by Julia Kent
Persephone puts her arm around my shoulders. “Same.”
“You guys are the best friends I could ever ask for. And now we're all leaving,” I say, giving into my tears. It's easier to cry about this than Will.
“I'm going to Wheelock. Persephone's at UMASS. You're at Brown. We're all still within an hour or two drive of home.”
“But this! We'll never have this again!”
Persephone looks around. “You're going to miss having us all in a junky school bathroom while you cry over Will Lotham on the toilet?”
“With Persephone's nasty cigarette smoke ruining the air we breathe?” Fiona adds.
“YES!” The word comes out in two syllables, choked in the middle by my throat.
“You're so weird, Mal.” I'm suffocated by a double hug from them. Fiona's phone rings again.
“We have to go. And you have your final. We're going to leave you alone because we're your besties and we know that you need space and time to process your emotions before you can talk about them. You're an introvert,” Fiona declares.
“Someone just crammed for her psych final,” I reply.
“And I am sure I nailed it.” She's majoring in human development in college.
“Go. Do your 'thing.'” I use finger quotes.
They laugh, knowing I know, but not saying anything about the fact that I know because that's how it works in our little friendship. We don't have to say what we know. We just know and do.
They're at the edge of the door to the bathroom when Persephone stops and turns around, long hair covering her shoulder in a split, half in front of her, half in back.
“Are you sure? We can stay.”
I shoo them away.
I walk into the stall.
I lock the door.
Government textbook pressed into my thighs, I pull the cuff of my shirt to my mouth and scream until I can't make a sound any more. Until my stomach stops clenching in waves. Until my truest understanding of government using policy to shape social culture comes not from the book in my hands, but from the tears on my face.
Until I have blown through all my government study time and have no choice.
The bathroom is cleared out as I make my way slowly to the sinks, my blotchy face staring back at me like an indictment.
At no point do I think about skipping the final exam.
Little Miss Perfect doesn't do that, right? It would be out of character.
And besides.
I'm not special.
And when you're not special, what do you do?
You convince yourself that they're wrong.
Then you go out and prove it.
5
I won.
I was valedictorian by .000003 points in my GPA. I gave the graduation speech at our ceremony. Will never spoke to me. It wasn't out of anger. A wave here, a head nod there as we moved around the busyness of all the ceremonial markings of transition. That was it. Nothing more.
Nothing less.
We were just too busy, swept up in parallel activities that didn't allow for any intersections.
And I didn’t see him again for ten years.
But when I did, it was on a porn set.
Turns out Persephone – now nicknamed Perky, for reasons I can't go into right now – was right.
Sort of.
Not really.
Okay, maybe.
It's a long, complicated tale how Most Likely to Become a Porn Star turned out to be more a prediction and less a joke.
But that’s for another story.
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:)
* * *
Fast forward ten years and pick up Mallory and Will's delayed happily-ever-after in Fluffy, an all-new standalone from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent:
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Here's a sneak peek of Chapter One:
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Wanted: Professional fluffer for set. Experience required (no amateurs)! North Shore area. Immediate work, potential for more. 4 hours this week, cash paid at end of workday. Email or call.
* * *
Well, that’s vague, but promising. I live north of Boston. I haven’t heard the term fluffer used for house staging in a long time… maybe this is an older real estate agent?
A “set,” huh? I know the industry is moving toward video to help drive sales. I’m a stager who used to work for Tolleson Properties, one of the biggest real estate brokerages in my area. I staged houses, model homes, and sometimes office space, until the owners decided to sell and retire.
Things with the new owner didn't exactly work out, but I don't want to think about that DEA raid.
My last day was exactly twenty-nine weeks ago.
How do I know it was exactly twenty-nine weeks ago?
Because this is week thirty, and my last unemployment check should hit my account today. After that, it’s all downhill.
And by “downhill,” I mean I have to move back in with my mom and dad.
Immediate work sounds good, based on my bank balance and pending eviction. I send a quick reply.
* * *
To the Hiring Professional,
* * *
My name is Mallory Monahan, and I am writing to inquire about the professional fluffer position. I have six years of experience with staging and props, and am in search of freelance work that will use my expertise to draw out your best assets and help them rise to their fullest potential. My unique style never fails to set the right mood to bring your star properties to a happy ending. Clients tell me I have a special touch.
* * *
Please reply if you would like more information from me.
* * *
Sincerely,
Mallory
* * *
I learned a while ago not to bother with a resume when you make the first inquiry. Too many spam filters, too many HR people not bothering. A brief, upbeat email is best, confident and businesslike.
I scan the rest of the ads. Ten-dollar-an-hour administrative assistant jobs. Lots of “Make $5,000 a month in your spare time” ads, which basically means the people placing the ads make $5,000 a month from suckers who sign up.
Call center jobs. Accounting and finance positions that are way out of my league. Fashion model come-ons. Medical testing for research studies. Can you really get paid $6,000 to live in a hospital and do nothing but sleep for seventeen days? If so, sign me up.
A lot of house-cleaning jobs, and licensed real estate agent positions, but nothing else for decorating, designing, or staging.
But hey–one job listing is better than none.
A quick look at my email tells me everything I need to know about my life. My bank balance is under the limit for free checking so an $18 fee is being assessed, according to my bank, putting me into negative-dollar territory. I have three spam emails from Nigerian princes offering to marry me or to save my life if I will transfer cash immediately. Two internet marketers want to sell me How to Find the Perfect Husband systems for the low price of $79 (Receive a free self-care pampering gift basket when you enroll in our annual plan! Includes skin cream guaranteed to make you look less desperate!). One egg donor registry is offering me the chance to pump myself full of hormones, cry for five days, and have my eggs harvested from my ovaries.
It’s like they know.
They know I’ll never be able to use them.
But that’s not the worst email in my inbox.
Oh, not by a long shot.
This one is:
REMINDER: HARMONY HILLS HIGH SCHOOL CLASS OF 2009 REUNION! OUR FIRST DECADE!
Huh. Suddenly that egg-donor thing is looking less painful. Even Nigerian princes have more promise. Could I get someone to pay me $6,000 a month to sleep in a lab with a Nigerian prince who extracts my eggs? Because I would totally do that before I’d ever go to my high school reunion.
I stare at the date. Ugh. It’s still the exact same day as my favorite town festival.
Easy out. Every year, I volunteer
at the table for the local Habitat for Humanity chapter, recruiting volunteers. That’s way more important than some stupid reunion.
Right?
I’m about to close my laptop when I get a notification. I look at email and to my utter shock, there’s a reply for the professional fluffer job.
Hi Marley. You sound like a good fit. What’s your number to text?
I blink. What does that mean?
Hi! Thank you. Could you tell me more about the job? What kind of set? I grab a pen and start chewing on the cap.
We’re filming today. You know. The standard. Text me 555-444-0001.
The standard. What does this person mean by ‘the standard’? Self-doubt floods me. This is some staging lingo I don’t know, but I’m clearly supposed to know.
Play it cool, I tell myself. Fake it till you make it. It’ll be fine. Remember your bank balance.
I pull out my phone and start texting.
Right. It sounds very interesting. I am available if you’d like to see my resume and portfolio. It’s Mallory, by the way.
Reminding myself that if I don’t get the gig, the world doesn’t end, I take deep, cleansing breaths that expand my diaphragm.
It’s the only diaphragm I use lately, so might as well exercise it.
You have a portfolio? LOL. Wow. That’s real professional. Most of our people come to us word of mouth, but a bunch of them quit and went pro, on their own. So we got desperate and listed on Craigslist.
I frown at the phone. Is this person mocking me?
Another text comes through from him. Her? Not sure.
We need someone right away, Mallory. You sound like you know what you’re doing. All we really care about is that it gleams in the light and has staying power. It’s the focal point, right?
I sit up straight. This is promising. I need to say the right affirming words to make them understand I would be a valuable addition to their team.
Oh, I’ll make sure it all stands tall and looks beautiful.
There. Mission accomplished.
Great. You’re hired.
“What?” I squeal, shocked and relieved. Finally! Someone values me professionally!
We need it to shine. Bring whatever it takes to really make it shine.
Wow. They obviously care about lighting and art direction.
No problem. With enough spit and polish, anything can shine, I reply.
Spit, huh? I like the way you think. Attagirl.
I’m a little taken aback by attagirl. Seems... gendered. Demeaning. I need to show them I’m made of serious stuff.
I’ll send you my standard freelance contract shortly. Your ad said cash paid at the end of the day. What is the fee?
The pause before his (her?) next text comes through feels like a kind of soul death. Was I too blunt? Did I blow it? Please tell me I didn’t blow it.
Blowing it would suck.
$300. Shouldn’t be more than four hours here.
That's a really good hourly rate. My eyebrows go up, my mouth goes down, and my brain calculates what my bank balance will be if I get three hundred dollars in there.
$293.11. Sad math. Math is always sad, but it’s even sadder with dollar figures attached.
My dollars.
And you don’t need a contract. Just show up. Be here in an hour and we’ll get it done.
I stare at the screen, body flushed with adrenaline.
An hour?
Yeah. We’re in Anderhill.
That’s where I live. What are the odds? I stare dumbly at the screen. Is this a joke? Or, worse, a trap? What if I’m being lured into some sex-slave human-trafficking thing?
What’s the address? I type.
He names it. I quickly map it.
I know where that is. Maplecure Street is where all the super-well-off kids lived when I was in school. I wasn’t friends with any of them. They were the country club crowd, the kids who went to Aspen for winter break and Martinique for spring break. I was friendly with the ones in band or theater, but not best friends. Not close enough to be invited to that side of town.
It’s not exactly a den of criminal activity.
The only road in town with even more wealth is Concordian Road, and that’s where the richie-riches live. Harmony Hills High School combines the towns of Anderhill and Stoneleigh, and while I live in Anderhill, I don't live in this part. I know all about Concordian Road, though. Used to drive past it almost daily in high school.
But I’m not going to think about that.
Especially not when I am so broke.
You still there? the guy asks. I assume it’s a guy. Maybe it’s a woman. I don’t know why I’m assuming it’s a man, because most real estate agents I’ve worked with are women. Something about that attagirl.
And yet, beggars can’t be choosers. Three hundred bucks cash for four hours and the potential for more work is pretty much a slam dunk.
I’ll be there in an hour. Perfect. What’s your name?
Spatula.
I laugh out loud, the glow of the small screen casting a surreal feel on the moment.
That's a unique name. What do you do on set?
I’m the creampie specialist.
Oh! A cooking show! Now this is all making so much more sense. I’m about to ask for specifics when Spatula writes back and says:
See you in an hour.
And... I have my first freelance staging job.
Life is good after all.
* * *
Start reading the rest at: Fluffy, by Julia Kent.
