30Band name idea: Interstellar Food Fight, just in case I find out I’m a drummer.
31I should probably pay him more.
32Maybe I used to work at a bank?
33Or strangle us.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The Long Beach Wells Fargo is just a block or two over on Ocean Boulevard and has a stunning ocean view. In my head I hear a discordant buzzer and imagine crossing outbankwith a big red X. There’s something messed up about a bank taking up a spot where a casual restaurant with a dolphin theme could be. The more I think about it, the more strongly I feel about dolphin-friendly businesses getting prime water views. Someone who grew up by the ocean probably wouldn’t even notice this or care. They’d be like “the ocean, who cares?” which makes me think I’m originally from the Midwest—someplace with a lot of corn and a dull, flat view. An ocean of corn isn’t an ocean, after all.
“Did you do 4-H as a kid?” I ask Max as we head toward the bank, mostly because I’m wondering if I did.
He gives me a weird look. “Where did that come from?”
“Well, you’re from Minnesota. I’m starting to think I might be, too. Or, you know, from some similarly dull place.”
He guffaws. “Watch your mouth.Princewas from Minnesota. Minnesota is dope.”
“I bet I was born somewhere right off the interstate, like in a pit stop on the way to somewhere else, destined never to arrive anywhere by virtue of my birth.”
Max stares flatly at me. “And you say you aren’t dramatic.”
“So you don’t think I’m from Minnesota, too?”
“I think you’re from the Midwest and you came to California to become an actress but ended up doing other things.”
Wow. That assessment was…a little too real. But it’s probably true.
“Did you know that I was in a commercial?” he says.
“Stop it. You were not.”
From his expression I know a good punch line is coming. “It was for a bacterial growth medium.”
I laugh. “Sounds sexy.”
“Basically every black kid in the sciences is an unpaid model. I’m the centerfold and cover model for every school I’ve ever been to.”
I laugh. “You don’t even need Instagram.”
We enter the lobby and find it completely empty. Literally no one goes into a bank anymore. The only people who come here are olds who don’t know how to digitally deposit checks. Most of the teller stations are closed but I see an Indian guy waving me over from the one open station. I walk up to him and see his nameplate: Kumar.
“Hi, Kumar!” I say brightly. “I need your help. I tried to reset my password for my account online but I got a message saying I need to come in.”
He doesn’t seem to be vibing with my cheeriness. “Driver’s license or government-issued ID, please.”
That’s when it hits me. I woke up with: a rhinestone-studded clutch, a receipt for a Smartwater, a bobby pin, two keys, and my Pirate lipstick. Noticeably absent: money and credit cards. As the import of this dawns on me, I tell Kumar, “Um, I’m sorry. My purse was stolen. I’m actually here because of that.”
He nods. “So you need replacement cards.”
And then some.
Kumar, probably concerned about privacy at this point or maybe just manners, turns to Max. “And you are?”
Max holds out his hand like a good Midwestern boy. “I’m Max.”
