bud added.

“This could truly be a boon,” Stella said. She was scrolling madly on her phone.

“What?” Chase asked.

“Wrapping the animal—within reason, of course. We don’t want PETA coming down on us,” Stella said. “It appears from the website that the animal, whether it be puppy, bunny, horse—by the way this is a first for the horse, you might make history—has never been wrapped, only the outside box. If you could manage to wrap the horse…now that would be something,” Stella said, crossing her long legs.

“Oh, and creating the Eiffel Tower out of God-knows-what is just a cakewalk?” Chase said, her voice getting high and squeaky again.

Bud rummaged around in her backpack and pulled out a sketchbook. “I don’t think this is cheating, rather more like advanced planning,” she said as she thumbed through the book until she found what she was looking for.

“What’s that?” Chase said, leaning over her shoulder.

“I’ve done preliminary sketches of most of the landmarks that are possible to use in a wrapping competition—I don’t care how good you are, no one can create Mount Rushmore in two hours. I designed the pieces using the materials I thought for sure would be available.” She handed the book over to Chase.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks stared at Bud. Stella patted her arm. “Bud is a genius, literally.”

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks nodded and then studied the sketchbook with Chase.

“Is this stuff available? Can I do this?” Chase inquired.

“Yes, you can. We’ll collect all the discarded tubes from the wrapping paper and the cardboard boxes which you can break down to provide the inside armature. This really is a good design, Bud. I’m impressed,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“But where does the horse fit?” Chase said, studying the design.

“Right here,” Bud said, pointing. “On the real Eiffel Tower this would be the elevator shaft. The horse is only about four feet tall.”

“Only four feet tall?” Chase said sardonically.

“The dogs are twenty-two inches tall,” Bud said. “So essentially you’ve already wrapped half a horse.”

“Somehow I don’t find that as comforting as I should,” Chase said.

“I brought the Holy Water,” Jacinda said, pulling the spray bottle from her purse.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks stared at Jacinda. Chase wondered what her retinue looked like to an outsider. A Hispanic woman dressed like a Peruvian, all skirts and colors; a cosmopolitan woman straight out of Town and Country magazine; a genius child; and Gitana, whose only real oddity was loving Chase. Okay, well it didn’t look all that bad, she decided. Oh, and then there was her therapist. Okay, that was weird.

The buzzer rang outside, indicating to the audience and the last two contestants that the games were about to begin again.

“Let’s do it,” Chase said, her arms outstretched. Jacinda doused her with Holy Water and Chase crossed herself.

Bud crossed herself three times. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks looked at a loss, like she couldn’t decide on grace or prostration. She sort of genuflected and touched her forehead.

“Well, we best take our seats. Chase, you know what to do,” Stella said.

Chase felt uncertain. “Let me see that diagram again.”

“You have a photographic memory. It’s all in your head,” Bud said.

“You’re right. I’m ready.” She put her shoulders back and nodded as if to say to the Universe, “Bring on what you may, I am a child of fortune and today is my day.”

Onstage, two large cubicles were set up—one for each contestant. A wrapping cart of supplies and a square clock, the kind Chase had seen chess players use, were set up. Boxes of all sizes, cardboard tubes and rolls of wrapping paper were set up in racks. It looked like the inside of Santa’s gift-wrapping center: all precision and organization and ready for an army of elves to march in and tackle the mammoth task of gift-wrapping Christmas.

Mrs. Valponne instructed them to stand next to her onstage. “We’re going to open the curtain, and you’re to smile, wave at the audience and go backstage and await further instructions. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Chase said.

Kim Lee nodded, with that stoic Eastern I-have-this-all-under-control attitude she had.

The curtain opened, and Chase stared out at the audience, thinking about them in their underwear as all those self-help books suggested you should do when forced to perform in front of a crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to begin the final round of the competition. The contestants will have two and a half hours to complete their task. I ask that you remain quiet during this period. Judging will be announced in time for everyone to resume their seats. Now, let’s give our contestants a big round of applause.”

The curtain closed, and Mrs. Valponne stared hard at them. “Ms. Banter, you won the coin toss so you get first choice of assignments. As you both are most likely aware each year we choose a landmark that serves as the outside armature for the gift inside. This year we have chosen the Eiffel Tower with mini horse or the Statue of Liberty with a Smart Car. Ms. Banter, your choice will be?”

“The Eiffel Tower,” Chase said. She watched to see how Kim Lee was going to take it. Once again Kim Lee’s face was inscrutable.

“All right then, ladies, let the games begin,” Mrs. Valponne said.

Chase went to her work space and scrutinized her supplies. She rolled out two gigantic rolls of shiny brown wrapping paper like she was unrolling the red carpet at the Golden Globes. Next, she duct-taped cardboard tubes together and envisioned a child’s erector set. She would build the Eiffel Tower using the tubes as the armature—four legs, cross beams, and tiered layers, supporting cardboard platforms that would help with the bracing. Then, she’d wrap it in the shiny brown paper, making a perfect cardboard replica. As the levels came together, Chase thought, I am fucking doing this. She faced Kim Lee’s cordoned off cubical and said, “Bring it,” gesturing palms up and pulling her fingers back and forth.

She looked at the clock. She had fifty-five minutes left to wrap the horse. Having decided that the tower was finished, she glanced over at the mini horse. Chase didn’t know shit about horses. She approached her slowly—one thing she did know was they spooked easily—but this little horse looked up at Chase with sweet brown eyes filled with utter trust. Chase petted her forehead, and the horse nuzzled her.

Chase decided to be upfront with the horse. If she were a horse about to be gift wrapped, she’d want to know what was going on. It was only common courtesy. “Winnie, I’m going to wrap you up all pretty and then put you in that box over there just for ten minutes and then you get to have an apple and lots of petting. How does that sound?”

She watched for Winnie’s response. The horse seemed nonplussed.

“Okay,” Chase said. She wheeled over the trolley that contained her wrapping supplies and studied the horse. “Let’s start with your tail.”

Chase proceeded to make tubes of wrapping paper that covered Winnie’s tail, legs and neck. She resembled the Tin Man. “So far so good,” she said.

Chase cooed words of encouragement as she took a tape measure and looped it around Winnie’s belly. She taped together a strip long enough and wide enough to cover the horse’s mid-section. Winnie looked like the Tin Man’s horse.

“Now, let’s hope you’re not claustrophobic.” Chase imagined Winnie freaking and bursting out of the Eiffel Tower and destroying everything. Not that Chase would hold it against her. It was perfectly understandable. If she were a horse she might do the same thing.

It occurred to Chase that Winnie rode in a horse trailer. The Eiffel Tower box was not so different. She cut slats in the side of the box so Winnie could see out. “There, that should work,” Chase told the horse.

There were ten minutes left. “Okay, Winnie, what do you say we try the box?” Chase stroked Winnie and looked into her big brown eyes. “If you do this for me I will be eternally grateful.”

Winnie nuzzled her, and Chase handed her the apple slice that her handler had given them to use as a reward for good behavior. Winnie eagerly took it. “Okay, so we’re going to walk into this box, I mean trailer, and go for a little imaginary ride.” Chase took her bridle and led her to the box in the center of the Eiffel Tower. The horse seemed to know exactly what to do. Winnie walked right in and stood like she was ready to go. And then she shit.

Chase froze. Shit, horse shit! What the fuck was she going to do?

This was not a What Would Jesus Do? moment, but Chase called on him anyway. She looked down at the pile of shit. At least it was in neat clumps. Chase grabbed a cardboard tube. She poked the pile of shit. It wasn’t gooey like dog shit. Pooper scooper, that’s what she needed. She frantically looked around. A cardboard box, a piece of cardboard and she could scoop it up. She scooped, looking up periodically to make sure Winnie didn’t drop another load. The shit was in the box. But what the hell was she going to do with it now? She decided she’d do what she did best. She wrapped it, stuck a bow on top and set it next to the other boxes. She pulled out her antibacterial gel and cleaned up.

The big buzzer rang. “Well, here it is, the moment we’ve been waiting for,” Mrs. Valponne said from the front of the curtain.

Chase wasn’t so sure. She tried the audience-in-underwear thing again, but then got distracted by types of underwear—thongs, tighty-whities, grandma panties and holiday briefs. The curtain opened and there was a collective gasp from the audience. Oh, God, Chase thought. Kim Lee’s was going to be so much better and everyone was going to snicker at her banal attempt at a magnum opus. How could she possibly think she would pull this off?

The audience applauded. Mrs. Valponne allowed a few minutes of adoration. She called for quiet. The audience obeyed.

The judges stood with their clipboards ready. The crew removed the partition so the contenders could see each other’s works. They studied each other.

Okay, Kim Lee’s was good—damn good. The Statue of Liberty was definitely a Cubist rendition—Picasso would have been proud. It was an ingenious use of cardboard. Chase would give her that. Then she’d wrapped the cardboard with a patina-tinted wrapping paper.

Chase wondered if the Smart Car was wrapped inside. Kim Lee opened the front of the Statue of Liberty and her coach drove the car out. It wasn’t wrapped. It had an oversized bow on the roof, though, and both bumpers had ribbons wound around them and the mirrors had pom-poms. It was really rather ingenious, Chase thought. She looked over at Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks as she watched the judges tally up the points. Kim Lee came in at nine points out of ten.

Fuck, Chase thought. She’d have to get a perfect ten to beat her. What were the chances of that? Wrapped horse or no.

Stella stood up and started a standing ovation. Her mother was a traitor. Chase scowled at her. Then the judges came around to Chase. They milled around her magnum opus with their clipboards, and Chase wished she could vaporize and find the portal back to her house where it was safe and noncompetitive. What had she been thinking to assume that the new Fearless Chase stood a chance in the world at large? One of the paisley twins indicated for her to open the doors to reveal the present inside. Chase opened the doors, patted Winnie on the forehead and led her out.

The horse was a natural. She pranced out as if showing herself off. It was like she was trained for dressage. There was another collective gasp, which Chase hoped wasn’t dismay, from the crowd. The judges carefully examined the horse. Winnie was a performer. She pranced. She lifted her tail. Chase watched with trepidation. She’d built slack into the wrapping so Winnie could move about but not so much that the horse could do the can-can. Winnie must have sensed Chase’s concern. She came up beside her and nuzzled Chase.

The paisley twins clasped their hands and smiled. They were animal lovers. That was a good sign, Chase thought. The Poirot-looking guy walked around the horse and minutely studied her design. He gave her a curt nod.

“Inventive,” he said.

They went back to their table, conferred and then each one put up their card. It seemed the whole auditorium held its breath. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks held Chase’s hand, something Chase normally would not have allowed, being squeamish about physical contact, but the circumstances warranted it.

She got the ten points. She was the winner! Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks picked her up and swung her around. The auditorium exploded with applause, and Chase saw the sardonic grin on her mother’s face, like Stella knew all along that Chase would win. She’d done the standing ovation thing as a consolation prize for Kim Lee.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Golden Gift-Wrapping Award goes to Chase Banter,” Mrs. Valponne said. She indicated that Chase should come forward. Poirot handed her the gold box and shook her hand.

“You’re very talented, Ms. Banter, and I commend you,” Poirot said.

“Thank you. This means a lot to me,” Chase said, and she meant it.

She and Winnie and Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks were surrounded by her family. Bud jumped up and down and squealed. “You did it! You did it!”

Chase laughed. She would give Bud a good ribbing over this jump-squeal moment. It was so not her. Of course, Bud’s design prep had been instrumental. Maybe she wouldn’t tease her about behaving like an overexcited six-year-old.

“Well done, now we can have the party,” Stella said, dialing her cell phone.

“What party?” Chase said. She’d been adamant about having only a few people know about her wrapping gig. She wanted to get over her performance anxiety in a private way, which was, of course, antithetical to her cause, but Dr. Robicheck had told her that psychological incrementalism was a better method than plate tectonics when it came to modifying behavior.

“Your victory party,” Stella said.

“I made tamales and Frito pie,” Jacinda said.

“Everyone is waiting at Stella’s house, and you’re invited too, Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks,” Bud said, handing her the MapQuest directions that she had fished from her backpack.

“Wait just a minute, you all planned a victory party?” Chase said.

Gitana avoided her gaze.

“What if I hadn’t won?” Chase said.

“Then we would have a celebration party for giving it your all and overcoming your fear. It’s a win-win,” Bud said. She hugged Chase’s thigh. “But I am glad you won. It’s so much more fun. We invited everyone. Donna and Isabel are at the house setting it all up with banners and balloons and a big cake.”

“I’m glad I won, or it would have been a big to-do for a not winning,” Chase said.

“Exactly,” Bud said, stroking the gold trophy, which was shaped like a wrapped box. She would add it to her wall of Chase’s accomplishments.

“Are you going to put it next to my Golden Vulva plaque and the Labia Majora statue for my book award?” Chase said.

“You know me so well it’s scary,” Bud said. “But I thought I’d put it between them so it appears that the gold-plated gift box is a metaphor for unwrapping one’s true self—free of fear.”

“What does that have to do with plaques that have vaginal parts on them?” Chase asked.

“A better question would be why do you have awards with that on them? I want to put the gold box there to distract the viewer,” Bud replied.

“I know, right. This trophy makes sense at least,” Chase said, looking down at it and feeling truly proud.

“Now, let’s go party,” Bud said.

Chapter Eighteen—The Marriage

“Where the hell have you two been?” Chase said. She was in the writing studio dusting her trophies.

Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor were holding hands and bumping each other’s hips. “You tell her,” Divine Vulva said.

“No, you do it,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Really?” Divine Vulva said.

“Will someone just fucking tell me?” Chase said, shaking her feather duster at them.

Divine Vulva pointed a finger at Chase. “You have a filthy potty mouth.” She looked at Commercial Endeavor. “I hadn’t noticed her dirty mouth before. Has she always been like that?”

Commercial Endeavor nodded and shot Chase an apologetic look.

“You should fucking talk,” Chase said, pointing at Divine Vulva.

“Tsk, tsk,” Divine Vulva clucked, putting her hand on her hip and waggling a finger in a gesture of shame-on-you.

“Tell me where you’ve been. The suspense is killing me,” Chase said sarcastically.

“Well, since you put it that way, all right. We went to Buffalo,” Divine Vulva said.

“Buffalo? As in New York? Why?”

Divine Vulva stuck out her left hand and smiled coyly. Chase scrutinized her hand. “What’s wrong with it? It looks fine to me.”

“We got married, you stupid fuck,” Divine Vulva said.

“Vulva!” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Oh, sorry, honey.” Divine Vulva gave her a penitent look.

“Why Buffalo?” Chase said.

“New York State now recognizes gay marriage. We wanted to partake in the newness of ceremony,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Did you have her sign a prenup?” Chase asked Commercial Endeavor.

“What?” Divine Vulva said.

“She makes a lot more money than you do,” Chase said.

“I realize that,” Commercial Endeavor said.

“Our union is one of the soul, not of the God Mammon,” Divine Vulva said.

“Don’t get a joint checking account,” Chase said. “But congratulations and I desperately hope this works out because it’s a little late in the game for me to be finding new muses.”

Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor both winced.

Chase was secretly ecstatic they were back, but she didn’t want them to know that.

“Now, I hope you’re both well-rested because I’d like to get back to work, and we’ve got a deadline. So let’s chop-chop.” It was a good thing the gift-wrapping gig had come along or Chase would’ve been a basket case worrying about them and how their absence would affect her writing career.

The three of them got back to work. Chase was deep in concentration, thinking about Act Three of her mystery novel. Her publisher, Eliza P. Newman, divided books into three acts—the first act was “climb the tree,” Act Two was “shake the tree,” and Act Three was “getting out of the tree.” Commercial Endeavor was going over the plot outline. It was Divine Vulva’s job to come up with the last of the red herrings. Her brow was furrowed with the effort, and she was scribbling on a yellow legal pad. It wasn’t easy to get Divine Vulva to work, but when she worked she worked.

Chase saw movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see Lacey standing with her forehead pressed against the glass pane of the door. And if this wasn’t disconcerting enough, she used her head to knock. Chase leapt up and unlocked the door before Lacey gave herself a concussion or shattered the glass.

“What’s wrong?” Chase asked. Lacey trudged past her and dove onto the couch face-first, bursting into tears. Evidently something was really wrong. “Did someone die? Is Jasmine all right? She didn’t break up with you?”

That question sent Lacey howling. “No, thank the Goddess, but I need her so much and she’s gone,” she blubbered, snuffling and rubbing her eyes.

“She’s on a book tour, and you insisted she go, and she is under contract to do so,” Chase pointed out.

The wailing continued. “Shit,” Chase said. She rummaged around for a box of tissues in the bathroom. She found an unopened box under the vanity.

She handed the box to Lacey. She sat up, took a tissue and blew her nose. “Fank you,” she said with a stuffed nose.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Robicheck?”

This started a fresh torrent of tears.

“Or not.”

“No, she did her best. It can’t be fixed. They can’t behave or bond. It’s hopeless.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Chase asked.

“The fucking lesbians, that’s who. Chase, it was a mass exodus and all over a seminar in comedy. I thought it would help. Bud’s film and Dr. Robicheck’s session worked wonders for a while, and then I don’t know what happened. We all seemed fine, I thought. I had Chino and Dixon check things out and the thermometer seemed to read high.”

“Thermometer?”

“We call it the Cultural Thermometer—it’s the way I measure how the general population is feeling about the way things are being run at the Institute. You should check it out some time. It’s a marvel of charting—takes up one whole panel in the boardroom.”

“How come I haven’t seen it?”

“It’s a secret.” She dabbed at her eyes and brushed her hair back from her face.

“You know your clandestine world is gonna bite you in the ass one of these days,” Chase said. She heard Divine Vulva sigh heavily. Ah, life was back to normal—her muse was disgusted with her banal use of language.

“Do you think I should fire Dixon and Chino?” Lacey asked, shredding the snot-filled Kleenex.

Chase put the wastebasket beside her. She didn’t want any biohazard material on her floor. She thought about the question. She didn’t like Lacey’s henchmen, but they did what they were told. “They’re not my favorites, but you are the one in charge. Maybe they’d behave better if you didn’t instruct them to behave in a totalitarian way.”

Lacey considered this. “I suppose some of their actions are my fault.”

Chase pulled out her desk calendar and made a notation.

“What are you doing?”

“Marking this day on my Calendar of Unlikely Events.”

“What’s so special about today—other than my nervous breakdown?”

“You admitted to being wrong. That doesn’t happen a lot. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever happened.”

“Am I really that bad?” She finished shredding the Kleenex and set the waste basket aside.

“Uh, let me think about that—yes.”

“Smart ass. Come sit next to me. I need some moral support.”

Chase obliged. “Do you want to talk about what induced the exodus or do you want to hear the plan Bud came up with for the new Institute?”

“I don’t think even Bud could save the Institute. No one, it appears, wants to be saved,” Lacey said.

“Tell me what happened,” Chase said. The sun hit the gold box trophy through the windowpane. Chase gazed at it. Damn, that was a good moment. She still felt the glow of success.

Divine Vulva poked Chase in the ribs and whispered, “Do try and pay attention. This is a pivotal moment in lesbian history and it might prove instructive.”

“Because?” Chase inquired, eyebrows raised.

“It’s a failed lesbian experiment,” Divine Vulva said.

“And we need those…because?”

“It shows our fallibility as a people.”

“And that’s good…because?”

“It means we are stretching our boundaries and growing.”

“And we got a really good library out of the deal,” Commercial Endeavor piped in.

“Chase, are you paying attention?” Lacey said, getting up and pacing. “I mean, if I am going display my failure as a leader and a person, I would really appreciate your full attention.” She glared.

“All right. Tell away,” Chase said, fixing a look of concentration on her face.

“Well, it started as a comedy seminar. I hired this local lesbian comedian. She does club gigs, and I’d heard good things about her. So I figured all the laughing had helped before and that keeping the momentum going would help, and it was all going so well until the joke.”

“What was wrong with the joke?”

“It was off-color.” Lacey sat back down and pulled out a Kleenex in anticipation of a crying jag.

“It was about black, Hispanic, Asian or Native American people?”

“No, not that kind of color. It was a nether regions joke.” Lacey sighed and put her head in her hands.

“You mean a vaginal joke? What the fuck is that?”

“Just listen. Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden…”

“A vaginally religious joke?” Chase said.

Lacey rolled her eyes and continued, “And Eve decided to take a bath, so she went to the river and was washing her hoo-hoo…”

“Hoo-hoo? You call it a hoo-hoo? Come on, you can say vagina.”

Lacey winced.

“What? You don’t like the word ‘vagina’? What’s wrong with it?”

“You have changed,” Lacey said. “You always use euphemisms. You’re the one that gets squeamish writing love scenes.”

“The new me does not hide behind language. She embraces it.”

Lacey glanced at her dubiously. “Yeah, next, you’ll be skydiving.”

Chase looked at her and then smiled.

“You wouldn’t,” Lacey said, alarmed.

“I might. I’ve been challenged.”

“Winning a gold box award and skydiving are two entirely different things.”

“Are they? They both address performance anxiety issues. And it’s not a gold box award—it is the much coveted gift trophy for the Tenth Annual Gift-Wrapping Regional Competition.”

“Are you going to let me finish my story or not?”

“You’ll have to start at the beginning. I’ve forgotten everything but the dirty vagina.”

“Well, the exodus began when...”

“No, I remember that. Start with the joke.”

“Adam and Eve are in the Garden of Eden,” Lacey blurted. “Eve decided to take a bath in the river. She was splashing water on her hoo-hoo, a.k.a. her vagina, when the heavens opened and God’s voice boomed down, ‘Damnit! Now, I’ll never get the smell off those fish.’”

Chase grimaced.

“Well?” Lacey said. “It’s awful. Go ahead and say it.”

Instead of answering, Chase turned over a poster board that was pinned up on her oversized bulletin board. “Let’s talk about this instead,” she said, dragging Lacey and the poster board over to the couch. She set the presentation piece on the coffee table in front of them.

Lacey didn’t look at it. “Why won’t you tell me the joke was bad and that’s why people are leaving the Institute?”

“Because it’s pointless. The people in your Institute are not fun. In the past, countries that did not have fun people in them have really sucked. You can’t make the lesbians at the Institute happy, relaxed, motivated and funny. Some people are simply not capable of those things. You’ve inadvertently created a world full of them. I think, if you want to help them, you should see about buying an island or a self-contained post-Soviet country where the non-funny lesbians could live—call it Uptightovenia,” Chase said. “Or Stuckupthebuttovia or Needtogetlaidovia.” Chase chuckled.

Lacey laughed. She put her arm around Chase’s shoulders. “It was a bad plan from the get-go and you tried to tell me.”

“I did warn you.”

“So what am I going to do with this big empty building in the middle of nowhere?”

“Turn it into an IKEA.”

“Hmm…” Lacey said, appearing to mull over the idea.

“We don’t have the demographics for that, but look at this,” Chase said, pointing at the board sitting on the coffee table. It was covered in photographs, diagrams and profit margins.

“What is it?”

“First off, I can’t claim credit for it. My part is to sell you on the idea. Addison and Bud came up with the plan and they put this together. Now don’t say no before thinking, really thinking, it over. Okay?”

“Agreed. Tell me about it.”

“Think Club Med, only we’ll call it Panocha Alta,” Chase said.

It took Lacey a minute to process that, and then she slugged Chase in the arm. “Sorry I couldn’t help myself,” Chase said. “I don’t know what to call it…”

“Desert Dykes,” Lacey said, appearing to catch the spirit of the thing. “It’s better than Spanish for ‘Tall Vaginas,’ which is linguistically biased against non-Spanish-speaking lesbians.”

Chase took this as a good sign. Lacey seemed more like her old self—enthusiatic and politically correct. Divine Vulva winked at her and nodded.

“No, that sounds like a bad lesbian film. How about Vulva Ventures? We could have this double ‘V’ intersecting logo thing,” Chase suggested, not meaning a word of it. She had learned over the years to go way out there with Lacey because like a pendulum she’d come halfway back to normalcy.

“I like it,” Lacey said, studying the photos.

“No, I think we could come up with something else that’s catchy but corporately minded. Vulva Ventures sounds like Rosie O’Donnell selling jeep rides into the wilds of Labia Majora.”

“That’s why I like it. It has the affirming message that this place is about and for women.”

“There you go with that save-the-world crap again. This is Vacation Land, not Affirmation Central,” Chase said, jabbing a finger at the photo of a bunch of women sitting around a sparkling blue pool drinking margaritas.

“We’ll need a pool and several Jacuzzis,” Lacey said, studying the photo closely. “And a liquor license.”

“Which can all be written off. You will lose your nonprofit status, but with the increase in fees, not to mention the bar tabs, you’ll make money,” Chase said, amazed at her own business acumen. “I think we should study the business model of the Dinah Shore Weekend and Olivia Cruise lines.”

“You do realize that this is the kind of superficial, sex-riddled attitude that you despise,” Lacey said.

“I don’t have to see it. Besides, as you pointed out, what are you going to do with an enormous building out in the middle of nowhere? You might want to hire some horses too. The dudette-ranch thing would work well with the New Mexican theme.”

“So, now I’m going to have women wandering around in neon thongs and tight Wranglers.”

The door opened and Bud came in with her aunt, Graciela. “Did I hear something about tight Wranglers?”

“What are you doing here?” Chase asked by way of a greeting. Graciela had been conspicuously absent from their lives recently for reasons unknown.

“I’m lonely, and my sister,” Graciela emphasized the word “sister,” “was running late, so I offered to bring Bud home. Gitana said she’d feed me. Of course, I was counting on you doing the cooking.”

“Why are you lonely? Did Delia throw you out, and where have you been anyway? We haven’t seen you in months. ” Chase said, going to the fridge and getting three beers. She figured they all needed one excepting Bud, for whom she got a squeeze box of grape juice.

“No, Delia did not throw me out.” Graciela said, indignantly. “She’s with Jasmine at that book conference thingy. And I have been taking classes.”

“Jasmine not being here has been very hard on me too. I think that not having my ‘rock’ is taking its toll,” Lacey said. She took two swallows of her beer, and Chase wondered if alcohol was a good idea. She didn’t want to encourage maudlin behavior.

“I thought I was your rock,” Chase said to Lacey. “Classes in what?” she inquired of Graciela. This was multitasking conversationalism.

“I’m studying to be a life coach. I’ve got to get out of real estate. It’s killing me,” Graciela said.

Chase spewed beer everywhere. “A what?”

“A life coach. I’m going to teach seminars on how to reach the pinnacle of one’s personality. “I’m calling it ‘Getting Grateful with Graciela.’”

They all stared at her.

“What? Not being grateful is a serious problem in today’s world of ‘It’s all about me.’”

“I think it’s great,” Lacey said. “Now, can we get back to my problem?”

Bud sat next to Lacey on the couch. She took her hand in hers. “I see you’ve been studying the new business model. I know the kidney-shaped pool seems more organic, but when considering cubic space a large rectangle supplies more deck space.”

“A pool?” Graciela glanced down at the plans. “What is all this?”

“We think Lacey should turn the Institute into a Club Med kind of place,” Bud said.

“Can I be the activity director?” Graciela said. “I’m getting burnt out on wearing suits and licking rich assholes while trying to sell them a house.”

Chase gave her the don’t-talk-like-that-in-front-of-Bud look. Graciela smirked.

“Selling real estate does involve a lot of ass licking,” Bud agreed. “And I know she was speaking figuratively, not literally.”

Graciela smirked again.

Chase imagined Graciela dressed in white khakis and behaving like the lecherous doctor on the Love Boat. “I don’t know if that is such a good idea for a married woman.”

“What do you mean? That’s like the best person for the job,” Graciela said, hiking up the trousers of her Brooks Brothers suit.

“Losing some weight since Delia left?” Chase inquired.

“Yeah, it’s awful. Why do you think I came out here? I need some sustenance.”

“Big word,” Chase said.

“I got it from Bud on the way out. I thought sustenance was a Greek salad or something until Bud explained it to me.”

Lacey studied Graciela. “Do you think lesbians would come to a place like this where they just had fun and didn’t attend seminars on self-improvement and methods for attaining world domination?”

Graciela’s jaw dropped. So, people really did do that, Chase thought. Sometimes she wondered if the fictional gestures writers used were actually performed by real people. Next thing you knew, somebody would purse their lips. What does pursing lips mean anyway? Chase thought.

“Is that what you’ve been doing up there in the wilderness?” Graciela inquired.

Lacey nodded.

“Good God, no wonder it’s such a mess. You can’t put those types together and expect harmony—that’s like oil-and-water stuff, baby.” She sat next to Lacey and put her arm around her.

Lacey looked like an invalid that Bud and Graciela were consoling and going to help get to her feet and to the lavatory. Chase supposed she was, in a way. Lacey had done her best by the Lesbian Nation only to discover that lesbians were ordinary people with the usual goals, gripes and grievances—they were no better problem-solvers than the rest of the world.

“Dude, I totally think you should go this way. First, it’s a lot more fun, and second, there is some serious cash to be made in the vacation industry. Did you know that per capita gay people have the most expendable income? Harnessing that cash cow is definitely the right move,” Graciela said.

“Ya think?” Lacey said.

Chase noted that Lacey had adopted some of Gloria’s Oklahoma linguistic tendencies in the “Ya think” department. “Now, Gloria would make a great activities leader,” Chase said.

“Seriously, sister, this is the wave of the future, but you gotta fire Chino and Dixon. Those two are a definite buzz kill,” Graciela said.

“How do you know about them?” Lacey asked.

“Dude, they are like famous for being freaky. I think even the Pink Mafia is afraid of them.”

“But they are the Pink Mafia,” Lacey said.

“In some organizations there are certain people who are uber, and in this case I think that applies to Dixon and Chino,” Bud said.

“Uber?” Lacey said.

“Dude, that is a cool word,” Graciela said.

“Do you use surfer rad linguistics with your real estate clients?” Chase said. Graciela’s misuse of the English language closely resembled Jetsam and Flotsam, characters in Joseph Wambaugh’s Hollywood Hills series who spoke in surfer lingo.

“Of course not. I kind of do that My Fair Lady gig where I put on the highfalutin thing and sound all uptown and boarding school. It’s only when I’m hanging with my peeps that I turn on the ‘me’ lightbulb.”

“What is uber?” Lacey asked again.

“It means they’re over the top,” Bud said. “It’s the German word for ‘super.’”

“They are rather diligent in their pursuit of their goals,” Lacey said.

Chase rolled her eyes. Now that was a gesture people actually did perform. As a writer, she should pay closer attention to these sorts of details. “To say the least,” she added.

They watched Lacey as she scrutinized the business plan. Graciela sat with her fingers crossed. “Why are you so excited?” Chase asked Graciela.

“Dude, vacation land in our backyard, and Delia can do some major business at a gig like that, right, Lacey?” Graciela said.

“Sure,” Lacey said. “I mean if we’re going to promote a sexually charged fatuous experience why not sell erotica while we’re at it?”

“Perfect,” Graciela said, squeezing Lacey’s shoulders.

“You could still have a few seminars,” Chase said.

“Yeah, dude, there will always be those serious lesbians and some of them actually have girlfriends who might want to sit by the pool and have a fruity one while Ms. Save-the-World goes off to learn how to facilitate it,” Graciela said. “It’s a definite win-win.”

“This isn’t how my dream was supposed to go,” Lacey said and sighed heavily.

“But think about the money,” Graciela said.

“It was never about money,” Lacey said. She took a swig of beer.

“With the money you can start a Save-the-Lesbian fund,” Chase said.

At this Lacey’s eyes lit up. “That is a fabulous idea. I would be providing a safe environment for lesbians to have fun, and I could use the profits to help underprivileged lesbians,” Lacey said.

“We’ll all help with the changeover,” Bud said. “I think we should set a target date of May fifth. Cinco de Mayo is the perfect party attitude.”

“What would I do without you guys? You are my guiding force,” Lacey said.

Graciela popped up. She patted Lacey’s shoulders. “Things happen for a reason. Maybe you were meant to make people happy and relaxed, instead of all uptight looking for revolution and spoiling for a fight. Now, let’s put the feed bag on, I need some serious sustenance.”

“You staying for dinner?” Chase asked Lacey.

“Sure, we can celebrate,” Lacey said in a tone not exactly full of excitement but trying for it.

“That’s the spirit,” Graciela said, slapping her on the back.

Bud squeezed her hand. “You’ll get used to the idea.”

Chase gazed at Bud. She was such a wonderfully intuitive child.

“I hope so,” Lacey said.

“What do you mean? The gala opening party alone is worth it all,” Graciela said, scooping Bud up, which was no small task, and dancing across the front yard with her.

“Maybe we can skydive into the Gala Night Extravaganza with each of us holding the end of an enormous banner,” Lacey said.

“Now, that’s the spirit,” Chase said. It wasn’t until later that night in bed that it occurred to her that Lacey already had a title for the opening ceremony—The Gala Night Extravaganza. She just hoped Lacey had been kidding about the skydiving.

Epilogue

Lacey wasn’t kidding about the skydiving. On Cinco de Mayo the new Fearless Chase found herself sitting on a bench inside a Cessna 208B turboprop airplane with a roll-up door. Bud had researched all about Cessna aircraft previous to Chase jumping out of one. Well, if one was going to die, doing it on a holiday at least provided a marker, Chase thought.

Their guide, Melissa, a rambunctious woman of twenty who looked exactly like the Disney version of Tinkerbell sans wings, squeezed Chase’s arm and smiled hugely. “You’re gonna love this!” she screamed over the roar of the plane’s engine.

Chase nodded and put on a brave face. She could do this. After all, she had a new job as a driving instructor. She had taken her fear of car accidents and turned her phobia into a lucrative second career. Her students scored the highest on both the written and driving parts of the exam.

Teaching a sixteen-year-old the basics of driving in a confident, yet safe manner was a daunting task, but she’d done it. Sometimes she had been frightened—like when Owen Hart had put the car in reverse instead of drive and floored the gas pedal. They’d ended up on the football field after hopping the curb in the high school parking lot. He didn’t hit the brakes until the fifty-yard line. She had, despite this ignominious beginning, taught Owen to drive in a safe, sane and successful manner. She had him recite her daily mantra and he’d taken it to heart. Now he was a damn good driver and wanted to become a traffic cop. Could life get any more rewarding?

Living through another day would be nice, actually, but she had given Lacey her word, and now here she was in this plane that was about to take off. This was technically her last chance to bail out. She stared at the still-open door and the huge white banner that she was responsible for holding one end of during the free fall. Could she really bail on her best friend—send her up in the sky alone to hold a banner that no one could read because she lacked a partner?

Bud had run the statistics for her and it appeared skydiving was quite safe. Her driving career had a higher risk factor than dropping out of the sky with an oversized piece of fabric as her sole means of survival.

They’d been having breakfast when Bud brought out the stats. “The average death rate for skydiving is one in every hundred thousand. Those are great odds,” Bud said. She took a bite of her marmalade-slathered toast.

Chase often wondered about Bud’s proclivity for Anglicisms. What kid liked marmalade? Was it all the Jane Austen novels they’d read together when she was three? Would tea and crumpets be next?

Gitana stared at her. “I’m still not crazy about you doing this.”

“Did you buy that million dollar insurance policy?” Bud said. She smirked.

“What!” Chase said, spilling her coffee as she put the cup down too hard.

“I’m just sayin’.” Bud said. “We’ve got the family assets to consider.”

“Myrna thinks it’s a great publicity shot,” Chase said, feeling like she suddenly had to defend her choice when two minutes before she had been reconsidering. She couldn’t really, though. She’d told Lacey she’d do it. They’d taken the classes and rehearsed how the banner worked, and they were taking a guide with them who was trained in this kind of endeavor. It was much safer than driving down the canyon with a hormonally challenged teenager.

“Most deaths occur from swooping,” Bud said.

“I am not going to swoop, I can tell you that much,” Chase said, refilling her coffee.

“What on earth is swooping?” Gitana asked.

“It’s when you start to land and you glide parallel to the ground. It can be very dangerous,” Chase said.

“I’m thinking that the whole thing is dangerous,” Gitana said, concerned.

“Not really. They now use the AAD system which takes care of one of the crucial aspects of flight failure,” Bud said.

“Do we have to talk about flight failure?” Chase said, her stomach flip-flopping. Did they have any Mentos in the house? she wondered.

Bud seemed to read her mind and dug around behind her on the chair where her backpack hung. She pulled out a pack of Mentos. “I stocked up. I thought we might need them.”

“You amaze me,” Chase said, popping two in her mouth.

“What’s AAD?” Gitana said. “Isn’t that the attention deficit thing?”

“I certainly hope not.” Chase winked at Bud. “ADD would be dangerous for a skydiver.” She pocketed the Mentos.

“No, it stands for Automatic Activation Device,” Bud said.

“What does that mean?” Gitana picked up the other roll of Mentos and opened them.

She really was nervous about this jumping thing, Chase thought. The closest Gitana had ever gotten to a Mentos was when they’d set off the Mentos and Diet Coke rocket. Gitana had been in charge of supervising the loading. That had been another Fearless Chase moment—being a rogue scientist exploring the explosive potential of Mentos. She watched as Gitana popped two in her mouth.

“Remember, don’t drink Diet Coke,” Bud warned.

Gitana stopped sucking on the Mentos.

“I’m just sayin’,” Bud said.

“It’s the backup parachute,” Chase explained. “It goes off at a certain altitude if the main chute has not been released to insure that one does not go splat.”

Gitana winced at the word “splat.”

Splat was a very phonetic word, Chase thought—it sounded exactly like what it did—a perfect example of onomatopoeia.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” Gitana said, putting the roll of Mentos in her purse.

“It’s going to be fine,” Chase said, picking up the spritzer bottle of Holy Water that Jacinda had given her. She stood up and Bud sprayed her entire body. “See, I am completely at one with God and the Universe, although I do feel a little odd in a one-piece suit.”

“You look good. It’s very in character for what you’re about to do,” Bud said.

“I think so too.”

Lacey brought her back to the present moment by jabbing her in the ribs. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m reliving the last five minutes of my life so I’ll be ahead of schedule in the unlikely event of…” Chase trailed off.

“In case we crash. I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Lacey tapped her foot and looked terrified.

“Me? This was your idea!”

“Since when do you listen to me?” Lacey said, checking the straps of her parachute. “The one and only time you listen to me and now we’re going to die.” She trembled.

Chase had never seen Lacey scared. She was awestruck. “You’re scared.”

“Of course, I’m scared. I’m fucking petrified.”

“Are you ladies ready?” Melissa inquired.

Chase certainly hoped so as the Cessna’s engines jerked them forward on the runway. When was it too late to stop the insanity? Was now the moment? Could both she and Lacey get down on their knees and beg Melissa to let them go? Lacey looked close to evacuating the scene. Fearless Chase took hold. “We have to do this. We have trained, and we know what to do and people are depending on us, and I really think it will be fun once we get over the initial fear of going splat, which is not going to happen.”

“Don’t say that!” Lacey hissed. “You’ll tempt fate.”

They both crossed themselves.

“Here we go,” Melissa said, as the plane took off.

Chase squeezed Lacey’s hand and then smiled hugely. “This is going to be radical fun.”

“Wow, you’ve changed a lot,” Lacey said, sticking her pinky in her mouth and savagely chewing on a cuticle. Chase slapped at her hand.

As the plane roared skyward, Chase pondered what Lacey had said. She had changed a lot. She’d gone from a neurotic pre-parent, full of planning and precautions, to a parent who had to learn to “wing it”—she wondered where that phrase came from—to this new incarnation of herself, the one that wasn’t afraid to try new things, some of which were risky.

Always before the word “risky” in her lexicon had been accompanied by a set of flashing lights and a blaring siren. When Risk appeared now, however, she stepped in wearing an Ann Taylor business suit and carrying a portfolio of possible activities and a list of necessary safety equipment. Wasn’t that what life was? A set of risks that supplied challenges for growth? Chase thought perhaps Risk had gotten a bad rap. Risk wasn’t always about purported unsafe activities like auto racing, mountain climbing or skydiving—those things had built-in safety devices and, if done properly under supervision and with skills, were doable without harm. Risk in life, in the sense of taking a chance, learning a new thing, trusting another person, exploring an uncharted part of yourself, now that was risk.

****

They’d reached the appropriate altitude and Melissa gave them the all-clear signal. Lacey grabbed Chase’s arm. “I love you. If anything happens I want you to know I love you and that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and for the Institute. And I forgive you for the time you tried to run out on me.”

Or, Chase deduced, this was what Lacey had said. The roar of the Cessna 208B with its open roll-up door didn’t allow for conversation, but Chase was a decent lip-reader. She and Bud had perfected this skill because it afforded a secret silent language when social situations made it necessary. “I love you too,” Chase said.

“Okay, ladies, let’s rock and roll,” Melissa said. “Who wants to go first?” She intimated this with hand signals.

Lacey’s face was a map of terror. Chase knew if she went first, Lacey would be shamed into following. And if she wasn’t, Melissa would push her.

“I will,” Chase pointed at her own chest. Melissa handed Chase her end of the wound-up banner, which she tucked in her outside front pocket. It was neatly folded in such a way that one quick flick and it would open. Lacey took the other end. There’s no getting out of it now, Chase mused. Besides, at some points in your life pride does precede a fall and in this case it was literal. They’d set it up and they had to do it.

“On the count of three! One, two, three!” Melissa yelled.

Chase, for a moment, almost pulled the splayed cat move so overused in comic films about skydiving, but then she jumped. She felt the rush of air, the blast of noise and then the strangest thing happened—she felt calm yet exhilarated, thrilled yet not afraid, blissful and at one with the brilliant blue sky. Holy fucking shit! This was awesome. This was Risk and Life and Freedom, and as she raced toward the ground she knew she was going make it. She could be a successful writer, the parent of a teenager, the best friend of an uber dyke businesswoman and world-saver and a really good partner who knew about erotic devices. She had come a long way. She watched as first Lacey and then Melissa followed her out.

Melissa counted five with her fingers and gave the thumbs-up signal to release the banner. Lacey and Chase opened their respective sides, and the banner billowed forth. Chase looked over at Lacey. She had a huge smile. Lacey had evidently reached the dopamine high of wowness too. They looked at each other and then at the banner that read “Come Play With Us.” Chase still thought it sounded like an advertisement for masturbation, but at least the name of the Institute had been changed from Vulva Ventures to Wanna Vacations.

She could live with that. Under the perfectly cloudless New Mexican sky, Chase Banter embraced her new self and whooped. She’d never whooped before in her life and it felt good.

Here it goes, Chase thought. She pulled the chute.

The End

It opened, by the way.

Publications from

Bella Books, Inc.

Women. Books. Even Better Together.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

Phone: 800-729-4992

www.bellabooks.com

CALM BEFORE THE STORM by Peggy J. Herring. Colonel Marcel Robicheaux doesn’t tell and so far no one official has asked, but the amorous pursuit by Jordan McGowen has her worried for both her career and her honor. 

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THE WILD ONE by Lyn Denison. Rachel Weston is busy keeping home and head together after the death of her husband. Her kids need her and what she doesn’t need is the confusion that Quinn Farrelly creates in her body and heart.

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DEADLY INTERSECTIONS by Ann Roberts. Everyone is lying, including her own father and her girlfriend. Leaving matters to the professionals is supposed to be easier! Third in series with PAID IN FULL and WHITE OFFERINGS.

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MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME by Karin Kallmaker. Take one Next Home Network Star and add one Little White Lie to equal mayhem in little Mendocino and a recipe for sizzling romance. This lighthearted, steamy story is a feast for the senses in a kitchen that is way too hot.

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2ND FIDDLE by Kate Calloway. Cassidy James’s first case left her with a broken heart. At least this new case is fighting the good fight, and she can throw all her passion and energy into it. 978-1-59493-200-7

HUNTING THE WITCH by Ellen Hart. The woman she loves — used to love — offers her help, and Jane Lawless finds it hard to say no. She needs TLC for recent injuries and who better than a doctor? But Julia’s jittery demeanor awakens Jane’s curiosity. And Jane has never been able to resist a mystery. #9 in series and Lammy-winner.

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FAÇADES by Alex Marcoux. Everything Anastasia ever wanted — she has it. Sidney is the woman who helped her get it. But keeping it will require a price — the unnamed passion that simmers between them.

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ELENA UNDONE by Nicole Conn. The risks. The passion. The devastating choices. The ultimate rewards. Nicole Conn rocked the lesbian cinema world with Claire of the Moon and has rocked it again with Elena Undone. This is the book that tells it all…

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WHISPERS IN THE WIND by Frankie J. Jones. It began as a camping trip, then a simple hike. Dixon Hayes and Elizabeth Colter uncover an intriguing cave on their hike, changing their world, perhaps irrevocably.

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WEDDING BELL BLUES by Julia Watts. She’ll do anything to save what’s left of her family. Anything. It didn’t seem like a bad plan...at first. Hailed by readers as Lammy-winner Julia Watts’ funniest novel.

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WILDFIRE by Lynn James. From the moment botanist Devon McKinney meets ranger Elaine Thomas the chemistry is undeniable. Sharing—and protecting—a mountain for the length of their short assignments leads to unexpected passion in this sizzling romance by newcomer Lynn James.

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LEAVING L.A. by Kate Christie. Eleanor Chapin is on the way to the rest of her life when Tessa Flanagan offers her a lucrative summer job caring for Tessa’s daughter Laya. It’s only temporary and everyone expects Eleanor to be leaving L.A... 978-1-59493-221-2

SOMETHING TO BELIEVE by Robbi McCoy. When Lauren and Cassie meet on a once-in-a-lifetime river journey through China their feelings are innocent…at first. Ten years later, nothing—and everything—has changed. From Golden Crown winner Robbi McCoy.

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DEVIL’S ROCK by Gerri Hill. Deputy Andrea Sullivan and Agent Cameron Ross vow to bring a killer to justice. The killer has other plans. Gerri Hill pens another intriguing blend of mystery and romance in this page-turning thriller.

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SHADOW POINT by Amy Briant. Madison McPeake has just been not-quite fired, told her brother is dead and discovered she has to pick up a five-year old niece she’s never met. After she makes it to Shadow Point it seems like someone—or something —doesn’t want her to leave. Romance sizzles in this ghost story from Amy Briant.

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JUKEBOX by Gina Daggett. Debutantes in love. With each other. Two young women chafe at the constraints of parents and society with a friendship that could be more, if they can break free. Gina Daggett is best known as “Lipstick” of the columnist duo Lipstick & Dipstick.

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BLIND BET by Tracey Richardson. The stakes are high when Ellen Turcotte and Courtney Langford meet at the blackjack tables. Lady Luck has been smiling on Courtney but Ellen is a wild card she may not be able to handle.

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