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sort out the mess.
    “No, leave it. I want to study this phenomena,” Dr. Robicheck said, getting up and contemplating the distance from one wall to the next.
    By this time Commercial Endeavor had wrestled Divine Vulva to the door. “We’ll meet you at home for a family conference,” she said, wrenching Divine Vulva’s arm.
    “Good idea,” Chase said.
    Dr. Robicheck was now on her haunches and picking up pieces of glass as if making certain that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. “So this Divine Vulva…” she glanced around as if looking for her.
    Chase, sensing her trepidation, said, “They’ve left.”
    “I suppose under the circumstances that’s a prudent course of action. Now Divine Vulva, your muse, picked up and threw this painting because she didn’t like what I said.”
    “It was your explanation of her existence. I think the painting is okay. It’s just the glass. I’ll pay for the repairs,” Chase said. She didn’t like the look in Dr. Robicheck’s eyes. She’d seen it before. Oh God, please, she thought, not again . She couldn’t bear being in another one of Dr. Robicheck’s papers in Abnormal Psychology Monthly . Chase had already been in one issue for her “Role Reversal Therapy.” She’d put Dr. Robicheck in the patient’s place as an empathetic learning experience for both parties. Now Chase had supplied more fodder.
    “So, were you angry when I denied the muses’ existence?”
    Chase didn’t meet her eye. “I told her this wasn’t a good idea, but Divine Vulva insisted and since Commercial Endeavor is pussy-whipped she’d do anything Vulva asked her to.”
    “Pussy-whipped?”
    It had gone downhill from there. Chase had to explain what pussy-whipped meant, which was not as easy as one would think. Chase had to Google the Urban Dictionary. The definition was helpful and Chase decided the “answering to another’s beck and call” was the best explanation. Dr. Robicheck got it.
    It occurred to Chase that perhaps she was pussy-whipped by Lacey. Instead of blaming Divine Vulva for the defection, Chase hoisted up her big girl panties and said, “I’d like to resign.”
    Her response sent Lacey into hyper-control drive. “You what?” Lacey’s eyes turned to slits—hostile slits to be exact. She looked terrifying.
    “I just don’t think this whole Institute thing is working out for me. I’m a writer, not a teacher. I don’t make a good board member because I’m not punctual and I have a short attention span…” She would have gone on coming up with excuses except that Lacey grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
    She stared hard into Chase’s eyes and said, “You can’t abandon ship. It’s not allowed and I’m not going to let you.”
    “Yes, I can,” Chase said, feeling her ire getting up. “I’m a free citizen the minute I walk out of here, well, after I get my notebooks and pencils, I will be free.”
    “You used ‘free’ twice in one sentence. You should be a writer,” Lacey taunted.
    Chase colored. “I don’t write like that. I’m under duress at the moment.”
    “No, you’re under house arrest,” Lacey said.
    “Arrest? You can’t arrest me.”
    “Are you aware of tribal law?”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “The Native Americans are a sovereign nation.” Lacey was now into her President of the Boardroom mode. She assumed the posture—legs spread, arms akimbo.
    “So?” Chase attempted to ease sideways and away from Lacey, but she was up against the cherry wood table.
    “The Institute is also a sovereign nation.”
    “You’re making that up,” Chase said, watching as Lacey fished in the pocket of her gray pinstriped suit.
    “No, I’m not. I applied for and received a charter,” Lacey said, still patting herself down.
    Chase wondered what she was fishing around for? Who carried the charter for the Republik of Lesbekistan around in the breast pocket of their suit coat? Maybe it was like the laminated card of