Trojan Man

“Shut up, Megan Fox!” I grumble from under the covers.

            “Who?” She sits bolt upright.

            Megan Fox barks again.

            I pretend to fall back asleep.

            “Who were you talking to just now?” She’s onto me.

            I poke my head out from beneath the sheets. It’s too early for dumb girl drama.

            “Megan Fox,” I repeat. “She’s a super-hot actress. That’s also the name of my dog.”

            She laughs. At least, I think she’s laughing. She could be cackling or shrieking too. Maybe that’s what she thinks laughter sounds like. Someone should set her straight.

            She falls back onto the bed and sprawls out, like she’s about to make snow angels with my sheets. I scoot all the way to the edge of my side, hoping maybe she’ll get the message.

            She doesn’t.

            I sigh. Since she doesn’t appear to be leaving any time soon, I figure I should probably get some work done.

            “How was it?”

            She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. “Amazing.”

            I wrinkle my nose. No one likes an exaggerator, and, truthfully, that wasn’t my best work. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to be more honest than that.”

            She rolls over on her side to face me. I take this chance to reclaim some of my territory on the bed. “I am being honest.”

            I dedicate my every ounce of strength into not rolling my eyes. “Praise doesn’t help me. I know I’m good. I need criticisms.”

            She blinks a few times and then frowns. “Your rhythm was a little off, I guess?”

            Super. I love it when people answer my questions with other questions and not answers. “Can you expand on that?”

            “I don’t really feel like—”

            I close my eyes and hold my hand up to make her stop talking. “Too fast? Too slow? Give me something here.”

            She sits there with her mouth open a while before saying anything. I think she might start leaking drool onto my bed. I really hope she doesn’t. That’s the exact reason I don’t let Megan Fox sleep with me, and I wouldn’t want one bitch getting jealous of the other.

            “Too fast,” she finally comes up with.

            I nod. “That’s a typical comment—”

            “Typical?”

            I grit my teeth. I hate being interrupted. “So that was the bare skin with the lubricated—”

            “Are you taking notes?” she demands.

            “Trying to,” I hint.

            “You can’t take notes about it!”

            I set my pen and tablet on my lap and look up. “Well, no, not if you keep interrupting me.”

            Instantly, she’s out of the bed. “I’m leaving.”

            She starts buzzing about the room, picking up her belongings, and I feel the sudden urge to play some ‘90s montage music.

            She moves surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs—she’s only about five feet, and she’s got the narrowest hips I’ve ever seen. That’s actually why I chose her. I didn’t think anything could fit between them.

            I continue jotting notes to avoid further conversation—fair complexion, thin, freckles, red hair…Irish? I look at her again. She’s putting her left shoe on her right foot.

            Megan Fox starts barking again. It sounds like she’s right outside the front door, which means there’s probably somebody standing there for her to bark at. I think it’s Stephan. I look around the room. My client still hasn’t left, but I can’t keep Stephan waiting.

            I leave her in the bedroom and stumble to the door, pulling some clothes on along the way.

            “Hey Stephan,” I say, opening the door.

            “Does it bite?” he asks, motioning toward Megan Fox, who is snarling at him, teeth bared.

            “Nah, she just makes a lot of noise.”

             I reach over and scratch her behind the ears. She loosens up a bit and wags her tail. Stephan stealthily slips past me into the house.

            He has the usual large brown box, which means two really good things: I still have a job, and they’ve finally listened to me about my mailing concerns.

            Fred, my mailman, is a giant pain in the ass. He likes to sort my mail. Bills go on top. Then letters. Followed by magazines and catalogues. Ads are always on the bottom. I think he just does it to leaf through my mail, which is a little bit illegal—right? But packages are the worst. They require him to come all the way up to my front door and knock. And then demand my signature. Every single package.

            Once he’s got me trapped on the front porch, he takes the opportunity to say where the package came from loud enough so that all the neighbors can hear.

            Believe it or not, Fred, I can read shipping labels. I know where these boxes are coming from.

            I tried not answering the door, but instead of leaving the packages on the doorstep, he kept them until I finally gave in and signed. Those packages were necessary for me to continue my work, so I did what I had to do. I got a German Shepherd: the mailman’s worst enemy.

            She’s big.

            She’s ferocious.

            She drools.

            It’s a deadly combination.

            So why did Fred continue to pester me with useless, embarrassing small talk? Because he’s got balls of steel. And that makes me think I bought a giant, barking dog for nothing.

            On the bright side, my months of complaining finally paid off when Stephan agreed to deliver the packages to me himself.

            “So, what’d you bring me?” I ask him as I close the door.

            He sits down on the couch and opens the box to reveal 125 brand new boxes of condoms. I plop down next to him and pick one up to read the label, just as my client is making her way to the living room. She looks at Stephan. She looks at me. Then, she looks at the huge pile of condom boxes between us.

            “Disgusting,” she says and strides out of the house.

            We are silent for a moment.

            “She reminds me of Wilma Flintstone,” Stephan says after a while.

            “She reminds me of an idiot.”

            He nods slightly in agreement. Then he turns his attention back to the box in my hand. “These are the Ultra Thins,” he explains. “They’re forty percent thinner.”

            I frown, looking at the packaging more closely. “Didn’t I test these already? I thought they hit the market last September.”

            He looks away and shifts his weight from one side to the other. “There was a problem.”

            My head snaps up. “What kind of problem?”

            “We may be facing a lawsuit.”

            “A lawsuit? For what?”

            “Discrimination.”

            I give him a blank look.

            “We’ve had eight extremely similar complaints filed about breaking condoms, five of which resulted in an unwanted pregnancy. It’s starting to look like we don’t account for all types of females in our sample group.”

            I rack my brain, trying to think of what kind of girl I haven’t slept with yet. Nothing comes to mind.

            “The obese.”

            “Fat chicks?”

            “The obese,” Stephan repeats. “All claims filed have been from couples with an obese female. We’re being accused of discrimination on the premise that the Ultra Thins are ineffective exclusively on the obese.”

            “But I did include one in that sample group!” I retrieve my notebook from the bedroom. “Look, it’s right here, on July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”

            He reads over my notes. “You weighed her?”

            “I’m good at guessing.”

            He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Regardless, one sample isn’t going to be enough evidence in court. We’ve got about three months to get prepared, so you have until then to do as much research as you can.”

            “What if it’s not the girls?”

            He waves his hand. “I’ve got men of all shapes and sizes helping us out on this one. Consequently, we have to compensate them too, so your pay’s going to be a little bit lower than usual.”

            I cringe. “How much?”

            He avoids my eye. “I’ll get back to you with that.”

*          *          *

            “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, while signaling the bartender to bring me a martini.

            She gives me the once-over and scoffs. “You don’t think I’m onto you?”

            That’s an unusual reaction. I evaluate my appearance in my head. Business casual (complete with ironed button-down shirt and slacks), fresh haircut (but not too fresh—about a week old, to escape that “too-neat” look), and that new cologne I just bought (Lacoste). The usual.

            Maybe that’s not what heavy girls are into. I rethink my strategy.

            “Can I buy you something to eat?”

            She narrows her eyes and sits down slowly, just as the bartender arrives with the drink. “Alright.”

            I hand it to her, unsure of how to begin the conversation. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

            She raises her eyebrows. “This is a nice place.”

            Like I said…

            I quickly push that thought out of my head and instead say, “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

            “So you come here often?”

            I shrug. “I know some of the regulars around here.”

            “Oh, I bet you know the regulars really well,” she says into her drink.

            Bitch.

            “Do you want to order?” I abandon all traces of friendliness and focus on getting her the hell away from me. I don’t usually have to make conversations with my clients, unless I count the occasional “Do you like that?”

            “What’s your name?” she asks.

            Cool. That’s a great answer.

            “What’s yours?” I counter. I don’t like to give information unless I get it in return.

            “I asked you first.”

            Touché. “Lucas.”

            “Nicole.”

            “Well, Nicole, would you like to order?”

            “Why do you keep pushing the food?” She turns to face me.

            More not-answers.

            “Hello?” she demands.

            She’s looking me right in the eyes, waiting for an answer. I fidget slightly in my seat and look away from her impatient gaze.

            “Because I thought you might like to eat?” Oh, shit. Now I’m answering with questions.

            She glares at me. Does she hate that characteristic too? Maybe she’s not that bad. “Is that a fat joke?”

            Bitch squared.

            “It’s an observation. Most people like food, wouldn’t you agree?”

            She is momentarily pacified.

            “I think you need some hard liquor,” I tell her.

            “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

            “No, you look like someone who needs some hard liquor. You’re so sensitive. You need to lighten up.”

            “You look like someone who gets girls drunk and then takes them home, fucks them, and feels pleased with yourself afterwards because they had a drunken orgasm.”

            Wow. Bitch times infinity.

            I look around the room, seeing if there are any other possible targets for me to pursue. Negative. From my seat at the bar, I can see into the dining section of the restaurant. It’s pretty much empty, except for a few couples who are gazing into each other’s eyes in the shitty lighting. Holding back my condescending scoffs, I inconspicuously turn my attention back to the more familiar bar.

            There are a few women chatting on the other side of the room. Girls always have to sit on the couches, which means I have to walk all the way over there to even start interviewing. I much prefer the seats near the alcohol. Here, the brightest lights in the entire building shine upon the circular bar, glinting off the tower of vibrant glass bottles, making me feel like the only one worth paying attention to. Besides, I look better in bright light, and the ladies don’t trust a man they can’t see.

            The girls on the couches look (and sound) totally wasted. I try to tell myself that I don’t want to deal with unnecessary giggling, nasty girl throw up, and vapid childhood secrets, but it’s so hard when they all have such awesome bodies. There’s a Latina-looking one nestled in the corner, looking at me with inebriated, but fiery eyes. How long has it been since I was last with a Latina? Her waist is about half of Nicole’s. Why are all the girls who come here so skinny? I miss skinny girls. This one is a lot more difficult than I assumed. I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly. Judging by her appearance, it’s going to take a lot of alcohol to get her to even consider coming to bed. Maybe I should just abandon ship. I look at my watch discreetly. Shit. There’s no way I’m going to find anyone else this late. I look back up at Nicole, who is still scolding me.

            “—and if you had to deal with all the assholes I deal with, you’d be sensitive too, so shut your damn mouth!”

            She ends her tirade, breathing heavily. I slide my credit card across the counter to the bartender, sensing that our date is just about over.

            “I hate food,” she says.

            She had me fooled.

            “I’m around food all day. And where do I come to escape? A restaurant.”

            “You could go clubbing?” I suggest.

            She glares at me.

            “The park?”

            Her eyes are reduced to slits.

            “Excuse me, sir?” The bartender interrupts me right as I’m about to suggest the gym.

            “What’s up?” I ask him, glad to take my focus away from Nicole’s laser scowls. I felt like my face was about to melt—like she had heat vision or something. I wish I had heat vision.

            “Your card’s been declined.”

            “I don’t suppose you’d mind picking this one up?” I ask Nicole while looking at my hands in my lap.

            When she doesn’t say anything, I muster the courage to steal a peek at her expression.

            Daggers.

*          *          *

            The mail slot in my front door opens. I see Fred slide the envelopes inside, and then I see his beady little eyes peering through the slot. I parked my car around the corner just so that he would think I wasn’t home. Apparently that wasn’t enough.

            I hold my breath from my position underneath the dining room table, and wait for the slot to squeak closed and for the footsteps to recede. The other day Fred caught me while I was playing fetch with Megan Fox outside. He announced to the whole block that he hadn’t seen that usual brown box from Trojan Man lately. I threw the tennis ball at him on accident.

            I hear him start the mail truck, but I wait a few minutes, just to make sure he doesn’t come back. Then I scamper out from under the table and make a lunge for the top of the pile.

            My bank statement is on top, where Fred always puts it. I tear open the envelope, and my eyes scan the paper for my balance and let out an inward groan. It seems as though “cutbacks” meant using my wages to pay off my company credit card. I barely have enough money in my account to pay my mortgage.

            I know what this means. No more electricity. No more running water. No more grocery shopping. Just like last time. My job relies on a house—namely a bedroom. As long as I keep the mortgage paid, there’s still hope.

            I pick up the phone and dial Stephan. I figure it might be smart to talk to him before my electricity is cut off.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, man, it’s Lucas. How are you?”

            “What do you want, Lucas?”

            Damn, he saw right through me.

            “Yeah, so, I hate to bother you, but I’m really feeling those cuts to my pay.”

            Stephan sighs. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

            It was worth a try. I fall backwards onto my couch with a heavy thud. “How goes the lawsuit?”

            “I’m up to my eyeballs in legal documents, and I don’t see any way around this except to get the research in.”

            I flinch. I hadn’t had much luck with my research. Fat girls aren’t easy in the least. I still had yet to bring one home, and this is the first time in a while that I have to sleep alone. I don’t like it. I’ve been letting Megan Fox in the bed, just so that there’s something living and breathing lying next to me throughout the night. It seems shorter with someone there to keep me company.

            “Have the other guys reported anything?” I ask.

            “Not yet,” Stephan says. “But what about you? You have more experience than they do. Have you gathered a large sample group yet?”

            I bite my lip. He sounds really desperate. “See, here’s the thing,” I begin. “It’s really hard to get it up when I don’t have food in my system.”

            “I can’t pay you any more than I already am,” Stephan says. “You’re already getting more than the other guys.”

            “But what am I supposed to do about food? This job takes a lot of energy.”

            “Use your good looks?”

            “That’s not the same as money, Stephan,” I snap.

            “It was a joke.”

            “Yeah, well, you suck at jokes,” I grumble.

            “Look, I’ve got to go. Just do what you do with girls, but for food instead of sex, okay?”

            He hangs up.

            I stare at the phone. Stephan must really be stressed out. He never makes jokes.

            I put the phone back where it belongs and think about what I’m going to do for dinner. It must be so easy to be a girl. All you have to do is look pretty, go out, and then wait for someone to buy you food. Totally unfair. I look good. I work out five days a week to look this good. I wear stiff button-down shirts to look this good. I dye my hair a rich auburn to look this good. Girls are suckers for guys with dark hair and blue eyes. Most girls are, anyway. About eighty-two percent my clients said they were.

            Nobody buys me dinner.

            “I really wish I was a girl,” I say to myself. Did I really just say that out loud?

            “I really wish I had heat vision,” I amend a bit louder, just in case anybody was listening.

            My stomach growls something fierce in response. It wakes Megan Fox up.

            I’m jealous of her too. I haven’t bought dog food for her in weeks since I discovered her rooting through other people’s trash. She seems to be doing just fine, although sometimes she gets some wicked gas. That’s worth the saved money, though.

            My stomach protests again. It’s time to weigh my options. I could either pay for my food with my good looks and sweet words, or I could dig through my neighbors’ trash. As if they don’t already think I’m a freak.

            I grab my keys and head out to the nearest Panda Express.

*          *          *

            “Can I take your order?”

            “Are you on the menu?”

            She’s not amused. “Would you like to sample our Beijing Beef?”

            “It’s like you’re speaking the language of love right now. Say more Chinese words.”

            “Order already!”

            “Hurry up!”

            “I’m hungry.”

            She glances at the accumulating line behind me, and then focuses back on me. “Your order, sir?”

            “An order of orange chicken and a side of you,” I say.

            “I’m a lesbian,” she replies.

            “I’m a circus clown.”

            “What?”

            “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was my turn to tell a lie.”

            “She’s not interested!”

            “Get out of the way!”

            “I’m hungry.”

            “Look, sir, can you please just place your order? We’ve got people waiting behind you.”

            “That’s nothing compared to how long I’ve waited for you.”

            She looks thoroughly disturbed. “What do you want?” she hisses. “Free food? Is that what you want?”

            “If that counts as a date,” I say and wink at her.

            She scowls at me. “Here’s some chow mien that’s been sitting under the heat lamp for over two hours,” she says. “It’s yours. Just leave and don’t come back.”

            I snatch the food before she can change her mind. “Thanks for the date, Tiffany,” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the door.

            Something wide and soft blocks my escape. I take a step back. It’s Nicole. Her nametag says, “Store Manager.”

            She has her hands on her hips, and she’s looking a bit like my mother used to when I would bring home my report cards. Except Nicole is younger. And her dirty looks are ten times worse.

            “Excuse me,” I say politely, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.

            “Follow me,” she says and turns toward the back of the restaurant.

            I consider running—I doubt she could catch me—but Tiffany looks as if she’s about to vault the counter and hunt me down if I do. So I follow Nicole instead.

            “Sit,” she says when we reach her office.

            I obey. I can’t see my face, but I imagine it looks something like Megan Fox’s after that one time I caught her peeing in the house. She looked so guilty that I felt bad for yelling at her. Maybe Nicole will take pity on me too.

            “Is this how you make your living?” she sneers.

            I abandon my puppy dog face, since pity is clearly out of the question.

            “Do you just roam around, finding unsuspecting girls to flirt with and get free food from?”

            I want to deny it, but that pretty much sums up my plan. “Just this once,” I say.

            “Really? And that’s why I had to spot you that night at the bar?”

            “I was going to pay, but my credit card was declined!” I sound so lame right now.

            “You’re ridiculous!” She picks up a fortune cookie from the bowl on her desk and chucks it at me.

            “Ouch!” I say.

            “Man up!” she says. “Aren’t assholes immune to pain?” She throws another one at me.

            “My feelings aren’t,” I mutter, attempting to dodge it.

            “You don’t have feelings!” She starts firing at will. I hastily slide out of my chair and hide behind it.

            “Stop it, you crazy bitch! What’s your problem?”

            “You think everyone is in love with you?”

            Really? Even when she’s angry she can’t answer questions correctly?

            “You think every girl wants to sleep with you?”

            “Not you, obviously,” I say over the hail of fortune cookies. “That’s why I stopped hitting on you after the first five minutes.”

            “You think it’s funny to play with people’s emotions?” She ceasefires for a second. “Let’s all hit on the fat chick! Let’s see if we can trick her into thinking we like her!”

            I peek out from one side of the chair. She pelts me with a cookie. I duck back into hiding.

            “Did you ever think that you might have an issue if you bombard the people who hit on you with fortune cookies?”

            “I have an issue with assholes!”

            I take the white napkin from my take-out bag, spear it on a chopstick, and wave it above the chair where she can see it. “If I explain myself, will you stop attacking me with words and fortune cookies?”

            She doesn’t say anything.

            “Please?”

            “Alright,” she accedes.

            I slowly rise from a fetal position on the ground and stand with my hands up. I’m not quite sure about the procedures for this. I turn to face her. Her hands are cookie-free, so I drop my arms to my sides.

            “Well?” she demands.

            “I work for a condom company.”

            She throws a cookie at me.

            “I’m serious! They hire me to test out their different types of condoms on a wide variety of girls and write up full and detailed reports before the products hit the market.”

            She lets out a snort. Which evolves into a giggle. Which evolves into laughter. I feel my cheeks burning red.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “You’re pathetic!” She gasps for air. “A condom company? That’s disgusting!”

            My ears start to get hot. She’s a manager at Panda Express, and she’s calling me pathetic?

            There are tears trickling out of her eyes now. My fists clench. Impulsively, I grab a fortune cookie and prepare to launch it at her. But I refrain, knowing she’d whoop my ass if I begin another battle. Instead, I pulverize the cookie in my hand, crushing it into tiny crumbs. This helps ease some of the fury. I see the fortune poking out. Your most desired wish will come true.

            Greedily, I stuff the debris in my mouth and swallow. How long do these things take to work? I focus what I hope is an intense glare upon the hysterical Nicole.

            One minute.

            Two minutes.

            Six, seven, eight minutes.

            Still no heat vision.

*          *          *

            A jolt of pounding on my walls wakes me up.

            No, wait. That’s somebody at the door.

            I check the time, and roll out of bed to answer it. It’s much too early for Fred, and if I don’t shut Megan Fox up now, I may have another lawsuit on my hands.

            A very round silhouette is planted before my front door. I freeze. Is it Nicole? Did she follow me home after I snuck out of her office? What if she’s back with a fortune cookie cannon?

            Then I remember, she thinks I’m a total loser because I’m an esteemed condom-tester. No, I was the original condom tester. And even with those new hires, no one can do the job like me. I look back at the bedroom, and then with a smug burst of confidence, I whisk the door open.

            It’s a lady with a baby.

            I feel the wall of confidence begin to crumble, starting from my throat and toppling all the way down to my perfectly round ass.

            Her eyes are wide, with dark circles underneath, and her hair is dry and frizzy. It looks so brittle that even the smallest gust of wind might cause it to shatter. The infant is nestled in her soft and fleshy arms, and she doesn’t seem to have lost her baby weight yet.

            “Lucas?”

            Fuck, this lady knows me.

            “It’s Hannah.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Hannah Norris? We hooked up a while ago.” She looks down at the baby, then back at me with a weak smile.

            July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.

            I stare at the baby, wanting to scream and cry at the same time.

            Look Hannah, I want to say, that’s not my baby.

            What do you mean it’s not your baby? He looks just like you.

            No, bitch. That baby is obviously black. How dare you try to pass it off as mine?

            Her tired eyes would scrutinize the infant. He’s definitely white. You’re definitely white, so…

            I would panic. Oh, so now you want to play the race card?

            A burning sensation from my eyes jerks me back into the present. Even in my imagination, I suck at arguing. Fuck, my eyes really hurt—I’ve definitely been staring too long.

            Or maybe that’s the flames building behind my eye sockets, getting ready to erupt in a wild conflagration to engulf and incinerate all my problems from the face of the earth.

            “Lucas? What’s going on?”

            The fragments of that wall of confidence are about to tumble out of my perfectly round ass in a mad rush of—as doctors might refer to it—diarrhea. My jaw is clenched so tight that I can feel my teeth cracking. My eyes have officially stretched as wide as they can.

            The inside of my head sounds like an angry tea kettle as I see her emerge from the bedroom, sheets wrapped around her soft folds like a makeshift toga. Cleofatra, I think, with sudden inspiration. Then I see a fragment of an Ultra Thin Label stuck to her foot and that diarrhea is converted to barf, which conveniently gets caught in my throat. All I can do is watch as she discovers the mother and child hunkered in my doorframe. Then, my glorious success story of a client turns to me.

            “Who’s this?” she demands.

            I swallow the barf. “Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”

*          *          *

            “Lucas? You okay?”

            “Of course I’m okay,” I say into the phone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            “We’ve had quite some bad luck with the other testers. It seems as though they had the same—problem—that you had.” Stephan coughs. My baby-daddy status makes him uncomfortable.

            I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder so that I can use both hands to rummage about in my nightstand. “What was the deal with those condoms?”

            “It turns out the Ultra Thins were too thin. Small amounts of semen could leak out. Did you know the obese are actually more fertile?”

            “You don’t say,” I mutter, finally grabbing hold of my sharpie.

            “Yeah, well the prospect of fatherhood didn’t suit some of those other testers too well. Most of them asked to be transferred to different locations, far away from here. One of them is in our advertising department now; he came up with a slogan yesterday.” Stephan sounds like a teacher who doesn’t know the right way to tell a parent that her child pees in the potted plants.

            “Let’s hear it,” I say, ripping the sheet from my bed.

            “‘Making sure the only mistake you might have is the one lying next to you in the morning.’”

            “Harsh.” I plop down, crisscross applesauce in the middle of my floor, and attempt to write on the sheet. It has those fuzzy balls on it from overuse, so my handwriting looks like a second-grader’s. That might be an improvement.

            “It’s completely mental!” Stephan says. “They’ve all been acting like that. I might have to fire them, which will be difficult, since they’re new fathers.”

            I say nothing, focusing on the more immediate task in front of me.

            “I’m hoping I don’t have to do the same to you,” Stephan adds.

            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say.

            I hear him exhale. “It’ll be just like old times, with you as our senior, and only, tester.”

            I switch the phone to speaker phone and begin to unbutton my shirt.

            “Of course wages won’t be quite the same, since we lost the lawsuit,” he continues.

            I tie the sheet around my neck and leap atop my mattress.

            “Is fatherhood treating you well?” Stephan asks.

            With my cape flowing behind me, I stand naked on the bed, feet solidly planted in a heroic pose. Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at the phone, incinerating it to bits with my heat vision.

            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say to the pile of molten plastic.

My Unfriendly Neighbor

 My unfriendly neighbor is standing outside again. Today, he dons a wife-beater that reveals his bulky, tattooed arms, which are currently folded across his chest. His lips are slightly pursed as he squints in my direction, and he is surrounded by small stacks of cardboard boxes.

He just moved here.

From prison.

            He was required to tell us that he had been an inmate for the past ten years; however, he was not required to tell us why. That scares some of the other neighbors, but not me. He might be able to smell fear.

            He moves his arms so that they are draped over his fence. There’s a particularly gnarly-looking tattoo on his arm of a shark devouring what looks like seaweed, although I could be very wrong. My eyesight is terrible—in fact, I had to cheat on the DMV test because I’m practically blind in one eye, but honestly, they should have a waiting area or something when they administer the test, because I could hear every letter the kid in front of me read. All I had to do was memorize them. I’m a perfectly safe driver, though—except I have to squint to read street signs, kind of how my unfriendly neighbor is squinting at me now, and then I realize I’ve totally been staring this whole time.

            My first instinct is to freeze. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to make eye contact with him. Will he get aggressive? Then I remember I’m inside the house.

            He starts to cross the street.

            But what if his crime was breaking and entering? Although, I feel like the whole philosophy behind that is to do it when nobody’s home. He did get sent to jail, though, so maybe he’s just not very good at it. Wait. Breaking and entering isn’t punishable for ten years. Unless it was breaking and entering to commit murder. No, that’s probably good for more than ten years. Involuntary manslaughter? Battery? Assault? Probably battery.

            Knock, knock.

            Oh, shit. He’s here.

            I consider not answering, but that would be incredibly rude, since he saw me staring at him. I determine that I most certainly am not rude and open the door impulsively. I hope I don’t die.

            He looks angry, but I think that’s just his face.

            “Hello,” I say when he offers no greeting. I’ve already chosen the considerate route, and there’s no sense in changing now.

            He responds by removing the cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it out on my butterfly welcome mat. I think he likes me.

            He begins to study my face in a way that would probably freak out most of my neighbors. I fix my eyes on the tattoo of the shark, only to see it’s eating a scuba diver instead of seaweed. There’s a name on the scuba suit that says “Tony.” I don’t know who Tony is, but I have a feeling I won’t ever be meeting him. Despite all that, I don’t feel scared of my unfriendly neighbor. Except I think I want to run away right now.

            “I talked to your dad today,” he says finally.

            I nod like it’s completely normal business for my father to fraternize with ex-convicts.

            “He said to keep an eye on you,” he continues.

            I flinch. I should’ve known.

Dad’s been fighting me on my own personal security guard for ages. He’s never really had much success—he’s pretty picky. The Sandersons are too deaf. The Walkers are too blind. Bitchy Mindy is too bitchy. The Lincolns aren’t home enough, and the Smiths he just plain doesn’t trust. He gets nervous when it comes to me.

“You’re my daughter, Lissy. I need to protect you.”

That’s how it always started.

“You were never this hard on Susie,” I would grumble.

“You’re my baby.”

He was not thrilled when I moved out. He would stop by once a week for dinner, which I never really minded. But then I caught him interviewing the neighbors.

I held out for three months. Then, at my father’s constant insistence, I finally got a roommate. It was my boyfriend, Garret.

Dad was even less pleased.

We broke up about two weeks ago, though, so I guess Dad’s back to interviewing the neighbors. The only difference this time is he found the one who isn’t afraid of him.

            “So when do you start?” I mutter.

            “I’ll be watching the place,” he says as he walks away. I’m not sure if that was supposed to reassure me or scare me.

*          *          *

            “Dad.” My voice cuts across the line before he gets a chance to say “hello.”

            “Susie?” he asks, even though he knows it’s me.

            “Your other daughter,” I snap.

            “Lissy!” he says with an extreme amount of false joy.

            I don’t reply. He knows what he did.

            “Lissy?” he asks more timidly.

            I keep waiting.

            “Lissy,” he acquiesces. “You know how I feel about you living on your own.”

            “He just moved in!” I say shrilly. I quickly adjust my voice to a more appropriate volume. He could be anywhere. “How do you know you can trust him?”

            “We talked for a little bit,” Dad says. “He’s a great guy. Perfect for the job. Doesn’t like to go out a lot. Tough. Intimidating.”

            “Maybe because he’s a convict!” I explode. Damn, I’ve really got to work on my indoor voice.

            “I know,” Dad says, as though everybody knows my neighbor is a convict. Which they probably do now, as loud as I’ve been talking.

            “So he’s the guy you trust,” I say.

            “Lissy, you’re vulnerable.”

By “vulnerable” he means “single.”

“Dad, I lived by myself for three months before Garret moved in. Nothing happened. This neighborhood is fine, I promise.”

“You don’t have Garret to protect you anymore,” Dad points out.

“I don’t need Garret to protect me! I don’t need anyone to protect me!”

Dad sighs. “I know you’re strong, Lissy, but you look like a seventeen-year-old,” he admits.

“Gee, thanks.”

“You don’t look strong,” he tries again.

My eyes narrow. I know my dad too well for this. “There’s something else.”

“No,” he answers.

“I wasn’t asking.”

He pauses for a second. “You need someone to protect you from Garret.”

“What?”

“He might be one of those obsessive ex-boyfriends, sweetheart. I mean, how well did you really know him?”

“Dad.” I stop to muster the strength it takes to say these words. “He dumped me. Usually the one who does the dumping doesn’t stalk the other person.”

Judging from his silence, Dad is thinking this concept over.

“Dad?”

“I told Will about Garret,” he says suddenly.

“Who?”

“Your neighbor,” he says. “I told him about Garret. I told him to protect you from him.”

“Garret’s not coming back, so I doubt the two will ever meet each other.”

“Unless he tracks Garret down.”

“Did you tell him to?” I demand.

Dad is silent again. He’s not going to talk.

            “How did you know he was an ex-convict?” I ask, changing the subject instead.

            “He told me,” Dad replies.

            “He told you?”

            “He’s required to by law.” Oh, right.

            “I don’t understand why you decided on him. The Smiths wouldn’t have minded.”

            “They’re awfully shifty,” Dad says.

            “They’re pro-gun,” I remind him.

            “This guy knows the criminal mind,” he counters.

            “Do you know what he did?”

            “Sure, I do.”

            “He told you?” I say again, feeling a little hurt. He didn’t tell me, and I thought we were making excellent progress friendship-wise.

            “He wanted to make sure it was okay with me before he started watching you. See, he’s trustworthy. And he thinks like a criminal.”

            “What kind of criminal?” I pursue.

            “I can’t tell you,” Dad replies mysteriously.

            “Does he think like a thief?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            “Does he think like a rapist?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            “Does he think like a murderer?”

            Silence.

            “I have to go.”

*          *          *

            I drum my fingers on the table, just to make some noise, while I wait for her to say something.

            JoJo takes a couple bites of her sandwich and then sets it down. I know the only reason she’s eating is to stop herself from talking. And I know she wants to say something. She’s just afraid to, because we’re in public. I had to choose a public location, though; otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to control herself.

            This is weird. JoJo and I are never quiet for this long. In fact, JoJo and I are never quiet at all. I don’t like it.

            Impatiently, I grab the final bites of her sandwich and stuff them in my mouth. Now she has to talk.

            “You mean he just told you he’s been to jail?” she says at last.

            I exhale. I thought she was going to explode. “He’s required to, federally.”

            “Lissy, he’s a convict. He’s got no regard for the law! No regard for human life! He does what he wants, when he wants. He doesn’t have to answer to anybody! He’s—”

            “JoJo, calm down.”

            “How big did you say his arms were?”

            “They’re about as thick as your Chihuahua.”

            She opens her mouth.

            “The fat one,” I reply before she can ask.

            “Ooh,” she coos with a mischievous smile. “Mama likes a badass.”

            “He’s like forty.”

            “Oh that’s not cute, that’s just creepy.”

            “Anyway, Dad asked him to keep an eye on me.”

            “Is he getting paid?”

            “I don’t know, but Dad sent him after Garret.”

            “Right on!” JoJo says. “I want in on that action. Can you send him after anyone else? Like Bitchy Mindy?”

            I just stare at her.

            “What? You know that’s why I never come over.”

            “Bitchy Mindy’s scared of him. I never see her around anymore.”

            “So can I come over later?”

*          *          *

            My unfriendly neighbor is standing outside again. He’s in his front yard this time, making no effort to conceal the fact that he’s scrutinizing JoJo as she parks her car next to mine. And when JoJo gets out of her car and notices him, she makes no effort to conceal the fact that she’s scrutinizing his arms.

            “You live here, Homes?” he demands, making his way up the driveway.

            Sensing a confrontation, I run outside. JoJo can get pretty sassy if there’s no one to hold her back.

            “She’s staying with me for a while,” I tell him.

            “What’s your name?” he says, ignoring me.

            “Why do you need to know?” she shoots back.

            “JoJo,” I answer quickly. “Her name is JoJo.”

            “You want to repeat that?” he says dangerously.

            “JoJo!” I shout over her response. “It’s short for Josephine, but she doesn’t like the ‘sephine’ part.”

            My unfriendly neighbor yields a bit. “Can I see an ID?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Yes, you can,” I say through my teeth, glaring at JoJo.

            She relents and shows him her license.

            He thoroughly inspects it, then hands it back.

            “You’ve known her a long time?” he asks me.

            “Yes,” I say.

            “I’m sorry,” he says and heads back to his house.

            “Buttlicker,” she mutters at his retreating back.

            “You’ve got to find more mature insults,” I tell her.

            “Fucktard.”

            “Better.”

            We head inside my house, and immediately my cat, Pizzicato, runs away. I throw an accusatory glance at JoJo.

            “What?” she mutters quietly. JoJo’s voice is never quiet. That’s how I know when she’s hiding something.

            “You brought them, didn’t you?”

            She mumbles something incoherently.

            “JoJo,” I say pointedly. “I can’t hear you.”

            “Fine,” she snaps. “I brought the dogs. But I can’t just leave them at home, can I?”

            I run my fingers through my hair. We’ve been over this. “They terrorize my cat. And she’s been through enough lately, don’t you think?

            JoJo stares at me, making her eyes as big as possible. This is her “innocent” face. She almost looks like one of her Chihuahuas—Francis, the ugly one. Immediately, I feel bad for thinking that.

            “At least keep them outside,” I grumble.

            “Thanks, Lis!” she says, and goes outside to fetch her Chihuahuas.

            She comes back, hauling the fatso under one arm and the gremlin under the other. They are yapping incessantly, trying to break JoJo’s hold, so they can track Pitz down. They won’t find her, though. She’s hiding in the bathtub, which is unfamiliar territory to those animals.

            “Say hi to Auntie Lissy, Charles,” she coos to the tubby one. “You too, Francis,” she adds to the ugly one. I roll my eyes and go to shut the bathroom door, just in case.

            “You may release the hounds,” I say.

            She obliges. “How’s Pitz doing?” JoJo asks, much to my surprise.

            “She’s doing better. I don’t have to empty the litter box every day now.”

            “How are you doing?” she asks a bit softer.

            I knew this was coming. “I took all the pictures down last week. There’s nothing left of him anymore.”

            “Good,” she murmurs. “Can we burn them?”

            I laugh. “I threw them in Pitz’s litter box. I think she had the worst end of the deal.”

            “I can’t believe he dumped you and then fed your cat yogurt. Even I know that gives her the shits. What a turdbucket.”

            I raise my eyebrows.

            “Dickhead,” she amends.

            I shrug. “He knew he wouldn’t be around for the aftermath. From me or the cat.”

            “He was scared of you,” she replies.

            “Oh?”

            “Let’s face it, Lis. You’re a hundred times scarier than any piece of cat poop. Especially when you’re mad. You could probably even scare your unfriendly neighbor.”

            “You know why Dad wants him to watch me.”

            “Because you’re living by yourself, and if you don’t have a roommate, then you at least need a bodyguard,” she recites dutifully, as if she’s heard Dad’s lecture as many times as I have.

            “Bingo.”

            “Not anymore!” JoJo says happily, putting her arm around me. “Because I’m moving in! Now you can fill your walls with pictures of me instead. They’ll be much prettier. And good for your feng shui.”

            “He won’t like it,” I tease, nodding my head over towards my unfriendly neighbor’s house.

            She shrugs. “He can suck it.”

            “It doesn’t mean he’s going to stop watching either. Dad wants another man to be around, now that Garret isn’t living here.”

            “Anyone who tries to come after you will have to deal with this vicious monster,” she says, picking up Francis, who looks at me with twitching, bulbous eyes.

            “That face would scare anything off, I’m sure.”

            “Meanie.”

            I scoff.

            “Bitch.”

*          *          *

            “Oh, God,” JoJo says.

            “It’s not that gross,” I say, opening the trash can for her. I told JoJo that she has to help with chores if she’s going to stay with me. Her least favorite is the litter box.

            “Not that,” she says. “That.”

            She points down the street with her chin. Bitchy Mindy is approaching, and she’s five feet and closing.

            “I thought you said that cow doesn’t come out because she’s scared of your neighbor, Homeland Security,” she hisses under her breath.

            Bitchy Mindy is two feet and closing, so I don’t say anything. She hears everything. She has, like, echolocation or something.

            “Heifer,” JoJo offers, mistaking my silence. “But that’s as mature as it gets.”

            “Talking about your mom again?” Bitchy Mindy says by way of greeting.

            “I haven’t seen you around here lately,” I respond loudly, drowning out JoJo’s rebuttal.

            “I haven’t seen Garret around here lately,” she shoots back. “Did he finally meet your father?”

            I don’t reply.

            “I saw him downtown the other day, holding hands with a rather pretty—”

            “Moo!” JoJo suddenly blurts out.

            Both Bitchy Mindy and I look at her in startled confusion.

            “Sorry,” she says, without sounding it. “Just slipped out.”

            “Is everything alright between you two?” she continues.

            “Yes,” I answer. “Except that we broke up.”

            “That must not have felt good,” she says, inspecting her fingernails.

            I frown. “No, it felt great, actually.”

            “Did your father have an issue with him?” she asks, ignoring my comment.

            “Well—”

            “Oh wait, I forgot,” she interrupts. “Your father has a problem with everybody!”

            “He doesn’t have a problem with me.” JoJo shrugs.

            Bitchy Mindy glances up the driveway, where JoJo’s car is parked next to mine. “Already moved in, I see,” she comments. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”

            I glare at Bitchy Mindy, tempted to dump the pan of cat litter on her head, when JoJo nudges me hard in the ribs.

            “Well, hello,” she says in a voice much too happy to be considered natural.

            I follow her glance, past Bitchy Mindy, to see my unfriendly neighbor approaching.

            “You live here, Homes?” he asks her.

            “Homes?” Bitchy Mindy sneers. “This is what happens. You let one ethnic person in the neighborhood, and then more are bound to follow.” She looks me accusingly.

            He ignores her and turns to me instead. “Bitchy Mindy?”

            Mindy gasps and puts her hands on her hips. “I beg your pardon?”

            “Yes, she is Bitchy Mindy,” says JoJo, looking her right in the eyes. “But she also goes by ‘cow’ and ‘heifer’.”

            My unfriendly neighbor looks at Bitchy Mindy for a long time, nods at me and JoJo, and then heads back across the street.

            “Wait,” JoJo calls. “You forgot to get rid of her!”

            I quickly snatch JoJo by the arm and start hauling her up the driveway, leaving Bitchy Mindy on the sidewalk.

            “Nice talking to you,” I say over my shoulder.

            “Moo!” JoJo snorts.

*          *          *

            My unfriendly neighbor is standing outside again. He has a piece of paper in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. He looks surlier than usual.

            “That’s how he always looks,” JoJo disagrees.

He walks up my driveway and stands there for a bit, crinkling the paper in his fist, looking a bit awkward.

JoJo and I are sunbathing in the front yard, which is something we normally do in the backyard, because Bitchy Mindy will make snide remarks if she can see us, and then we feel compelled to go inside and eat ice cream. But she hasn’t been around the past few days. All the curtains are drawn, but her car is still there. I guess as long as she can’t see us, we’re safe. The sun is better in the front yard anyway.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” JoJo asks my unfriendly neighbor.

He stares at her.

“Great,” she responds, picking Charles up. “Will you flex for a sec? I just want to see something.”

She holds the corpulent Chihuahua up by his arms, attempting to compare the two.

His gaze shifts from JoJo to me.

I get the message. “JoJo, go inside,” I tell her.

            Reluctantly, she obeys.

            “There’s been a car that’s been driving by. I’ve seen it more than once,” he says when JoJo is inside the house.

            I frown. “How do you know it’s driving by my house and not the Walkers’?”

            “It stops at your house.”

            I feel my stomach crawling through my throat. “Who is it? Do you know?”

            He unfolds the paper in his hand. It’s a picture of Garret’s car.

            My stomach slides back down to where it belongs, but curiosity replaces it. “Why would Garret drive by my house? He took what he wanted when he left, and JoJo burned everything else.”

            “He’s been dropping these by.” He opens the box to reveal photos of our relationship together. On top is a note that says, “How’s your cat?”

            I take the box from his hand and swallow my feelings. “I’m surprised he’s still alive,” I mutter.

            My unfriendly neighbor says nothing and looks away. I feel a twinge of guilt.

“JoJo and I would like to formally invite you to a bonfire that will be taking place this evening,” I offer.

            “That’s not enough for a good fire,” he says, eyeing the box.

            “Then maybe we’ll put it off until he’s brought everything back,” I mutter bitterly.

            My unfriendly neighbor studies my face again, his expression unreadable.

            “I’ll be by around eight tonight. I’ll bring flammable things.”

*          *          *

            “‘Dear Buttnugget Garret’,” JoJo begins. “‘Remember when I was the best thing that ever happened to you? I have gotten a tattoo of a shark devouring you in a scuba suit, and I have made the tattoo artist draw you extremely fat. I think your teeth are ugly, but I never wanted to tell you because you’re so self-conscious of them, so I told everyone else instead. Now everyone knows about your weird teeth, and they are laughing at you. You’ll be pleased to know the cat got diarrhea from all the yogurt you so childishly fed her, but she went all over your ugly pictures, so nothing important was damaged. Personally, I think they look better this way. Have a good life. Lissy. P.S. My neighbor has your picture. He also has a gun’.”

            I clap as she finishes reading, and she takes a bow.

            “Seriously, Lissy, I think you should actually mail this one.”

            My unfriendly neighbor shakes his head. “You don’t want him to know about me. That makes my job less fun,” he says, handing me another piece of paper from the stack he brought. “And I use knives.”

            We both turn to look at him.

 “I’m joking,” he says gruffly. “I prefer guns. Throw that into the fire with the rest of that garbage.”

            I cheer as JoJo rips her angry letter to Garret into pieces and drops each one into the flames.

            “It looks like our fire is getting low,” he says, poking it with a stick. “Better make this letter a long one.”

            I think for a moment.

            “Dear Bitchy Mindy…”

*          *          *

            “Please, Lissy!” JoJo begs.

            “Absolutely not,” I reply.

            “He’s sick! You’re just going to let him die?”

            She thrusts Charles in my face, trying to round up some pity.

            “If you would’ve kept him outside, like I told you to, he wouldn’t have gotten into Pitz’s food. Again.”

            “I’ll buy you another bag! Just please let me borrow your car so I can take him to the vet.”

            “Why can’t you wait until your car is back from the shop?” I snap.

            “Because the mechanic said it won’t be ready until tomorrow. Please, Lis!”

            I try to give her my best glare, but she already knows I’ll give in. So, I relent. “I expect my car in perfect condition when you return it to me. Perfect.”

            “Thanks, Lis!” she says, as she snatches the keys from me and scrambles out the door.

            “Perfect!” I call after her. But she’s already gone.

            I sigh, plop down on my tacky orange couch, and try not to think about all of the other times I’ve let JoJo borrow my things. Pizzicato crawls up next to me and curls up in my lap. She has almost fallen asleep, when a car pulls into the driveway.

            It doesn’t sound like my car.

            Pitz hisses and runs away, which means it can only be one of two people: JoJo or Garret.

            I peer through the window in that discreet way my unfriendly neighbor taught me. There it is, in the same spot it was parked for the last three years.

            In a panic I quickly dive behind the couch and wait. I want to be completely sure he’s gone, because I don’t trust myself to bawl quietly at the sight of his ’81 Honda, with the peeling green paint and the raggedy interior of the backseat that has a huge rip in it from that first time we—oh, God—it was after we went out to dinner at that fancy Italian place and he forgot to take my heels off and they tore his upholstery because I moved too suddenly when he—

            I hear a door open and slam, but it’s not Garret’s.

            I shoot up from my hiding place, because I have a queasy feeling I know who it is.

            My unfriendly neighbor is standing outside.

            Now he’s striding across the street.

            He has a gun.

            He throws Garret’s car door open.

            He points the gun inside.

            “You live here, Homes?”

The Girls' Bathroom

I race down the landing, leaping down the stairs—three at a time—missing my turn, looping around the group of tables near the window, ricocheting off the wall and into the bathroom.

            My bladder feels like it’s about to explode as I throw open the first stall only to find—someone didn’t flush.

            “REALLY?” I shriek, zipping in and out of the next three stalls, finding the same result.

            I heave my self against the door of the fourth, in the same fashion Coach taught me in Powderpuff practice. It’s—miraculously—pristine.

            After a brief moment of euphoria, I know what I have to do. I jab my hands under the faucet, dry them on my jeans, and swivel around to face the three sullied stalls.

            I give the first one a square kick right in the middle, causing it to fly open, bounce off the wall, and shut itself again. I look around, but there are no witnesses, so I gently push the door open again, and move inside.

            This is disgusting. Who forgets to flush? It should be habit by the time one reaches high school, and yet only two of these five stalls are usable. So it’s up to me, the Magical Flusher—yet again—to make the bathroom a place where five girls can use the toilet at the same time without fear. This is why the line to the girls’ room is always so long. There’re always those few losers who decide not to clean up after themselves and leave a few stalls out of commission. And no other girls can deign to flush unless it’s their own.

            I grimace, as my foot wavers over the flusher—I’ve flushed enough of these to know its technical name. Not only are these girls disgusting, they’re also stupid criminals. They do realize that they have just left a bowl full of DNA for anyone to find them…

            A sort of smile breaks across my face. I could find these girls. I could make them pay. Better yet, I could make them flush.

            But first, I need gloves, tongs, three test tubes, and a different identity. The Pee Detective? The Urine Sleuth? I’ll get to that later.

            I exit the restroom, and creep towards the science building, glaring at each girl who passes me. You could be my culprit.

            Since it’s Tuesday, Mr. Huntington is hosting the Science Bowl in his classroom. He always leaves his clean test tubes outside to dry on sunny days, so I feel free to take a few. Tongs and gloves were going to be a different matter. Every other science teacher was either watching the Science Bowl or too busy not caring, so I had to somehow decide which rooms were locked and which were unlocked. I try Mrs. Jones’ door, and find it unlocked.

She is sitting at her desk, reading Cosmo, clearly not caring about the Science Bowl next door. She finishes reading her article, and then looks up at me, raising her eyebrows. That’s her usual greeting.

“Can I borrow a pair of gloves and some tongs?”

She blinks a few times. “Why?”

I figure I probably shouldn’t lie to a teacher about my detective duties, so I say, “Well, in the bathroom, there’s—”

She shakes her head, crinkles her nose, and flails her hands. “I don’t need to hear anymore. Just take them.”

I grab them out of the supplies cabinet before she can change her mind, and skip back to the bathroom.

The evidence is still there, so I snap on my gloves and prepare to get to work. As soon as I filled the test tubes, researched a DNA testing facility, and got the results back, these girls would be toast.

I hear the bathroom door creak open, and five or six different voices fill the air. I ignore them, locking the stall, and returning to my work.

“Yuck, who forgot to flush?”

“This one is clean, Monique.”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll just flush this one.”

I drop test tube number one in the toilet as I throw open my door.

“Don’t flush that toilet!”

They start at my sudden outburst. Then one says, “Oh, I’m sorry janitor-lady, did you want to do it?”

“It’s evidence,” I explain. “I need to gather a sample from these stalls to find out who’s been neglecting to flush.”

The corners of her mouth tug downwards. “So, you mean we can’t use those stalls? We have to wait here ‘til you’re done?”

“Yes, but in five to ten days, we’ll have an absolute idea of who’s been dirtying our bathrooms and holding up our lines!” I give her a smile and thumbs-up.

“You’re holding up the line,” she says.

I look around the bathroom at the six girls. Some are standing with their arms folded across their chests. Some have their hands on their hips. One is tapping her foot on the damp linoleum.

All of a sudden, two of them leap at me, weaving their arms underneath mine. They hold me with a firm and strong grip, dragging me toward the bathroom stall. The rest of them surround the doorway, as I feel a fistful of fingers in my hair, and my head is thrust closer and closer to the precious evidence.

The Turtle Car

"Why do you have so much junk in your car?" he asks, while nudging a water gun out of the way with his toe.
"It's not junk," I say. "I'm just well-supplied, that's all."
He raises his eyebrows. "When do you ever need any of this stuff?"
"I have a reason for every single thing that's in here," I say, digging through my purse for my keys, hoping he'll drop it.
Instead, he holds up a baseball bat. "Really?"
"It's for if I ever get attacked. Don't you want me to be protected?"
He rolls his eyes. "Yes, it's perfect for all those times you get attacked inside your car."
"Thanks for caring about my safety so much," I grumble, snatching the bat from him and placing it across my lap.
"Is this a bag of Jolly Ranchers?"
"I get hungry," I say and make a grab for the package.
"They're hard candies," he says, withholding it.
"They tide me over," I snap, getting a hold of the bag and tossing it on top of the bat.
He looks me in the eye, cocking his head to one side, pursing his lips.
I stare right back, thrust my chin out and raise my eyebrows.
His eyes narrow, accepting the tacit challenge.
He holds up a jumbo box of crayons. "Hm?"
"I like to draw."
He shrugs and places the box with the Jolly Ranchers.
He brandishes a fuzzy, pink slipper.
"For when I wear new shoes."
He rolls his eyes and throws it at me. Then, he turns and lifts up a hefty pile from my backseat.
"Wine coasters?"
I open my mouth.
"Eyeliner?" he shoots before any sound escapes my throat. "Batteries? A rubber ball? Superglue? Bubbles? Sunscreen? A curling iron?"
He piles each item on my lap.
"Saline solution? Q-tips? A bamboo cane? A whoopie cushion--?"
"Are you going to take inventory on my whole car?" I ask from beneath my supplies.
"Nail polish?" he continues.
I peek out from behind my slipper and stare at him.
"And," he says, bending down, "the water gun?" He smiles, presenting it to me, looking pleased with himself.
I swipe it from him. "That," I reply, locking my arm into a straight and confident position, directly aimed at his face, "is for my enemies."

Asian Girl Problems

"This color would look great on you!" She thrusts the palate of eyeshadow at me.
"No," I say, pushing it away.
Her facial expression snaps from excited to offended, her brows falling to her lids, falling to her pupils. falling to her cheeks, falling to her bottom lip, which sticks out.
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"'No' as in 'I don't want that.'"
Her face further clouds. "You're no fun."
I roll my eyes and exhale slowly. If she likes the dumb eyeshadow so much, why doesn't she buy it? I tell her this.
"Because Lucy." She whirls around to face me. "Because Lucy. My eyes are blue. Yours are brown."
I look at the color spectrum. "Those colors don't go with brown."
Her eyes narrow. "It says right here." She points to a sticker with a brown eyeball on it. "For brown eyes."
"Well, I don't like those colors." I'm out of excuses.
"How can you not like them? They enhance your natural color and bring your eyes to life!" She looks up from the back of the package with a renewed sense of excitement. "You could really use that!"
Gee, thanks. "I don't wear eyeshadow, okay?"
"Exactly! So you don't know how much you'll love it yet." She tosses the box in my shopping bag with an air of finality on the issue.
I remove it as soon as possible, when I think her back is turned.
"I saw that."
I freeze, my hand midway to the rack, hoping she's not referring to my present action.
"Why won't you get the eyeshadow?" she whines. "Why won't you make yourself beautiful?" People are starting to stare.
"I can't wear eyeshadow," I admit through the corner of my mouth, avoiding the pitying glances from fellow customers.
"It's easy. You just swipe the applicator through the powder and brush it on your eyelid."
I grit my teeth. "I know how to put it on. I just can't wear it."
"You're allergic."
"No."
"It gets in your eyes."
This could go on all day. "It creases."
She shrugs. "Just use primer."
I thrust my face into her personal bubble and point to my extremely almond-shaped eyes. "It. Creases."