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myself into it. I study myself in the mirror, grab handfuls of my tummy fat, and decide I look like a pastier Sophia Loren on steroids.
    â€œThe red one,” I yell into the living room, where Courtney is lighting incense and digging through drawers for candles. As she flings the dress at me, the phone rings. I check Caller ID and instinctively roll my eyes: my mom.
    â€œHey, I can’t talk,” I tell her. “I’m late to my party.” I struggle to get the polka-dotted fabric over my womanly hips, but it’s so tight it actually hides most of my bulges.
    â€œI just called to wish you a happy birthday, dear,” she says. She already sent a card saying to buy myself a spring outfit on her.
    â€œThanks,” I say, walking down the short hallway into the living room to show Court the dress. She gives it the thumbs-up. “And thanks so much for the gift.”
    â€œIs that boy coming to your party?” my mom asks. She sounds like she’s referring to a disease that could make my ears fall off.
    â€œJake? Yes, he’s coming,” I say, puckering my lips at my reflection in the living room window.
    â€œYou know, Jacquie, what they say: Can’t find Mr. Right—”
    â€œYeah, yeah, Mr. Retarded,” I say, making the hand sign for “chatterbox” at Courtney.
    â€œWhat?” my mom asks.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œLet me put your father on,” she says, handing over the phone.
    â€œDaddy!” I say, sitting down on my desk chair to savor the one conversation I’ll probably have with my dad for the next three months.
    â€œHappy birthday, baby,” he says.
    â€œThanks, thanks so much. What are you guys doing tonight?”
    â€œYour mother’s making dinner and I have blue books to grade.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œIt’s for my first-year survey course on Western political thought. They will be awful.”
    â€œIt’ll be a long night,” I say.
    He laughs. “Yes.”
    â€œLook, I really have to go. I’m so sorry, but we’re late for this party, and I’m the guest of honor. Can we talk soon?”
    â€œYes, baby,” he says. “Have fun.”
    Courtney has dimmed the lights—they’re all on dimmers, one of my apartment’s many attributes—and lit three candles that are neatly placed on a tray on the floor. One of them she apparently brought with her from home, because it’s covered in glitter, animal stickers, and magazine pictures of happy things she hopes will come into my life: babies, kittens, sunny beaches, yachts, kisses shared by a pretty girl and a tall, hunky guy. I already have one similar candle creation à la Courtney by my bed and another on the edge of the bath. She makes them with her students. Courtney kneels with a pad of paper and a pen in her hands. “All right, beautiful thirty-two-year-old Aries woman, make three wishes.”
    I sit cross-legged in front of her. “Okay. I want to find a really well-paid writing gig.…”
    â€œSay it in the present tense,” she says.
    I kick myself for forgetting the first rule of creative visualization. “Okay, I am finding a freelance writing job that I love that will supplement my income so I’m not killing myself to pay my bills every month.”
    â€œKeep it positive, Jacq,” Courtney corrects me. “And be as specific as possible. You’re more likely to get what you want if you can define it.”
    â€œSorry, right. Okay, I am finding a regular writing gig for a high-paying, glossy magazine, that I love doing and that will provide me with enough extra income to keep me living the lifestyle that I’m accustomed to.” I smile, all proud, and concentrate on my next wish. “Okay, I’m finishing fixing up my apartment.”
    â€œSpecific,” Courtney says.
    â€œI am painting the bathroom and putting up the kitchen tiles and refinishing the