She extends a hand in greeting. “Tina Chung,” she reports.
I shake. “Lisa Flyte. What can I help you with?”
“I’m here to get a job,” she states. “Can we talk?”
A job? With me? Doing what? I honestly don’t care.
I just desperately need to talk about something other than Jack Hawkins. “Come into the office,” I offer, leading her back.
Tina settles herself into one of the comfy chairs in front of the big part of the L.
“What’s up?” I ask, my gaze drifting to the doorjamb that Jack leaned against just two days ago.
Then Tina surges forward, perching on the edge of the chair, boring into me with this galvanizing intensity. “You want to take some money and make lots more money for RPM. I’m an investment banker. I can do that for you. I got in the 95th percentile on my SATs and my GMAT, graduated third in my class from Boston University and first from the UCLA MBA program. I’ve worked at J.A. Wheeler and Ang for the past eighteen months. I want to retire by the time I’m fifty with enough money to enjoy life to the fullest. To do that, I need more than talent and a good job. I need a platform, a name. Success with RPM can do that for me. I can work for you for four to five years, make you millions of dollars, and get myself the high profile I need. It’s a win-win situation.”
I’m paying attention now. “Is Wheeler and Ang your first job since your MBA?”
“Yes,” Tina answers. “I’ve done excellent work for them, but I’ll never get the recognition I need buried in an investment firm.”
I nod, my head spinning. Her dark hair is so thick and lush I can smell her apple blossom shampoo from here. I’m dying to ask her what brand it is.
“Do you know anything about RPM?” I ask instead.
“Just about everything there is to know,” she assures me. “But I’ll be up front with you, because that is the only way I do business. Helping the poor and the homeless and the downtrodden is not a prime directive in my life.”
She said prime directive, like from RoboCop.
“My parents arrived from Taiwan with nothing,” she continues. “They worked very hard to build a real estate business and make a life for all of us. I believe that hard work and determination can get you the future you want. My goal is to make a name for myself in high finance. To accomplish that, I will need to make truckloads of money for you. Our goals dovetail perfectly. And that,” she says, her sharp eyes gleaming, “is the secret to success. Finding the one who can provide exactly what you need.”
I smile at Tina. “Exactly.”
* * * * *
“Do you see?”
I look over at Ethel. “I, uh, I don’t think so.” I look back at the wooden filing cabinets lining the wall of the dining room. “Don’t you like them?”
“There is no K, Lisa.”
“There’s not?” I blink a few times, trying to find it. “Did you look everywhere?”
Ethel rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, yes, I did. When I didn’t find it between J and L, I looked to see if you put it somewhere else. You didn’t.”
“Daaamn,” I groan, lolling back my head and stamping my foot. How could I lose K? Stupid, stupid letter. “How many drawers are left over after Z?” I ask Ethel.
“Three.”
“Put K in one of them.”
“It won’t be alphabetical.”
“I’ll rearrange all the drawers later tonight and put the brass plate on when I get another one.” As soon as the words are out, I’m wondering how many I’ll have to move. K is in the first half of the alphabet, so I’m looking at pulling out and putting back over thirteen drawers tonight.
She purses her lips, theatrically resigned that this is the best she is going to get.
“Do we have anything to file under K yet?”
“That’s not the point.”
“You’re right,” I say.
The point is that now I’ve got to rearrange a filing cabinet I screwed up in the first place in time to catch a red-eye to Chicago to do some talk show Dolly set up. “Carry on as best you can,” I tell her, then head back to my office. In the hall I see Mal, so I scoop him up and kiss him between his ears.
“Don’t cuss, Derek.” I can hear Tina through the open door. She doesn’t even say the word curse, like the word itself is a bad word. “You sound like Lisa, and she’s the boss.”
“So?” This from Derek who shares the biggest office with Tina. It’s the hunter green master bedroom. Jack painted that room, too.
“So, you’re not the boss.”
“Neither are you, so I’ll friggin’ cuss if I want to.”
But I notice that Derek doesn’t actually curse. Those two are going to end up in bed together, I just know it.
I head to my office with Mal.
“What are you looking so giggly about?” Dolly taps away at the laptop on her small desk in the corner of my office.
I sit down, pushing back to prop my feet on the desk so Mal can stretch out on my lap. “Derek,” I say. “I was so brilliant to hire him. Just as ambitious as Tina, and just as competitive. They’re outdoing each other to see who can make the most money for RPM.”
“Well,” Dolly says, “until they get down and dirty, they have to channel all that sexual energy into something.”
“Dolly!”
“Oh, please. By the way, when does the Christmas special tape?”
My feet thunk to the floor, and Mal darts away. “Don’t you know?” I squeak. “You’re supposed to be my agent!”
“Manager.” She levels me with a haughty look. “Of course I know. But do you know?”
“Oh,” I say, trying to remember what day it is. “Next Thursday?” Total guess. “I have to be at CBS by 5 a.m.,” I add, just to make it sound as if I know what I’m talking about.
“Very good,” she says, clearly impressed. She gets up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Sweetheart, it’s two o’clock.”
Two o’clock? Already? I didn’t even have breakfast yet. “Oh,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”
“Love ya.”
“Love ya back.” Man. How did it get to be afternoon so fast? I have a billion things to do.
I swivel to the computer to catch up on email. Mia will be ticked off if she gets here and I haven’t gone through all she sorted yesterday. I quickly type in my password, realizing that I’m scared of my teenage assistant. Tapping my foot, I click my INBOX.
My foot stops tapping.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: For Lisa
Oh. My. God. Jack has never emailed me. Never ever.
I open the email. But it’s not just one email. I scroll down, starting at the bottom to read through a series of emails between Jack and Mia.
Lisa, this is for you. Jack.
Jeez, it sounds like he’s about to stab me in the throat with a pair of scissors. I look up to the top of the email. There is an attachment. But before looking at it, I continue reading through the exchange between Jack and Mia. Next is Mia.
Is this a hoax? How do I know you’re really Jack Hawkins?
Jack’s reply:
Is this Mia?
Mia:
Yes. And that’s not proof.
Jack:
I helped you and Lisa paint her house. Wash got his tail in the paint, and when it comes to belting out Bonnie Raitt, neither of you can sing worth a damn.
Mia:
Fine. I’ll forward your email to her.
That’s it. I look at the dates and times of the emails. Jack sent the first one at 5:42 a.m. yesterday. Mia replied after school yesterday at 4:15 p.m. Their back and forth finally wrapped up at 5:24 p.m. yesterday.
And Mia never let on. I was in and out of the office yesterday as she sat at her desk organizing the day’s email, but she never said a word.
I look to the top of the screen. The attachment. It’s an MP3. A heartfelt ap
ology from Jack? A snippet about us from some radio show? I can’t imagine.
I get up and close the door to my office. Then I make sure the volume on my computer is low enough that only I’ll be able to hear it. I open the attachment.
With the first riff of guitar strings, I catch my breath. “Joey,” by Concrete Blonde.
The heart-wrenching lyrics rip into me with their desperate struggle to salvage messed-up love.
But we got lucky once before
And I don't wanna close the door
I can scarcely breathe. Is Jack asking me to come back? Again? Is he trying to confess something? Explain something? Or did he just send me a song he thought I’d like? And if so, why? Why why why why why?
The song ends, making it easier to hear my heart pounding.
The silence of the computer makes my skin prickle. Jack sent me a song. Jack sent me a song? Are we in middle school? I slap my hand hard onto the top of my desk, making my palm sting.
I suck on my throbbing flesh. Is he sending me a message in a language he knows I’d appreciate? Does he get points for choosing THE BEST SONG EVER?
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
* * * * *
Two days later and I still don’t know. But I want to know. Ever since Jack sent the first song, I’ve been trolling my inbox like a hungry shark looking for stranded divers. True, getting “Joey” was weird, but somewhat mysterious and powerfully appealing. The next day Jack sent “Only You” by Yaz.
Then “Don't Stop Believin'” by Journey.
Don't stop believing? Don't stop believing what, Jack? What are you trying to say?
I need another song. I open my inbox for the fourth time in the past sixty minutes. And here it is. I breathe for what feels like the first time all day.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Something else for Lisa
And it has an attachment. I open the file. No text, just the attachment. And not an MP3 this time.
A video file.
I click it open.
Dah nah nah nah nuh nuh nah na na na na…
The opening notes trill through the room as the black and white sketch work of the music video unfolds on screen. “Take On Me,” by Ah-ha.
How did Jack know?
I had an Ah-ha poster hanging by my bed all through junior high. Well, all the way up until I went away to college.
Okay, I took it to college but was too embarrassed to hang it up when I saw that all my roommate’s posters were prints of classic art. Cezanne, for cryin’ out loud.
I haven’t seen this video in ages.
I watch it twice through. Okay. Jack is throwing down the gauntlet. He’s asking me again to take him on, to take him back.
I think.
How dare he? He already asked me to take him back in person, and I said NO. Does he think I’m just going to forget the I-said-I-wanted-to-be-your-boyfriend-then-abandoned-you part?
Because of some stupid video?
What kind of life would that be?
Would we date in shameful secret, but he’d take me to a Bruce Springsteen concert to make up for it?
As if!
With Hulk-like rage coursing through my blood, I surf the net, find the song, download it, send it. “Dirty Little Secret” by The All-American Rejects. Take that, Jack!
Wait. What have I done?
I sent Jack a song. We are arguing through songs. Still, pre-teen mating rituals aside, I stare at the monitor, my heart pounding. What will he do? Actually write me an e-mail this time?
Ten minutes and nothing. Good. By the time he sends me something back, if he even bothers, I won’t care anymore. I am a very busy and important person, so tomorrow, this won’t even matter.
CHAPTER 28
I rake through my email again, looking for a message from Jack I might have missed. I scour every folder available.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Noth—
“I knew it!”
I jump out of my chair, my heart lodged in my neck. “Jesus, Mia!”
She puts a cup of Starbucks on my desk and sits across from me. “Any more emails from Jack?” Her eyes positively dance.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I take the lid off my coffee cup and blow on the foam.
“That’s what you’re doing, right? Looking for email from Jack? What’s he been sending you? You never talk about it.”
I take a sip. “Then why are you asking me about it?”
“Because I caught you red-handed, so you can’t deny that you care.”
“Is that why you’ve been bringing me coffee before school? So you could catch me reading email?”
“What does he say?” She’s leaning so far over my desk she’s practically horizontal. “They’re songs, right? From the eighties, I bet.”
I put the cup down and stare at her.
“That’s what I would send if you were mad at me.” Then she just looks at me, still all smiles and bright eyes, and I think she’s actually vibrating.
“So?” she demands.
“So, what?”
“So… has he apologized for being such a jerk?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She dims forty watts. “Does it matter?” Back up a few volts. “If you guys really like each other? Love each other?”
“I...I'm pretty sure it does.” I look right at her. “Honestly, I think he just gets in these moods where he wants a girlfriend. Not just sex, but maybe some affection, too. But he doesn’t want it to last. He doesn’t want it to be part of his real life.”
“You’re wrong about him,” Mia hefts her backpack onto her shoulder. “You have to be.”
“Or what?” I call to Mia’s back as she heads off to school. But I can hardly blame her for having romantic delusions about me and Jack. Not when I watch Tina and Derek as if they’re characters in a Thursday night sitcom.
I look back to my inbox and the phone rings.
I look at the caller ID. HEYA. I haven’t talked to any of them since the day they kicked me out. “Hello?”
“Lisa? Good. It’s Lupe.” She stops talking.
“It’s okay, Lupe. Everything going good at the center? That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, it is. I just called to see if…I know you said on Garry Minor that there was nothing between you and Jack, but, well, it was so weird that day. When Jack stormed in here and took the book. Then, Edna Hawkins saving our butts. Now this. It has us all worried. I know we shouldn’t be, but what if… I don’t know. None of us do. We just thought you might know something.”
“Know something about what? Lupe, what are you talking about?”
“The press conference. It doesn’t have anything to do with us, does it?”
“Press conference?” I look up to see Dolly coming into the office. “Dolly, do I have a press conference today?”
“Nooo!” Lupe yells through the phone.
“What?” I say to Lupe.
“Not your press conference. Jack’s. The press conference he’s having with his mom and the shoe company this morning. They’re kicking off the Southern California Conference of Business Leaders.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. “Lupe, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Into the Wild is joining up with Hawkins United. They’re planning some big merger with a sneaker company and we were just wondering if it had anything to do with us.”
My blood starts pounding faster than the spin cycle of a Whirlpool, making my speech stilted, jerky, demanding.
“Who’s doing the merger?”
“Into the Wild.”
“But who are they doing it with? What sneaker company?”
“I don’t know. Sampson, or something like that.”
“Sawyer?”
“That’s it.”
Noooo!!!!
“What time is the press conf
erence?” I ask.
“Nine o’clock.”
“What?” I screech. “Where?”
“The Sheraton downtown. In the Macy’s Plaza.”
I pocket the phone and run to the front door. It’s 8:36. I have 24 minutes to make it downtown in morning rush hour traffic. I grab my keys, and I’m off.
What is Jack about to do? Is it all my fault? Why else would he merge with Sawyer and join Hawkins United? He must have sold his soul to his mother in order to save HEYA.
I tear out of the driveway, zipping around cars like I’m playing Atari with a joystick. I want to call Jack’s cell, but I cannot take my hands and eyes away from driving for even a second. I get to the metro station, park illegally, and tear down the giant escalators. I don’t even stop to buy a ticket as I head for a train just pulling in.
Goddamnit! Evil, hateful Edna! Leave it to that BITCH to blackmail Jack just because he wanted to fix a mistake that was totally her doing in the first place!
I try to use my cell. No signal on the subway.
This must have been Jack’s plan all along, but he didn’t tell me.
Jesus, Jack.
Why?
Whywhywhywhywhywhy?
I would have figured out something else to save HEYA. I would have used all my own money and started from scratch to help others if I’d had to.
I never, NEVER would have sacrificed Jack for anything. Especially not for money.
Oh, God! That must have been why he was sending me those songs. He wanted me back so he would have someone beside him as every hope and dream he ever had disintegrated before his eyes.
And I ignored him. I’m making him go through his worst nightmare all alone.
The train slows, pulling into the 7th Street station. As soon as the doors swish open, I’m off, heedless of all the commuters. I race up the sliding escalator stairs two at a time, emerging directly across from The Macy’s Plaza. I dodge across the street, making cars stop for me.
In seconds, I’m in the Plaza, skidding down the stairs to the mezzanine level. The twinkling white lights strung throughout the corridor sparkle off the speckled tile, paving the way to the entrance of the hotel.
I’m here. I made it.
Hotel personnel stand at the door checking press identification. But I look so totally un-press-like in my beat up jeans and long sleeved T-shirt that I squeak by.
Miss Adventure Page 29
