Simply Mad (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 1)

by Christina Coryell

  As soon as Dina’s inside my office, I close the door. I’m not sure why everyone around here is so secretive, but if that’s the way things play out on the top floor, then I will keep the door closed. She sits down in my chair meant for visitors, smoothing her skirt with her palms. Always so prim and proper, with her up-do and her wool suits. I definitely can’t imagine her chasing balls on the tennis court.

  “Don’t chase the ball,” Max always says. “Anticipate it.” Easier said than done, especially when I can’t force myself to concentrate on much of anything other than chasing Max. That’s beside the point, though.

  “You’ve thought of a plan?” Dina asks. She’s like one of those ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “No, but I think we need to. He’s getting out of control.”

  “I heard the doorbell this morning. What was that about?” Dina pushes her glasses up on her nose and crosses her legs, hands folded in her lap.

  “Nothing, really. He was just telling me he was leaving.”

  “That seems harmless enough.”

  “And then I asked him what I should do today, and he told me to sit here and look pretty.”

  “Sit and look pretty?” she gasps, whipping the glasses off her face. I’m sure I’ve never seen Dina so animated. “He told you to sit and look pretty, after he gave me that huge pile of work this morning? That little weasel!”

  “Exactly. So what are we going to do about it?”

  Dina and I sit and watch each other for a moment, each silently trying to come up with the best possible scheme. She’s definitely angry, I can see it on her face.

  There’s nothing I’d rather do most days than march straight into Cooper’s office and give him a piece of my mind, but what is that really going to accomplish in the long run? He can buy and sell a dozen of me in a minute, so I have no choice but to keep my cool and maintain the status quo. He has to believe I’m invaluable to him for any of this to work, so I have to keep acting as though I love this job. Poor Dina does, too, even though she’s obviously being treated much worse than me.

  “Got anything?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “There has to be something we can do,” I complain. “Is there anything he absolutely despises? Or something that drives him completely crazy?”

  “I don’t know,” Dina states, relaxing a little and placing her elbow on my desk. “He’s already completely crazy.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious.”

  “He hates going to the doctor,” she offers with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “That’s good, but how could we use that?”

  “Maybe we could convince him that he’s sick.”

  “As many vitamins as he takes, that might be harder than it sounds. What does he hate about the doctor?”

  “You name it, he doesn’t like it…the testing, the poking, the prodding. When it’s time for an appointment, you would swear he was a child getting ready to have a tooth pulled.”

  Well, one can hardly blame him for not liking to go to the doctor, especially for testing. Like when I went to have my blood drawn and got that creepy giant who abused my arm like a giant piece of meat.

  “Wait a minute!” I exclaim as I reach a sudden epiphany. “What about blood?”

  “I don’t think physical harm is a good solution,” Dina is quick to inform me. She emphasizes her point by sliding her glasses further onto her face and eyeing me strangely.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. How does he feel about blood? Is he squeamish?”

  “I suppose so, yes,” she says cautiously, still looking at me as though I’m going off the deep end.

  “And blood tests?”

  “With needles and the whole bit? I would say that ranks pretty high on his list of things he wouldn’t want to do.”

  “Then it’s settled,” I conclude, slapping my hand on the desk. “I have the perfect plan.”

  It was raining when I got to the tennis club today. I ran from the Tahoe to the clubhouse, and I still managed to get drenched. No tennis outside today, I’m afraid, not that there isn’t plenty to do if the inside courts are crowded. I’m sure Max will have some off-the-wall chore he wants me to accomplish in the next hour…no doubt something that will prove more difficult than the game itself.

  I went straight to the locker room to change clothes, and then came back out to look for my instructor. Working with Max has been lovely. He’s very patient, even though he is fairly demanding. Plus, we always have in-depth conversations while I’m learning, which makes the time go faster.

  “You looking for Max?” another trainer, Jill, calls across the room. I’ve been here enough times that most everyone knows me, at least as Max’s student.

  “Yes, time for my weekly session,” I reply.

  She smiles as though she knows why I’m excited about my tennis lesson, and she’s probably correct. “I think he’s in the equipment room.”

  As I walk through the door to the equipment room, Max looks up. “There’s my favorite protégé!” he exclaims. We have developed quite a rapport since my first day here. He says I’m his most unpretentious client, and he’s impressed that I still don’t have the clingy tennis skirt. And I won’t get one anytime soon–I’m standing my ground.

  “Looks like the weather isn’t going to permit a lesson today,” I say, pretending to be sad.

  He takes one look at my face and laughs heartily. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plenty in store for you.”

  “I was actually afraid of that,” I complain with a sigh. He stoops down to adjust some of the buttons on one of the machines.

  “I can’t have any slacking,” he explains, “especially since Kent called me today.”

  Oh, no.

  “He called you?” I ask weakly. That is not a good sign.

  “Yeah, a couple hours ago. He said he just wanted to know how you were coming along.”

  “What did you say?” I wonder, suddenly nervous. Inside I hope that he said the right thing, even though I’m not quite sure what that is at this point.

  “I told him the truth–that you’re really starting to get quite good, and that you seem like a natural.”

  “Why did you have to tell him that?” I whine, plopping down on a piece of equipment. He looks up for a moment (to make sure I didn’t break anything, probably) and then continues what he’s doing.

  “Why shouldn’t I tell him that?”

  “Because I need more time. If he thinks I’m good, he’s going to schedule a match, and I’m not ready.”

  “You could hold your own in a match,” he states, standing up and placing his hands on his hips. “I’ve trained you well, little grasshopper.”

  “Of course you have,” I agree, rolling my eyes, “but can I beat Kelli?”

  “Hmm… I’d say that would be a close call.”

  “Well, until I can beat Kelli, I’m not ready.” Max points to the door and I follow him onto one of the indoor courts, my tree frogs making a squeaking noise with every step I take. Thinking they probably sound a bit like actual tree frogs right now, I grind my toe into the floor to get a longer squeak at the end, until Max notices what I’m doing and begins shaking his head.

  “I had no idea you were so competitive, Maddie,” he states, grabbing a racket and balancing a ball on the end.

  “It has nothing to do with me being competitive,” I argue. “I’m worried about Cooper. If he’d go to all this trouble just to try to defeat his brother, what’s going to happen if we don’t win? What if I lose my job?”

  “He wouldn’t do that, would he?” he asks, grabbing the ball and tossing it to me.

  “I don’t know.”

  Max hops the net and heads to the opposite end of the court while I stand where I am and wait for instructions.

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about it for a while yet,” he states. “Let me see your serve.”

  Throwing the ball into the air, I swing the racket hard, connecting and sending the ball in hi
s direction. He catches the ball in his hand and tosses it back to me.

  “What makes you think that?” I wonder, throwing the ball up again and sending it whirling over the net. This time, he taps the ball back over the net with his racket and I catch it in my hand.

  “I overheard him talking to Brent this weekend, when they were both here.”

  “Well, what did they say?” I demand, standing with the tip of the racket brushing against the ground.

  “No information without a serve,” he commands, while I obligingly throw the ball into the air again. “Kent told Brent he wanted to challenge him to a match.” He pauses to grab the ball. “Bend your arm a little more this time.”

  “And?” I prod, catching the ball after Max flings it over the net.

  “Basically, Brent laughed at him.”

  “Really? He laughed?” I throw the ball in the air, concentrating on bending my arm as I bring the racket forward.

  “Nice. Much better,” he comments, tossing the ball back over the net. “Brent said he would take him on anytime, anyplace.”

  “So, what is the time and place?” Imitating my last serve is my goal, but Max has to move to the left a little to catch the ball.

  “Okay, return my serve now. By next spring, is what Kent said. No later than next spring.” He sends the ball flying over the net, and I move to the left about one second too late to connect with the ball. “Don’t react—anticipate.” Picking the ball up near the wall, I toss it back to him.

  “Next spring, that’s plenty of time,” I decide as the ball comes back over the net, whirling toward my head. I move instinctively and connect, sending it back to Max.

  “Good return!” he states. “By next spring, you’ll probably be a pro.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I left work a little earlier than usual today. When I got back from the tennis lesson, I basically just sat at my desk with nothing to do. Unless you count looking pretty, that is.

  Ugh—insufferable.

  Dina and I talked about our plans for a few minutes, but there’s only so much we can do before we talk to Cooper. Before I talk to Cooper, I should say. Dina wants to be a silent partner, and I agreed. She probably has a lot more to lose than I do, being at the company for twenty-some years. Besides, who knows how stable my job is, with Cooper being such a lunatic. He could come in one morning, decide he hates tennis, and send me on my way.

  Without any pressing plans, I think I’ll head out to jog a couple miles and then come back to cook dinner. I have some impressive plans for a sautéed mushroom grilled panini. (Sounds fancy, huh? Move over, Martha—here comes Maddie.)

  I’ll probably have these tree frogs worn out before too long, with all the jogging and the tennis. I never did get them to squeak like actual frogs, no matter how hard I tried. I even stood in the rain for a minute on my way out of the tennis club and tried to make the right noise, to no avail. All I got was extremely soaked. When I went back to the office, Dina said I looked like a drowned rat.

  Well, it’s definitely not raining now, and the downpour we had cooled the temperature off, so this should be a great time for a run. I’ll probably just go two miles tonight and won’t push myself too hard. No need after the tennis lesson. Max always runs me ragged chasing his serves.

  I’m just about to head out the door when I hear a car pull into the driveway, so I peek through the blinds to see who would have stopped by.

  Mom? What is she doing here? She never comes over. And who is that on the other…Brittany?

  Brittany!

  Mom gestures wildly with her hands as she plods toward the front door with Brittany, and then they both stop suddenly on the walk. Mom turns to face Brittany and begins smacking the side of her hand down on her palm, emphasizing whatever she is saying. Brittany stands there nodding her head, occasionally glancing at the house and shifting uncomfortably.

  What is this, I wonder, some sort of ambush?

  I hurriedly withdraw from the blinds as Mom starts up the walk again, and wait patiently until she rings the doorbell. Should I pretend I’m not here? The car is in the garage, so she’ll never know. I’m usually not home quite this early, so I’d have a good excuse. She doesn’t know the Tahoe is mine.

  It takes me a good moment standing in front of the door to ponder whether or not to allow them in before I see Mom cup her hands and press her face to the glass. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if she saw me. Bleh.

  “Hi, Mom,” I express with a sigh as I open the door. “Brittany.”

  “Hello, Maddie,” Mom begins soberly, stepping up into the house while Brittany follows silently. “We’ve just come for a friendly visit.”

  Then why do you look like you’re going to a wake?

  I sit down on the couch and Brittany and Mom sit close by, leaning forward toward me. There is an impending sense that I’m about to be attacked.

  “What’s going on?” I wonder, glancing back and forth between them. Mom’s mouth is in a grim line, and Brittany’s eyes look a little wider than normal.

  “Maddie,” Mom states solemnly, “this is an intervention.”

  Ha!

  “An intervention?” I repeat, giggling. “What type of intervention?”

  “For your bulimia, of course,” Brittany adds. “This is a very serious matter.” She shakes her head slowly, as though I’ve just been handed a death sentence but I’m too ignorant to understand. I turn my head and look at Mom.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not bulimic?!”

  “Denial,” Brittany assesses. “That’s the first sign.”

  “Don’t bother trying to deny it, Maddie,” Mom says. “I have all the evidence I need.”

  “I already told you, that kid in the yard made me sick.” I lower my head to my hands to try to keep from laughing. It is beyond my comprehension that they are taking this so seriously.

  “I know what you said, Maddie, but I’m intelligent enough to see past your excuses to the real problem.”

  “There is no problem.”

  “Look at you, Maddie,” Brittany states. “How can you explain your appearance?”

  “My running shorts? I got them at the fitness store. This is one of those breathable tank tops, and of course tree frog jogging shoes. You should try them, they’re extremely comfortable.”

  “I’m not talking about your clothes,” Brittany interjects. “Why is your hair so limp?”

  “I got caught in the rain today. Any other questions?”

  “You can’t go through life acting as though everything is a joke,” Brittany replies, her eyes steely.

  “I’m sorry, Brittany, but this is a joke. Do you two even know anything about bulimia?”

  Mom and Brittany exchange glances with one another.

  “Of course I know about bulimia,” Mom blurts. “I certainly know enough to recognize the signs.”

  “Really? Bulimia is all about binging and purging. In order to binge, you have to eat a lot of food. Go look in my cupboards or my refrigerator. There’s nothing unhealthy in there…no potato chips, no ice cream, no chocolate cake, no cookies. Look at my credit card statement, in my trash, on the floorboard of my car.”

  “I’m not the kind of person who goes snooping around someone else’s house,” Mom says, acting offended. “Besides, it seems to me you would hide the evidence.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “Then what makes you think I would throw up in your bathroom, when I knew you were going to see me? Why would I run up the steps and fling the door open when I could have snuck around to the front yard and no one would have been the wiser? How do you explain that?”

  “Well, it seems like you have given this a lot more thought than I have. That would mean you have the explaining to do, wouldn’t it?”

  “Okay,” I interject, rising to my feet. “You know what? I’ve had enough. Don’t come over here with your accusations when you don’t even know what you’re talking about. I was just heading out for a jog. Would you car
e to follow me around with your car to make sure that’s what I’m really doing?”

  Sliding between them, I walk to the front door and swing it open wide. Brittany and Mom rise from the couch, both of their mouths in angry lines. I stand to the side as they exit and head down the walk.

  I don’t even bother to wait for them to get to the car before making a beeline for the street to start jogging. They can sit in the driveway all night, for all I care. The nerve, coming over to my house for an intervention! Of all the ridiculous things the two of them have ever done, this has to take the cake. The real kicker is, I am absolutely positive that I am not anorexic-looking. I will be the first to brag about my improved physical fitness, but I am definitely not teetering at the low end of my healthy weight scale.

  About one block into my jog, I hear the car’s engine coming up behind me, and I glance over to see Brittany rolling down her window.

  “I tried my best, Maddie!” Mom shouts. “If you die, don’t come running to me.”

  “That’s not even physically possible!” I retort. Brittany jerks the window up and Mom speeds away, pulling farther and farther from my view. Finally they fade completely, and I take a deep breath before I chuckle to myself at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation.

  Ding-dong.

  Ugh, I have to find that wire and disconnect it somehow. The doorbell is driving me crazy.

  Okay, deep breath. This is my chance to talk to Cooper. If I spin this the right way, he has to agree.

  “Maddie, are you in there?” Cooper roars.

  If I could find a way to shut that off, we’d be in business.

  Opening the door, I step into Cooper’s office. He’s wearing a canary yellow shirt today with a shiny blue tie, which makes me wonder if he dressed in the dark.

  “You wanted to see me?” I ask politely. He clears his throat and motions for me to sit, so I take one of the pint-sized chairs and look up at him on his monstrous throne.