Page 9 of Worst in Show

“Who knows?” I ball up a few wrappers from our dinner and tuck them in a paper bag. “But why did he have to open his stupid store right here?”

Micki pulls me into a sideways hug. “Aww. Maybe he’ll fail miserably. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks.”

“What you need is some pampering.” She smiles and flips her strands forward. “If you honestly do like my hair, you should let Donna do yours, too.”

I shake my head. My hair is a constant point of contention between us. It’s a rich, dark brown, thick and halfway to my waist—the kind “everyone wants” according to Micki. But I never do anything with it. It’s either up in a bun or pulled back in a sloppy braid, and by this point, she takes that as a personal slight. “I’m good.”

“One day,” she mutters, gathering her trash and putting it in the bin in our small galley kitchen.

“Never going to happen.” Which reminds me… “Speaking of rare events.” I pull out the cash from Harvey and hand it to Micki.

A grin spreads on her lips. “Rent!” She bats her lashes and fans herself with the bills. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m a little short, but we have overdue bills at the store, and I couldn’t take all of Pop’s money when he’s already in the hole. I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast in bed, foot massage… Oh, I can make you a new dress.”

“Sell me your hair?”

My hand goes to my braid as if she’s serious. “No.”

Micki laughs. “Seriously, it’s fine. Better than nothing. You’ve helped me out in the past. That’s what friends do. Besides, I’m still using your Netflix daily and you’re still going to help me study, right?” She recently went back to school to get a massage therapy license since the salon is expanding its services.

“Of course. And I promise I’ll pay you back. But first I need to figure out how to make the store do better.”

“Isn’t your grandpa old?” Jaz asks. “Doesn’t he want to retire?”

“He’s too sentimental,” Micki tells her. “Plus, he can’t afford to, which is why Cora is stuck there even though it’s not what she wants to do.” She gestures toward my sewing machine that’s tucked underneath our kitchen table, indicating where my true passion lies.

“Well, that sucks,” Jaz says.

“It’s not that bad,” I say. “It’s all he has left of my grandma. And if the store folds right now, the dogs will have nowhere to go. Harvey would end up moving, and he can’t take care of them himself, this building doesn’t allow pets, and the only other shelter around here isn’t no-kill. What chances do you think any of them have of making it there?”

“Right, the dogs.” Jaz nods as if she’s thinking hard. Then her expression brightens. “Hey, there was a poster about some dog show at the grocery store. Maybe that’s something?”

“The one at Winter Fest?” Micki asks, and Jaz confirms.

I shake my head. “The grand prize is only five hundred dollars. Not enough to make a difference. And I’m about to start on some new costumes for the shop and maybe some other stuff, too…” I gesture to my laptop that’s sitting open to the Flockify server. No responses yet other than a few general hellos. No guesses from the Riddler either.

“Ah, well then.” Micki smirks. “Practically living the dream.”

“Really, it’s fine. Not everyone gets to do exactly what they want.”

“True. But I guess I believe everyone should at least get to try.”

Her words grate at the back of my mind and prickle my throat when I look at the stack of soon-to-be tutus on the table. That’s what I want. I want to design clothes, have my own line—only not for pets.

“Hey, I remember that Flockify server,” Jaz says, interrupting my thoughts. She leans closer to my screen. “Ms. McInnis’s class, junior year. God, she was so into it. We all had to post research and have discussions on there, but I spent most of my time perfecting my avatar. I think my username was MrsShakespeare or something else inane like that.” She chuckles. “But why the heck are you on it?”

“It must have grown a lot bigger since you used it for school because there are thousands of members from all over the world now.” I tell her about my sewing commissions while we clear the table, and once the topic is exhausted, Jaz and Micki commence their post-travel cleanup while I do the dishes.

Micki’s words about living the dream echo in my mind, but I keep a steady hold on the pragmatic side of things. At least I still get to work with fabric from time to time—things could be worse for a college drop-out like me who hasn’t managed to live up to any of the potential I was told I showed when I was younger. Besides, I’d have no idea how to run my own business. Not like Leo Salinger who practically oozes Ivy League business schools, ten-year life plans, and a trust fund to fall back on.

Before I get too far down that rabbit hole, my phone rings in my purse on the counter. I get to it at the last second and pick up.

“Coralynn? Coralynn are you there?” My mother’s voice echoes as if she’s in a cave.

Only my parents call me by my given name. I suppose I should be thankful they didn’t go with the runner-up, Hildegarde, after my great-grandmother, but Coralynn still feels like a mouthful. It’s not me.

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