Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I’ll just switch out of this shirt and pull on jeans and a hoodie, then take off. No need to dress up since I’m not actually attending the Dark Futures exhibit. Maeve’s texted the code so I’m good to go. As I head to my suitcase, set neatly by the ratty green couch, there’s a knock on the door.
Hmm. It’s not my place to answer it, but what if Maeve’s expecting something and forgot to tell me? I scurry to the door, setting down my phone to check the peephole. A woman with red hair and freckles flying across her pale skin stands in the hall, frantically bouncing a baby on one hip and balancing a package on the other. And is that a little toddler wandering in bored circles behind her?
“Hey, Maeve. They dropped off your mail for me again,” she says, sounding like sleep has eluded her for a millennia.
Must be her neighbor. I swing open the door.
“Oh. You’re not—”
“I’m Josie. Maeve’s friend,” I say as the baby whimpers. “But let me take that. You look busy,” I say, reaching for the package, then setting it on the table right by the door inside the apartment.
The woman looks down at the baby with a heavy sigh. “She’s hungry. Eats constantly. But I have to go meet her father for a playdate.”
She doesn’t sound thrilled about the playdate. I bet the playdate she really wants is with her pillow. I so get it. My pillow and I are tight.
“Mom, I want an ice cream,” the toddler whines, making airplane arms as he spins in a circle. “Please. Now. Please now.”
“And we’re leaving any second,” she says in that I’m so exhausted but I’m faking it for you voice when her purse slinks down her arm, then careens to the floor in a heap.
Airplane boy seizes his chance and wings out, propelling down the hall toward the wobbly step. Tired Mom is grabbing her purse, so without hesitation, I rush on pink fuzzy feet, lassoing the boy with my arm before he tumbles down a flight of stairs.
Got him!
The mom gasps. “Oh my god. Thank you.”
In seconds she’s next to me, clutching him while thanking me profusely as the baby wails.
Note to self: say no, albeit nicely, when Christian asks me to babysit.
But I don’t share my child-free thoughts with the stranger. Instead, I just smile. “Glad to help.”
On another effusive thank you, the harried mom takes the boy’s hand and heads down the steps. I whirl around, returning to the purple door, which must have fallen closed. I lift a finger to punch in a code…
A code I don’t know.
Since it’s on my phone.
On the other side of the door.
I groan in frustration.
Don’t look now, Josie. But nothing is going your way.
My good luck must have drained down the short shower stall.
Still, there has to be a solution. Every problem has several. I just need to find one. That’s all. I head along the hall, scanning for the mom, peering down the stairs, but she’s already gone. I look back at the apartments on this floor, considering meeting my temporary neighbors. I could knock on doors and ask to borrow a phone.
But I don’t have Maeve’s number memorized anyway. Come to think of it, I don’t even know my brother’s number by rote. Even if I had a borrowed phone, I don’t know who I’d call.
I stare forlornly at B4, wishing the door would magically open. But there’s only one person who can let me back into this place and she’s at an art gallery at 814 Hayes Street.
I glance down at my getting-ready outfit. A baggy T-shirt that hits me at the scraped knees and my pink fuzzy slippers.
Great. Just great.
But I shrug. Desperate times call for do-it-yourself measures. I undo Greta’s scarf from my hair, tie it around my waist, and turn my shirt into a not-at-all-fashionable T-shirt dress.
Then, chin up, I venture forth into the wilds of the city on my slippered feet without a phone.
Or even a bra.
2
MY PLUS-ONE
Wesley
I know what’s coming before my dad even asks.
“Yes, Dad, I had the high-protein jerk chicken breast with quinoa and lime cucumber salad for lunch,” I say to him on the phone as I stride through the sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen of my townhome in Pacific Heights, the black plates washed clean from the lunch he made sure the meal planner prepped and sent over to me.
“Good. Because it’s a recovery day and tomorrow you’ll have—”
Does he actually have the meal plan memorized? Wait. Stupid question. Of course he does. And so do I, since I knew this was coming too. I had my phone’s text-to-speech app read the meal plan out loud till I learned it by heart. “The chicken and squash bowl.”
“You got it,” he says, pleased, like I’ve answered the right question in class. “You know what top nutrition leads to.”