Free Tales of a Drama Queen by Lee Nichols

the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.
    â€œSo?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”
    â€œIt’s…really a BMW,” she says.
    â€œ1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.
    â€œGreat,” she says, unimpressed.
    Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.
    â€œIt’s great,” she repeats, with a little more enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œAnd the color doesn’t bother you?”
    Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.
    â€œI love it,” I insist.
    â€œIt’s charming,” she says, closing the door behind her. “And it’ll be October in no time. We’ll get you some black cat cutouts—”
    I put the car in First, and Beemer out of there. Through the open window, I hear her laughing.
    Â 
    Scrooge-like, I return to my lair and count my money. I’m considering having the car painted. Not because I don’t like it, just to show Maya. I have $570, more or less. Which may not sound like a lot, but I have an apartment, sort of. I have a car, sort of. I have Maya’s man, extremely sort of. And I definitely have housewares. Sort of.
    And soon I will have a job. I called about a development position—and they want to interview me tomorrow. I’m not sure what I’ll wear, though. On the one hand, I don’t want to be overdressed. On the other, if development is fund-raising, they’ll probably expect me to hobnob with Montecitans, so I should look the part. On the third hand—
    On the third hand, there’s a horrific black splotch on mypristine white linen chair! Black as tar, a nasty Rorschach stain on the armrest. I lick a finger, intending to de-smudge it, and notice that my hand is covered in the same stuff. Black inky yuck. Oil from the Beemer? I check my shoes. There’s a smudge on one of the straps, but nothing on the soles.
    I retrace my steps to the front door. Check every surface. No other signs of black liquid. I open the front door, to check the car. And it’s there. On the doorknob. Coated in black ink.
    Not ink, I think. Anything but ink. Coffee, chocolate, red wine. Just not ink. And where did it come from? An exploded pen? I look skyward, as if expecting the heavens to leak ink, and hear a rustle in the bushes next door. I see a flash of juvie.
    That little fucking Eddie Munster coated my door handle with ink.
    I rocket after him. The little bastard may be roly-poly, but he’s fast. I snag his T-shirt, but he breaks away. I’m about to shove through the bushes after him, when I hear Mrs. Petrie call me from her kitchen window. She tells me there’s ink on my skirt…and get out of her juniper.

Chapter 12
    M y first job interview: 10:00 a.m. at Planned Parenthood.
    I dress in a lavender silk Armani suit Louis accidentally bought me in New York. Do my hair and makeup, and am ready in under fifty minutes. Which is quite good. I have fifteen minutes to get downtown. Then—and this is the shocking part—I make it to my car with no mishaps. The car starts. I find a parking space directly outside the clinic. And I’m inside, with five minutes to spare.
    I beam at the beautiful Latina girl behind the little glass window—not my natural reaction to beautiful teenagers—and tell her I have an appointment. She nods and hands me a clipboard.
    I sit on one of