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Authors: Lynn Harris
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stared.
“But you love dogs . . . ?” offered Annabel.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to marry them,” said Lola.
“Now we know why man and dog are just friends,” said Annabel.
Lola laughed wearily.
“Listen, Lo, while you’re distracted: I have news,” Annabel went on.
“What? About Mimi? What?”
“Well, obviously you know I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself since getting back from rock climbing?”
“Hey, did you get the job at the paintball foundation?”
“No, no, not that . . . you know my blog.”
Lola did indeed. Called The Slackline , it contained Annabel’s witty accounts of her time in Colorado doing volunteer work and dating outdoorsmen—the phase of life she called her “Junior League Abroad.” The blog had gained a following among climbers and acrophobes alike. Lola hadn’t read as much of it as she’d meant to, which made her feel like an ass.
“Well, I got a call from this editor person at Poncho Books.” Poncho was a hip downtown imprint of Disney-Seagram’s, the biggest media conglomerate in history.
“They want you to come work for them?”
“No, no—they want to turn the blog into a book.”
Lola threw the wombat.
“I think they’re calling that a blook now, but . . . I’m not,” said Annabel. “Anyway, also a sitcom.”
“Oh, my God.”
“And a feature film.”
Gibson dropped the wombat on Lola’s toe. She picked it up, put it in her own mouth, and bit down, hard.
Eleven
“Lola?”
“Sorry! Sorry. The dogs,” said Lola. “ Annabel. That is awesome !”
“Thanks, Lo. I mean, it does kind of feel gross and corporate. But then again, so does what I’ve been doing: supporting the global domination plan of Cup O’Noodles.”
“Hah, right,” said Lola.
“Plus, it’s so weird,” Annabel went on. “I mean, it’s not like I was even trying to sell it. Or that I even think of myself as, like, an official writer.”
Don’t remind me, Lola thought.
She knew Annabel was doing her best to show that she hadn’t been trying to lap Lola. But her efforts were making things worse. No, she’s not an official writer! She’s not an official anything! Not to be mean. But come on .
Annabel had always succumbed to lust, wander- and otherwise, never staying in one place, or with one guy, for long—and never apologizing for it. She and Lola had met years ago, while both in their twenties, when serving on the volunteer staff at a community kids’ fair in a run-down Queens neighborhood. Lola was painting kids’ faces; next to her, Annabel, wrapped in scarves, was telling kids’ fortunes. “You vill meet a beautiful, eeenteresting stranger,” she’d say, inspecting a small palm. “Oh! Is me !”
During a lull in the fortune-telling action, Annabel had turned to Lola, bangles jingling.
“So, what’d you do?”
“That last one was Princess Jasmine. So were the nine before that, except for one Darth Maul,” sighed Lola, wiping her hands on a piece of musty brown accordion-folded paper towel that reminded her of elementary school. “No one will let me do anyone from Kiss.”
“Damn kids,” smiled Annabel. “But no, I mean, what’d you do to have to do this?”
“Uh, I signed up,” answered Lola, puzzled. “What’d you do?”
“Drugs,” said Annabel. “After today I’ll be done with my six-week community service sentence.”
But Annabel had evidently seen an all-new future in her own palm that day. Having done her time, she dropped the drugs but kept up with the good deeds. She would later tell Lola that it was something about how Lola didn’t judge her that day—though secretly, silently, sheltered Lola had been shocked—that helped make drugs lose their appeal, helped her lose interest in proving her badassitude. Ever able to talk people into paying her enough to live on, Annabel had gone on to save sea turtles in Mexico, fight the death penalty in Alabama, and teach English to the Hmong in St. Paul (and to
“But you love dogs . . . ?” offered Annabel.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to marry them,” said Lola.
“Now we know why man and dog are just friends,” said Annabel.
Lola laughed wearily.
“Listen, Lo, while you’re distracted: I have news,” Annabel went on.
“What? About Mimi? What?”
“Well, obviously you know I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself since getting back from rock climbing?”
“Hey, did you get the job at the paintball foundation?”
“No, no, not that . . . you know my blog.”
Lola did indeed. Called The Slackline , it contained Annabel’s witty accounts of her time in Colorado doing volunteer work and dating outdoorsmen—the phase of life she called her “Junior League Abroad.” The blog had gained a following among climbers and acrophobes alike. Lola hadn’t read as much of it as she’d meant to, which made her feel like an ass.
“Well, I got a call from this editor person at Poncho Books.” Poncho was a hip downtown imprint of Disney-Seagram’s, the biggest media conglomerate in history.
“They want you to come work for them?”
“No, no—they want to turn the blog into a book.”
Lola threw the wombat.
“I think they’re calling that a blook now, but . . . I’m not,” said Annabel. “Anyway, also a sitcom.”
“Oh, my God.”
“And a feature film.”
Gibson dropped the wombat on Lola’s toe. She picked it up, put it in her own mouth, and bit down, hard.
Eleven
“Lola?”
“Sorry! Sorry. The dogs,” said Lola. “ Annabel. That is awesome !”
“Thanks, Lo. I mean, it does kind of feel gross and corporate. But then again, so does what I’ve been doing: supporting the global domination plan of Cup O’Noodles.”
“Hah, right,” said Lola.
“Plus, it’s so weird,” Annabel went on. “I mean, it’s not like I was even trying to sell it. Or that I even think of myself as, like, an official writer.”
Don’t remind me, Lola thought.
She knew Annabel was doing her best to show that she hadn’t been trying to lap Lola. But her efforts were making things worse. No, she’s not an official writer! She’s not an official anything! Not to be mean. But come on .
Annabel had always succumbed to lust, wander- and otherwise, never staying in one place, or with one guy, for long—and never apologizing for it. She and Lola had met years ago, while both in their twenties, when serving on the volunteer staff at a community kids’ fair in a run-down Queens neighborhood. Lola was painting kids’ faces; next to her, Annabel, wrapped in scarves, was telling kids’ fortunes. “You vill meet a beautiful, eeenteresting stranger,” she’d say, inspecting a small palm. “Oh! Is me !”
During a lull in the fortune-telling action, Annabel had turned to Lola, bangles jingling.
“So, what’d you do?”
“That last one was Princess Jasmine. So were the nine before that, except for one Darth Maul,” sighed Lola, wiping her hands on a piece of musty brown accordion-folded paper towel that reminded her of elementary school. “No one will let me do anyone from Kiss.”
“Damn kids,” smiled Annabel. “But no, I mean, what’d you do to have to do this?”
“Uh, I signed up,” answered Lola, puzzled. “What’d you do?”
“Drugs,” said Annabel. “After today I’ll be done with my six-week community service sentence.”
But Annabel had evidently seen an all-new future in her own palm that day. Having done her time, she dropped the drugs but kept up with the good deeds. She would later tell Lola that it was something about how Lola didn’t judge her that day—though secretly, silently, sheltered Lola had been shocked—that helped make drugs lose their appeal, helped her lose interest in proving her badassitude. Ever able to talk people into paying her enough to live on, Annabel had gone on to save sea turtles in Mexico, fight the death penalty in Alabama, and teach English to the Hmong in St. Paul (and to
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