We were rounding the reservoir on our way to South Street when our very own Ace of Spades was struck by an errant egg, one which missed some young kid hiding in a row of bushes across the street. Unbeknownst to the four of us, we had stumbled into a Halloween street war, and before we knew it, another egg flew our way, followed by a stream of silly string and shaving cream. Alisha screamed like a boiling teakettle and Tori screamed in one of the kids’ faces, but they all got away, racing down the street on bicycles they’d left hidden in the bushes, laughing like a pack of hyenas.
And wouldn’t you know? Not a single one of us had remembered the rape whistle—or the rhinestone-laden cell phone, for that matter.
It’s almost an hour by the time my name is called. At least itfeelslike an hour—could be more, for all I know. I explain what happened to a young man who looks like he might still be in high school. He sells me the new phone and informs me that I can keep my number the same but without a SIM card, all access to the contents of the phone, including my contact list and photos, are alive only in the cloud storage backup system, which I do not have the time nor the luxury of accessing at this particular moment. For now, I will have to deal with a blank slate of a phone, which will be about as useful to me as trying to hit my people up using two cans and a string. I’ll also have to set up my email again—but that’s fine, I say, I can do it later.
Looks like all the important things in my life will be starting over from scratch today.
At least it can’t get any worse, I think, after I’ve spent over three hundred dollars on the phone, a sparkly case for it, and a screen protector. I refuse the insurance because, well, I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess. Or maybe just a grade A knucklehead, as my dad would say.
It’s well after four by the time I get home, and I’m a bit aggravated but also in too much of a hurry to sweat it. The only numbers I knowby heart are my parents’ house in Westchester and the number to the Chinese food restaurant, so I program those in quickly before changing into appropriate dinner clothes, brushing my hair, putting on makeup and a fresh chin Band-Aid, and carefully placing my new phone in my purse, along with my wallet, keys, and lip gloss.
On the subway, I’m trying to set up my email on the phone when I realize that I have a voicemail message. No, wait.Twovoicemail messages.
I hitsendon the voicemail icon and plug my ear with my finger so I can hear better.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit. Gracie, I need you to call me back likeyesterday. Lindsay’sdone.She just stormed out of here in a full-on rage with all her shit. I think she gotfired.”
I hang up before listening to the second message. My new phone’s got an unlimited data plan, so I’m able to pull up the Vision Board website and grab the number from there. I check the time. It’s past five, so Evan might be gone, but sometimes he works late to read through subs.
It rings.Please pick up, I think.
“Vision Board Creative Group. This is Evan,” he says cheerily.
“Evan? It’s Grace.”
“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus! I have beenwaitingto hear back from youall day long! What the fuck took you so long?”
“I’m sorry! I dropped my phone in the sewer—it was a whole, long thing. But forget about that. Whathappened?”
“Your girl isgone. I told you about how she trashed the conference room, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I got the 4-1-1. Turns out she had a surprise visit from her ex today.”
Oh God,I think.
“He came here to try and talk to her about I’m not sure what butnotlike your typical divorce stuff. And she flipped on him! She threw the chair and shattered the glass and Sean and Kath were legitfuriousand now they’re threatening legal action against her!”
“Holy shit,” I say. My head spins.
“Yeah, it was the most drama I haveeverseen in this place. I only wish I had been there for the chair toss. Fucking bad sushi,” he grumbles. “Do you haveanyidea how much money a video like that could have made on the Internet?”
“I’m sure,” I utter. Then, something dawns on me. “Hey, Evan. What does that mean for her deals?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lindsay was working on a deal with Cabaret for my manuscript.”
“This new one? From yesterday? The one she called garbage?”
“No, a different one.”
“Because, sidebar? It’s not garbage at all, boo. It’s fucking spectacular.”
“You read it?”
“Um,yes. It’s soscandalous.”
