Free The Perils of Pauline by Collette Yvonne

Again. With Lindsay. Nothing much has changed and it’s not funny anymore. I could use a good cry. I guess that’s what they mean by a sad clown.
    But I’m not a clown. I’m a soldier. And a good soldier never cries.
     
    When I walked into class today, Michael barely glanced up from his desk where he was sorting papers. I said “Hi,” and all I got was a distracted nod in return. He’s probably embarrassed about drinking so much beer and flirting with me. He needn’t worry; I’m a big girl. I know it meant nothing.
    At the end of his lecture he reminded us about the essay submission deadline: we only have two more weeks before it’s due. I have twenty-two pages of notes but no thesis. Hmmph. Suddenly, Michael Fortune’s not as cute as when he wore a six gun and siphoned beer into me.

CHAPTER 7
Engage
    Engage: In air defense, a fire control order used to direct or authorize units and/or weapon systems to fire on a designated target.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
    Since Donald, his mother, and I all have our birthdays in July, we usually celebrate together over the Fourth of July weekend. Donald’s parents flew in last night from Montreal laden with toys for Jack and Olympia. Upon sight of his mother, Donald morphs into a Birthday Boy: he flops full length on the couch in front of the TV and falls asleep minutes after cramming his stomach with corn chips, jalapeno dip, and beer. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in the kitchen making my own birthday dinner. A battalion’s worth of potatoes need peeling. Over the past week, I cleaned the house, laid in groceries, shopped for gifts for Donald and his mother, and wrapped them, all while I went to school and kept the kids entertained. Meanwhile, Donald worked overtime every night and played golf all last weekend in Lindsay’s amazing charity tournament held, of course, at a five-star resort.
    Bitter? Me?
    Donald’s mother offers to help, but while chopping garlic for the salad dressing, she manages to slice her thumb. Now she’s bleeding on my diced shallots. Guess I can add making the dressing back on my list. The bitter gets the better of me. I trundle into the den and poke Donald’s arm.
    “I could use some help in the kitchen.”
    Donald’s mother rushes in behind me, sucking her thumb, her free hand raised in a stop gesture toward Donald. “Don’t get up. There’s nothing to do.”
    “Maybe Donald could help with the stuffed peppers?” I clip my eyes at Donald, hold up a red pepper and add, “Like, stuff it.”
    Donald’s mother says, “I don’t mind. I can do it.”
    She hurries away to bandage her thumb. I trudge back to kitchen patrol. At least the kids aren’t in my way. They’re too busy smashing their new breakable toys with old unbreakable ones.
    Back in the kitchen with a bandaged thumb, Donald’s mother sits at the table to watch me heave a tray of marinated t-bone steaks out of the fridge. She wants to know how poor Donald is making out with his wife away at university all day.
    “Same as always.”
    “Who gets the children off to school?”
    “I do, usually. He goes in early most of the time.”
    “I suppose if he goes in so early he must be having to make his breakfast?” She obviously doubts my capacity to rise before noon.
    Time for a little white lie, to avoid the sad hand-wringing over poor Donald’s fate to cope with an indolent wife. “Of course not. Donald loves his bacon and eggs every morning.”
    Donald’s mother frowns. “That’s not heart smart.”
    I don’t say that I suspect Donald goes in extra early to avoid the wild joys of organizing the children off to school. I also suppress the urge to remark that Donald is probably making out very well with the generous and big-hearted Lindsay Bambraugh on his frequent late nights at the office, probably pumping her pert bottom to a wet pulp on top of the file cabinets.
    At dinner, Donald’s mother tells us all about Donald’s