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Layers of sugar over ground glass:
    You changed your hair. It’s . . . different.
    Wow, that’s quite a dress you’re wearing.
    Are you taking something for your skin?
    I don’t know. Maybe acai berries are the answer. Acai smoothies, acai on my oatmeal, acai in my sunflower-sprout salads. I feel better already.
    Then she says, “Is there a health-food store near you?”
    Which is like asking if you can get saltwater taffy on the Atlantic City boardwalk. There’s the granolafied hippie fest of the One Life, practically in the lobby of my building, and a giant Whole Foods on Lincoln and Rose. There’s the indie Rainbow Acres near Venice Circle, and there’s Rawvolution right up Main, which isn’t a health-food store per se, but they’d have me hooked up to an acai berry IV if I walked in with a handful of twenties and the wrong kind of pallor. And that’s just within walking distance.
    There’s a thrust and parry to my exchanges with my mother that’s as nuanced as a fencing exhibition. No blood is drawn, it’s just a show of skill designed to throw the other party off guard. I had a boyfriend once—well, not really a boyfriend, because he had an actual girlfriend who he took on dates and everything—who was on the high school fencing team. He loved to pepper conversations with fencing terms. He was all
en garde
and
riposte
and
pas de touché
, which, by the way, is different from
touché
. It’s what the aggressor says when they’ve struck a glancing blow, to graciously acknowledge that the hit should not be counted.
    Pas de touché
is not a concept my mother would understand.
    â€œWhere are you staying?” I say, then mentally kick myself for even going there.
    â€œI haven’t gotten that far, snickerdoodle,” she says. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Big kiss.”
    Then she’s just gone and I’m holding the dead phone in my hand.
    After my
derobement
from my mother—that’s when you avoid your opponent’s attempt to trap your blade—I pour myself a mug of wine from the Bota box on the counter and Google Tyler for hours. It’s almost like meditating.
    The Oscar, the Grammy, and the Emmy just scratch the surface. I listen to his stuff, and I’m a little blown away. And a little excited. Maybe this is it. I mean, nobody dreams of being the assistant, the gofer, the lackey, but maybe basking in a reflected glow isn’t just the best I can do, maybe it’s exactly what I need.
    When Megan comes home, I spring from my room to tell her the good news. Got a job, he even offered an advance. I don’t mention anything about Donna.
    â€œBoof,” she says, nonplussed by my enthusiasm, “it’s not a deal until the check clears.”
    â€œI don’t know, it seems like a thing.”
    â€œYou didn’t close the deal with him directly?”
    â€œWell, he has to run it up the flagpole with his people.”
    â€œUgh,” Megan says.
    â€œDon’t shit in my cornflakes. I’m optimistic about it.”
    â€œOh, honey, that is such a rookie mistake,” she says with a flash of concern in her eyes and a furrow in her smooth yet un-Botoxed brow.
    Then she takes me to dinner to celebrate, because we’re out of champagne.

Seven

    M y phone rings the next morning at the ungodly hour of 8:05. The caller ID reads UNKNOWN but I’m pretty sure that my job offer from Tyler is imminent, so I shake my head like a cartoon dog and grab it on the fourth ring.
    â€œHello?” I croak.
    â€œJess Dunne? Please hold for Cassidy Shaylan.” The phone clicks into a near-silent hiss that gives me a second to guzzle a mouthful of water from the bottle on my bedside table, then the disembodied voice clicks back. “I have Jess Dunne for you, Ms. Shaylan.”
    A voice booms through my earpiece like the landing of
Air Force One
on a deserted tarmac.