But as I read the email waiting for me in my inbox, it became increasingly clear that this was not a mistake. This was intentional. It was happening. And I was totally screwed.
To: Bree Bozeman
From: HandyMinion Service—Do Not Reply
Subject: Account Suspension
This message serves to inform you that your HandyMinion worker account has been suspended until further notice. All outstanding jobs have been reassigned to alternate Minions. Please contact support at the phone number listed below for more information.
It was salt in the wound to make me talk on the phone in this state. After waiting on hold for what seemed like an eternity, a human being finally came on the line to explain why I’d been ousted.
“Section 19g of the HandyMinion Terms of Service states that you shall keep your PayPal account active at all times to ensure timely compensation.”
“My PayPal account is active.” Isn’t it?
“We received word this morning that your PayPal account has been frozen.”
My heart launched into a complex gymnastics routine, using my ribs as a springboard to flip and twist and turn around my chest. “What? Why?”
“Ma’am, we’re unauthorized to share additional details. You’ll have to speak to a PayPal representative for more information.”
One thought crossed my mind: hackers. Possibly the same Slovenian masterminds who’d scammed Trey out of two hundred dollars. They’d pay. They’d all pay!
Though right now, the only pay that really mattered was my own. “I don’t understand why this has to impact my HandyMinion account. Why can’t I continue to work while I sort this all out?”
The customer service representative continued in an apathetic, monotonous drawl. “Without a PayPal account, we have no way to disburse your earnings, ma’am.”
“Can’t you send me a paper check?”
There was a pause. Perhaps they were thinking it through. As I mentally praised myself for being solution oriented and unconventional, they cut in with, “Ma’am, this is the twenty-first century.”
So, that would be a no.
My heart was getting tired of bouncing around. It slowed to a steady, deafening beat that caused my eyes to water. Each thump brought a fresh wave of tears.
“What do I do now?”
“As I said, you’ll need to contact PayPal, ma’am.” This customer service rep had no sympathy for my wavering voice. To be fair, they probably dealt with people’s personal crises all day long. I imagined, in a job like this, you had to shut down your emotions just to get through the day. “When PayPal has reinstated your account, you can go through the HandyMinion application process again.”
“What do you mean, the application process? I’ll still retain my existing account, right? Like, my rating and status will remain intact when this is all sorted out?”
An exasperated sigh came through the receiver, sounding strikingly similar to Natasha’s. “You’ll need to start over again, ma’am.”
“Start over.” The thumping in my chest deepened, growing louder, more insistent, rattling my whole body. “But why?”
“Section 15f of the HandyMinion Terms of Service states that all HandyMinions who lose their worker privileges must—”
That was it. I couldn’t take any more corporate blather. My thumb slid to the end-call button and I immediately started scouring PayPal’s website for a contact number, which they did not make very easy to find. After wading through several layers of FAQs, I unearthed a toll-free number, tapping the digits into my phone with trembling fingers. Several touch-tone menus stood between me and a human, but when I finally got her on the phone, I screamed, as if being assaulted, “My account has been hacked!”
Except it hadn’t been hacked.
“We received a court order on May 15 requiring us to restrict access to your funds.”
“You froze my account?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Is that even legal?”
The rep didn’t answer my question. There was typing in the background, fingertips slamming on keys. “I’m sending you an email with the details right now. You’ll need to contact the plaintiff at the phone number provided.”
“How can you do this?”
Another exasperated sigh. “Section 21b of the PayPal Terms of Service states—”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. Instead, I hung up and opened my email, reading the details of the court order. Case number V-38472-SJ498H-2 had been filed yesterday in the US District Court for the Southern District of California, and the plaintiff was listed as EduLender, Inc.
Turns out you can’t ignore your student loans for the better part of a year without there being some serious repercussions.
The universe had not sent positive energy to scrub away my debt. On the contrary, my debt had grown, snowballing into a terrifying monolith made of compound interest and late fees that threatened to squash my credit score beneath its bulk. Access to both my PayPal and my checking account had been restricted by this court order, and according to the unfriendly phone rep at EduLender, the only way to get it back was to speak to a lawyer. Not sure how they expected me to pay for a lawyer when they’d removed all access to my money, but I’m also not sure that they cared.
Fuck.
Remember when I said things were looking up? Scratch that. Things were down. Way down. If there were a floor below a subbasement, that’s where I’d be, huddled in a dank, dark corner.
Where were those great golden beams of sunshine Demi DiPalma had talked about? I’d followed her manifesting process, I faked it all the way, but now my life was arguably worse than it was before I read The Aspirational Action Plan. Mari was right about that, too. Demi DiPalma was full of shit.
For the next few minutes (or possibly hours, it was hard to tell time in my pit of despair), I sat on the futon, staring into space, trying to pinpoint the exact moment my life became unmanageable. Maybe there was something inherently wrong with me. I’d always blamed my numerous failings on childhood traumas, my missing dad and dying mom, but the fact was, Natasha had been through those same traumatic events—even worse, she’d had to upend her whole life to take care of me!—and she turned out fine. More than fine, actually. She was close to perfect. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even maintain an active HandyMinion account.
Then, as if sensing my struggle from clear across San Diego County, Natasha’s name appeared on the screen of my buzzing phone.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have declined it. But I found myself thinking about what Trey had said, how his mom needed to hear his voice to know he was okay. And though I wasn’t feeling particularly okay at the moment, surely I could fake it for Natasha. The woman had dropped out of college to be my substitute mother. The least I could do was offer her a little peace of mind.
Deep breath.
No crying.
I am a fierce, fearless warrior.
With a plastered-on smile, I shrieked, “Hi!”
“Wow, you sound perky. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” My voice was about twelve octaves too high. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What’s going on?” Still a bit shrill, but a definite improvement.
And it seemed to appease her because she took off chattering at full speed. “Well, my Instagram is blowing up. Lots of new followers—real followers—so I’m feeling like it might be time to start putting my long-term plan into motion.”
“What’s your long-term plan?”
“Getting a book deal.” She said it as if I should have already known, as if book deals were so easy to come by. “I started writing a proposal centered around a highly specific organizing concept—how to maximize wall space beyond simple shelving. I’m talking door storage, pocket strips, command centers, the whole shebang.”
“Cool.” I had no idea what a pocket strip was, no
r was I in the mood to ask. “That’s great.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, totally.” Oh, shit. I was warbling.
Natasha didn’t buy it. “What’s wrong? Tell me now.”
I opened my mouth to assure her it was nothing, but instead this sad little whimper came out. There was no faking it now, no pretending everything was okay. My throat swelled and the tears flowed. “I’ve made so many mistakes.”
Her breath crackled through the airwaves, irritated static. “What do I always say about not looking back, Bree?”
“I’m not looking back!” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, framed by sobs. “I’m looking right in front of me. And the outlook is grim, Natasha. It’s really fucking grim.”
“Okay, you’re spiraling. Take a deep breath and shift your mindset. Try a positive affirmation from the back of the book. What about the whole ‘fierce, fearless warrior’ one?”
Affirmations, my ass. “My accounts were all frozen today. Bank, PayPal, everything.”
“What? How did that happen?”
I was deeply ashamed to admit the truth. Natasha would never have gotten herself in a situation like this; she was too careful, too organized, too put-together. Her income and expenses were logged neatly in a spiral notebook with the words Budget Like a Boss stamped on the cover. She was current on all of her bills, with a credit score in the high eight hundreds. If she knew I’d shoved my past-due notices into a box and abandoned them in Rob’s old storage unit, she’d be horrified.
But what choice did I have? Lying would do me no good. She’d see through it, anyway. I was not okay, and there was no convincing her otherwise.
“I stopped paying my student loans when Rob moved out. They issued some court order to put a hold on my assets, not that I have much for them to hold. The bigger problem is that I can’t get paid, so I can’t work, and now I have to talk to a lawyer and I can’t afford that and...”
My words faded into whimpers. In a quiet, stoic voice, Natasha asked, “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
She ended the call and I glanced around the room, instinctively feeling like I should straighten up before she arrived. The apartment was a wreck, as usual. Even the kitchenette, which I had cleaned so carefully, had reverted to its previous state of disorder and disrepair. Those pink peonies that had once looked so perfectly Instagrammable on the windowsill, the ones I’d taken as a sign from the universe of better days ahead, were now wilted and brown and dead. There wasn’t much water left in the vase, and what remained was mucky, filled with fallen petals and slime. The perfect metaphor for my life. Always starting with high hopes, always ending with some unsightly mess.
I should’ve cleared it away, washed the vase, thrown the flowers in the trash. But I couldn’t bring myself to get up off the futon. I’d rather deal with Natasha’s criticism than exert the enormous amount of effort it would take to rise to my feet and cross the room. So I sat there, staring off into space again, and didn’t move until I heard her knock at my front door.
Natasha burst in with a Tupperware full of leftovers—“Stuffed peppers! They’re keto, but I swear they taste good”—and a plan of attack.
“One of Izzy’s classmates, her mom is an attorney. She specializes in intellectual property law, but she has a friend who’s a debt lawyer. I didn’t even know that was a thing, but apparently, they handle all sorts of collections violations and bank lawsuits. They can even help you consolidate your student loans and reduce your overall interest. I sent her an email explaining the situation and I’m waiting to hear back.”
“How much does she charge?”
She ignored my question, crossing the room to put the peppers in the minifridge. When she caught sight of the flowers, she froze. One fingertip grazed a shriveled bloom, sending petals cascading to the sill below.
“Were these peonies?” she asked. “It’s hard to tell now that they’re...”
“Yeah. I bought them for Instagram. I thought if I put a vase full of pretty pink flowers on my windowsill and took a picture, it would somehow change my life. Like I could wish my dreams into reality. So stupid.”
She spun on her toes, hands on her hips, scowl on her face. “Don’t say that. It’s not stupid. It’s true that you need a strategy, but the power of positive thinking is—”
“I have nothing, Natasha!” For the first time I could remember, my sister looked taken aback at my words. “I’ve been creating vision boards and clearing away negative energy and repeating these same, shitty affirmations over and over again. And none of it works for me. I’m a failure.” I slumped forward, my spine as limp as the stems on those lifeless flowers. “I always have been, and I always will be.”
At once, she was sitting beside me, my hands wrapped in hers, her eyes fixed on mine. “You are not a failure. Do you understand me?” She spoke sternly, but there was an undercurrent of doubt to her words. “You’ll get through this. Let me loan you some money so you can get by until this whole thing is sorted out.”
“We both know I’ll never be able to pay you back.”
“So don’t pay me back. I don’t need you to.”
“And the debt lawyer. I’m assuming you plan to pay for that, too?”
Her silence was all the answer I needed.
“I can’t let you.”
“Yes, you can. Why are you fighting me on this?”
“Because.” Because you’ve already done more for me than you ever should have.
“That’s not an answer. Be honest, Bree. Do you really have any other choice?”
There was that question again. The last time she’d asked it, I watched my Civic get dragged away down the street, never to be seen again. I’d already lost my car, my job, my bank account. What would I lose next, my home? Probably.
Unless I chose not to.
“Can you drive me to a storage unit?”
Her face was a mask of worry. “Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
In a flash, I was opening the junk drawer. At least this much had stayed neat. Orange key ring in hand, I said, “Rob left some stuff behind at the StoreSmart in Mission Valley. It’s our stuff,” I quickly amended, knowing Natasha would never willfully take part in a storage unit heist. “We just didn’t have the room for it here, and I forgot all about it once he moved out. I want to get it now and sell it for extra cash.”
Yes, this was a complete one-eighty from my earlier stance. Stealing was wrong, and I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I decided that I was okay with it now. Because even though I hated Rob, I was no longer fueled by spite or resentment. This was sheer desperation.
Besides, he was cavorting around LA, being Insta-famous and lounging by his parents’ pool, while I was in serious danger of losing my home. He didn’t care about all those pristine electronics collecting dust on the side of the freeway, and if he did, he could always buy more without a problem.
Frankly, this seemed to be the most logical choice. The best choice.
“Fine,” she said. “But I need to be back in Encinitas by two thirty to pick Izzy up from school.”
“I’ll be quick.”
We sped down the highway in Natasha’s Audi, the ride so smooth and quiet, like the wheels were hovering an inch above the asphalt. “Do the back seats fold down?” I asked.
“Yes.” She glanced at me sideways. “What exactly are you planning to bring home?”
“I’m not sure yet.” As much as I can fit in the car.
She shifted in her seat. “Listen, the whole reason I called you this morning was to tell you about this thing I saw on Instagram.”
Ugh. Instagram.
My stomach squeezed into a tight little ball, but I managed to keep a straight face. Natasha had just spent $250 to boost my following. How c
ould I possibly tell her I was already so disgusted with the whole endeavor that I wanted to delete my account? I couldn’t. So I didn’t.
“This weekend,” she continued, “there’s this incredible event taking place in Palm Desert. Demi DiPalma’s Semiannual Synergy Summit.”
“I saw the ad for it. It costs twenty-five hundred dollars a ticket.”
“Not anymore. The price was slashed in half. I guess not enough people signed up or something and they’re trying to fill the spaces at the last minute. Anyway, I reviewed the agenda and there’s a workshop on how to get your book published, given by Demi herself. She’s so successful and so influential, if I could get my proposal in front of her, it could be huge. So I’m gonna go. The timing couldn’t be more perfect since Al and Izzy are doing Daddy-Daughter Adventure Camp in Temecula this weekend.”
“Cool.” Truthfully, the idea sounded a bit far-fetched to me, but I wasn’t going to doubt Natasha. She had a way of making the impossible seem possible.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I shot her a death stare and she said, “My treat, obviously. There are going to be a lot of informative workshops and chat sessions. Maybe you could reset your intentions and get inspired again. Redefine your aspiration.”
Ugh. Aspirations.
“I’m not sure I believe in anything Demi DiPalma has to say. You didn’t achieve the things you did because of a vision board and some chanting. You achieved them because you’re naturally organized, you had a strategy, you’re smart and talented. You’ve got it all together.”
Her knuckles grew white against the steering wheel. “It may seem that way, but I’m not as pulled-together as you may think I am.”
“Well, you’re more pulled-together than me.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave a reluctant little grunt. It was kind of hard to argue with that.
“Don’t you think she tries to sell ideas that are way too good to be true?” I asked. “Like that four-hundred-dollar jade egg she has on her website.”
She's Faking It Page 18
