Don't Kill the Messenger Read Free Page B

stuffing out of her and not because she’s one of the only people who can put up with my schedule and my “moods” as my mother calls them. I also love her because she accepts everything before her at face value, never questions my lame explanations for my crazy life and is generally about the sweetest pea in the world’s funky pod. I, therefore, put up with her exhortations to open myself to the unseen forces that she’s convinced are all around us, pushing and pulling us in millions of directions with our cognizant awareness.
     
If she only knew. Which she doesn’t, and I try my damnedest to keep it that way. Norah would be mortified if she knew what was around her most of the time. The magical world ain’t all rainbows and unicorns, you know.
     
I slipped as unobtrusively as possible into the kitchen and started some coffee. I saw Norah’s sidelong glance from the living room and knew I’d probably earned myself a lecture on the evils of caffeine and its addictive qualities, but figured that it would actually be brewed before she was finished with her downward dogs. It’s much easier to listen to lectures on the evils of coffee with a hot steaming mug of my dark mistress in hand.
     
I hit the brew button and headed into the shower. I figured all the cleansing I needed was available right there.
     
When I came out, my hair done up in a towel and me done up in my big fuzzy terry cloth robe, Norah was standing in the kitchen, slicing an apple into quarters. “You know,” she said, not looking up at me, “studies have shown that eating an apple first thing in the morning made people feel as alert and awake as a cup of coffee. It’s the glucose.”
     
“Really,” I said, pouring myself a cup. “They also showed that hormone replacement was good for women, and then all those nice old ladies had heart attacks.”
     
Norah’s head shot up and she looked stricken. “No,” she said. “Really?”
     
I felt like a shit. “Yeah, really.” I took one of her apple quarters and bit into it. She smiled a little, but I could tell it was fainthearted. I wished I could keep myself from doing stuff like that. Seriously. It’s like kicking puppies. It always makes me feel worse about myself and honestly, I don’t need much help in that department.
     
Norah headed to the shower, and I opened up the newspaper. The Kings were not getting in the playoffs, and the narcotics squad was reporting a new kind of marijuana showing up on the streets, something similar to BC Bud, the superstrong variety of marijuana grown hydroponically in Canada. The two items weren’t related. Or, at least, I didn’t think they were. There’d also been two more deaths in Elk Grove. Police thought both were gang related. Things had been tense lately in Sacramento and were only getting tenser. I couldn’t wait until summer hit full force with its triple-degree heat that made short tempers into rages and put people in the mood to stab, shoot and throw punches at their loved ones and strangers alike. I sighed and grabbed another apple quarter—they were actually tasty—and went to my room to get dressed.
     
I looked into my closet and sighed again. I’m not entirely certain how someone who lives in a climate as hot as I do has so much black in her closet. Norah’s laundry looks like a freaking rainbow, all pinks and blues and greens and patterns. Mine looks like an advertisement for cold-water Cheer. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a black tank top and threw them on.
     
I blew my hair dry even though I knew the heat would make it frizz within seconds of walking back outside. At least I’d know I’d made an effort even if no one else did. Or would notice. I loved teaching the Little Dragons karate class and they loved me. It had nothing, however, to do with my hair and everything to do with the fact that I can break a stack of eight two-by-fours with the side of my hand.
     
No wonder I can’t get a date.
     
Norah was out of the