But I’d had my own problems that day. Right after lunch, I settled a group of first graders from a nearby school into a reading group with Hulk, the Reading Dog, a very sweet, trained Saint Bernard who loved to hear good fiction read by just about anyone. I started the story, then let the kids take turns reading.
The room was so peaceful. The halting reading of tiny little voice after tiny little voice brought back my first grade class with Mrs. Kinder, where I had often drifted off to a pleasant doze. Now finally warm and comfy after my short, chilly, cramped night, I sipped hot tea at my desk and sneezed. Then I pushed back the keyboard and rested my head on my arms on the desk, just for a second. When I awoke, there was a pool of drool and a pink slip on the desk in front of me.
I tried to reason with Marla. After all, I'd personally led the librarians in winning the cutthroat spelling bee against the local sixth grade teachers for the last five years running. But all she would say was that I was unreliable, on the phone too much, and that my snoring had scared the children. And that poor Hulk would need library-funded doggie psych counseling for weeks.
Stunned, I got in the car and called Harley before I remembered she had stolen my un-boyfriend.
"You never really liked that job." Harley said. "Now you can write more."
I went home to my condo and stopped cold inside the door. The contents of my place had been thrown around, and the cupboard full of manuscript copies was bare. Booknapping, again. And this time, it felt icky. Someone had been in my house, handling my stuff just today, just since I'd come home this morning and left my manuscript here, the one Dad had read. Shaken, I called James.
"Anything else gone?" he asked.
I looked around. "Oh, my Gwen Stefani poster. And my CD player."
"Sounds like a bored teenager. Or a rollergirl prankster."
“Hippo? Cleo? Yvette? Maybe. But why take the manuscripts?"
"Rhonda, it's a Halloween prank. Your rollergirl friends specialize at those. Were the locks busted?" he asked.
"Uh—" I looked. "I don't know. How do you tell?"
"Scratches by them. You got a key in a dog turd somewhere?"
"Maybe." I chewed a fingernail.
He sighed heavily. "Okay. Who has keys?"
"Oh, good question. I, uh, hmmm. A few people." Actually, about fifty ex-boyfriends. And Manuela.
"Let me guess. More people have keys to your place than full manuscripts of your book. Well, call the cops if you like, but if a lot of people have keys, I'd just wait. The stuff will probably show up again in a couple of days with a 'ha-ha-I-fooled-you' note. Meanwhile, I think we may have solved your Reynard Jackson mystery. Somebody probably just waltzed into your place, grabbed a manuscript, and published it."
I sighed. I wasn’t in the mood to argue. "Um, James, I need my laptop back ASAP. I'm having to write my book on toilet paper and I have a lawyer appointment next Thursday. With the paper copies all gone, the basis for my copyright case is in that laptop.”
"I'll bring it to our date tomorrow."
* * *
I called the cops anyway. Big woop. The manuscripts weren't worth much, so they did nothing. Exhausted, I crawled into bed, waking only when the pounding on my door got loud enough to shatter my dream of two tall, hunky, white tuxedoed guys with flowing black hair and shiny earrings flanking me through the doorway to a glittering ballroom full of delicate people in white Regency ball gowns and tall white wigs.
My throat hurt. I got up and opened the door a crack.
"Trick or treat!" Harley said, muscling her way inside. "Time for the Amazon Halloween do." She wrinkled her nose. "You going as Phyllis Diller?"
"Huh?" I sniffed and wheezed a little. "I think I'm sick."
"The fundraiser. I promised we'd show up and cheer."
"But Halloween was last night." Cough.
"Tonight's when they could get the rink.”
"You go." I sneezed. "I'm coming down with something, probably from that nursing home."
She rubbed finger and thumb together. "This is the smallest violin in the whole world, playing just for you."
"And somebody took all my manuscript copies," I whined. “Burglary. I’ve been violated.”
"All the more reason to go tonight and get more info on the Amazons, when they're most vulnerable—worried about going on stage.”
I considered my recent burglary. "Hmm. Could an Amazon have picked my door locks?"
* * *
Harley grinned from the driver's seat. "Boy, is that Indian a kick. We had an awesome time last night. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge." Speeding past a police car, she elbowed me. "I'm amazed. You actually saved him for me. Of course, he's not your type, but with your track record—"
He'd seemed exactly my type in the wee hours of Tuesday.
"God, our date last night …" she rhapsodized.
Blue lights flashed behind us. Oh, God.
Ten minutes later, we pulled away from the officer whom she'd charmed out of a ticket with her winning smile. "Okay, Rhonda. I'll only spill if you swear never to steal him from me."
Like I could get her not to spill if I tried. There was no way out of this but to lie. "Good God, no. James is my guy. Dal's a real pain in the ass.”
"Good. See, the Indian's not classically cute or particularly built, like the knights in shiny armor you always pick out. He's more gangly and terse, but he's so noble and kind. And so considerate. He asked me how I was and actually listened for fifteen minutes while I talked. I bet James never did that."
I blew my nose loudly. "So James talks a lot. Big deal."
"And after we had our double-doubles at In-And-Out, he took all the wrappers and cups out of my car, even the ones from last week, and threw them in the trash. Now that's a sweetie, a guy who'd clean up after himself and me."
"Whoa. In-And-Out meal in the car—way romantic. Call The L.A. Times," I almost grabbed the wheel as Harley swerved to miss a parked car.
"Well, In-And-Out on the beach. Prone … Hah! You'll never guess where I found sand this morning." She snapped her underwear elastic, not realizing how perilous her path was growing.
"Hey, I forgot my costume!" I said. "Gotta go home for my tiara."
"You mean you kept that fake bling from Garth all this time? After you stole—"
"I did not steal him!"
"Right. We've been over this before." She made an illegal left turn. "And I agree. Wimpy guys can't stand my amazing brilliance, so they run and find someone temporary and gullible, like you, and dole out dime-store jewelry. Then they dump you on your ass. Heartbreak all around. But the Indian—oh, wow. I can't find anything wimpy about him. He's straightforward, elegant, elemental, and just ripe for a commitment with me. Bling or no."
"Harley, I am not after anyone's bling!" I coughed. "And gullible?"
She gave me a long look. Okay, she could have that point.
"Mmmm." She smiled. "He and I just have so much in common—building stuff, helping people, romance. That nose of his is the sexiest thing on the planet, if you catch my drift. I mean it can really …"
I sat on my hands so I wouldn't wring her neck. Dal Baker had to go. He was messing up my best friendship. "It doesn't bother you that he's got no BA?" I blurted. "And he's rude and arrogant? The first day I met him, he walked right up and kissed …" Oops.
"What?" The car swerved again, nearly missing a pedestrian.
I squealed. Wrong time to confess. "Kisshew! Kisshew! God, I'm sneezing a lot. Just be careful, Harley. Guy's got no visible means of support."
"I make plenty of money to support a nutmeg." Nutmeg being a spice, a variant of spouse. She shimmied in her seat. "He could be a trapeze artist for all I care. In fact, that would be fun. Just think of all those cute little dark-headed wild Indians I'd have, swinging from the drapes.”
I clenched my teeth the rest of the way to the rink parking lot, which tonight was full of giant, gnarly motorcycles. Harley rave
d on and on about Dal changing her life in twenty-four hours and how a veil had lifted and she hadn't even needed her drugs today. I figured I'd need to start taking some soon.
* * *
In the rink, a lot of chairs had been placed on the floor in front of the bleachers, both behind and in front of the rails. Loud leather-clad folks in costume milled around as we searched for seats.
Cathy rolled up to me all dressed in virulent daffodil yellow with yellow Las Vegas showgirl feathers flapping on her head and her ample rear end. "You like my big-ass feathers?" she hissed.
I sneezed at the pun.
"Come to the dressing room!" she said.
Inside the locker room, the graffitied locker doors had mirrors hung on them. Half-dressed women in outrageous costumes were running and skating to and fro, slathering on makeup and hair dye. Perfumes warred with hair spray and cigarette smoke in a visible fog. E. Lizard Butt and Cleo, with Raggedy Ann faces and smock aprons, sat on benches, smoking. Hippo, in a trench coat and a black fedora, wrestled with huge fishnet stockings.
Down the next aisle, two square-jawed blond women pouted at mirrors and wrestled with false eyelashes. And wore nothing on their generous curves but sinuous tattoos, scarlet tasseled pasties, sequined red G-strings, and fuck-me spike heels.
"Are we still in Kansas?" I whispered to Harley when my eyes focused again.
"Nope. It's the Halloween Land of Roller Burlesque."
Cathy said, "Boy, is it lucky you showed up! Kween Viktorious and Storm Goddess got caught in traffic in Los Angeles. We need you to fill in."
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm sick, and—"
Hippo was suddenly in front of us, black trench coat looming. Her grin was evil incarnate. "We need somebody to perform their dance, and you're it, girls. Unless you want an immediate, permanent escort out of this rink."
Harley and I exchanged a look.
Largot said, "But they need costumes."
"They can dance in their underwear." Hippo turned back to her mirror.
This wasn't happening.
Just then, a nervous Hispanic woman raced in to Hippo with a big plastic bag. She said, "I sorry Missus. Kween Viki boyfriend he tell me bring these costume. But first, I must finish clean them house."
Hippo yelled, "You waited to finish cleaning before you brought them? Jesus, Maria Elena. I'm calling Shiny Zone to get your ass fired." She threw the bag at us and pulled out a cell phone.
Maria Elena scuttled out, head down.
Cathy caught the bag and pull out two red velvet bras with matching skirts and hip belts, dripping with gold beads and coins. On a normal size-ten woman, they'd have been revealing. On us big buxom girls, they'd be downright lewd.
Unfortunately, Happy Harley was game for anything. She went to the car for her two sets of skates while I sulked by Largot Fonteyn, who was hiking up the sagging front of her striped cat costume, her fuzzy tail tucked into her waistband. Harley returned and started undressing.
"Hey, are you two stripping?" Largot said, shoving little silver-tasseled items at me. "The Dana Point Decadence passed out extra pasties."
I felt woozy and stuck my head between my knees. My sinuses filled up immediately.
Largot went on, "Well, suit yourself. Double D Cupcake and Oh Fudge from the Decadence probably have enough nasty moves to make up for the rest of us. They're professional strippers. Just joined the league."
"Pasties! Orgas-maravillosa!" Cathy bounced up, yellow feathers bobbing. "And Dee-Lickerous, the pole dancer, is coming as soon as she's done meeting her parole officer." Her tough-girl tattoos clashed with her sunny yellow outfit, as did her lamp-post legs.
"Rhonda, get dressed. I need a partner." Harley shimmied into her belly dancer costume, which looked pretty decent on her hourglass shape.
I, on the other hand, was built, depending on which parent you asked, like a milkmaid or a brick shithouse. "I can't belly dance. And on skates? Get real." Pause. "Or are we mud wrestling?"
"No, the Dana Point sluts are doing that at the end," Cathy said. "You just improvise. You know, weave around and shimmy a little. Pretend to seduce the men in the front row, then fall in their laps. Get a laugh. They'll love it.”
I sat, head in hands, aware of Hippo's glare.
Suddenly, a gaggle of yellow-feathered bird-girls attacked me, grabbed my leg and pulled my right shoe off. My reflexes were slowed by the cold. Largot got the left shoe off before I could react. I held my ground when they went for my pullover sweater, until Cathy reached in and tickled me and a flock of smaller Asian girls in matching yellow Big Bird outfits descended on me, pinning me to the floor.
As little hands attacked and tugged my sweater off, I yelled, hoarsely, "No. No. No. I'm not going out there and belly dance on skates in front of a hundred people.”
Cathy said, "Oh, more like five hundred. Trick-or-treat was last night, so we have twice as many people this year. Oragsmalating! More money for the league.”
I clutched at my pants, but my captors were faster. "Whose side are you girls on?" I bleated.
"The league's," Largot said. "Guys paid a lot for those seats. The money'll go for a new home for our banked track, which is so much cooler and faster for roller bouts. Come on Rhonda. The league needs everybody tonight.”
Cathy was strapping a bra on me as a yellow-clad Veggie Girl chirped from each of my limbs.
"Rhonda, meet Lettuce Play, Beet 'Em Up, Garlicka Yo Ass and Spy-C Chilly Peppahs," Cathy said, straining to pull up my red harem skirt. When she’d almost got it to my hips, they all stood back, hooting.
"I'm not—" I sat up and sneezed on my burgundy velvet bra, a jingly cross between Mrs. Santa's lingerie and a dangly pirate treasure.
Wiggling black cat ears, Largot shoved Kleenex at me. "Nice bra."
Cathy fastened it in back. "Yeah. Orgasmatastic. Can you make the bangles on the boobs go in different directions?"
I said, "With kneepads and helmets? We'll look awful.”
Largot said, "No helmets or kneepads tonight, Sweet Pea. So stay upright."
I stood up. "Where's my sweater? I'm calling a taxi."
Hippo's fedora turned our way.
I rasped out, "I've got a cold, maybe mono. I'm bloated and as sexy as a sour sponge.”
Applying lipstick, Harley said, "Remember why we came."
"I AM NOT BELLY-DANCING!" I kicked a locker door, making everyone start. In the swaying mirror, my bra was tight enough to read a mammogram through and my slightly poochy stomach now billowed out over the waistband of my "skirt", which barely covered my Bermuda triangle. My Pillsbury Doughboy gut would not suck in.
Cathy grinned. "Your belly's dancing already."
Harley shoved a cup of cold medicine at me from her emergency stash. "Rhonda, on Pluto, you only weigh sixteen pounds. The guys will love you.”
The stuff tasted like gasoline. "Forget men. The last ones I got turned moldy.”
"God, there's no mold on that Indian." Harley nudged me, lipstick in hand. "He really smokes my peace pipe, if you know what I mean.”
Problem was, I did.
Largot chimed in, "Pulls your travois? Erects your tepee?"
Cathy's crossed eye gleamed. "Whittles her wood."
I started fuming. Why was she so happy about Dal? He was … he was … Grrrr. As Cathy fixed my veil with hairpins, I realized he was damned sexy and I wanted him pretty bad. But did I want him just because Harley had dibsed him? Was this just a game between her and me? How had I felt before the dibs? What about James? My head hurt.
Harley finished her own makeup and attacked my eyes with mascara, leaving me looking like Elvira. Then she snatched E. Lizard Butt's can and sprayed it all over my hair. "Hair dye. Candy-apple red. An experiment for Booty-Ka."
"How does it look?" I asked.
She tipped her head and considered. "Terrible."
CHAPTER 27
Hippo was still in the dressing room, glaring
at everyone, so Harley wandered out to the rink to find out what was going on and I went upstairs to the weight room overlooking the rink to join the other prisoners, waiting for our turns at the stake. E. Lizard Butt was talking on the phone nearby.
The show started in the darkened rink full of masked spectators. Sweeping spotlights followed Cathy and the Veggie Girls as their feathers fluttered to Bob Seeger's Hollywood Nights.
After mixed applause and booing, Oh Fudge gyrated onstage to a punk song about skin. This was much more popular. Her airline stewardess's uniform came off in sections as she pranced around the rink, delivering tiny bottled cocktails to whistling clowns and devils in the front row and deftly avoiding grabby Tweety Bird hands. In the end, even the pasties and G-string flew high over the audience's heads as she barely escaped to the dressing room.
"Tough crowd," somebody said behind me.
A sultry voice said, "Yeah, get a load of Captain Jack, there. He's mine." She blew a kiss to someone in the crowd.
Time for my undercover sting. I put my veil on to disguise myself and turned to these two girls, who had on sexy top hats and tails. "Hi, I'm—uh—Booty-Ka. New to the Amazons. Are you Iridescence?"
"Yeah.”
Yay. "Do you know Yv-er-Gold Diggeressa?"
"Sure."
"I'm writing bios for all the girls in the league for the website. How long has she been in the Amazons? Is she new?"
One shrugged. "I guess so."
"Do you know where she skated before?"
They wrinkled their noses. One said, "Is she from the Pittsburgh League? Those skanks.”
The other said, "Why don't you ask her? She’s here."
"I haven’t seen—" I had a sudden sneezing fit and soaked the veil. I took the snotty mess off as they backed away.
E. Lizard Butt held out pearls of cold medicine to me. "Don't want you spreading this cold around.”
"I had some already," I said.
She produced a flask. "Take them with this. Go on. My kids take this before a test. Stops the drip.”
Roll with the Punches Page 23
