Free Oh! You Pretty Things by Shanna Mahin Page B

Robbie, and I’d never seen him as a career move. What I wanted—what I needed—was something of my own: a job, a dream, one moment that was for nobody else but me. Or maybe all I’d wanted was approval. Maybe I would’ve said yes to anyone who told me I was spectacular.
    So good-bye, Robbie. Good-bye, tiny, unhappy children. Snip. Cleanly excised from my life like they never existed.

Thirteen

    I ’m lying in bed on Saturday watching
The Real Housewives of Orange County
, slightly hungover from the bottle of Valpolicella I plowed through the night before, when I feel a reality-TV shame spiral coming on. I mute the TV and call Scout, hoping to ward it off.
    She answers on the second ring. “What are you doing?”
    â€œReading back issues of
The
New Yorker
and giving myself a pedicure.”
    â€œNo, seriously.”
    â€œGoogling ex-boyfriends and drinking jasmine tea,” I say. “Writing a condolence note to Lisa Rinna about her lips.”
    â€œWow,” Scout says. “And you found time to call
me
?”
    â€œI’m about to cross over to the dark side of the moon.”
    â€œI have no idea what that means,” she says. “And I can’t wait for you to tell me. But first, let’s talk about my birthday party.”
    Well, shit. I can recite the phone numbers of every landline of all thirteen apartments Donna lived in when I was a kid, and I can’t remember my friend’s birthday? I suck.
    â€œI am so on that,” I say.
    â€œI don’t need you on it. I’m on it.”
    â€œYou’re throwing yourself a party?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that?”
    She hits the perfect note of feigned innocence, like it hasn’t occurred to her that this might be a little desperate. I mean, I’d never throw myself a party. That’s just sad and lonely. Not like lying in your bed on Saturday afternoon, judging your friend for wanting to have a good time.
    â€œAbsolutely nothing,” I say.
    â€œGood,” she says. “Because I want you to cook. Let’s have lunch on Wednesday and we can talk about it.”
    â€œOkay, but it has to be fast and cheap,” I say.
    â€œSwingers, one o’clock, see you there,” she says.

Fourteen

    T he Santa Monica Swingers is a carbon copy of the Hollywood original, at 70 percent scale. Real estate, yo. The food used to be California comfort and now it’s all kale and quinoa with a side of soyrizo. I’m making it sound worse than it is, but you’d have to tie me down to get me to eat soyrizo.
    We sit at a booth and order from a waitress in ripped fishnets and booty shorts who looks like she’s driving straight to a Derby Dolls practice after her shift ends. There’s a good crowd for a Wednesday afternoon, a mix of tattooed bartender types with skinny arms and train-conductor facial hair and out-of-work actor types with artful bedheads and faint-orange Mystic tans. The girls are the same, minus the facial hair.
    â€œTell me again why we’re here,” I say.
    â€œWhat?” Scout says, frowning. “I like the tofu chilaquiles.”
    â€œUgh, your taste in food,” I say. “Okay, speaking of cooking, let’s talk about your party. I don’t have a lot of time.”
    â€œAntiques to photograph?”
    â€œYeah, well, they’re not getting any younger,” I tell her. “Plus, I have to be back at the house by four to meet the dog groomer and car detailer.”
    â€œWait,” she says. “Is that one person? How many people is that?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œSo the same guy doesn’t do both?”
    â€œI wish. If they both show up while I’m not there, it’ll be a catastrophe.”
    â€œBecause Tyler can’t handle a dog groomer and car detailer?”
    â€œCelebrities are like gas,” I tell her, sharing my most recent revelation.
    â€œBloated?” she asks, as the food