Page 11 of Cruelest Contract
“I don’t speak spreadsheet,” Alice says. “But that sounds terrible. I know this feels like a setback right now but there’s got to be a silver lining in there somewhere.”
My best friend could find a bright side in salmonella poisoning. But she might be on the right track. That job sucked. The pay was nothing and the building was in a bad neighborhood. After three years of loyal service in the accounting department, I was passed over for a promotion and the company owner thought my name was Belinda.
What I need is a new life plan. I’ve been stagnant for too long. Before I start tinkering with my resumé I’ll spend some quality time with my bullet journal and manifest a new strategy. There’s a lot to be said for scratching your thoughts onto paper with neat, careful lettering. Tapping on a keyboard will never be as satisfying.
“You know what?” Alice says. “The second I finish grading these papers I’m changing out of my yoga pants and coming to your rescue.”
“Don’t do that. You’re all the way out in Buckeye now. And we already made plans this weekend.”
“Saving you from today’s birthday fiasco feels more dire. We’ll go to that western bar in Scottsdale and follow fake cowboys around. You need an uninhibited night out.”
Okay, optimism is one thing but now she’s just having a fantasy.
‘Uninhibited’ and me are two things that mesh as well as ketchup and waffles. My firm two drink limit means I’venever even been truly drunk. During an argument, a former boyfriend accused me of following an itinerary for everything, sex included, which is absurd.
All I did was create a prospective intimacy timeline. Is it a crime to be prepared? The modern era is awfully busy. But NOOOO. I’m the monster for setting sensible goals and trying to follow through with them.
“Save the fake cowboys for some other time,” I tell Alice. “One of us still has a job and this is a school night for you.”
“I can power through with no sleep,” she insists.
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
“It’s nothing an extra cup of coffee in the morning can’t handle.”
I clamp my lips together. If I don’t, I’ll laugh.
Alice Dreyfus was my college roommate and she’s an adorable sweetheart nearly a hundred percent of the time. But her slightly depraved side tends to surface when she doesn’t get her beauty sleep.
Our second year at Arizona State we lived next door to a pair of rowdy soccer players. The first time they blasted party music all night and kept Alice awake until dawn, she covered their door with thick duct tape. The second time, she enlisted my help in wrapping their pickup trucks with tinfoil. The third time, irate that they were failing to get the message, she broke into their room while they were in class and sprayed whipped cream all over their beds.
After that, they relocated to a different wing of the building to escape from Alice’s wrath.
While I’d love her company, I can’t handle the responsibility of inflicting a sleep-deprived Alice on a classroom filled with innocent ten year olds.
“Count me in for a raincheck,” I tell her. “Getting fired is exhausting. All I have the energy to do is eat sugar and cuddle my cat.”
“When did the cat become cuddly?”
“Hoping for a birthday miracle.” Traffic starts moving and I coast forward. “I’m fine. I swear.”
“All right,” she says with reluctance. “Let me know if you change your mind.” A long pause follows. “Um, have you heard from your family today?”
My stomach curdles at the question.
I’ve been going by the name Cecilia Leone since I left for college seven years ago. Sharing my real name is risky. Alice can be trusted with my secrets but no one else. Even my short-lived romantic relationships always started with deception. Maybe that’s one reason they never lasted.
After all, when you can’t admit who you really are, what chance is there for a future?
“I’ll call Gabe when I get home,” I say, ignoring the stab of hurt. So far today, my twin brother has failed to answer any of my texts.
I won’t bother expecting to hear from anyone else. Given the nature of my surviving family members, that’s for the best. The fewer reminders they have of my existence, the more likely they are to let me keep my freedom.
Alice won’t allow the call to end until she belts out a highly enthusiastic and extremely off key version of Happy Birthday.
“Sending you invisible birthday hugs,” she says after the last note. “Welcome to the quarter of a century club. Hard to believe we’ve lived this long, isn’t it?”
Alice is a saint for trying to cheer me up so I’m glad she can’t see when I flinch.
