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getting warm.”
    I’m not sure if that’s contempt or sarcasm I’m hearing but it doesn’t matter. I recognize the signs. She’s seen who I really am and she doesn’t like it. Oh well. So much for my little trip to Funsville.
    I wipe my tongue over my teeth and look away.
    “Seriously. What do you do all day? Stare at the walls?”
    I go, “Whatever.” I’m so pathetic. Getting all excited! Did I really think we were going to be friends again, just like that?
    I start looking at my hands as if it’s my turn to fix my cuticles. My skin is dry and scaly. My thumbnails are all weird and ridged and stubby. I bunch my hands up into fists so she can’t see them.
    She gets up off the bed. “People like you make me so mad.”
    I can’t believe it. “Why am I making you mad?”
    She pauses, I presume, for effect. “I’ll tell you why. Because I work two jobs all summer long. I pay my mother a hundred and fifty bucks a month room-and-board. I work for every T-shirt I own, every lip gloss, every minute of my cellphone plan. I’d love to learn to dance or take guitar lessons or do Pilates, but I can’t because I have to clean the apartment and do the laundry and buy the groceries. Meanwhile, you!…You! You’ve got all the time in the world. You live in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. You’ve got your own Visa and a bank account that somebody else fills up for you. You’ve got the life I dream of. And what do you do? You waste it! You apparently don’t even wash your hair. I can’t stand it.”
    She thinks she’s so smart but she doesn’t get it at all.
    “Like, seriously. Why don’t you quit schlepping around and just do something?”
    I make it as simple for her as I can. “Like what? There’s nothing to do here.”
    She holds her mouth open as if she’s too shocked to speak. (I should be so lucky.)
    “Right. Nothing to do here!” She makes a big point of looking at my computer, my sound system, my drum kit, my clothes. “Okay. Then go somewhere else!”
    Sure. Where’s this miracle place that would make everything better? My eyes can look as scary as hers. I say, “Oh yeah? Like where?”
    She pretends to strangle me. “What difference does it make? Paris…Rome…Hong Kong!”
    I smile. “Been there. Done that.”
    She picks the ring off the bed and biffs it at me. “Go to frigging Port Minton, then! Find the guy who gave this to your mother. Join the cheerleading squad. Sell peanuts at halftime. I don’t care. Quit being such a spoiled brat. Get up off your ass and do something!”
    She wipes the corner of her mouth and smooths out her polyester tunic. She looks me up and down. “I don’t get it. How come you got to be so lucky? You got money. You got brains. You even got boobs! You won the jackpot—and you’re too stupid to enjoy it.”
    She sashays over to the door.
    “See you later,” she says. “Unlike some people, I’ve got things to do.”
    Oh, she loved that snappy little rejoinder! I try my best to laugh.

5
Friday, 5 p.m.
    You, You and Mimi (rerun)
    “Streamlined Living.” Five leading organizational experts show you how to declutter your home, your life and your personal relationships.
    Selena’s standing by the elevator. She looks like she’s watching for cops while her buddies rob the joint. Anita’s dragged me to the door so she can keep giving orders all the way out. I don’t fight it. The longer I can keep my mouth shut, the faster they’ll both get out of here.
    “There’s a nice low-fat meal for you in the oven. I got the recipe from Tuesday’s show. Eat the vegetables. I’ll know if you throw them out. Don’t forget—tomorrow’s Saturday. You’re going to your dad’s. Tony will pick you up for the airport at twelve forty-five. That leaves you plenty of time to see your grandfather in the morning. Visiting hours are ten to twelve. Don’t look at me that way. Just because he doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. What