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in for the kill and wham! You find yourself in the crosshairs.
    Donna knocked on the table. Lacey had decided that raising your hand was juvenile and smacked of patriarchal control so you knocked on the table when you wanted to speak. Well, Chase supposed, it could be worse.
    “I really think that we should create a joint task force from the Menos and the Lefties to examine the issues concerning both parties,” Donna said.
    “I’ll make the food,” Sophia said. “As we all know the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach.”
    Lacey smiled and nodded. She seemed pleased, Chase thought.
    “Gloria, your suggestion?” Lacey said, assuming she was the next in line for brilliant ideas.
    Chase studied Gloria’s paper. She hadn’t written anything down either.
    “I think Sophia should prepare Mexican food so we can have margaritas—there’s nothing a few pitchers of margaritas can’t solve,” Gloria said.
    Chase smirked. Lacey would never let that one fly.
    “That’s a well thought-out plan,” Lacey said.
    “Get them all drunk?” Chase screeched.
    “I prefer to refer to it as happy and cooperative,” Lacey said. She stared at Chase. “And what, pray tell, is your suggestion?”
    Chase fumbled. Donna saved her. “The three bearded ladies are very fond of Chase. They did save her life. We could send her as our ambassador.”
    Chase wasn’t certain which was the lesser evil—not having an answer or being an ambassador.
    Lacey cocked her head and peered at Chase, who squirmed. “I think we’ll do all three—the fiesta, the margaritas and Chase’s ambassadorial debut.”
    “And let’s do it on a full moon as indicative of menses,” Donna said.
    “Perfect,” Lacey said. She clapped her hands in delight. “Problem solved. Thank you, my sisters.”
    The group dispersed, and Chase almost made it to the door.
    “Chase, a word please,” Lacey said.
    Where had Lacey picked up that particular Briticism? It was straight out of PBS. It seemed unlikely Lacey watched PBS, but then she was no longer sure of any of Lacey’s behaviors.
    Chase felt like she was back in the second grade when she had tied the shoelaces together on the sneakers of the little fucker who sat behind her and pulled her hair every day. He’d gotten up and fallen flat on his face.
    She leaned up against the boardroom table and eyed Lacey warily. Either Chase or Lacey had done something wrong. Chase assumed it was the former. Besides Lacey never actually used the word “wrong,” but instead “behavior that needed to be modified,” to which Chase would mutter the word “laconic” under her breath.
    Lacey closed the door and smiled at Chase in that way that said, “I love you so much, but you’re exasperating me.”
    “Chase, sweetie darling,” Lacey said.
    Oh, no, Chase thought, this was serious behavior modification.
    “It was noted that yesterday you walked out of your writing class of which you are the instructor,” Lacey said, doing the Marty Feldman in that way that said, “You better have a good explanation for this.”
    “Well,” she began. She couldn’t blame Divine Vulva for this. She had tried to explain to her various cohorts about the Divine Vulva and her counterpoint muse, Commercial Endeavor, but everyone, including Gitana, thought she was being metaphorical—everyone except Dr. Robicheck who squinted her eyes and rubbed her chin. Chase wondered if the chin rubbing was a tribute to Freud.
    Dr. Robicheck had met the muses during one of Chase’s sessions. Divine Vulva and Commercial Endeavor had been seated on either side of Chase, eagerly awaiting this moment of coming out. Commercial Endeavor was dressed in a well-tailored gabardine suit and Divine Vulva had her best little black dress on. Commercial Endeavor had protested about this being an inappropriate outfit in which to meet Chase’s esteemed psychiatrist. However, after having seen the LBD, Commercial Endeavor blushed and ran her hand across