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coat of baby oil, in spite of everything I’ve ever heard about the ozone layer and melanomas and all that. It’s also the reason I’m doing the Cher Diet, if the truth be known. I said I was doing it for myself, but I’m not; I’m doing it for Arnie Green, an alte kaker with hair in his ears.
    If you’re not totally disgusted yet, try this on for size: I’m making an outfit for Arnie Green. I work on it in the morning when I’m watching Joan Rivers. I was doing just that today, in fact, when I saw that fucking yellow ribbon on my lamppost. The outfit is black-and-white satin, very Dynasty , like something Alexis would wear to a board meeting. That kind of eighties retro drag would be downright embarrassing in Leonard’s office, but it might be right up ol’ Arn’s alley.
    It better be. I’ve made a hat to go with it.

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    I T’S LATE AND I’ M POOPED, BUT I’ M WORKING AGAIN . T HE temptation is to blow off the diary, since I’d like nothing better than to climb out of this sticky costume and into a hot bath. On the other hand, I haven’t written in almost two weeks, and there’s all sorts of stuff to tell you. I’m afraid I’ll forget the important details if I don’t get some of them down. Since Renee has just rewarded me with a cup of cocoa, I’ll put the sugar rush to work and do my best to tell you about my meeting with Arnie Green.
    I lost almost five pounds in the ten days I gave myself to get in shape. That’s pretty dramatic for me. It didn’t do much for my thighs, of course, but it gave me a lot more energy and made my cheekbones pop out again. Renee hennaed my hair the night before the interview, and I spent two hours on makeup, paying special attention to my eyes. Everyone tells me they’re my strongest feature—emerald green with flecks of warm brown, sultry but reassuring. When I was a teenager in Baker, I used to study them for hours in the mirror, imagining how the rest of such a pretty girl might look.
    Arnie Green’s office was in North Hollywood. I made an eight-thirty appointment with him so we’d both be fresh andRenee could take me there before she went to work. As the first client of the day, I’d also avoid the gut-wrenching chitchat of the waiting room, which was easy enough to imagine, even though I’d never been to the office. I’d be stuck there with all the others, twiddling my thumbs in quiet agony while some bleached-out accordion player bragged to me about her recent triumphal come-back at the Amway convention. Who needs that kind of stress?
    We found a spot to park right in front, which I took as a bad sign. We were in a sort of ghost town, a mini-mall less than half occupied, where businesses announced themselves by painting over the flaking plywood of their predecessors. Arnie’s glass-fronted office was one of a row of three facing the street. The other two were a Philippine import shop and a place with burnt-orange curtains fading along the folds to pale shrimp. The hand-stenciled sign outside said: VID-MART ENTERPRISES .
    “OK,” I said. “Time to lose the hat.”
    Renee was crushed. “Why? It looks so nice on you.”
    It was a rakish triangular affair, the same black-and-white satin as my dress. I’d spent a whole morning making it, gloating over the finished product, but in this shabby setting it struck me as overeager, even pathetic. I felt like some broken-down baroness flaunting her tiara at a flophouse.
    “It’s not right,” I said.
    “At least keep it on till he can see it.”
    “Renee…”
    She sulked a little while I undid the pins and stashed the hat in the glove compartment. I tried to check myself in the rearview mirror. “Is my hair fucked?”
    “No.” She adjusted a few wisps over my ears. “You look beautiful.”
    I grunted.
    “I swear, Cady. Your skin is radiant. You’re glowing.”
    Glowing or not, I felt like a total fool. Renee got out of the car, opened my door, and lifted me down to the pavement. I brushed out my dress,