Free Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris

quite a few suitors as well).
    But it was projects Annabel moved on from, not friends—not Lola. She’d remained loyal to Lola ever since that day at the fair, which they’d left with their faces painted, respectively, as Gene Simmons and The Hamburglar. They were joined at the hip, or, depending on where Annabel was, at the instant message, e-mail, and cell phone.
    “Hang on, Lo, let me put you on speaker,” said Annabel. Her place in Chinatown was so tiny that she could use the speakerphone anywhere in the entire apartment. Though her kitchen consisted basically of a plug-in hot pot (plus pilsner glasses purloined from various dart-focused bars), and her door buzzer didn’t work, Annabel’s landlord had recently seen fit to practically double her rent. “Think what it’d cost if it had a closet,” he’d snarled.
    Lola heard Annabel shout, “Heads up, Sparky!” Must be tossing her keys down to a visitor. Maybe the FedEx guy from last week? (“He absolutely, positively, had to be here overnight,” Annabel had explained.)
    Lola looked at the computer, opened a new document, and typed, “BE HAPPY FOR HER.” She enlarged the letters to take up the whole page. Then bold, then italic. Then red. The dogs whimpered.
    Phone cradled to her ear, Lola heard a new male voice. “Hey, Lola! Isn’t that the best?” It was Leo. “I know she’s been dying to tell you.”
    Been dying?
    How long has she known? How long has he known? Annabel’s voice came quickly. “Yeah, I found out just before Mimi’s party. Then . . . you know. And last night when you were in the cab, I just didn’t . . .” In a rare moment of incertitude, Annabel trailed off.
    Lola shoved aside, with all her might, a giant pile of angry thoughts. Gibson and Sidecar, play-snarling, locked their jaws onto the coolest toy around: Lola’s other flip-flop. Ignoring them, Lola forced herself to stare at the message on the computer screen.
    “Whatever, Annabel, this is just so totally, amazingly excellent,” she said. “So what happens next?”
    “I UPS all this stuff I sold last week on eBay,” said Annabel. “Leo came by on his lunch to help me schlep.” Which was the kind of thing Leo did. It was in his nature, and—being his own boss—he had the time. He ran a company called Concrete Jungle that did high-end interior terrarium-like installations for ultracool offices, stores, salons, and spas, often involving rare ferns, indoor marshes, and, depending on the client, live newts.
    “Of course, now her eBay days are over!” came Leo’s voice.
    She should totally go out with that guy.
    “All right. Rock on, Bella. Call me later,” said Lola. “If it goes to voice mail, it means Sidecar swallowed my phone.”
    And boy, would that bum Doug out. He’d proudly scored his wife the prototype of a superfancy Tungsten Bluetooth molded magnesium something something something complete with a contact manager, Web browser, a calendar, e-mail, an MP3 player, a wireless headset, a global positioning system, high-resolution still and video cameras, television channels, interactive restaurant listings, several elaborate games, and the capacity, if you held down the 3, Message, and # keys all at once, to emit a ray that would thwart a missile attack. Or so it seemed.
    Lola resented the camera function most of all. “I just need a telephone , Doug,” she’d said when he insisted she take it. “No pictures. Yes, it’s adorable that your photo pops up when you call me. But don’t you get it? Generally, I use the phone so I don’t have to see people.” At this moment, Lola briefly considered coating the offending device with Alpo.
    “Yep, I’ll call you,” said Annabel. Lola could hear the squeak of packing tape in the background. “Wait, so when’s Daphne coming home?”
    “In six hours and seventeen minutes ,” said Lola, finally shaking the dogs off her cuffs. Gibson ran for his metal bowl, Sidecar following, and nosed it along the floor. Not