Page 15 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“Anyway, to make the body, I painted my ass cheeks and then smashed them on the canvas. It was gonna be a crab, but when I started the detail work, it turned into a bird.”

Don’t do it, thought Ricki.Don’t tell him your crab anecdote; don’t self-destruct…

“Hey, did you know that nature has evolved five different non-crab animals into crabs over history? Apparently, it’s the perfect form. Studies suggest we’ll all be shaped like crabs one day. Crazy, right?”

He stared at her, then died laughing. “I think you need a drink, Bill Nye.”

Shaking his head, he disappeared into the crowd. Slowly, Ricki backed up against the wall. Grasping her martini for dear life, she tried to breathe through her mortification. She was, in fact, a fool. There was no scenario where that fun fact would be appropriate, except for, perhaps, a convention of 2012 Science Tumblr addicts.

Exasperated, she squeezed her eyes shut. And, like clockwork, Garden Gentleman’s face blanketed her brain. She was losing her mind.

When she opened her eyes, there was Tuesday, wielding a cookie in one hand and—because she was three years sober—a Shirley Temple in the other. As usual, she was trying her best to fly undercover as an anonymous baddie: joggers, chunky sneakers, slick bun.

“You came!”

“Of course I came. Free baked goods were involved.” She batted her eyelashes. “Notice anything about my complexion?”

Ricki appraised her skin. “Excuse me, you’re radiant.”

“My new writer’s block obsession is skincare. I just spent all day ordering luxury Korean skincare online. I wanna look poreless and heavily filtered. Like a sensual cyborg.” She licked frosting off her finger. “Ugh, I’m never gonna finish my memoir.To jest okropne.”

It was startling, hearing Tuesday drop a foreign phrase. “You said what, now?”

“To jest okropne. It means ‘this is terrible’ in Polish.”

“You never fail to surprise, babe.”

“My mom’s Polish! She moved here at eighteen and became a coat check girl at the Roxy, where she met my dad, an aspiring backpack rapper from Houston. They fell in ’90s hip-hop love, had me, and then he got deported for running a fraudulent phone sex service where he’d pretend to be several lusty women. Turnsout, he wasn’t Texan; he was a Rwandan refugee and a master at accents.” Sullenly, she chomped her cupcake. “I hate memoir writing. It’s impossible to tell what’s interesting about my life.”

Ricki laughed. “That’sinteresting. That’s your origin story. You get your acting talent from your dad, who, given the opportunity, might have an Oscar by now.”

Tuesday beamed. “You’re smart as hell. Can you write my book? I’m useless. Speaking of useless… where’s Ali? Somewhere realigning his chakras?”

“I was just about to bring him up.” Ricki lowered her voice. “I need advice.”

“Kill him.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Tuesday.”

“Look, I stay ready to tussle. Holler if we need to key cars.”

Given Tuesday had won a three-way club brawl with Selena Gomez and aHigh School Musicalextra that madeIn Touch Weeklycovers in 2008, Ricki believed her.

“I always run from relationships,” continued Ricki. “And I need to rebrand. Should I try to turn this fling into a… thing?”

“I’m all about breaking toxic patterns. But for Ali? What do you really know about him? Do you ever even stay at his place?”

“No. But only because he lives with a throuple.”

Tuesday put her hands in prayer pose, fingertips at her forehead. “Biiitch.”

“I know, I know.”

“Does Ali make you feel adored? Do you feel held, physically, mentally, and astrologically? If not, dump him. Not because it’s your usual pattern, but because you should.”

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