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good, I want to pull someone, anyone, into that empty space next to me in the family portrait. Otherwise, I’m just an old snapshot of some random girl.
    Rosie is taking someone’s breakfast order on the porch when she spots me sitting on the steps. Beyond the parking lot the train tracks are a rusty orange. The last of the summer weeds are busy pushing up through the gravel between the slats. How they keep from being blown to pieces when the engine goes through is a deeply fucking mysterious matter.
    Rosie finishes taking the order and sits on the step above mine. She’s wearing a tight white T-shirt and faded jeans. Her pouch of waitressly things is tied around her waist and makes her look marsupial. She flips through her order tickets and rips one off for me. In the section where it says Table # she’s scribbled Happy Birthday! In the order section she’s written, This ticket entitles you to one highly mediocre birthday breakfast at the Menamon Stationhouse .
    “Thanks,” I say.
    By the time Leah gets here, I’m eating a plateful of huevos rancheros with blue birthday candles in them. Leah’s ride is what my mom called a woody. It’s the sort of car poor-ass surfers are always driving on cable television. Leah opens the door and scopes out the parking lot like she’s trying to decide whether this is the sort of planet she wants to land on. She squints into the morning sun and jangles her car keys as she approaches.
    “Nice ride,” I say. “Want some eggs?” I offer a sloppy forkful of candle wax and red beans.
    “I’ll pass,” she says, and squats on her heels so that we can talk. “It’s your birthday?” I shrug and extend the red beans to her again. She waves her hand to dismiss them. “Well, happy birthday.”
    Over her jeans, Leah is wearing a cream-colored sweater that definitely can’t go in the washing machine. More than that, I swear her black hair is in a French fucking twist. Marta used to keep her hair that way. She was one of those women who went apeshit for Audrey Hepburn, a lameness of spirit only acceptable in someone as strong as my mother.
    Leah eyes my Top-Siders and green hoodie that lets her know I used to play a mean field hockey midfield. On the back it says WINTERS 19. I can tell she’s questioning her sweater. She says, “I’m not quite sure how this works. I presume you know the ropes?”
    “Slipknot, double cross, and superhold noose,” I say. “I know them all.”
    Leah considers. “What percentage of the Star ’s content would you say you write?”
    “Sixty,” I say. “I’m a goddamn machine.”
    “Sixty percent!” Leah stands up fast. She presses her fingers to her temples. Her hands are enormous. They fan out at the ends of her thin arms. “That’s obscene. Why don’t we divide up the work? You take this story. I’ll find another one.” This makes perfect sense, but what the fuck? We’ve barely met and already she’s decided she’d rather go solo?
    “Nah,” I say. “You’re junior editor and I’m senior editor. I need to train you.”
    “ Train me?” She takes a few deep breaths. “Where does Charley fit in?”
    “Charley is the Chief Amazon Lady of the Nile.”
    “And how long have you been with the Star ?”
    “Four months. I used to be with the Fairhaven Hour .”
    “What was your beat?”
    I consider lying. I want to hang on to alpha status here, and the truth will hardly help. But I say, “Obits, you?”
    “City section.”
    A lot more impressive than obits. I hold out hope she worked at some podunk rag. “For who?”
    “The New York Gazette .”
    “Holy fuck, you wrote for the Gazette ?” I shoot to my feet. “What are you even doing here?”
    A diner shoots me a dirty look but I can’t help it. The Gazette is real shit. I have no business giving Leah orders. I should be licking a ballpoint to facilitate her note-taking. “Does Charley know that? Can you get me a job there?”
    “Charley knows,” Leah says. She doesn’t