Page 16 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ricki chewed her lip, reluctant to admit that she agreed. Just then, they were interrupted by a perky blonde in a maxidress.

“Are you Tuesday Rowe? I used to love you. Why don’t you work anymore?”

In the short time Ricki had known Tuesday, she’d experienced this way too often. It took only one person to spot her before the news spread like wildfire. To maintain her sanity, Tuesday always answered the “where have you been” question with preposterous sarcasm.

“What’ve you been doing sinceReady Freddy?” said the woman.

“Pursuing my dream of aquarium design.”

“Legend!” The blonde bopped away.

Ricki handed Tuesday her uneaten fudge cupcake. “Here, you need this.”

“Tuesday Rowe?” yelped another guest. “I’m such a fan! What’re you up to these days?”

“Bathing in the blood of my enemies.”

“Slay, villain,” he said, and breezed past them.

Tuesday slid on her sunnies (at 8:00 p.m., indoors). “Love you, girl, but there’s a complexion-boosting vitamin C mask waiting for me at home.”

“I get it. But first, look at Ali over there by the cake pop stand. Is he my future?”

Tuesday peered in Ali’s direction, frowning. “He looks blank. Like he’s waiting for a soaring violin score to tell him how to feel.”

Ricki grimaced. “Nothing there, huh?”

Tuesday air-kissed her in response and was on her way out when Chaka Khan’s banger “Ain’t Nobody” began thumping through speakers. Gasping, she turned back toward Ricki.

“Funny story—I met Chaka Khan’s keyboardist at the Grammys. He said he got the riff after hearing some dude play it at a piano store in Vegas. But he couldn’t remember his name. When Chaka asked him who it was, he said, ‘Ain’t nobody.’ Ha!” Her eyes sparkled. “Seems dope, actually. To be so influential on artbut anonymous? No one projecting shit onto you. No one making up lies, feeling ownership over you, deciding if you’re pure or a whore beforeyoueven know. But it’s different for men. The culture crucifies girls.” She sighed. “Fame is a prison.”

Ricki shot her a gentle smile. “Your first chapter starts there.”

As Tuesday exited, Ali headed over to Ricki, slipping his arm around her waist. He smelled of sawdust and patchouli.

Pro: his cologne is masculine and sexy, she thought.

She smiled. “You’re having fun?”

“Indeed! I’m lifted by all these positive energy frequencies.”

Con: he speaks like a silent-retreat leader.

“Everybody here’s good people. In fact, I was just vibing with this Columbia econ major? He dropped some wisdom I’d like to share with you, in the spirit of radical honesty.”

“Oh really? Well…”

“He said your bouquets are too expensive.”

Ricki planted her fists on her hips. How dare he discuss her business with a stranger? And how dare the stranger be right? She was tired of people telling her how to handle her store. Couldn’t she learn a valuable lesson in peace?

“I work with rare, very expensive breeds,” she said defensively. “I realize that I won’t make a profit soon, but I’d like to come out even, at least. To do that, I have to price up.”

Ali squeezed her hand. “Release yourself from the shackles of consumerism, my queen.”

Ricki’s patience was thinning. “But… I literally sell things for a living.”

Just in time, they were joined by Ms. Della, a vision in a cream caftan, oversized red glasses, and a sculptural fascinator. She’d been chatting with her various neighborhood fans. As always, she carried a teacup.

---