Find Me I'm Yours (11 page)

“Well, you'll be thrilled—UH, MAYBE?—to know I found the stairs AND the next clue!”

“Shut up!”

“Swears! There was a ticket for a shoe repair shop in Burbank called SOLE MATES! Genius, right? So my question is—do we go together after work, or do I go now, come in late, and risk Malcolm's wrath?”

“Well,” Coco answered, “I have to leave work early today to help Mark set up at the gallery. So I guess since that pesky root canal you got the other morning still looks really swollen, you understandably need an emergency follow-up appointment this morning.”

Done. In a shout-out to Mr. WTF's bad puns, it was time to get the shoe on the road. I got on my scooter and headed northeast to Burbank to find my sole mate.

DAY 4—MORNING

I had the claim check. The shoe repair shop had Mr. WTF's boot. Slam dunk, right?! But as I waited for Sole Mates to open, two things occurred to me that could stand in my way.

Two Things that Could Stand in My Way at Sole Mates Shoe Repair Shop

By Mags Marclay

1). What if someone else (i.e. the Victoria's Secret
S
model
S
) found another claim check and beat me to it?

2). What if I had to pay something for the cost of the repair? And I'd have to turn to prostitution to earn a quick buck to get the boot, and do they even have hookers in Burbank?

At 9:00 on the dot, the door opened from inside with a little chime ringing. So old timey, it was actually kind of comforting in a grandparenty kind of way. But the shoe repair dude was hardly grandpaternal.

“Vat do you vant?” the old man growled with a mean, thick German accent like he was ordered from Central Casting. Um… maybe he was?

“I'm picking up my fiancé's boot. Here…” I handed him the claim check.

I had my lines all ready to go in this scripted scene. Like, “Oh really? He told me he already paid for it. See, I ran here quickly to pick it up for him, and left my wallet at home. Can you just call him for his credit card number?” And then I'd watch as he dialed the number he had taken down with the order, and BAM! I'd have Mr. WTF's number. GAME OVER!

But it went off script the minute I handed him the claim check.

“Oh, you. Oh, him. No boot here.”

WHAT?! My heart sank, and I almost cried, as if the man with the mean accent were really my grandfather and would sweep me up in a hug, telling me everything was OK, and hand me a Pfeffernüsse cookie. Did that damn lingerie model
S
beat me to the damn boot?

Before I broke down completely, either weeping tears of defeat, or ranting like a mad girl pushed over the edge, Herr Shoe Repair barked, “This is vat the claim check is for.” And look at what he handed me. For reals!!!!

Gee. So helpful. NOT. I KNOW I'm on a hunt. I KNOW I'm looking for clues. I KNOW I'm rocking, detective-style. How is a magnifying glass going to help? And what's next, a Sherlock Holmes double-brimmed hat and curly pipe? Or maybe I'm supposed to get some twigs and leaves, go out in the sun, start a fire with the magnifying glass, like I never learned to do when I wasn't a Girl Scout, and send smoke signals spelling out, “Here I am, Mr. WTF. In Burbank. Except you know exactly where I am so come and fucking get me already!”

“That's it?” I asked the shoe man. “No message? Nothing else?”

He just shook his head and shrugged so vehemently, he would either need a cranial adjustment or to be recast.

“Can you at least tell me who left this for me?”

Again with the shrug-shake. Not wanting to fan the flames of his whiplash fire, I just thanked him and left with my magnifying glass. As I walked outside baffled and pondering, I put on my helmet and got on my scooter. But something stopped me. Maybe the magnifying glass was supposed to make me look closer. Maybe there was something else there for me to find.

I looked around and saw a food truck parked in front of the shoe repair shop.
DELHICATESSEN—Jewish-Indian Street Noshes
. Clever and unusual, for sure. Suspicious? Not so much—there are food trucks all over L.A. Other than that, there were a few cars, an older woman walking her dog (or the dog walking her, BEEN THERE!), and nothing else that really stood out.

So I started looking through the magnifying glass. On the streets and the sidewalk. I never realized how sparkly the streets here are. Like they put glitter in the asphalt to add an extra Hollywood allure. I saw leaves and bugs and fluorescent-orange spray paint with arrows pointing to phone poles. I saw imprints in cement (The Underground Const. Co. 1927), and a whole alternate universe of things I never noticed before, or ever would have. I continued examining as I walked toward the back of the shop. Grass growing in cement cracks, a penny, a worm. I was so busy focusing on the small stuff, that I almost missed the big stuff. I mean REALLY BIG. Parked right there on the street.

What did it all mean? Something about perspective? Sometimes things can be so big and right in front of us that we don't see them? Or so small and tiny that we need to pay closer attention?

Then I noticed something next to the boot car.

Ah. Excellent advice. Too damn often I am thinking about what's ahead; the rest of the time, the past. Maybe focusing on the moment was exactly what I needed to do to solve this hunt and find my future husband. OOPS.

Uh, hello there, street artist—couldn't you have spray-painted another stencil with instructions on HOW TO?

DAY 4—NIGHT

While I fully expected Malcolm to have a bitch fit when I came to work late, he actually shocked me by first asking how my tooth was, before telling me a decidedly unfunny joke involving a man on skis with an erection. How is it even possible that he hired such brilliant writers for
Bridalville
, yet almost every word out of his own mouth is hacky and inane?

Work dragged on like a day full of football game slo-mo replays. Especially once Coco left early to help Mark at the gallery (aka gynecological exam appointment to Malcolm). Once I finally got home, it was time to get ready for Mark's opening.

I decided the night called for some new nail art, specifically a shout-out to the art-boy's kick-ass photography. So an hour later, this was the result:

Of course that meant I was running late to meet Coco, and OF COURSE the Slacktress had commandeered the bathroom. Can it really take twenty-five minutes to blow-dry your hair? Seriously, unless you're the Woman with the World's Longest Hair who hasn't cut her locks since 1962, and your hair is like eighteen feet long. Why would she need an hour in the bathroom, especially when I was late and waiting to shower?

Well, it gave me a chance to FaceTime Cooper. And I wasn't about to let him not answer so I pretexted:

I didn't know what “else” could possibly be threatening, so I left it vague, and hit his number. My veiled threat worked as Cooper actually answered.

“Hey.”

“Yo, Bro. Really????? Selling pot? Getting busted? What the hell is going on?”

Cooper was curled up on his bed, per usual. He looked like a little baby boy, his soft, wavy hair all messy. So what he said was even more startling.

“I got a girl pregnant. And I was trying to get $500.00 to get her an abortion.”

“WHAT?!?!?! Are you fucking kidding me?!?!” I was so shocked that I think I went blind for a few seconds. “You didn't use a condom? What is wrong with you?”

“Back off, Mags. I don't need you to beat me up. I'm doing that enough myself.”

OH. MY. GOD. I didn't know what to do with any of this.

“I'm sorry, I'm just freaking out here. Have you really thought this through? An abortion is a big decision that could haunt you both for life.”

“It's all I've been thinking about.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked. “Why didn't you let me find a way to help you get the money before you did something crazy and illegal?”

He just sighed, his eyes welling up making him look even younger than he just did.

“Fuck. Does Narcie know about the pregnancy?”

“No way. And don't tell her. You promise?”

“Of course I won't. Damn. Why couldn't you build some websites for money? You can do that in your sleep. Or dress like a Subway sandwich and hand out coupons, for fuck's sake? Selling pot?!?!”

“Well, it's not like I sold it to kids at school and all. I got busted dealing to some old lady at Grandma Dotty's senior living complex.”

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!?”

He shrugged. “She told me her neighbor needed it for some eye thing.”

“Oh, this is rich. Well, of course she'll tell Mom.”

“I don't think she even knows. She was in an aqua aerobics class when it happened. And even if she did find out, she can't remember anything so she's probably already forgotten.”

Grandma Dotty, drug lord. It just kept getting weirder by the moment.

Then Cooper sat up, looked into the camera, and said, “I'm scared, Mags.”

I was too. But I needed to be strong for him. “We're gonna figure this out.”

“And I still don't have the money for the abortion and neither does Velocity.”

“Velocity?”

“That's the name of the girl.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Just then Boo and Toupee started barking. S.H.A.R.I. barged into my room, hair fully blown, but wearing just a small towel wrapped around her—it could have been a washcloth.

“Maggie, can I borrow—”

“NOT NOW!! GET OUT!!!” I screamed.

Of course she did just the opposite and came over to see what I was doing. She saw Cooper on my phone and waved a flirty wave. Then even put her finger in her mouth suggestively. REALLY?! To my seventeen-year-old brother?! “PLEASE?!” I added.

She left and I turned my focus back to the phone.

“Wow, I didn't know your roommate was so smokin',” Cooper said.

“Enough. Look at what your hormones already got you into. I'll think of something and call you later.”