Page 40 of Margo's Got Money Troubles

“Jesus!” Margo said, automatically slamming her laptop closed, even though there was technically nothing wrong with her messaging JB.

Jinx had been milling around the apartment all day. He wasn’t supposed to lie down or sit for long periods. He also wasn’t supposed to bend over or lift anything, so he was pretty much useless Bodhi-wise, though luckily Bodhi had been chill all morning. Margo had recently ordered him a Jumperoo bouncer monstrosity that took up a quarter of her bedroom, played painfully cheerful music, and had flashing light-up buttons. Bodhi was willing to sit in it and jostle around for twenty minutes at a stretch. With Jinx injured, those twenty minutes and the time Bodhi spent napping were her only real chance to post or respond to messages.

“Who is JB?” Jinx asked.

“Ugh, he’s a fan,” Margo said.

“That looked like a really long message. I didn’t know you wrote things like that to them.”

“I don’t usually, but he pays me per email. A hundred bucks.”

Jinx raised an eyebrow.

“I just make shit up. Like, I don’t tell him anything about me. I made up a character and everything.”

There was a pause. Margo looked him right in the eye. Because it was true. Where was the lie?

“Impressive,” he said, and smiled, nodding. He was not making any move to leave her room.

“Do you think you could walk to the park?” she asked, figuring if she wasn’t going to work, she might as well do something nice for Bodhi.

“I’m worried,” Jinx said. “If it went into spasm and I was away from the house.”

“Well, aren’t you still on the muscle relaxers?”

“I didn’t fill the prescription,” Jinx said.

“Dad!” Margo scooped Bodhi up from the Jumperoo and went out to the living room, where it wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic with her dad hovering.

“Well, it was late, and I didn’t want to tell the cab to stop at the pharmacy, and— I mean, I would rather not take them.”

Margo was trying to get it all straight. “So what all did they prescribe? Are muscle relaxers the same as pain pills? Or are they something different?”

“They prescribed both muscle relaxers and pain medication. And they are different.”

“What kind of pain medication?”

“Vicodin. Not my favorite, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, they’re great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not like a script for eighties of oxy or something.”

“Right,” Margo said. “So... do you want to fill them? Or, I mean, how are you even supposed to function? Like, you’re in pain.” She could see it now that she was really looking at him. He was all gray colored and sweaty, the muscles in his face strained and tense.

“But I don’t want to start something— I don’t want—” He broke off. He was almost panting. She waited. “I want them so much that it frightens me, and I can’t tell if I want them because I’m in pain or because I’m an addict.”

“You’re in pain,” she said. “Okay, what if I keep your medication for you. Like in my room, hidden, and you don’t even know where it is. And I give it to you only when you need it.”

“We could do that,” Jinx said, looking up at her, his head nodding rapidly. “We could do something like that.”

Margo was amazed. He had come around almost instantly. “Okay, did they call it in? Where are we going? This is exciting, we’re leaving the house! Wanna get food while we’re out? Something gross?”

“Like what?” Jinx asked.

Margo wiggled her eyebrows seductively. “Like Arby’s?”

JB wrote back with lists of his favorite and least favorite foods, and Margo found herself rapt. She had to admit he had a point about Pringles: they did taste like someone had already chewed them before you. He said he loved Rocky Road ice cream, which.. . there was nothing wrong with Rocky Road, she would eat Rocky Road at any time of the day or night, but there was something weird about it being your favorite. Like, better than cookie dough? Really? She thought it was kind of cute that he would venerate this utterly boring ice-cream flavor. He was such a puzzling mix of traits. She kept thinking about that pearl necklace tight on the beautiful skin of his throat.

At first, she’d assumed the fact he was writing girls online and paying them to write back meant he was lonely, the kind of lonely that made people, especially men, a little desperate. But now she wasn’t so sure what kind of person he was, besides a rich person. If she answered all the questions he sent, he’d owe her $1,000. How did a guy in his twenties have that kind of money, and why would he spend it on this?

She was nursing Bodhi in bed and trying to type a response one-handed.

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