Page 58 of The Game Is Afoot

“Yes, Pigpen! See how easily you named him? Because Iamhim.”

She laughs and shakes her head, but then looks me right in the eye. “There’s messiness in the rebuilding, Mavis. And you’ve had to rebuild a lot in your life these past few years. With Corey. With your job.”

Okay, move over, French lady, maybe Jasmine should have herownpodcast.

I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s like when they knock down an old, decrepit house on one of those HGTV shows—”

“You think my life was decrepit?”

She purses her lips. “Yousaid it.”

“Did I?”

“Anyway, the bones are good, but most of it has got to go in order to make something beautiful. And, whew, that little redhead sure can design! Did you see the episode where she—”

“Um, can we get back to me?”

I take back what I said about the podcast.

“Iguess.” Jasmine scoffs and playfully bats my shoulder. “What I’m trying to say is, it looks real bad. It looks like they’ll never get it together and there’s usually some drama with her contractor because he’s always—”

I give her a look, and she smiles, continuing. “But it’s all necessary to get to the final product. And I know you’re on your way to making something beautiful for you, even if it looks a little rough to others sometimes.”

Her words make me feel lighter and warm, like I’m floating in a pool on a July afternoon. I’m so lucky to have a friend like Jasmine, who will be honest with me, who will see the beauty in my mess—who will go with me to a scammy self-care party in order to investigate a murder no one actually asked me to investigate.

I squeeze her tight and then smirk. “So you’re saying…I’m being gentrified?”

“Girl, whatever!” she shouts, smiling wide. “That was my one heartfelt moment of the month. I hit my quota! I hope you enjoyed it!”

We both lose ourselves in cackles, only stopping when a woman in a Lilly Pulitzer shift dress and a denim jacket draped over her shoulders walks past us with concerned eyes, giving usa wide berth. I follow her with my gaze as she approaches a large white Craftsman house on the corner. It has a lot size double the ones on either side and a wraparound porch that looks more Southern than Southern California—definitely on the upper end of that Zillow range. A giant pastel balloon arch sways in the salty evening breeze.

“I think that’s it.”

“We about to be the only Black people here, aren’t we?” Jasmine asks.

“Yep.” I grab her hand and squeeze it. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you? How you’re my best and truest friend?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

We can hear laughter and high-pitched chatter drifting from the windows as we walk up. There’s a ceramic pot of bright pink azaleas on each step and a matching wreath on the glossy black door. And that door swings open as soon as we step on theWelcome to Our Happy Home!mat, as if we tripped a wire or something.

“Hello! Thanks for coming!” coos a woman with wavy blond hair and sharp clavicles. Stacks of wooden bangles clonk together as she extends her arms out wide, and she’s wearing a long batik-printed caftan that’s either from a pier-side gift shop or Johnny Was—but I can pretty confidently guess which one. “Are you some of Bethany’s Clover Scouts friends?”

I flinch at the termfriend, which she must take as a denial. “One of her True Living Med Spa friends then? Or one of our new consultants moving over from Agape Essentials?” She doesn’t wait for me to confirm or deny. “Don’t you just love how she brings everyone together? I’m Pamela, by the way, your host for tonight. I’m a Balanced With Bethany Ultimate Wellness Goddess!” She does pause at that, but I’m not sure if it’s forapplause or for us to introduce ourselves. When we give her neither, though, her eyes light up in understanding. “Oh! You must be doing Bethany’s self-guided silent retreat. I’ve done it myself five times. Very fulfilling!”

Jasmine and I glance at each other and come to a quick consensus.Yeah, let’s go with that.

“Come, come,” Pamela continues, guiding us in. “She’s about to get started, so you’re just in time!” She shakes her fists next to her face like an excited kid about to get cake at a party.

We walk through what in our neighborhood would be called an entry and what in this neighborhood could only be referred to as afoyer. It’s fancy, grand—and it only gets grander as we walk past the double staircase with its intricately carved banister into the living room. Even that doesn’t feel like the right word for it, though, because my dad’s entire house could fit into just this room. Theluxuriatingroom, maybe. Thelounge and complain about taxes and how difficult it’s been to get permits for the Scrooge McDuck money pool you’re trying to buildroom.

“And here’s my humble abode!” Pamela declares, because of course she does. “Go ahead and get yourself settled. There’s a rosé bar over there, and some cupcakes, too, if you’re feeling a little naughty tonight.”

I’m glad I’ve fully committed to this whole self-guided silent retreat thing, because otherwise I might start making involuntary hurling sounds.

Pamela flits away, and Jasmine and I take in what we’ve gotten ourselves into. Wearethe only Black people here, and two of only a few people of color. Which isn’t a surprise, considering Bethany brought up Madam C. J. Walker and how I could “open up a whole new market” for her when she first tried to pitch me. The ladies mingle next to eight, maybe more, round white tables set up in the back of the room—each one isdecorated with dried flower arrangements in the same pastel colors as the balloons outside. Rows of chairs fill up the middle of the space, and on the other side of the room is a Balanced With Bethany step-and-repeat hanging from a metal frame. Women are posing for photos in front of it now, but it’s probably where Bethany will do…whatever she does at a self-care party. Hopefully it won’t take too long. Where is she, anyway?

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