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couldn’t wait, and I tried to delay her, but . . .”
    I pushed open the door and slammed it behind me before she could finish. Dupris’s office looked jarringly different from the hovel in which we plebeians toiled. Rich forest-green drapes hung from the picture windows, lush cream carpeting welcomed my pumps. Her deep ebony desk had been a gift from an Indian ambassador: He claimed that his son had made it so she didn’t have to refuse it as a potential bribe. And of course, for the senator, there were no fluorescent lights with which to highlight the damage from the previous evening’s all-nighter. Just brass lamps scattered throughout. If you didn’t know that you were in the office of one The Department of Lost & Found
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    of the most powerful women on the Hill, you might have thought you’d inadvertently walked into an Ethan Allen catalog.
    I pulled out her chocolate leather chair and sat down, grabbing the gold calligraphy pen that was perched on the right corner.
    Senator Dupris—
    I’m sorry that I missed you. I know that you don’t check e-mail, so wanted to leave you a note. I strongly urge you to reconsider your stance on the birth control referendum. I know that we can avoid the Mississippi contingent—I looked into it and have some tactics and information to quiet them.
    Please keep this in mind.
    —Natalie
    PS—Thanks for the orchids last week. They are wonderful and thriving in my living room.
    “Good God, Blair,” I said as I left Dupris’s office. “How can you even work with this rancid smell?”
    “You get used to it. I can’t even smell anything, actually.” She burrowed around in her purse. “Want a piece of gum?”
    “No. Thank you.” I craned my neck around to peer into the cubes. “Where’s Kyle? Did you give him my message?”
    She folded the piece of gum into her mouth and turned the color of a spring beet. “Um, I forwarded your e-mail to his BlackBerry, but he hasn’t been in all morning, and he didn’t write me back. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
    I inhaled and exhaled just like Janice told me to do. But this deep breathing thing really didn’t seem to be working. So after three goes of it, I slammed my hand down on her desk and stared until she pressed herself as far back as was humanly possible to 38
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    press oneself into a swivel chair without actually becoming one with it.
    I started to open my mouth, to chastise her for a job so inadequately done, but all at once, I was exhausted. Bone-crushingly exhausted. Crawl-under-the-desk exhausted. I broke my gaze from Blair, massaged my temples with my now-stinging hand, and leaned back into her desk.
    “Natalie, are you okay?” Blair asked meekly, cocking her head to the side and putting on a worried face.
    I blew out my breath and stood up straight, tugging at my jacket to ensure that I didn’t wrinkle.
    “Fine, Blair. I’m fine.” And with that, I turned and walked toward the elevator before it became apparent to anyone besides me that I wasn’t fine at all.
    R o u n d T w o
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    October
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    f o u r
    had the dream again. The same one I had during the first week Iof my first cycle. I was at a deserted amusement park at dusk, and when I looked out from my perch atop a roller coaster, I saw that the only people left on the grounds were the clowns.
    Thousands of them. Bright red wigs bobbing up and down, silly plodding shoes leading their way. I sat on the roller coaster and at once felt my car, one in the very back, lurch forward, and soon I was flying so fast that tears unwillingly came to my eyes. The car slowed as it approached the big incline upward, and suddenly (because this can happen only in dreams), I was squished in my seat by dozens of clowns. Overflowing even. Pressed like sardines up against me with a saccharine smell of cotton candy. I tried to undo my seat belt to jump, to release myself before my claustrophobia 42
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