by Sarina Bowen
I snort. “That’s cute, I guess. A TV cop show? They always get lots of shit wrong.”
“Well here’s your chance to correct that.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and now her shampoo is all I can smell. It’s something a little fruity. Apples, maybe. “Whoever they cast in this role flaked out. So I’m invited back in two weeks for a screen test. This is big, Maguire. I’d play Pierson’s sidekick. It’s a real speaking role.”
“Wow, Trouble. That’s amazing.” My hot neighbor, the famous actor.
She tilts her head and scrutinizes me. “Hey, are you all right? You look a little flushed.”
Of course I do. When she gets close to me, my brain stops working. I really like Meg, but I still can’t be the kind of guy she’s looking for. I can’t date her, because I don’t do that. And we can’t sleep together because I have a feeling it wouldn’t be just a one-time deal with her, and that’s a bad idea.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” I say, because I need to extract myself from this conversation. She smells like apples and I just want to bury my face in her bosom.
“You will?” She lets out another ear-piercing shriek. “See? You are still the best neighbor ever.”
And then I get another goddamn hug. I can feel her breasts press against my chest. “Congratulations, Trouble,” I say, easing back, and trying again to focus. “Does this mean you’re going to be on TV?”
She shrugs. “Not yet. In fact, probably not. For a decade I’ve had these tiny breakthroughs that seem like something big is about to happen. And then it never does. This will probably be exactly the same story. That’s why I have to celebrate right now. Before I’m disappointed again.” She grabs her pocketbook off the bed. “I’m still going out to lunch. I know just the place.”
Most of me wants to ask where. But I don’t. Because it’s none of my business.
“We’ll talk research later,” she says, leaving the bedroom. I follow her into the living room, where she’s stepping into her shoes. “Maybe on the deck one night this week? I’ll bring a notebook and interrogate you.”
“I’m the cop. I do the interrogating,” I say as a reflex.
She turns to me. “Where else do you like to be in charge?”
“Um…” Just the gleam in her eye makes my blood thicken. Oh hey, libido! Nice of you to drop by again. Fuck my life.
Meg just beams at me. “Speechless, much? It’s a good thing you’re not the one auditioning for a cop show.” She opens her apartment door and shoos me outside into the hallway. “Bye, Copper! We’ll talk soon!”
“Bye, Trouble,” I mutter, watching her go.
It isn’t until she disappears into the elevator that I realize I have a problem. Since I broke into Meg’s apartment via the deck, my front door is locked. And I can’t climb back over the fence because Meg is gone.
I let out a groan. “How much trouble can one woman make in my life?” I ask the hallway.
Plenty, obviously.
10 Pasty vs. Pasties
Meg
“And how’s my little Meggers?” my father asks, grinning at me from his corner of our four-way family video chat.
“Pretty good!” I reply. And it’s true. Dad’s ridiculous nicknames usually grate on me. But today I’m too happy to care.
“Hey, watch the hair!” my sister yelps from her corner, where she’s holding little baby Alfred at her boob while the twins literally climb on her. I love my nieces and nephew, but when I see them crawling over her like puppies, I’m really grateful that I am nowhere near that phase of my life.
Eventually, I’d like to do the Mom Thing, but not today.
First, I’d like to do the Fall In Love For Real Thing.
And I’d also like to do the Get My Life Together Thing. These chats with my family are pretty good at reminding me that I’m supposed to have priorities.
“So…” My sister pries Alfred’s tiny fingers off her hair. “You’re pumped up about this audition?” Sadie asks. “Is this really a big break? You said it could be. But sometimes you…”
“Exaggerate?” I ask.
“Let’s just say you’ve always had natural acting instincts,” my mother chimes in.
This is why I don’t spend more time chatting about my professional life with my parents. “This is the first time I’ve been so close to a real TV role. But you know what’s weird? I ought to be spasming between hope and anxiety right now. But I feel kind of blasé about it. I don’t know if that’s maturity or if I’m finally just numb.”
There’s a silence while my parents consider this. Dad bites his lip, and Mom wrinkles up her nose.
“Acting is a hard road, Meg,” my sister says, stroking the feathery hair on her baby’s head as he nurses. “Numbness wouldn’t be unfounded.” My sister totally sounds like a therapist. Which makes sense, because she is actually a therapist.
My mother makes a noise of agreement. It’s a sound like “murm” that she often makes when she knows I don’t really want to hear her opinion but she can’t keep her mouth completely sealed shut.
“Listen to this,” I add. “I have another gig right now. I met a woman at my fake boyfriend’s sister’s bridal shower, and she hired me to do a flash mob.”
Mom blinks. “Your fake boyfriend? Is this like your pretend friend Cheetah?”
“Oh!” Sadie giggles. “I forgot about Cheetah. You told us she had spotted hair.”
“Come on!” I shriek. “I was five years old. Can we stop with the childhood memories? Or I’m going to tell Sadie’s husband about the time she cut her own hair with Dad’s weed whacker.”
“Slow your roll, honey,” Sadie says. “Let’s get back to the fake boyfriend.”
“How does that work, exactly?” Mom asks.
“He’s a real person, he’s just not really my boyfriend. It’s a shame, though. You’d think so too if you could see his ass. And his face. They’re both nice.”
My father snorts. “But what about the flash mob? That sounds dangerous.”
“No way, Dad!” Leave it to him to think a flash mob actually includes incendiary devices. “It’s not dangerous,” I say. “Unless you’re worried about humiliating yourself. Which I’m not. It’s singing and dancing in a crowd. It’s about as dangerous as a bridal shower, but so much more exciting.”
“It sounds stressful,” my mother worries.
“That’s the point! I’ve always loved how risky live theater is. A flash mob is like live theater on steroids. You have no idea whether it will work. But I’m not stressed. I’m alive. It’s half Sound of Music, half Mission Impossible. I’m loving it so much.”
“Hmmm,” Sadie says, all therapist-like.
She doesn’t understand, because she never understood why I wanted to be in theater. “What does that hmmm mean?”
Sadie unlatches Alfred. “Why do you think a flash mob is more exciting than a screen test for a part in a new television drama?”
Normally, I’d be a little annoyed that she’s analyzing me. But it’s a damn good question. Lately, the only things I’ve really been truly excited about are Hot Cop frisking me while we’re in the shower (my fantasy), and when I’ve been planning this event. “Because it’s not about me being chosen. Or getting ahead. It’s creating something raw and impressive. I have one try to make this bride’s day, and then the whole production fades away like Brigadoon. It’s challenging.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“What?”
“You’ve always loved a challenge.”
Huh. She’s right. Before I can respond, Liam slips into view. He stands behind her, wraps his arms around her, and then kisses her neck. “Hey, Matthews clan,” he says to us.
“Hey, professor,” I say. He’s not a professor, but he’s wearing his glasses and I like to give him shit.
“How’s our boy?” my mother asks. She loves Liam to pieces. And conversation shifts to his job and Sadie’s twins.
And just like that, I’m out of the hot seat.
<
br /> Until I glance at the clock. “Sorry, guys,” I say, breaking into a conversation about building up little immune systems with sandbox play. “I gotta go. I’m off to make a marriage proposal happen.”
“Proposal?” Liam asks. “Who…”
“I’ll explain later,” Sadie says.
We all blow kisses and I disconnect.
I really am excited about this. What I’ve got lined up is sort of epic. If I can pull it off…
I don’t know exactly.
But if I can pull this off, I feel like something big could happen. Something big inside of me.
I’m not talking about Hot Cop inside of me, though that would be nice too.
It goes without saying that my flash mob might be a complete disaster. Rehearsal isn’t foolproof. There are a million things that can still go wrong. Missed cues. Faulty props. Emergency interruptions.
I’m so nervous. But it’s still the good kind of nervous. Butterflies and hope. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Ninety minutes later, Aubrey approaches me, clipboard in hand, messy bun tilting on top of her head, huge glasses sliding down her nose. She’s wearing a cute, flouncy sundress covered in tiny champagne bottles. She’s all sorts of adorable. “Okay. Are we ready?”
“Everyone is in place,” I assure both of us.
“But are we ready, ready? Or just sort of ready?” I open my mouth to answer, but the poor thing just keeps going. “I mean, I really want to expand my business, you know? But this is terrifying. I’m not saying I don’t trust you—I do. I saw all the work you put in. But there are so many people here! I can’t tell who’s part of the production and who’s here for fresh zucchini flowers! Those are really tasty when fried and stuffed. I haven’t had them in years and…”
I put my hands on her shoulder. Sort of to calm her down, but also to keep her from floating off into outer space. “We’re ready,” I say. “Ready, ready.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Good.”
We’re standing in the middle of the farmers’ market. It’s noon on a Saturday, and the place is packed. I’m sure the weekends are always busy, but this is Next Level busy.
This is Flash Mob busy.
The farmers’ market is a long, narrow space, with a huge metal roof covering the booths that line each side. In the center, people mill around with environmentally correct fabric shopping bags stuffed with fresh produce. There are mounds of fresh vegetables and herbs, and baskets of flowers.
But that’s not all. There’s handmade pottery, grass fed beef, and artisanal goat yogurt. (From goats. Not for goats.) There’s also a guy who sells pasties, and every time I see his sign, I wonder if he knows that word has two definitions. One kind of pasty is a savory meat pie, and the other is what strippers use to cover their nipples.
I try not to confuse those.
A breeze brushes past my nose, and it’s scented with flowers and dill. Sunshine filters in, dappling the merchandise with light. Really, if someone were proposing to me, this would be a pretty cool spot.
A quick peek at my watch tells me we’re two minutes from go-time. I glance around. If you know what to look for, you can spot the theater people. They may be dressed like normal people, but they move with a curious fluidity.
Recruiting all my acting buddies for this gig wasn’t easy. Hell, I recruited anyone who would agree to show up. But it was my awkward, nerdy theater friends who were the most delighted to be included in this little scheme. Every participant is getting paid for their time, but even after expenses and the rehearsal space, I’ll still walk away with a couple grand.
Not bad for a week’s worth of on-and-off work. I could get used to this.
Aubrey jumps. Literally jumps. She spins around, pressing her hand to her ear, where a discreet earbud is tucked. But she’s about as discreet as the Secret Service at a political parade. “The target is back from her lunch break!” she yelps.
“That’s good,” I say in my most soothing voice. “Be chill, Aubrey. You have no chill.”
“Chill. Right. Chill,” she mutters. “Is the sky ready?”
Wordlessly, I point up at the ceiling, where the silk and ribbons are suspended.
“Right. Great. Okay. I’ll tell everyone to assume the position.”
“The phrase you’re looking for is ‘places, everyone,’” I point out. “This isn’t a porn shoot.”
“Yeah, okay.” Aubrey raises a finger to her right nostril, closing it off, and takes a deep inhale. Then she switches sides.
“Are you okay?”
“Alternate nostril breathing calms me down.” After a moment she taps her phone and gives the signal. “Places everyone.”
Finally!
I take a casual glance down the row of booths, toward Loon Lake Dairy. Our client is standing there selling cheese that retails for thirty bucks a pound. He’s about to ask his girlfriend to make a lifelong commitment. If anyone should be nervous, it’s him. But I guess he outsourced that to Aubrey.
Just across from him is the flower seller’s stand. That’s how these two met—gazing into each other’s eyes during slow market days. As I watch, my high-school friend Lydia steps up to the booth and hands over forty dollars. She points at a bouquet of roses.
“What if she says no?” Aubrey whispers. “That will be so embarrassing. Besides, I need her to say yes. This wedding gig would be huge. His family owns the Groovy Brewery. They’re loaded and the beer is really good.”
“It’ll work,” I say. It has to work. Because my whole psyche is betting on it. That big thing I felt like was happening to me? It kind of hinges on this event. “She won’t say no,” I promise. The flower seller is in love with the cheesemonger. I know because I’m half in love with him myself. He makes homemade cheese, for fuck’s sake. What’s not to love about that?
Lydia takes the roses she’s purchased and places them in a basket she wears over her arm. And it’s time to cue the rest of my people. Quickly, I raise both of my arms in the air and wave them, as if landing a plane. And here comes the plane!
Not an actual plane, obviously. I don’t have the budget for that. But I do have the budget for singers. Lydia steps back and sings the opening line from my favorite song from our old high-school musical, Oliver. “Who will buy these sweet red roses?”
Her voice is so beautiful. It’s the kind of voice that’s so clear and clean that you feel like there’s hope somewhere in the world.
Our flower seller cocks her head, listening. A little smile plays on her face. She’s not accustomed to her customers serenading her. But Lydia has such confidence that it almost doesn’t seem weird.
Almost.
I get goosebumps as our friend Edward steps up beside Lydia and takes the next line of the song. He has a great voice, too. In another high-school production, Edward played Tony to my Maria.
The flower seller doesn’t know that, though. At this point, Edward and Lydia might just be the kind of kooky couple who breaks into song at the farmers’ market.
And my goosebumps double, because heads are starting to turn. It’s thrilling. I’ve always thought of theater as something you have to walk into willingly. You buy a ticket and sit down and wait to be entertained.
But this is a different kind of magical brew. As curious customers lift their chins to the sound of my two friends harmonizing, they become part of the performance that’s unfolding around them.
Two booths over, my friend Yashi gets up from where she’s seated on a barrel. She lifts a quart of perfect strawberries into the air and sings a haunting line, asking, “Who will buy?”
Our flower seller’s eyes widen. And then a hint of recognition dawns in her smile. She’s starting to understand that something special is happening. But she still has no idea that it’s all happening for her!
Even my goosebumps have goosebumps.
More singers join in. They’re carrying baskets of roses—white and yellow ones. The crowd gapes. The song builds to a dozen si
ngers. My performers walk the length of the market in a loop, before coming to stand in front of the flower seller.
And then you can see it on her face—the certainty that something wonderful is unfolding, and she’s at the center of it. Her man has slipped out from behind his cheeses and moves to stand beside her.
That’s when the violin comes in. It will be followed by more violins, and a mandolin, a harmonica, and even a cello. My friends are rocking it! This will be a story the couple will tell for years to come.
I have to admit that my eyes get a little misty. Maybe it’s the beautiful music and the smile on her face. There’s no time for crying though. I can’t even spare a second to wonder why I’m never the girl in the middle of the circle. Because my bit part is coming up next. I slip between two market stalls and head for the flower seller.
11 Good Pipes
Maguire
“Why are we stopping here?” Lance asks from the passenger’s seat as the cruiser approaches the farmers’ market.
“Well…” That’s a question not easily answered. Meg has a pull on me. It’s sort of like what I imagine being pulled into the Bermuda Triangle is like. You just can’t resist.
“I thought we were taking those photos of the bank lobby for the sergeant?”
“Snacks first,” I grunt. Because Lance is always up for a snack.
“Righteous idea,” he agrees. “But here?”
I pull into a parking spot. “They sell food here.”
“They sell kale,” Lance snorts. “That’s not food. That’s what food eats.”
“Dunno how you survive on burgers and peanut butter.” I open the door and step out. “Look. Organic pastries. You’re a cop. Go buy a donut.”
“I hope they’re not healthy.” He shudders and then stomps off.
At least he didn’t ask me why I chose this stop. I’m not sure what answer I’d give him. The truth is that Meg is here somewhere. And when it comes to her, I have poor impulse control.
Honestly, I blame the laundry room. That’s where I ran into her just the other day. While I separated my lights from my darks, she told me about the crazy musical number she’s organized. She even asked me to participate.
