Roll with the Punches (8 page)

But Reynard Jackson wasn’t inept. Could he be an industry professional? Or one of those myriad agents and editors I'd given a packet to? Or Marcella Anderson, an agent who'd asked for the whole manuscript back in April?

The little man grinned and flipped to the hardest section of the book. It said:
SUE'S STOUT GRAIN
. Silvery blue with threads of green, red, gold and purple running through. Like Ladrona Beach at twilight. I scribbled the letters in the margin.

"Yep.
Gratuitousness
," I said, and he clapped.

But my stomach was sinking. Reynard Jackson had taken my manuscript gratuitously, in both senses of the word: unjustifiably
and
without payment. Who
was
he? Who'd had access to my book? Mom and Dad's guests? Oh, God. Any garbage man or trash sifter in the county could have found an old copy. Wait. What about Yvette? If there was a God, it was her, but how could I prove it? I'd have to find out who in the writing group knew her, or if she had garbage man connections.

"Damn!" I slammed the book closed, making the little guy jump back. “Oh, sorry. Hope your wife gets better. I gotta go.”

I needed action. I needed a skate. No. I needed a good scream at the beach.
Music Man in his chair and Mom were both flaked out, mouths slack, hands limp. They were safe here and could spare me for an hour. So I ran out of the room, down the hall, and out to the hospital parking lot.

*
      
*
      
*

Coiffed Moms with air conditioned vans gawked as I sailed by them down the 5 freeway in my Honda Civic with the broken air conditioning and rattling undercarriage, yelling my lungs out, flailing my arm out the open window, looking like Joe Cocker in concert. My hair whipped around my eyes and mouth in the hot Santa Ana winds that swooped down off the Great Basin that day just to add a little hot edge to our bland Southern California existence.

Post-Joe Cocker attack, my mind was a snake pit of what-ifs and whys and hows about both Dad and my book as the car seemed to steer itself onto the 55 south toward the ocean. I probably should have stayed back at the hospital, but the sand, the long swath of blue water, and views of Catalina Island called me like sirens. The ocean had been my best personal solace ever since at age seven, furious at my mother for some injustice, I'd written my first short story about whales spouting off Ladrona Beach, or Thieves' Cove, tucked in between Laguna Beach and Crystal Cove. Today, I just hoped the waves off Balboa Pier would belch up a clue or two to my plight.

My new cell phone, donated by Monica when she'd left, vibrated in the seat beside me. Hmm. Ten new messages, and Monica'd taken the secrets of message retrieval with her to Sydney.

"What," I snarled into it.

"Hey, Dragon Lady. You wanna skate in the park tonight?" Harley said.

"No," I said. My fantasies of roller victory from yesterday had been so stupid.

"You're a drag, lady.”

"Come on, Harley. No puns. I'm on overwhelm here with the book thing and Dad." I filled her in about Dad. "So you see my problem? In short order, I have to settle Music Man somewhere quick or find some saint to come and live with him. And Ralston House probably sent out a
NOT WANTED
poster about him to all the other senior homes. Then today, the hospital nurse told me there's no way my mother's going to Sydney. In fact, she won't come home for three weeks. What do I do?"

"Send Music Man off to Sydney on his own. Let Monica deal with him," Harley said.

"Are you kidding? He'd get lost in the airplane bathroom without my mother. He's the captain, and she's the navigator."

"So go with him."

"Um, who’ll pay for the ticket? It’s hundreds of dollars. And I'll get fired."

"Look hon, my folks are only sixty and my grandparents are dead. I don't know from old people." She slurped something into the phone.

"Mom and Dad are not old." My voice rose. "My parents are not
old
! What are you slurping?"

"Soup."

"You are so not. That's an ice cream slurp if I ever heard one."

"I had a salad first, okay? And besides, this chocolate shake had been in the employee freezer too long. It was going to go bad. I had to eat it."

"How long's too long?" It was noon. My stomach pleaded for food.

"Five hours." Another phone slurp. "So—"

"You bought a shake for breakfast?" I started hunting for fast food in the endless mall by the freeway.

"Two-for-one coupon. So what are your options?"

"(A) Come over there and slap you silly and steal your shake or (B) listen to you slurp it." I saw Burger King next to a furniture store. All red letters. No imagination.

"No, about your parents.”

"Hmm. Well, there’s (A) freezing Dad cryogenically, (B) zapping him into outer space along with a TV and the dog, or (C) parking him with a friend so I can work and make daily hospital visits. You game?" I got off the freeway, biting a fingernail.

"Rhonda," she said. "I work."

"It was a joke. If I don't laugh, I'll cry. Or hit someone.”

"Okay, (D) put him at the Hilton.”

"You know my father'd never waste his money on a fancy hotel."

"Oh. I thought we were joking to relieve the ten—"

"You don't do it right. Your timing sucks. And Mom may take months to recover. What do I do?" I wailed, pulling into the Burger King drive-through lane. I muted the phone and barked at the speaker, "A large fries and a chocolate shake.”

Pause.

"Harley!"

"I don't know anything. My timing sucks."

"Oh, crap. I'm sorry, but I'm about to explode here!"

She sulked a few seconds, then said, "Can't the neighbors help?"

I breathed to calm down. "Most of them work all day."

"Even the mothers with little kids?"

"They're scared of him.”

"How about your condo? The guest room?"

I envisioned dad comfy at my condo and savagely bit another fingernail. "(A) He'd rearrange my house while I'm at work and (B) With his bad hip, he can't climb the stairs to the bedrooms. (C) He doesn't fit on the couch. Plus (D) Bing would have to come too, and he'd be over the fence in a minute, despite his bad hips, and pollute the pure line of champion Dalmatians next door. So (E) my neighbor would kill me."

"Then take three weeks off until your mom gets back home.”

"Remember me taking June off? All my vacation time's gone." My voice rose again as I paid the pimply teenager and took my bag of junk food.

"Fine. You figure it out, Miss Crabby."

"Harley!" I pounded the steering wheel. "Help!"

"Okay, then listen. You stay at your folks' house at night, commute to your job, and get someone to stay with him during the day." The voice of reason burped.

"Say
'
excuse me', Brunhilda. And who do I get for days?" I inhaled half the chocolate shake at the thought of moving back in with the folks. Hello, brain freeze.

"I don't know. A college student? Hey, about your book …"

"Look, I'm working on it! Copyright infringement is a mess to prove."

"What if you change it some? Different characters, different story? Then sell it. I always said those characters should end up on the lam in Brazil or something, at each other's throats."

"It's not
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. Besides, why should I change it? I wrote it, and it's already selling big. My book is selling huge. Isn't that a laugh? But how do I, silly little David, fight a big, nasty publishing Goliath for rights to my own work with Dad hanging around my neck? Agghh.”

I got cut off by a Hummer as I merged back on the freeway.

"Looks like you have to, in order to get your good name back."

I growled.

"Come to the park tonight? Skate off the anger? You can pretend you're skating arm in arm at Venice Beach with James-of-the-Dimples, your long hair flying and your tan perfect.”

"I wish, but I'm babysitting Dad." I hung up and shoved more fries in my mouth.

I was just coming off the 55 freeway onto Newport Boulevard when Darya Delhi appeared on the right.

Wait. It was lunchtime.

Oh, my God. I had a date right here, right now, today. Wow. Even in my funk, the universe had led me here just ten minutes late for my date with James. He was inside waiting for me! I completely forgot the folks and turned into the lot, parked the car, and crumpled up fast food wrappings.

"I'm coming, James!" I grabbed my purse off the floor, but it was under my sweater, whose sleeve was snagged on something. Crap. A damned pink sequin on a darling little pink purse. Perfect for any six-year-old Barbie fan. My generous mother would have said Yvette wasn't really mean. She was just the messenger of bad news. After all, her stupid little purse
had
saved my life. And she
had
offered to help me with my manuscript. Like it needed help. And she
had
taken an interest in James. Like he needed that. And she’d completely disdained my father. And almost let me choke to death. And accused me of plagiarism.

I needed her purse out of my car.

And James’s blue, blue eyes and yummy smile were calling me. My legs would not sit still, so I found myself outside the car before I could yank the stupid thing off my sweater. When I finally managed it, a small explosion of pink and white sequins rained down on the asphalt parking space and the car seat, leaving a long, knotted pink thread hanging off the bag, like a scraggly tail. And a newly exposed slice of faux pink leather. A little pink piglet butt.

Now my own roomy, adult purse was made of soft, buttery, leather in rich ivory, gold, russet and deep brown. So I was standing there in the parking lot, trying to tuck the stupid pink piglet tail inside the stupid little butt purse before running into James’s arms and the rest of my sparkling future life, when my own lovely purse fell off my shoulder, making me catch it and drop the stupid pink thing. Swear to God. Which scattered its meager contents everywhere—half in the car and half out.

Hey, it was an accident. Would I willingly have put off meeting James just to pick up the insect's stupid stuff? And her stupid coin purse? I scrambled around and gathered stuff up. There was no cell phone, no tampon, no Kleenex, no condom—Monica’s list of purse essentials. Just a little cash, a tiny key, and some cards. Which I couldn’t help peeking at. Blockbuster. Nail salon. Hair salon. City editor for a newspaper. Publisher. Sex toy store. (Bad image: insectoid sex. Erase, erase, erase.) Driver's license. Hey, she was thirty-seven! A geezer. Way too old for James. Weight: ninety-eight pounds. Reason in itself for insecticide. But didn't being almost double her weight surely double my value over hers as a human being?

I considered jotting down her fancy MasterCard numbers, but mentally slapped myself. Besides, the numbers were all cool blues and greens and purples, and a perfect mirror of my mother's birthday plus my high school locker code plus the Dewey Decimal number for books on famous women. I guess I accidentally memorized them.

No library card. An editor with no library card? Damned suspicious.

I felt around under my front seat and found two more cards: Melinda Rawls, Agent. Reynard Jackson, Author.

Oh. My. God. I sat back down in my driver’s seat, stunned. Jackson's business card in Yvette's purse? With his trademark jaunty, colorful letters dancing annoyingly across the top. Where had she gotten this? Was he British like her? Did she know him, or maybe even
work
for him? The sneak. Pretending she was just one of his readers. Before I got a look at the phone number on it, someone spoke at my open car door.

James said, "Hey, Rhonda! How's your mother?"

My eyes flew up. My hand went to my wind-swept hair. The little pink bag fell to the passenger side floor.

"I was inside and saw you pull up." His gaze lowered to my chest.

I looked down. Okay. A woman's body has a few trick features, among them the boob shelf that's ready to catch any random food stain, and make it into a flashing neon sign saying: "Yes, I eat chocolate ice cream, Chinese food, French fries, fudge sauce, and pasta. I'm a carboholic with no willpower and a messy eater, to boot. Call me Miss Piggy."

So these two round ketchup sauce stains and one big chocolate shake drip stared up now like a big, crooked happy face from the old gray T-shirt I'd thrown on this morning. And oops. I'd spent so long calling doctors that I'd forgotten my bra. And my makeup.

"What's going on?" Yvette's voice called from behind James. "I was just going to show you—"

Could life get any worse?

There she was, standing next to my guy all tidy in a tight tank top, miniskirt, and four-inch heels, holding out a sheaf of typed paper with loopy purple markings all over it. Of all the nerve. A tidy bug with a purple pen had invaded my date! And to cap it off, her chin was purple-ink-stain free.

Bitch.

"Rhonda?" she said. "What are you doing here?"

Normally, I'd have returned the question, but my life hadn't been normal for eighteen hours. I stuttered. Then I spied her purse on the floor of my car and bent sideways, one leg hanging outside the car, still trying to keep eye contact with James while feeling around the car floor, finding everything and tucking it back inside the little bag. The hardest part was zipping it up with one hand. Not working.

"You need help in there?" James asked.

"Wait just a sec." Twisting almost flat onto the seat, I yelled inanities over my shoulder while I finished zipping it up. Finally, I sat up and held the little purse out to Yvette like a bargain basement gift. "Look what I found in the hospital room. Unopened.”

Open mouth, insert foot.

But as I sat up, triumphant, my left foot, still trailing the pavement, kicked something small toward James. He retrieved it.

"Hey, that's Pregnant Plum Lip Smear," Yvette said. "Just like mine."

James smiled at my contortions. "Are you okay?"

Yvette took it. "My purse? With a …tail?" Oops. It had somehow escaped again.

My flushed face went redder.

Sweet James laughed and covered for me. "Rhonda, how's your mother? Can I visit today? I'm nearly done here."