The Almost Murder and Other Stories Read Free

Not bad, but something was missing. I pulled out my makeup bag, painted on eyeliner and added pink lip gloss. I bent over and shook out my hair. Then, I left, sniffing my own arms to be sure I didn’t smell like pot.
    A group of four idiot freshman boys howled and wolf-whistled like they’d never seen boobs in a sweater before. Revolting! They’d seen me sniff my arms.
    â€œDon’t worry, baby, you smell sweet as candy,” one of them said. Ugh.
    Moms was just outside the door. We hugged and walked down the cement stairway. At the bottom, Moms showed me a cloth hanky, with her gold cross necklace folded inside. She wanted to put it on me, for luck, in the subway.
    We walked three blocks to the train station, arm in arm, and down the grimy pee-smelling stairs. Yuck. Moms got a two-way ticket; I used my metro-card. The express train came right away and we found a double seat together.
    Moms looked good in her suit, with a white top underneath. In place of the cross, she had on fake pearls that looked real. Moms slid out the hanky, held up the crucifix and chain, and had me swivel around. I held my hair aside, while she clipped it onto my neck in one try, with those nimble seamstress fingers of hers.
    We got off at 57th and went to the nearest building. The number was close to the dude’s office address, so we were early. I told Moms we should stall for time.
    You know Moms thinks no good Latina should drink any Starbucks, but as we headed east up 57th it was the only place around, so we went in. Moms treated us to a mocha frappuccino. Just one: a
venti
. We got two straws and slurped it down. I let her have more than me.
    â€œHa!,” she said, “it was ‘almost’ worth the four bucks it cost.”
    We went to the restroom in back, took turns going in, then hit the street, heading east. With nearly every step, the area got fancier. Jewelry stores, Lincoln town cars, men in suits, elegant ladies. A world away from Brooklyn.
    We found 25 East 57th and walked into a lobby with modern art all over. A Latino
abuelo
-type with wavy white hair and a snappy uniform sat behind a desk. He looked Moms up and down with a smile. When I showed him my
Reel TV
card, he pointed to a turnstile, like they have down in the subway, but cleaner, and buzzed us in.
    As we went through, he winked, saying,
“Buena suerte
,” to me. I guessed he’d seen other girls go in and out. This made my heart speed up; I hadn’t thought about competition for my role before then. OMG! What if there were hundreds of them?
    Before we got on the elevator, I checked out the long list of businesses in the building. Most of them had something to do with acting or modeling: agents, casting directors and production companies. Then, there it was: “Reel TV.”
    Moms said a Hail Mary on the way up, and brushed imaginary crumbs off my sweater. We found the office. I took a big breath outside, expecting a sea of Latina teens, all redheads, all with their Moms, ready to take my part in the show away.
    Instead, the room was empty, except for a receptionist behind an oval glass desk. Everything was bright, tasteful, fancy, like a TV talk show. The girl, who had blue eyes and a sleek light-brown pageboy, chirped, “I’m Charlotte, call me Charlie.” She was beanpole-thin and had on some Lucky jeans with a fuschia silk blouse.
    â€œRed?” she asked. When I nodded, she smiled at Moms and said, “You must be Mrs. Rodríguez.” Moms said, “Yes,” and Charlie pointed at some red suede chairs. We sat down. Ohhh, it was like sitting on clouds. Charlie asked if we wanted coffee, tea or soda. I said, “A Coke, please,” but Moms elbowed me and told her we were fine. She never wants to accept a favor.
    The room was half-glass, with a view like a Manhattan picture postcard. What could the place rent for? Five grand? Ten? On a transparent table were trendy magazines. I flipped one over;