Authors: Laura Levine
I unlatched the carrier and Prozac came charging out, taking stock of her new surroundings. Alas, she was not impressed. I could tell by the dismissive thump of her tail.
I’ve seen bigger rooms in a Roach Motel.
Then she scampered onto the bed and curled up on its one and only pillow. I knew from past experience it would take an atom bomb to wrench it from her.
It looked like I’d be sleeping without a pillow that night.
“Here’s her litter box,” Lance said, lugging it in from the hallway. “And by the way, the clerk at the front desk said they charge an extra fifty bucks a night for pets.”
Oh, groan. What would Heather say when she heard about this?
“Awfully close to the freeway, aren’t you, hon?” Lance said, gazing out my window. “Wow, I can almost read that guy’s speedometer! Oh, well. At least one of us will be staying someplace nice this weekend.”
Then, checking his watch, he exclaimed, “Gotta run! Mamie’s waiting for me in the car. I don’t suppose you’d consider taking care of her while I’m at Gary’s, would you?”
“No, I would not!”
“Okay, okay. Just asking.”
And off he scooted into the night, grinning the same idiotic grin he always grins when he thinks he’s in love.
I only hoped Gary’s condo had wood rot.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Only a Matter of Time
It’s just as I suspected. Daddy’s taken apart Nellybelle’s engine and has the pieces scattered all over the garage. He’ll never in a million years be able to put it back together again! And thank heavens he wouldn’t dream of doing the sensible thing and calling a mechanic.
It’s only a matter of time before the garbage men are carting it away.
Meanwhile, I’m off to pick up my dress for the fashion show—
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Only a Matter of Time
Dearest Lambchop—
You’ll be happy to know I’ve been hard at work tinkering with Nellybelle’s engine. It’s only a matter of time before I have her purring like a kitten!
Love ’n’ snuggles from
Daddy
P.S. It’s strange. I thought for sure your mom would tell me to call in a professional to fix Nellybelle like she always does when we have trouble around the house. But oddly enough, she hasn’t said a word. In fact, she’s been encouraging me to do the job myself. I guess at long last she’s come to appreciate my skills as a handyman.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Gorgeous Dress!
Hi, Sweetheart!
I’m back from Pink Flamingo with my dress for the fashion show, and it’s absolutely gorgeous! As nice as anything I’ve ever seen on the shopping channel. A white silk top with bateau neck and peplum waist over a black pencil skirt. Unfortunately, thanks to that fudge I ate the other night, it’s a wee bit tight round the peplum waist.
I absolutely must lose five pounds in time for the fashion show. Time to get rid of all the sweets in the house. I’ll put everything in the freezer out in the garage. We had it padlocked last year after a raccoon clawed it open and ran off with our hamburger meat. Honestly, those raccoons are brazen little critters, aren’t they?
I’ll have Daddy change the combination on the lock so I can’t possibly open it.
Instant weight loss guaranteed!
Tata for now—
Your about-to-be-much-thinner,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: A Guy Just Can’t Win
Dearest Lambchop—
It looks like Mom’s on one of her crazy diets again. She just stored all our desserts in the freezer in the garage and had me change the combination on the lock. She made me promise not to tell her the combination no matter how much she begged and pleaded. I give her less than 24 hours before she starts begging and pleading. Then she’ll get mad at me if I don’t tell her. And even madder if I do.
A guy just can’t win around here.
You know I adore your mom, Lambchop, but I have to confess sometimes she can go a little nuts. Luckily there’s at least one sane member in this family.
Well, gotta go and rub baby oil on Nellybelle’s carburetor.
Love and hugs from
Daddy
Chapter 8
I
slept badly that night, plagued by ghastly dreams, no doubt induced by the M&M’s I’d inhaled before climbing into bed.
I was in the middle of a particularly harrowing nightmare where Ma Willis was chasing me around her dining room table with a giant bottle of cabernet, when I was jolted awake by what sounded like a jackhammer on my ceiling.
Was it possible the Amada Inn was actually doing construction work directly over my room?
When I called the front desk to complain, a weary clerk explained that it was just one of the pageant contestants practicing her tap dancing.
“I’ve been getting complaints all morning,” he said.
“Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Sorry, ma’am. No way am I messing with a pageant mom. Not without a stun gun.”
I hung up with a sigh and turned to see Prozac lolling on the pillow, which she’d been hogging all night.
“I’m glad one of us slept well,” I snapped. “In case you’re interested, my neck is stiff as a board.”
If I expected any sympathy, I was sadly mistaken. All my tale of woe elicited was a ginormous yawn.
Yeah, right, whatever. So when do we eat?
Then she leaped on my chest, yowling at the top of her lungs, clawing me for her breakfast.
It was then that I looked around and realized Lance had forgotten to bring cat food.
Damn that man!
I hauled myself out of bed and was just about to get dressed when my phone rang. It was the clerk down at the front desk.
“Can you please keep your cat quiet?” he said, rather snootily. “The people in the next room are complaining.”
Oh, great. Pageant moms with prima donna teens were off limits. But lowly writers with prima donna cats were fair game. I certainly hoped the Amada Inn didn’t expect to get five stars on Yelp from yours truly.
After throwing on some jeans and a T-shirt, I headed down to the lobby to get Prozac some chow from the breakfast buffet.
Between my stiff neck, my tap-dancing neighbor, and that irritating call from the front desk, I must admit I was not in the sunniest of moods. But I perked up considerably when I saw the breakfast spread: scrambled eggs, ham, bacon, Danish, and delightfully gooey sticky buns.
I was dying to grab a fork and dive into the stuff, but first I had to get some food for my hungry princess.
I was just wrapping some ham in a paper napkin when Taylor came sidling up to me, flip-flops clopping, her hair in giant rollers.
“Skip the ham, Jaine,” she whispered, “and get me a sticky bun. All my mom let me have for breakfast was some crummy wheat bran cereal.”
“Actually,” I said, “the ham’s not for you. It’s for my cat.”
“Your cat?” She blinked in surprise. “I didn’t see a cat in your room last night.”
“She came after you left.”
At which point Heather came sweeping over to us, clad in a body-hugging jog suit, diamond bangles dripping from her wrist. The only place she was jogging to in that getup was Van Cleef & Arpels. In her arms she held Elvis, who wore a baby blue T-shirt with the words P
AGEANT
D
OG
emblazoned across his tiny chest in rhinestones.
“Whatever you do, Jaine,” she said, glaring at her daughter, “don’t let Taylor have a sticky bun. Can you believe she wants to eat pastry less than an hour before the swimsuit competition?”
“It’s not fair,” Taylor pouted. “Even Elvis got to eat bacon!”
“You’ll thank me when you’re wearing that tiara,” Heather said, oozing motherly righteousness.
“Which reminds me, Jaine,” she added, turning to me, “when you’ve got a few minutes, would you mind tapping out an acceptance speech for Taylor to deliver when she wins the contest?”
“But the contest hasn’t even started yet,” Taylor protested. “How can you be so sure I’ll win?”
“Because you’re the prettiest, most talented girl in the hotel. Don’t forget,” said the former Gilroy Garlic Queen. “You’ve got pageant genes in your blood.”
Then Heather caught sight of the ham in my napkin.
“They’ve got plates for the food, you know. Right over there, at the end of the buffet.”
“It’s for her cat,” Taylor said.
“Your cat?”
“My friend was supposed to watch her this weekend, but an emergency came up and he dropped her off at the hotel.”
“Isn’t that nice, Elvis?” Heather cooed. “A kitty for you to play with.”
Elvis, clearly not eager to make friends, just bared his tiny fangs.
“And I just found out,” I said, inwardly cringing, “that the hotel charges an extra fifty dollars a night for pets.”
“Not a problem, hon.” Heather smiled brightly.
Thank heavens she wasn’t angry.
“I’ll just deduct it from your paycheck.”
Double damn that Lance!
I headed back upstairs with Prozac’s breakfast, and as I was about to let myself into my room, I realized I’d forgotten to put out the D
O
N
OT
D
ISTURB
sign. Major mistake. Experience has taught me it’s always best to keep Prozac away from a maid with a cart full of freshly cleaned towels.
I made a mental note to put the sign on when I left again.
Back inside, Prozac was hard at work scratching the Amada Inn’s rickety chest of drawers.
“Prozac!” I cried. “What on earth are you doing?!”
She looked up from her endeavors with pride.
I like to think of it as Post Abstract Impressionism.
Snatching her up in my arms, I wondered how much extra I was going to be charged for room damages.
Then I fed her the ham—which she gulped down in no time—and left some water in a cereal bowl I’d nabbed from the buffet line.
Before hustling out the door, I gave her a stern talking-to, and I’m proud to say that when I left the room, she wasn’t clawing the chest of drawers anymore.
Now she was the clawing the bedspread.
I was standing in the hallway, hoping the Amada Inn’s only working elevator would actually show up, when I saw Bethenny, the former teen queen, tottering toward me on impossibly high heels, her curvaceous body jammed into a slinky black dress. Frankly, she looked less like a pageant queen than a call girl cruising for a john.
I thought back to yesterday’s Mocktail Hour, when I’d seen her playing footsies with Tex Turner, the auto dealer. Something told me she and Tex were more than just fellow judges.
“Hi, there!” she said, flashing me her Ultra Brite smile. “Are you here with the pageant?”
“Sort of. I’m helping one of the contestants prepare for the talent show.”
“Really?” she replied, eyeing me with pity. “Better stock up on tranquilizers.”
Then, no doubt realizing she wasn’t living up to her image as Teen Queen spokesperson, she quickly added, “Only kidding, of course. Pageants are such an exciting part of a girl’s life! I remember the year I won,” she gushed, launching into what sounded like a speech she’d given many times before. “What a thrill. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, that’s for sure. I’ve met so many wonderful people and done so many wonderful things. I’m just so darn grateful to Candace and her fabulous team!”
Another twinkly smile.
“Gosh, the elevator’s slow, isn’t it?” she said, her smile now straining at the edges.
She gave the button a vicious stab with a neon pink nail, and at last we heard the elevator ding. The doors opened to reveal Candace and Tex Turner. Both of whom sprang apart hastily at the sight of us.
Candace’s hair was mussed, her bright red lipstick smeared, and I couldn’t help but notice a vivid swipe of that lipstick on Tex’s cowboy shirt.
Clearly we’d just interrupted a smooch session.
Bethenny stared at them, fire in her eyes, as we got on the elevator.
Tex had the good grace to blush, but Candace eyed us coolly, as if she’d been up to nothing more than checking the schedule on her clipboard.
“Hello, you two!” she chirped brightly. “Ready for today’s exciting contests?”
“Um, sure,” I managed to say, holding up my end of the conversation.
But Bethenny just stood there, glaring at Candace.
I could easily picture those neon nails of hers gouging the pageant director’s face to ribbons.
It seemed like a small eternity, but at long last we reached the lobby.
Tex and Candace hurried out the elevator, but Bethenny seemed frozen to the spot.
“I can’t believe Tex is cheating on me with that tramp of a pageant director,” she hissed.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, gently leading her out into the lobby.
“Yeah, I’m fine. But Candace won’t be when I get my hands on her.”
Uh-oh. Looked like more trouble in pageant paradise.
Chapter 9
B
ack at the buffet, I scarfed down a highly nutritious breakfast of coffee and a sticky bun, checking my cell every few minutes for a text from Scott. Alas, there were none. By the time I’d licked the last of the sticky bun from my fingers, I was pretty much convinced I’d never hear from Scott again, thanks to that god-awful dinner at his parents’ house.
And so it was with heavy heart that I opened my emails and read the latest missives from my parents. Daddy was right, of course. It was only a matter of time before Mom would be begging him for a treat from the freezer. Poor thing. Dieting doesn’t come easy to her.
Thinking how much Mom would enjoy it, I helped myself to another sticky bun and headed off for the swimsuit competition.