“Still,” she says, stacking our empty plates. “I’m going to bring him a pastry.”
I take the plates out of her hands. “You’re the best girl in the world. I got these. Go buy muffins and call your sister.”
She gives me a grateful smile that I don’t really deserve and picks up her bag. “See you in fifteen.”
When I leave the coffee shop, I head straight for the florist on the corner. The same surly woman is behind the counter again. “You’re back,” she says. “Does that mean it’s going well?”
“Uh,” I say stupidly. But the question catches me off guard. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
She cackles, but I’m not joking. Heidi is fantastic. I care for her a hell of a lot more than I ever planned to. But I don’t know how to navigate my own drama. And I sure as hell don’t want to drag her down with me.
“Page four, I think.” She flips open her book. “This one here is for fighting over nothing.” She taps a multicolored arrangement. “Does that fit?”
“Not exactly. What kind of flower says—I’m sorry I’m trapped inside my own dumb head?”
“Hmm.” She squints at me. “I’m going to do up some poppies and draping ivy. It will look smashing.”
“Thank you.” I slap my credit card down on the counter.
“But it won’t do the trick,” she adds.
“What? You’re the master of floral expressions. It says so right on that wall!” I point.
“I am,” she agrees. “But you look like a smart man. Or at least not the stupidest one I’ve ever met. So you probably already know that spilling your guts is the only fix for what ails ya.”
Suddenly I don’t even want the fucking flowers. I just want to punch something. Because if I open my mouth to spill my guts, nothing but darkness will come out. How does that help?
Wisely, she picks up my credit card and walks toward the cooler, while I stand here feeling empty. “It’s all up to you,” she says, plucking out a gorgeous pot of red poppies and turning toward her workspace. “The next time you’re in my shop, you could be a page one again. Or a page thirteen.”
I hate that she’s right.
Five minutes later I sign the slip in silence. The flowers are stunning, as she’d promised. “Thanks,” I grunt, picking them up.
“You’re welcome,” she says cheerfully. “Come back any time.”
I wonder if I will.
34
Heidi
In the corner of the dressing room, I hurry to lace up my skates before everyone else. With shaking hands, I pop the microphone Rebecca gave me into my phone and set it to record.
This is it. I’m going to record Randy Cavanaugh’s sins and fix his fate for good.
It’s only a practice, not a game. But all the other girls are still fixing their makeup. I tuck my phone into a Brooklyn sweatshirt I borrowed from Jason—it’s roomy, so the phone doesn’t show in the pocket—and I hurry out of the cramped dressing room and down the hall.
Randy Cavanaugh is right outside the stadium door, smoking a cigarette. I’m feeling very James Bond as I step outside to talk to him. “There you are,” I say in a breathless voice. “It’s time we talk about my dance-team audition.”
He blows smoke out of his greasy nose, and I try to smile through my horror.
“You’re a fine skater, Heidi. Haven’t had to fire you yet. But I got a million girls who can dance. Auditions aren’t until spring.”
“Just give me a chance,” I beg.
“You want special treatment, huh? You have the look of the kind of girl who thinks the world should fall at her feet.”
“Maybe I am that kind of girl,” I agree, trying to keep the conversation going. “If I don’t expect a lot, then how am I going to get it?”
He actually rolls his eyes before taking another puff on his cancer stick. Apparently he’s unimpressed by girls who show initiative. But I already know this about Cavanaugh. He likes girls he can push around. The ones who never make a wish list. He wants the girls who don’t even know they should make one and keep dreaming big.
After this I’m going to go home and add a dozen things to mine. Just for therapy.
“Maybe you’d be a great addition to the dance team,” he says finally. “Imma leave it up to you to convince me.”
Here we go! “And how am I going to do that?” I give him my most innocent face.
“I’ll leave it up to your imagination. Here’s my private number.” He pulls a card out of his jeans pocket. “You want to meet up and talk about it, you can come over tonight.”
“What are we going to talk about?” I try. “You should see me dance, maybe.”
He throws the cigarette on the ground, cementing my fine impression of him. “Yeah, okay. Wear something sexy.”
“Like what?” I just need him to say one really crude thing. “Look, I study to get an A. Tell me what it takes.”
He sizes me up, as if trying to decide how much he’s willing to say. I have goosebumps everywhere, and I hope I don’t look as creeped out as I feel.
“Look. I dunno if you’re cut out for the dance team. My favorite auditions are the ones with no clothes at all. You call me if you think you might want to try out.”
“Okay,” I say quickly. Now I’m fighting a smile. I may be a terrible actress, but I have just won this war.
“Now get inside,” he says. “Let’s clean some motherfucking ice.” He steps past me, opens the rear door and disappears inside.
After practice, I find a voicemail on my phone from Rebecca. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she says.
That sounds a little ominous. On the other hand I have something to tell her, too! I race from the stadium to the Bruisers headquarters to share my Randy Cavanaugh data. I’ve got seven different temperature readings to document the unsafe work conditions. And I’ve got Randy on tape asking for sex. I’ve taken photographs of girls standing on the freezing sidewalk without their jackets, and I have a list of skeevy things Randy has said to us in the dressing room.
I documented all of it. And I can’t wait to find the owner and share it all.
Unfortunately, there’s a press conference that’s just finishing up, so the building is full of strangers. I’d forgotten that today was the day Bayer officially announced his retirement. Rebecca may be tied up, but I have to check.
I skid to a stop in front of Rebecca’s old desk in the outer office where the temp still sits. Same girl. Although a few details have changed. Disgust rises up inside me as I notice the framed photograph of a cat on her desk and the Brooklyn teddy bear on the ledge behind her.
The temp is making this space her own! She’s moving in on my territory. “Hi,” I say, although it comes out sounding surly. “Is Becca in there?” I jerk my thumb toward the office door.
“No luck,” the girl says with a jolly smile.
I feel the irrational urge to slap her. What is with me lately? First the fish, and now this.
“Let me just see if I can track her down, Heidi Jo.”
She even knows my name, and that just upsets me more. It should be me sitting at that desk memorizing everyone’s name! I’m good at it, too!
Then I die a little inside. Because the temp picks up her phone to summon Rebecca. And it’s a Katt phone. Only permanent members of the organization get those. The temp is no longer a temp.
I am filled with grief and rage.
Spinning on my heel, I march away, leaving the temp behind.
“Heidi Jo!” the young woman calls.
I ignore her. I must find Becca. It’s already too late, but I’m going to plead my case. Mama always said not to deliver a sermon in the heat of passion, but I’m going to do it anyway.
Or I’m going to try. But Rebecca is not in the press room at the end of the hall. So I poke my head into every office down the row. She’s not in the travel department. She’s not in marketing.
The last place I look is publicity. I stick my head around Georgia’s partially open door, and there’s a woman standing there by Georgia’s desk. It’s not Becca, but…
I do a double-take. It’s Miranda Wager, the journalist. Her phone is lit up in her hand. And she’s alone.