The first Christmas since Richard, my father, died, and the funk of stale liquor and vomit was replaced with the aroma of cinnamon scented candles. But the kitchen still stunk of fried fish and borscht as Mom prepared a feast. We had a plastic tree. Almost naked, the faux-fern was carelessly draped by a short string of cherry red ornaments. I sat on the couch, silent as she set the table. To my mother and me, Christmas had become a formality. To feel like a normal Polish-American family, we forced ourselves to prepare dishes neither of us enjoyed and decorate our cluttered apartment with 99 cent mistletoes and lights.

Holiday jingles and themed television shows didn’t excite me, but I couldn’t escape them. At school, the facility threw parties for the students before winter break. “How about some music?” my English teacher, Ms. Wilde would ask, fiddling around with the antique record player she kept at her desk. Eccentric, she rarely combed her hair and always spoke in high-pitched squeals. But at 13, when many of my peers listened to songs about sex and drugs, regularly viewed pornography, and experimented with the vodka in their parent’s private stash, having cardboard cutouts of Santa Claus in each classroom and dancing to “Frosty the Snowman” seemed like an attempt to reclaim our innocence.

Maybe I was bitter for never experiencing the cheer being advertised. Christmas never stopped Richard from coming home drunk. He would still hit my mother and voice his disgust. “You failure,” he’d shout, towering over me. I’d retaliated after he punched Mom. “This slime is my son?” His eyes were bloodshot and his spine bones poked from beneath from his skin. She clenched her stomach in pain, while Richard tugged on my ear and slapped the back of my head. “It’s because you were raised by this whore.” He pushed me away. “That’s why you don’t call me ‘dad.’”

He was my biological dad, nothing more. To my mother, he was a constant evil. But since childhood she’d safeguarded others: Whether it was her schizophrenic mother, who she kept from hurting himself, or protecting me from abuse. It gave her purpose. I overhead her telling Ching, who lived next door, about her loneliness. Following Richard’s death, she reminscened on the early days of their relationship. He would promise her the world. Coincidentally, it was after my birth that he began to question his life choices and drink away regrets. Now, Mom became embroiled in an endless cycle of going to work and coming home to an empty bed. “I’m grateful that Mariusz’s there, but some things you can’t talk to your child about.” 

“You need a man. It’s time to move on.” Ching was a social recluse, but she trusted us. Mom had invited her over for our holiday dinner, but gatherings weren’t her thing.

“All men are the same. I swear, if my son ever comes home drunk, I’ll hang myself. They say it’s genetic, you know? He already has his father’s impatience.”

That Christmas evening was cold and damp. I looked out the window. Our ancestors believed that waiting until the first stars were out before eating brought good luck. However, the horizon was blanketed with thick clouds. A storm just passed. Ornaments wrapped around our neighbor’s fire escape flickered on and off. It didn’t bother them.

There were two sets of silverware prepared. “Did you take your meds?” Her hands shook as she finished preparing the table, which was covered in a worn cloth. 

“Yes.” I was on anti-depressants. Mom insisted I speak to a professional. She self-medicated and took pills out of my prescription. She had become determined to avoid her mother’s faith, said to run in the family. To her, Prozac was the end-all-be-all. “Nothing,” I reported back, disappointed in Mother Nature’s reluctance to grant me the “perfect” Christmas.

“Forget it, come eat.” I trudged back to the dining room. Within seconds, Mom started to pick apart a piece of salmon. “I’m starving.” She squeezed a spoonful of lemon juice onto her plate. I started with the soup. Mushrooms floated atop the red liquid. I hated them.

I wasn’t interested in the food. The conversation between her and Ching had haunted me for weeks. To others, I was a bastard child, destined to become a statistic: Either I would become like my father, becoming a testament to the misfortune of genetics, or I wouldn’t, becoming a minority. Everyone told me that I was different, but was my own mother expecting me to fail? Or did she, in her own way, try to prevent that? I didn’t have the courage to ask. “Do you miss him?”  

“Even if I did, do you remember ever having a dinner like this? Nice and quiet, like a miracle.”

As the co-founder and administrator of The Corner Society, Mariusz Zubrowski is out to inspire creativity and the arts. He’s the creator of the “Momma’s Boyfriend” series, which is gearing up for its cinematic releases. And when he’s not writing or exploring Tumblr, he spends most of his time watching television with his cats (both of whom can vouch for the disastrous reality shows he has forced them to enjoy).  

A group of seven trainees were lingering in the seating area near the entrance, making small talk, when Joyce walked in.  The men, who looked like boys, wore loose polyester suits, their hair parted to the side or fluffed and ruffled like a poodle with a perm.  Brian, a tall, gawky blonde with blue eyes, wore short brown trousers that fell above his ankle, a green blazer, and a shiny plaid tie.  He looked like he was from the Midwest, or some other part of the U.S. where Joyce imagined cows roamed the streets and cornfields abounded.  He stood slightly hunched, as if he was trying to shrink down to fit into a box so that he might ship himself back home.  He offered Joyce a shy smile, which she returned, and then continued conversing about his subway ride that morning, for three of the other trainees had also just arrived in New York and were still adjusting to pushy crowds and the pleading homeless who stalked the hot platforms.  

The trainees laughed, tilting their heads back in one fell swoop, letting out a cohesive sigh.  Looking on, Joyce found the chuckle cheap, a mere formality, which she abhorred.  Born and raised in Brooklyn, she knew the subways like she knew every inch of the twenty-three story apartment building where she grew up.  Back when she was in college she commuted to Manhattan, waking at 5:45 every morning to apply makeup, eat a boiled egg mashed with butter and salt, and take the Q train to Atlantic Avenue, where she’d transfer to the 4 or 5 trains at Union Square.  Now, she lived on her own, a few miles away from her family in a one-bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge.  Her apartment, not yet fully furnished, was sparse, with a few trinkets and chipped walls that were painted a soft purple. 

 Standing before the rows of tables and shouting salesmen, the office looked smaller than she remembered—crammed even.  A tan Asian with a mustache desperately shouted, “Of course Mr. Livermore knows I’m phoning him this morning!   He should be expecting my call.  No, this certainly is not about advertising.  Vivianna, my assistant, fit him into my schedule!”

 There were no personal assistants; instead, one secretary served the entire office.  Diamonté was a finger-waving pit bull from Queens who snapped at the trainees when they asked for a stapler, and responded to the requests of upper-management with a coquettish, “Of course, honey, I’m here to serve you in any way I can.” 

When Joyce approached her desk, opening up with, “Good morning, I was just wondering—,” Diamonté interrupted, declaring flatly, “You wait over there with the other newbies.”  She pointed her finger towards Claire, a brunette from Connecticut with fair skin and small lips that formed a straight line across her face.

“Okay—yes, that makes sense.  I’m a trainee, and clearly, there are the rest of the trainees, so I should be over there with them,” Joyce said, looking over at a group with which she did not want to be lumped in.  The women looked like floating bait, and the men, with the exception of Brian, came off as cockier than their looks merited, with jaunty stances and puffed chests. 

“I apprenticed my uncle, who founded a company that sells medical devices,” boasted a redhead in a gray suit and boxy loafers.  “If you have any questions as the week goes on, be sure to ask me.”

Joyce was certain that she was better than this group of misfits; first, because she was smarter, and second, because she’d already had a real job, teaching for three years.  She scoffed, flashing Diamonté a look signaling the group’s inferiority, but rather than welcoming what was essentially a call for an allegiance, Diamonté raised one eyebrow and said, “Owen will be out when he’s ready for your group.”

Joyce nodded and made her way to an empty chair.  The first day of school was only a few days away, and she wouldn’t be there.  It’d be the first September that wouldn’t start with a trip to the mall to stock up on number two pencils and five-subject notebooks.  There wouldn’t be the comfort of happy face stickers and the feel of old books that Joyce loved.  She wouldn’t have to console the smallest sixth grader who showed up to school on the verge of tears, offering him a box of apple juice and a squeeze on the shoulder.  There’d be no camaraderie between her and the other teachers, no recaps of summer vacation in the cafeteria.  Instead of decorating her classroom with welcome signs and library charts, she’d merely fill a cup with pens and put on a headset that would keep her chained to her desk until exactly five o’clock, when she’d run home and cook spaghetti. 

She was now a trainee, and as much as she didn’t want to be part of this oddball crew, as much as she resisted, knowing she was a loner, used to being in charge, comfortable working with children and not adults, she knew that she’d made a choice because she felt that she’d had no other.  There was no way to know if her decision to leave teaching and join GEC would pan out, or if it was all one big mistake, as her mother had tried to tell her.  She closed her eyes and imagined ringing the gong, making her first huge sale, and for a moment, she didn’t hear the shouts of the office, or the nervous chatter of the other trainees, but instead, only the resounding cry of what she’d like to think was her future—one filled with the sounds of congratulatory cries and toasts to her success.

* * *

“Not all of you will make it through training week,” Owen declared brusquely.  “But if you pay attention to what I’m going to teach you over the next few days, you’ve got a good chance in making the cut.  Your being here means that I saw potential, but now’s the time to impress not only me, but the managers as well.”  He signaled to the main floor of the office from inside the small conference room where Joyce and the other trainees were gathered around an oval table.  A whiteboard in front of the room read How to be a Salesman.

Joyce wondered what she would do if she didn’t make the cut, as she was certain that Owen’s earlier offer promised her the job, not another round of interviews.  Could she have misunderstood him?  She’d spent the past few days imagining her life working in what she considered to be a real office.  She’d finally be able to make friends her own age, instead of having lunch with the math teachers who were fifteen years her senior.  She’d be able to leave her old life behind, or at least that was what she thought prior to hearing that there was still a possibility that the job wasn’t hers.

Waiting for them when they arrived were blue folders, the covers of which had a picture of Nigel Moon, the founder of the company, with a wide grin.  “We’ll be covering what would take most people years to learn in just one week.  This will be, essentially, a crash course in sales.  I’ll teach you everything you need to know about pitching, studying your product, and how to make the most money possible at this company, and believe me, there are plenty of opportunities for that. 

Joyce enjoyed being the student.  She eyed the box of glazed donuts in the middle of the table.  Brian was hovered over them, blocking everyone’s access.

“Look at this suit, mates,” Owen went on, rubbing the cuffs of his jacket between his fingers.  “This is a four thousand dollar Italian suit, and I have eight of them.”  The men in the group eyed each other.

“Let’s begin with the number one lesson of sales—understanding the hierarchy of a company.  Simply put, who are you going to need to get on the phone in order to close a deal?  Because if you present yourself the wrong way, you’ll be put through to assistants of assistants of sales, or some other inconsequential persons  who will never, and I repeat, never be in a position to sign a contract.  Tell me mates, why is that?”  He paused to look around for an answer.  The redhead raised a pointed finger.

“Yes, Chad.”

“Because that person won’t have the authority,” Chad answered smugly.

“Wrong, he won’t have the budget.  It’s not so much about power as it is money.  That’s our only concern.  Write this down: the person who holds the purse strings is the Cheese.  The Cheese, and only the Cheese, has the ability to sign a check.  Most often this is the CEO, but in larger companies, VPs of Marketing have their own budgets.  The general rule is the larger the company, the lower down you can go on the chain to find someone to pitch.  Now open your folders and look at the yellow sheet entitled Pyramid of Power.  No one here is going to get the CEO of Coca-Cola on the phone.  Understand?”

The group nodded.

Owen continued: “Very rarely will you have only one person to pitch.  People are social by nature, as well as indecisive.  They will always seek out the opinion of at least one other person before committing to an investment.  The person whom they’ll go to is called the Kicker.  You’ll want to pitch him as well.  And why’s that?”

Chad’s hand shot up in the air.  Brian tilted his weight on the back legs of his chair, forcing it to tip and nearly fall. 

“Joyce, why do we have to pitch the Kicker?”

Joyce tried to think.  She was used to calling on students, not being put in the hot seat herself. 

 “Because—” she said, drawing out the word, “if the Kicker is involved in deciding if the company will spend money, he or she has to be knowledgeable about our product so that an informed decision is made.”

“Yes,” Owen responded quickly, “but even more so, the Kicker has to be convinced because he’s going to hear our price and automatically say no, case closed.  He doesn’t understand what makes GEC’s reputation pristine.  As the best, it’s our job, no your job, to tell him.  All parties in the decision making process, or DMP, have to be pitched.  No deal will go through if one player is missing from the huddle.  No exceptions.”

“But what if the Kicker is out sick or on vacation?” asked Ben, a short brunette with the deep voice of a radio deejay. 

“Then you’ll phone him on his cell.”

“How will I get his number?”

 “Because lesson number two of sales is blagging, or, the art of retrieving personal information via lying.”

Brian’s chair landed with a loud thud.

“Without direct lines and cell numbers, you’ll never be able to reach the Cheese.  The schedule of any CEO is hectic; he’ll be in and out of meetings and stuck on phone conferences.  You’ll never so much as hear his voice if you don’t call his personal number.”  He turned to face the group, his hips jutting forward; he was becoming more animated, enthused, as if he had just discovered a cure.  He spoke as if this was all obvious information, anyone would have guessed that getting a cell phone number was necessary in order to close a deal.  “You can phone his secretary under an alias, or conjure up a reason as to why it is absolutely imperative that you have his cell number.  Then, wait a few days before ringing him to ensure the secretary forgets.”

Joyce considered the idea of fabricating a story for the purpose of retrieving a person’s private information with the end goal being to make money.  Owen’s enthusiastic description made it seem like a game, one that Joyce thought she could win.

“Here’s an example.  Ring-ring-ring.”  Owen positioned an imaginary phone to his ear.  “Good morning,” he said in an overly friendly voice, and then nudged Claire on her shoulder.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“I was hoping that you might be able to help me.  My name is Elias Wit, Head of Research at Pennsbrook.  I’m over in Belgium at the PECO conference, waiting for a meeting with John, but I fear that I might be in the wrong location.  I want to give him a quick ring, darling.  What’s his cell number?”

Claire hesitated, then said, “I – I can get that information right now for you.”

“The secret,” Owen said, changing his voice from charming, even seductive, to authoritative, “is to go in with confidence.  Go in with the mindset that you’re not a salesman from Queens, but a colleague of the Cheese.  You have every right to his cell number.  You two are on the same level; maybe you’re even a little better.  He went to Yale; you went to Harvard.  He owns a house in Connecticut; you own a house in the Hamptons.  His kids whine at night that daddy’s always at work; your kids cry just as much.”

Joyce nodded emphatically as Owen spoke.  She liked the idea of reimagining her identity; that’s exactly what she was doing by quitting teaching–believing that she could be someone else. 

“That brings us to the last, and one might argue most important, sales lesson, which is how to get past the gatekeeper.”  Owen returned to pacing the room, his body upright, his chest inflated.   “Who is the gatekeeper?” he asked.  “Anyone?”  He walked around the desk, looking at the scribbles on his students’ papers.  “The first person you will speak with is the Cheese’s secretary.  Before blagging, go in blind.  You phone the number listed on the website and ask for him directly and authoritatively.  Ring—Ring,” he said, signaling his imaginary phone.  “Joyce, pick up.”

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Morning.  Put me through to John.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Elias Wit from Pennsbrook.  Is he in?”

“Yes, I’ll put you through right away, sir.”

“Now—” Owen said thoughtfully.  As Owen spoke, he kept one hand in his pocket, while the other sporadically clicked the top of a silver pen that he held in the air like a maestro.  “If she asks what the call is regarding, what do you say?”

“A business opportunity,” Chad shouted.

“No.”

“A private matter,” Ben offered.

“Wrong.  You either say that he should be expecting your call, or you go in with a story that can’t be proved untrue.  Pull a name off one of their press releases.  For example, Harold Smith from Pennsbrook and I are working together.  I believe John’s been in communication with him.  Can you put me through?  Always end with a question.  This keeps you in control of the conversation.  You ask the questions, not her.  If you let the secretary get the upper-hand, you’ll sink.  Then, your only option will be to blag.  This is route number one.  Get past the secretary without letting her know that this is a sales call, without giving her any identifying information whatsoever.  Exaggerate.  Charm.  Flirt.  Do whatever you need to do to get the Cheese on the phone.  You define your own boundaries, should you choose to have any.”  Joyce drew a line down the middle of her paper, cutting the phrase “Pyramid of Power” in two.

Owen went on.  “What do you do if she says that the Cheese isn’t in?  Would you like to leave a message, mates?”

“Tell her you’ll phone back,” Brian answered.

“That’s reasonable, but we’re businessmen, we’re not reasonable.  We have an amazing product to sell, and we have no time to wait till tomorrow.  Our publications are flying off the shelves, so if Cheese number one doesn’t want to purchase advertising from us, Cheese number two will.  In fact, Cheese number two might be ringing us on the other line.  We tell her it’s urgent.  This is a matter of money, and what could be more urgent than that?  We ask for his cell number.  Always ask for his cell phone number.  If you can’t get the Cheese on the phone, you can’t pitch, and that’s what you’ll be getting paid to do, should you make the cut.  Do whatever it takes to complete the pitch.  If you come away with nothing else, come away with that.”

* * *

Three days later, Joyce and the rest of the trainees strutted into the offices of Phone Pharma, figuring they were now part of the team.  They had befriended much of the staff while in the break room, riding the elevator, and entering the lobby.  They had familiarized themselves with the neighborhood, discerning which coffee shop offered the best lattés, as well as put themselves on a first name basis with Juan, the young security guard downstairs.

Cockily, they greeted Diamonté as a group.  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” teased Chad, as they made their way towards Owen’s office. 

“Tomorrow will be better,” Diamonté said.  “At least for some of you.”

Joyce thought about not being offered a job at the end of training week.  It seemed impossible.  She had already become obsessed with the notion of working at Phone Pharma – pitching, selling, and most importantly, ringing the gong.  She heard the gong when she showered in the morning, reciting the pitch with newscaster precision in the same manner she used to read the back of the shampoo bottle as a little girl: Rinse.  Repeat.  Caution!  Avoid contact with eyes.

She heard the gong as she slurped yogurt while riding the train in the morning, staring at the suited men and women as they marched in and out, catching their glimpses, and then looking away, embarrassed.  Her life quickly became a matter of reciting the pitch and not reciting the pitch, practicing her intonation and not practicing her intonation.  As the week passed, her determination to get the job grew.  She read the pitch in various voices, trying out different inflections, and mimicking the personalities of her favorite celebrities as she did so. 

First, Joyce tried Barbara Walters.  She softened her voice, stiffened her jaw, and said the opening lines with slow precision: “Hi John.  This is Joyce Little.  How are you?  Great.  Listen, I’m working with Elias Wit, who heads up the R&D Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call.  Is now an okay time to talk?  Perfect.”

She sped up, imagining how Oprah might pitch – serious, yet a little over the top.  She saw a packed audience sitting before her, waiting to cheer.  “I’m the VP of Research here at Phone Pharma, a publication that goes out to 36,000 C-level executives worldwide, including Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Analytical Chemistry and Lab Automation.  We’re looking to focus on the need for increasing efficiency within the discovery and verification of biomarkers for the feature article of our upcoming September issue, and we’d like to highlight BioCorp as a leading solution-provider.  Would you say that’s pretty much spot on with what your company specializes in, John?”

She tried moving as she spoke, gesticulating her arms widely, flailing them like a broken windmill.  Though she wore loose pajamas festooned with tiny green elephants, she imagined herself coiffed and sleek in a brightly colored dress.  She was Rachael Ray: friendly and approachable.  Each line she rehearsed had the goading effect of a cheerleader performing in a stadium.  Her already high-pitched voice shrieked.  “What I’d like to offer you, John, is a full-page, full-color advert positioned in the front of the magazine, directly across from our lead feature article.”

Joyce had been used to having to cultivate a personality from the time she spent working as a teacher.  “You’re twenty-years-old,” her mentor, Virginia, told her, “and you look sixteen.”  She spoke as if this was a choice Joyce made, to stop the aging process.  “Imagine yourself older, wiser, and more adult.  Never tell the students how old you are, or that it’s your first year teaching.  They’ll eat you alive.  Pretend that you’re an actress playing a role.  That’s the only way you’ll survive.”

Now, Joyce looked at her reflection.  She wasn’t sure which celebrity she’d imitate the next day when Owen made the trainees give their first full trial pitch, but she was sure of one thing – she wouldn’t be herself.

* * *

“I’ll set you up at separate tables throughout the office and then call you one by one.  After we exchange hellos, you’ll pitch me, then, after we break for lunch, I’ll provide everyone with feedback,” Owen said as he led the group.

“This is your station,” he directed Joyce, and turned to leave.  She was at a table with five young, attractive men.  The manager, who was chubbier than his team, sat at the head of the table on a tall chair.  The men smirked as they eyed Joyce.  One of them winked.

“Good luck with your pitch,” the manager said.  “We’ll be listening.”

The office was filled with discordant noise of too many salesmen shouting over one another.  A tall blonde with a low cut shirt covered her left ear to better hear the man on the other end of the line.

“Don’t the executives you call overhear the commotion?” Joyce asked the manager.

“The phones have noise blockers.”

She closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves.  She was brave, she told herself.  She didn’t look fearless or tough, but she was.  Her mother had always told her to voice her opinion, stand up for herself, to fight if necessary.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Joyce said eagerly.

“Hi, this is Owen Lawson.”

“Hi, Owen.  How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I wanted to speak with you because I’m working with Mr. Wit from Pennsbrook on a project focusing on drug discovery.  Is now a good time to talk?”

“Not really, I was just heading out to a meeting,” Owen said in a dry voice.

 “This will only take a minute, actually.”

Joyce kept her pace steady, her voice upbeat.  She knew that Owen would try to prevent her from completing the pitch, just as real executives would.  “I’m the Vice President of Research here at Future Pharma—”

“The pub?” Owen interrupted.

“Yes, we go out to—”

“Is this a sales call?”

“It’s a –” Joyce floundered for words.  “I’m VP of—”

“Research,” Owen finished.

“Yes, and I wanted to feature your company in our magazine, highlight BioCorp, really.”

“How much would it cost?”

“I’m going to get to that.”  Joyce twisted the phone cord around her hand.  Her fingers reddened like cheap carnations.  The men at the table stared as they pretended to dial.  “Mr. Wit is penning an article about the inefficiencies of biomarker discovery and validation, and what I’d like to do is position BioCorp as the leading solution-provider, giving you a full-page advert that would be in the front of the publication.  Now does that seem like a good fit for you?

The trick was to ask questions that you knew would merit a yes, to get the guy on the other end of the line in an agreeable frame of mind.

“It does,” Owen said, “but how much are we looking at here, darling?”

“The total cost for the ad, which would include the full assistance from my production team, who would essentially act as an in-house ad agency for you, as well as access to our lead generation tool, is 24,500 USD.”  Joyce realized she’d skipped the bit about the lead gen tool and how it’d give Owen a chance to see a direct return on investment.

“That’s quite a price tag for an advert.  I bought a double-page spread in Life Sciences Live last month for 18K.  I tell you what.  Let me think about it, and if it’s financially feasible, I’ll get back to you,” Owen said curtly, and then he hung up, so that all Joyce could hear was a flat sound that was the dial tone.

* * *

Joyce found herself on her bedroom floor with closed eyes.  She was practicing the ancient Tibetan technique known as The Lion’s Roar, the name being self-explanatory: imagining oneself as a lion and roaring with all one’s might.  She stretched her jaw, squinted her eyes, and wound up looking like she was trying to pop her ears after landing from a long flight. 

She let out a small roar, and thought how she’d rather be a lion than a woman working at GEC, where all of the female staff wore tight skirts and all of the CEOs pitched were men.  However, she had been playing into the role of the GEC fem cliché from her very first day, giggling at the male employees’ tired jokes and offering a smile that might have been construed as an invitation.

The feedback that Owen had given her was entirely negative.  “You sound overly excited and a bit fake, my dear,” he said.  “You might be able to sell makeup or candy, but I wouldn’t fork over twenty thousand dollars of my money based on what I heard today.  There’s just no authority in your voice, I’m sorry to say.”

There had been authority in her voice as a teacher, when, on her best days, she could settle a group of thirty-five loud teenagers.  She imagined a lion in front of a blackboard, charging a class of students, one of them a younger Owen, his hair slicked back and greasy.  The lion snapped his neck and sent his limp body into the air like a doll.  She opened her eyes and let out a noise that sounded more like a hungry growl then a roar, and as she did, she became angry, not just at Owen, but everybody who worked at GEC.  She felt like she was better than the entire staff: the men who acted like they were still part of a fraternity, and the women whose wicked stares made her feel like she was in a competition that she’d not signed up for, and to make matters worse, she was losing.  The more Joyce thought as a lioness, the angrier she became.  She was accustomed to excelling at school, and she didn’t like the way Owen quickly labeled her as not good enough. 

As she sat on the floor, looking around her room with only a bed dressed in stiff sheets and a dresser, Joyce wished she were younger, back at her parents’ house and eating her mother’s meatloaf.  As a teenager, she was in a rush to leave the small bedroom she shared with her sister.  Looking back, maybe it wasn’t really that bad – being cramped with her family.  Now, there was no one whom she could call for consolation.  Her mother would only tell her that she brought everything upon herself.  She let out a final roar, a muffled sound that fell flat like something metal dropping in the night, and then she went to bed.

* * *

There was an indescribable serenity in the office in the early morning hours when it wasn’t crowded with shouting men and women.  Joyce could look out onto the streets and appreciate the view of a city that was so alive: the architecture, the grand buildings that made you feel larger, instead of smaller, like anything was possible.  New Yorkers rushed by, weary of one another, as there was no concept of personal space because of the overpopulation; the person who sat next to you on the train pressed his thigh against yours.  This was the unspoken relationship between all New Yorkers: a closeness that was unwanted, yet intimate nonetheless.

Joyce stared out onto the streets like a fish in a tank.  She thought she’d feel nervous; the rest of the trainees were.  Instead, she felt the stillness that comes after anger settles – something closer to acceptance, or insouciance.  “How could someone who looks so sweet an innocent have such a vicious temper?” her mother asked when Joyce was younger, after she’d fought with her sister, digging her nails into Abbey’s arms and ramming her against their bedroom wall.  She’d lost herself in the violence, forgotten that she was part of a family from whom she’d always felt distant.  She’d no longer hear her parents’ screaming, or have to wonder what her alcoholic father was going to do next.  She was able to release a hurt that couldn’t be let go any other way.

“Kim’s extension is 301, Joyce,” Owen said as he approached.  When you’re ready, give her a ring.”

Joyce knew the pitch, knew every response for any reserves that Kim might express.  Kim would be a tough sell, having a reputation for being ruthless.  She managed the entire office and had sold millions of dollars worth of advertising in her few years at the company.  She was a petite Asian woman with perfect features and long hair dyed a deep caramel.  She chained smoked and expressed all sentiments of joy and frustration in the same deadpan voice.

“Hi Kim, this is Joyce Little with Future Pharma.  How are you doing today?”

“I’m doing well.  What’s this all about, Joyce?”

“I’ve been working with Elias Wit,” she said, jumping right into the pitch.  “As I’m sure you know, he heads up the Research Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call.  We’re working on a project concerning biomarkers and the need for increasing efficiency as far as their discovery and verification goes.  Is it fair to say that this is what your company focuses on?”  Joyce didn’t ask a question, but rather offered a statement that was clear and certain.  She was a lawyer giving an opening argument, defending both herself and the publication. 

“Yes, but tell me, is this a sales call?” Kim asked flatly.

“I’ll tell you exactly what this is,” Joyce said, as she took a few steps forward, one hand on her hip.  “Wit tells me that BioCorp is the number one solution-provider for biomarker discovery, and I’m looking to highlight one company out of our sixteen vendors in our September issue that will be entirely devoted to drug discovery.  I want to give you a full page ad that my team will help you create.  I’m going to couple that with our lead generation tool, which means that I’m going to send you a list of every verified C-level executive from our group of 36,000 subscribers who have specified that they want to receive more information about your company.  Now these are Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Lab Automation.  Are these the people you generally look to target?”  Joyce’s pitch built up momentum as she continued; each word gained force, power.

“It is. But tell me, how much is this going to cost me?  Our marketing budgets for the year are quickly dwindling.” 

“The full page, full color ad that my production team will assist you with, along with access to our lead generation tool comes in at 24,500 dollars. I’ve got a conference call with Vexx Corp. tomorrow morning and a meeting with my production team at twelve.  What I’d like to do is give you a call before then to see if everything looks good on your end, and when it does, all I need to do is fax over a one-page contract that will confirm everything I’ve said, and the spot is yours.  How does that sound?”

“It sounds great, Joyce.”

“Now what’s your cell number?”

* * *

The trainees were called into Owen’s office one at a time.  The others watched through the glass walls, trying to read Owen’s lips and expressions.  First Ben went in, then Claire.  “I’m pitching on the summit,” Ben boasted as he came out. 

“I’m on the delegate team,” Claire said in a lackluster voice.  The job of the delegate team was to procure speakers for the summit events.  Their commission structure was different from the rest of the staff.  As a general rule, they were looked upon as inferior salesmen.

Next, Owen called for Chad, who turned towards Ben and Brian, pounded fists and chimed, “here goes nothing, gentlemen,” before heading into Owen’s office.

 “He’s definitely on the summit team with Ben,” Claire said.  “You guys are so lucky.  Kim says you might even get a chance to attend one of the summits.  The next one is in the Caribbean.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a trip to the Caribbean with Kim,” said Brian.

“I don’t think anyone would,” Ben agreed.

Brian Studied Owen’s expression.  “What’s he saying?  “Chad looks upset.”

Chad’s head hung down like a doll with a broken neck.  Owen stood to shake his hand and say goodbye.  The whole matter of finding out who made the team seemed to be taking mere minutes.

Chad returned to the group, shocked.  He muttered, “I didn’t make it.”

“But how could that be?” Brian blurted out.  “You were the best out of all of us.”

Chad shook his head, baffled.  “Owen said that I didn’t address Kim’s concerns the way he’d taught me.  He said I gave away the price too quickly, and I strayed from the pitch too frequently.  I can’t believe it.” 

Joyce imagined that Chad had attended private school his whole life, that his family took him on annual trips to Europe and had his polo shirts tailored and sent to his apartment.  She was glad that he didn’t get the job.  This might put him in his place.  She remained quiet.

“They’re probably just looking for a particular style of pitching,” Claire said. 

“I’m too good for this gig anyway,” Chad scoffed.  “My dad can easily get me a job that I don’t have to audition for like a fifth grade school play.  What I don’t need is a sacked soccer player telling me that I’m not good enough.  Joyce, you’re up next.  I’m out of here” he said, then left.

The group fell silent.  Joyce would have normally been afraid of failure, but she was too exhausted.  She’d woken up early to recite the pitch while eating her usual breakfast of mushy, buttery egg.  She’d put on a green face mask at five-thirty in the morning and returned to bed, where she stared at her ceiling and told herself over and over again that she was going to get the job.  She imagined herself ringing the gong.  Afterwards, Owen would come over to her, give her a kiss, and then she would look into his blue eyes and ask him, “Is your tan real?”  The only thing left to do was surrender.

“I don’t know how you did it, darling,” were the first words out of Owen’s mouth.  “This has been the quickest turn around by a trainee that I’ve ever seen.  Kim loved you, and to managers said that they’d be happy to have you on their team, Ananda and Helga.”

“That’s great news,” Joyce said with disbelief.

“You’re officially a part of the GEC family.  Welcome.  I’m glad to have you on board.”

“Yes.  Thank you.  Wow.  I don’t know what to say.” 

Owen shook her hand, gave her a pat on the shoulder, and opened the door.  All that was left to do was to tell everyone the news and celebrate.  It was Friday, and that meant that happy hour was on the company.

“Congrats,” Brian said when he stopped her in the hallway.  “I’m very impressed.”

“I’m a bit stunned, to be honest,” Joyce admitted. 

“It’s great news.  It looks like we’ll be working together.  You were the only person I was rooting would get it.”

“And why’s that?”

“I like to have a nice view when I work.”

Joyce blushed.  If this were high school, she had just made it into one of the elite groups, like cheerleading or the booster club, only this felt bigger than high school because the company was international.  Owen was a chic businessman who probably lived in a loft somewhere with exposed metal pipes, and he has told her, Joyce, someone who had worn a dental headgear to bed up until the age of sixteen, that she was the most improved and deserved a spot with the company.  Any anger she felt had melted away.  The office looked bigger.  Brian looked cuter, and Joyce felt different, as if an old skin had been shed.

She made her way towards the bar with her head up; taking big breaths, she felt loose.   She was now an official saleswoman.  Training week was over.  Brian gave her a nudge, and as they left the building, they blended in with the passersby, all of whom were dressed in suits, their eyes forward, not noticing that Joyce had a huge smile on her face, her head up to the sky, not particularly paying any attention to where she was headed. 

Our fingers touched as we pressed the same elevator button. Dennis Popinara looked at me. He wore slacks that were covered in soot and annunciated each of his words with a stutter, and started his sentences with a long pause. “S-sorry.” I recoiled, bumping into the wall. It was painted dark blue. “These damn kids,” he began. “Can you believe one of them smashed my car window?”

My throat swelled up. “N-no *ahem* could’ve … could’ve been falling debris … or something.”

“Debris? Maybe. Anyway, your mother called. She asked me to fix the bathroom sink.”  

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to fix the bathroom sink.”

“Oh.” That’s what I thought he said. “It has been acting strange.”

The prospect of my mother, after not talking to him for months, calling to do a simple repair job bothered me. I wanted him out of our lives.

When we entered my apartment, Dennis robotically walked to the bathroom. He lugged a wrench around as a caveman would a loose bone. I slipped into the kitchen. I’m cornered. ‘Ching’ wasn’t there to protect me, it was fight or flight. I remembered a story about a mouse that, on the verge of being devoured by a snake, bit into the reptile’s skull, causing it irreversible brain damage. I’m destined to be that mouse. With both of us alone, there were only two options: let him finish his work or work on finishing him. I chose the latter.

Plan A was drowning. He was already in the bathroom, next to a working bathtub. It’d only take a slug to the head and a shove. But who drowns in their own bathtub … more importantly, who dies in their neighbor’s bathtub? I recalled one of my 7^th grade science classes. We studied the human brain. I learned that drowning oneself was “virtually impossible” as the brain sends signals to the rest of the body, telling it to breathe, much like how you jolt back after touching a hot flame. Besides, I thought, he’s too big. That was another drawback, in addition to the scolding I’d get from my mother when she’d arrive home; she hated when the bathmats were wet.

I stared at a knife set that we’ve received for Christmas, weighing the pros and cons of a traditional stabbing, I compiled a list of reasons on why and why nots: it’s messy, my queasiness to blood, it’s quick. I imagined his funeral. “He was a good husband and a better father,” his duck-faced wife would quack, somewhat relieved at his passing. She would bring home the aspiring actor that she’d met in Starbucks. They’d cuddle, pressing their warm bodies together. She’d anchor her lips onto his. He’d push away, explaining that he was tired, fully knowing that he had contracted an STD from one of his former lovers at NYU: Tisch. “Fine,” she would pout, grabbing for the remote, “suit yourself.”

Flipping through the channels, they’d stumble onto a news report. The anchor, visibly tired, despite having six espresso shots, three caramel mochas, and a vanilla Chai, would announce, in a disinterested tone, “…Stabbed approximately 65 times, Zubrowski was found by guards in a pool of his own blood.”

The notion of being viciously slaughtered in a state prison didn’t seem too flattering, but distracted me from both my hatred for Dennis and the pain of having my girlfriend cheat on me.

Momma had described Fallon as “down-to-Earth” and “caring.” She warned that when Fallon would eventually leave, it’d be my fault. I asked her if cheating was an exception, she shook her head. “You would’ve probably driven her away. You’re … how do I put it? You’re not intimate enough. You’re … cardboard! Don’t worry though,” she took a sip of her coffee, “it runs in you ‘Zubrowski men.’ Your uncle? He’s a depressed alcoholic. That’s just one of the reasons I don’t trust that the name’ll be around much longer.”

I told Fallon about Dennis. She said I was selfish. “How can you not allow your mom to have a loving relationship?” At the time, Ayn Rand was my idol. Her philosophy was that selfishness was a virtue; I wished Fallon was more like Rand. “You can’t pick-and-choose who your mother dates.”

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure I can … . if he’s going to become my step-dad!”

A few months later, she dumped me for her ex-boyfriend. He was short but slender, had a job, and was studying to become a civil engineer. I was tall but doughy, quit my job, and worked as a film critic, spending most of my time in dark cinemas, press-screenings, and chatting with the elderly at Manhattan art houses. I also had dreams of becoming a filmmaker. I assumed his lucrative future and goals of having children outweighed misogynistic mantras and a criminal background whilst my fear of commitment, lack of communication skills, and wishy-washy career as the next Quentin Tarantino worked against generosity and good intentions.   

When she told me it was over, I came home, teary-eyed. Mother only said, “You’re this young and having these kinda’ problems? No matter the age, ‘Zubrowski men’ just can’t handle relationships.” In her next batch of groceries, she brought home orange sherbet. “Eat it,” she commanded, trying to replace my love for a girl for love of an artificially-flavored sweet. In her straightforwardness, there was love, but I also sensed that beneath that hardness was pain; the same pain I’d wanted to protect when I smashed Dennis’ car windows.  

“Can I have a smoke?” he asked, plopping himself down onto the living room couch. “I’m almost done.”

Cigarettes were made with 599 additives and each one shortened a person’s lifespan by 11 minutes. Smokers, on average, died 14 years earlier. “N—“ I began before interrupting myself. Unlike stabbings and accidental drowning, smoking would kill him eventually. The word’s vagueness attracted me. To say he’d die eventually meant that it might be in a day, two months, or even three years, but most importantly, it wouldn’t be now. This removed the trouble of clean up, disposal, and lifelong guilt that (usually) accompanies such crimes of passion. I nodded my head and watched as he sucked on a Marlboro light. I knew that on a microscopic level, I’d contributed to his death. 

I hope nobody saw me smash Dennis’ car windows. Growing up in a household led by a neurotic mother and two nameless cats, there were never any secrets … nor were there many visitors. We weren’t antisocial; both of us wanted friendships but neither could stand the constant annoyances of intimate relationships. Her best friend was named ‘Ching.’ This was not her real name (only close family was allowed such privileged information). As a fan of conspiracy theories and pulp fiction, she’d devised a system of ringing our doorbell: to signify her presence, she’d ring thrice. This ensured that neither murderer nor tax collector could get close to us. A staunchly-built woman with tanned skin, ‘Ching’ was the nicest paranoid schizophrenic that we’d ever met. And although she kept her son’s report cards and medical records from first grade (he was now a successful dentist), used our refrigerator to save money on her electricity bills, and made us dye her deeply-rooted grey hairs, claiming that the local barber shop had “communist agendas,” ‘Ching’ was a nice woman, who showered us with dinner trays and pounds of limes on every holiday. The same couldn’t be said about Dennis Popinara, the buildings’ new superintendent—my momma’s new boyfriend.

One damp summer, the old Super retired. A tall, gaunt man, he’d roam the halls with a dull expression. “Gum, paper, candy wrappers,” he’d chant—three things commonly discarded in the hallways. He was replaced by his equally lifeless cousin, Dennis, a college-educated mathematician-turned-sanitation worker. Dennis spoke quietly and jumbled his words. He was married, with two sons. His wife was over demanding and walked like a duck; her billed face and large buttocks swung around with each step. His children however, resembled his primitive appearance. This wouldn’t bother my mother. He told her that he was in the “process of divorce.” Any attempts at rationalizing the situation would be moot for I, have indulged myself in the same convoluted love triangles.

At first he distributed the bills. “H-h-h-h-h-hi,” he would begin with the tone of someone choking on their own saliva. But bill distribution became afternoon coffee breaks; those intensified into daily encounters, nightly phone calls.

I would reminisce about how my teachers would mistake her for a sister during parent-teacher conferences. “You have to bring a guardian,” they’d remark. Moments later, the sirs and misses of P.S.99 complemented my mother’s youthful appearance.

“We’re like two drops of water,” she’d respond; same blonde hair, green eyes, and pudgy cheeks. But Mr. Popinara would show that we weren’t the same.I hated him. His dull posture and vague way of explaining things seemed off. His rush to establish a romantic relationship with my mother made me suspicious. The same qualities, however, allured her.

After Rich, my father, died, leaving behind a legacy of drunken apathy, she’d vow to never make the same mistake. But as I sat, about-faced, looking at the computer monitor’s reflection of Dennis, who gorged on chocolate and threw the wrappers on the floor, I realized that something had to be done. What I didn’t know was that it would take an unlikely ally to get my mother away from this monster.

But the question remained: Was I, like any ‘momma’s boy’ jealous about there being a new ‘man in the house’? Was I projecting the pain I’d experienced with my biological father on Dennis? Or was I genuinely doing this to protect my mother? I didn’t have an answer so I didn’t think about it.

‘Ching’ summed up my hate nicely, “The guy’s a scumbag,” she reassured me as we formulated ways to make his life miserable.

His license plate number was his last name—a red flag to any pompous lover. I had made it a routine to walk past his grey sedan each day. I traveled in circles, expecting to find an incriminating piece of evidence. One day, ‘Ching’ was walking back home with her groceries. She had stopped to ask me if I wanted an orange. She had reportedly bought for “one-third” of the retail price and was eager to share. I shook my head. She curiously inspected the vehicle. “Popinara,” she muttered aloud. “Is that the Super’s car?” I nodded. “That man’s a pig. He needs to keep his hands off your mother. That idiot can barely install an air conditioner, I swear, he put mine in backwards!” She picked up a rock and handed it to me. “Smash the window,” she said, with a smirk on her face. ‘Ching’ prepared to run away. Without thinking, I did as she commanded and ran after her. She gasped as we reached the elevator. For a 70-year-old, I thought, she’s pretty fast. Excited over my newfound revenge, ‘Ching’ grabbed me. “Look, don’t tell your mother we did th—“she interrupted herself, scanning the empty elevator for cameras or any other recording devices. “She’d kill me for she found out about this but,” she said, moving her face closer to mine, “I’ll tell her that I saw Dennis hitting another woman.” My eyes lit up. “He’ll never come close to her again.”

And the plan was a success. None ever found out. Occasionally, Dennis rung our bell but to no avail. ‘Ching’ would continue coming over. Whenever she did, we’d smile to each-other. It remained our dirty little secret.

* Mariusz Zubrowski is a published film critic and co-owner of The Corner Society. Accredited for his work on IMDB and LAMB, he is currently working on his first feature-length screenplay.

    Justin jogged up the same street that he had for the last 167 days. His home wasn’t on this street or the next, but after school he made his way over to the cozy little neighborhood before going home. He saw the same girl outside, sitting on the steps of a house that looked like the dozens of others on either side of the street.  He didn’t speak to her. As he came closer to her house, the girl stood up and waved to him. Like every other day, he began to slow down, began to lift up his hand to wave back, but instead, he kept jogging, eyes focused on the ground.

    Justin was a fairly normal boy. Standing at 5’8” and of a slim build, he wasn’t the most unattractive boy around. Though it’d help to comb his short brown hair more often, it usually looked like he just woke up. He had friends, he went to the movies, and his parents were still together. He even had decent grades; he wasn’t anything special, but he wasn’t falling behind the curve. That’s why it was so distressing to watch him become a stalker – especially one of a sick girl. Who knew what he’d do?

    “So…Shiela, you know, from work? She told me that she saw you on the bus yesterday—” Justin’s mother, Prima glanced at Justin as he ate his breakfast.

    Justin looked up at his mom, chewing on a burnt piece of toast, not particularly eager to respond.

    “Well…were you headed to that girl’s house again? Linda or something?” Prima asked, fully facing Justin.

    “Linette. I don’t go to her house. I’ve never been there.” Justin replied dryly.

    “Right you…just go to her block, right? You…jog?”

    “Right.”

    Prima sighed, shaking her head and taking Justin’s now empty plate and putting it in the dishwasher. “Fine, go on to school. Say hi to Linette for me.”

    “Hey, stranger!” Linette called out to him again with her big smile, catching Justin off-guard. Maybe she thought he’d answer one day, but he never did. He’d always pass her, slowing down just a bit. At times, he opened his mouth to speak and began to lift his arm. But then he’d run off, head down. “Bye—” She’d call after him, just like every other day. Her smile would soon fade, just as he would trail down the street. Yet still, she felt that he was the love of her life.

***

    It wasn’t too bad, the trip to and from her block. He slowly started to enjoy them. It gave him time to think, listen to music, and write. To do whatever he wanted, just for a little while. His parents had even stopped asking him why he went to see her once they were satisfied that he wasn’t out with thugs or whores. Sometimes he wondered what it’d be like to talk to Linette. He’d doze off on the bus and dream.

    “Hey,” he’d say to her, a winning smile on his face, one Linette wouldn’t be able to resist.  She’d become deeply mesmerized by his charm, as she replied hello.

    Justin would stroll over to her porch, look into her blue eyes, and finally, they’d kiss.

    Then, he’d wake up and still be Justin Thyme, the scrawny stalker on his way home from staring at Linette, the only person to whom he wanted to speak.

***

    She went over it in her head dozens of times: Justin would speak to her and say the most wonderful things. That’s how it would work. “I love you, Linette,” or “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.” It’d be amazing! She thought this, and yet, she knew it was a silly dream. Her neighbors worried for her, was the boy a stalker? Justin? Her Justin? Never! He came to see her and she waited to greet him, day after day. He’d even snuck out of detention before, the day of that big food fight; it was so romantic of him!

    He was running late, would she still be there? It was raining as he ran, and he’d forgotten his umbrella at home. Would she hate him? Why did it suddenly matter? It felt so odd, his heart beating hard against his chest. He ran faster than he thought possible, for him anyway. The sirens caught him off-guard, and he felt as though his heart was caught in his throat. She was sick, he knew that. Every kid at school knew that. That’s why she stayed home so often. The red and blue lights against the otherwise perfect neighborhood were terrifying to Justin. He saw Linette as they carted her pale body off. He saw the faces of her worried neighbors too, some of them were crying.  He ran towards her, mouth opening and closing like a guppy. He still couldn’t find the words.

***

    Linette never had a chance to go a dance. She was always just so sick. It made it hard to get close to anyone, to make any real friends. But she had taken a chance and asked Justin. He wasn’t anything special, but he wasn’t a jerk either, and that worked for her. She was so excited that he said yes. It’d be her first dance! Or she thought he said yes, she hoped really. He’d just sort of nodded when she approached him with the offer.

***

    It was so unbelievable. Linette had asked him out! Justin couldn’t believe his luck, though he was still a little embarrassed. He didn’t even say yes or no. He just nodded, he was so stunned. He was going to meet her on her block before the dance, just like she asked. He thought about how much like a puppy he was, but shook the thought away. It didn’t matter, for he was going to a dance with Linette, the Linette.

***

    Linette had fallen into a coma for a little over a year. The world in her mind played out as the outside world moved at a dreary pace. Her mother was so sad, her sweet daughter was gone. She kept saying that she was gone, but Linette was still around, in some sense anyway.   Every day, Justin stopped by the hospital. He touched her arm and watched her breath. He wasn’t sure why he kept visiting her, why he kept doing this to himself, but he did. In the winter he trudged to the hospital in the snow, and in the summer he jogged. Linette’s parents were glad that she had such a loyal friend, but he always shook his head at that. He wasn’t a friend to her, he wasn’t anything. He had never even spoken a single word.

            Angela inhaled deeply, leaned her head back, puckered her lips, and let out a fierce blow, sending hundreds of tiny ray flowers and dandelion seeds parachuting – sailing into the wind.  Proudly, she clung to the thick taproot, her small, nine year old fingers wrapped around the ugly beige stem.  She stared into the air, mesmerized, as she made a wish. 

            “I wish to be more like my sister, Mackenzie,” she thought.  Then, she uprooted another dandelion, the stubborn roots of which were tangled in a ball of dirt that hung from its bottom.  She looked into the tiny florets, each one like a thread made of crystal.  With an effusive blow, she let out a rush of hot air that made the flower head scatter.

            She thought about her older sister, how her world seemed so much bigger, far more interesting, since she was in the eighth grade.  She thought about how Mackenzie could make her crumple to the floor with laughter, the howling kind that sits in one’s belly and erupts explosively.  On nights when neither one could sleep, Mackenzi built a fort out of blankets and with a flashlight shining on her face, read scary stories about dogs’ heads dropping from chimneys and corpses eating puss on slices of white bread.  When their parents argued because their father was drinking, Mackenzi crawled down from the top bunk to set up the Nintendo and played with Angela until they both became drowsy and fell asleep.  Mackenzi put just the right amount of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on Angela’s sandwiches.  She let Angela sleep in her bed when her little sister thought the shadows on the wall were those of demons and aliens.

            Despite how close they were, one wouldn’t guess the two were sisters by looking at them.  While Angela took after their Romanian mother, with fair skin, light brown eyes and straight brown hair, Mackenzi took after their Spanish father, with tanned skin, dark eyes and curly hair.  While Angela was forced to drink protein shakes to help her gain weight, Mackenzi was made fun of by classmates for being too pudgy.  Though she tried to hide her figure in baggy sweaters, her loose wardrobe did little to detract teasers.  Their grandfather, Nelson, called Angela “Spaghetti” and Mackenzi “Meatball.”  Then he offered them both a slice of grasshopper pie and fell asleep on the couch while watching wrestling.

            Opining over the wish making capabilities of dandelions, Angela traced shapes on her arm with the fuzzy perennial.  Mackenzi studied her sister who was knee deep in blooms.  She tore through the gold foil of a chocolate candy, fully cognizant of the fact that she shouldn’t be indulging in sweets, but after a moment’s hesitation, decided against better judgment and greedily shoved the cream filled egg into her mouth, hoping her mother, who was sitting nearby, wouldn’t see.  Mackenzi looked in her mother’s direction.  She was focused on a scratch off, and so Mackenzie was safe.  She swallowed the candy, licking her teeth clean in fear of lingering chocolate that, later, might serve as evidence.

            She strode over to Angela, who was pressing her fingers into the dirt.  “I got an 85 on the report that you wrote for me, the one on Martin Luther King Jr.,” she pronounced proudly.

            “Only an 85,” Angela said with consternation.

            “It’s the highest grade I’ve gotten yet this year.”  Mackenzi picked up a handful of dirt, and forming a funnel with her palm, poured it over Angela’s fingers, burying them.  Both girls had matching friendship rings made of knotted colored threads.  “I don’t think Mrs. Graham likes me.  She’s such an old crab.  If only she’d jump into a lake and drown already.”

            “You should come to my class.  Ms. Simmons is taking us to the museum this Friday.  It’s going to be great.  I just hope I don’t have to sit next to Terrence on the bus.  He always smells like bologna.  I swear he must rub himself with it every morning.”  Angela’s face furrowed.  “Anyway, I’m going to buy you something from the gift shop.  Grandpa gave me ten dollars because I got the highest grade on the reading citywide test out of anyone in my class.  Maybe the museum will sell stickers,” Angela said.

            “I wish I could just skip the eighth grade and go straight to high school,” Mackenzie said diffidently.  “If I go to a school for performing arts, I can become an actress, and then I’ll never have to read again.”

            “Blow on this.”  Angela shoved a flower in her sister’s face.

            “I’m just happy that my birthday party is coming up this Saturday.  Mommy’s going to buy an ice cream cake.”

            “Who did you invite?”

            “Eleven girls from my class, but I hope Beatrice doesn’t come.  She called me a pig on Tuesday.”

            Angela’s eyes diverted from the dirt.  “Don’t even listen to her.  She’s jealous because she’s not as pretty as you.  She has a cow face, seriously.  She looks like she was hit with a frying pan—smashed.” She pressed her hands flatly against her cheeks.

            Mackenzie let out an exaggerated laugh.  Despite her size, she looked like she could have been only ten or eleven herself.  She donned a large bow in her hair and had paint stains on her shirt.  She spent most of her time with Angela, partaking in the hobbies of younger girls, which suited her fine, as her first priority was to be silly and play.  The room the two girls shared was stocked with dolls, board games, and rollerblades.  She pinched at Angela.  “You’re not going to ballet class on Saturday, are you?  The party starts at twelve.”

            “Well—” Angela looked into the distance thoughtfully.  “Maybe I could do both, and come to the party a little late.”

            “Can’t you miss one class?  It is my birthday after all.”

            “I know.  I—” Angela pushed back her hair with dirty hands.  “The thing is that I have perfect attendance right now.”

            “Perfect attendance,” Mackenzie repeated in astonishment.  “Who cares about perfect attendance?” she shouted.  “I’m only going to turn thirteen once, and you can’t come to my party late because of some stupid dance class!  I thought you were going to help me hang the streamers.  We need to make everything just right.  This is a big deal, Angela.”  She stood and rubbed the dirt from her hands.  Her silver charm bracelet dangled as it shook.

            Angela weighed the guilt of missing class against the fear of upsetting Mackenzie; the last time she got angry, she filled Angela’s shoes with mud.  “Okay,” Angela finally conceded with a deep breath, “you’re my sister.  I can ruin my perfect attendance record for you.”

            “Good.  Now give me one of those flowers.  I’ve got some wishes of my own.”

                                                  ♦      ♦      ♦

            Outside the Herrara family’s Brighton Beach apartment complex in Brooklyn, the grass was manicured; it looked artificial, like it had been spray painted green.  Elderly women sat, crocheting, or just idly passing time, as people swarmed the street, most were immigrants who spoke little English.  Some seemed lost, trying to figure out the signs at the fruit stands and candy stores, while others pushed and elbowed to hurry home to children and grandchildren. 

            Inside, Mackenzi scurried to get ready, putting on the red chiffon dress her mother bought especially for the occasion.  Rux was in the kitchen, scooping a variety of cold salads clumped in mayonnaise into bowls for her daughter’s party: macaroni, potato with hardboiled eggs, tuna, and ham; a six-foot sub ordered from the deli down the block hung over the sides of the dining room table that was covered in a vinyl cloth.  A pyramid of canned colas towered unsteadily near boxes of peppermint cookies.

            As Rux shoveled food, she lit a cigarette and screamed for Angela to clear her art supplies off the couch.  She was a tall, handsome lady with hazel eyes and an unruly mess of hair.  Her body was stalwart and wide.  She wore a rayon jogging suit with a pair of black running sneakers.  “These girls are gonna show up any minute, and where are they going to sit?” she cried out.  “I’m telling you, with how messy the two of you are, I could just have easily have had boys.”

            “I’m sorry that I’m not domesticated enough for you.”

            “What do you know about being domesticated?”

            “I know that I’m never going to be a housewife.  I’m going to be a successful professional, and I’m going to live in a penthouse with Mackenzie.”

            Paying no mind to her daughter, Rux shuffled through the grab bags.  They were iridescent pink sacks from a bargain store filled with marshmallow cereal treats, plastic jewelry, and puzzle books.

             “I made five extra because I have a feeling some of the girls might bring their sisters or other friends.  Whatever doesn’t go, we’ll take the candy out and feed it to grandpa.”

            “What am I, a garbage disposal?” Nelson called out.  He was sitting on the recliner in the living room, watching the Home Shopping Network.  He was corpulent, like a horse, an operose man who did much physical labor as the super of a large building.  He had a smattering of hair and a smattering of teeth, both of which he claimed unnecessary to attract attention from his collection of girlfriends whom he referred to as “lady friends.” 

            Mackenzi hurried into the room, looking for her headband.  “It’s near the telephone,” Rux shouted. 

            “Does my hair look okay?  We have to take lots of pictures.”  Mackenzi fussed with a large broach in the shape of a dragon fly that she pinned into her hair.  “Everyone’s going to be here soon.  Is it weird that I’m nervous?” she asked Angela.

            “It’s good to have a little nervous energy – that’s what mommy says, at least.  But don’t worry, today’s going to be perfect, like a dream.  You look pretty, I’m telling you.  I wish I had a dress like that.  Mine makes me look like a sailor with these strange flaps around my neck.”  She pulled on the fabric of her collar.  “What time is it?”

            “It’s almost twelve.  I’m going to go taste the cake.”

            “You’re not tasting the cake!” Rux bellowed.

            “Just from the bottom.  Only one finger-full,” Angela implored.

            Rux stuck her head out of the kitchen, and waving a wooden spoon, said, “If you come near that cake, I’m going to whip you from here to tomorrow.  I don’t care if it’s your birthday, Chanukah, or St. Patrick’s Day.  Now go watch TV with grandpa if you’re feeling antsy.”

            Mackenzi made of show of slumping her shoulders and traipsing over to sit near Nelson, who rested his feet on an ottoman made of gray microfiber, trying to hide her ebullience.  This was the first real party since she had turned ten, and that one didn’t really count because it was at The Beefsteak House where deer heads hung on the walls.  Soon enough, her father, Rufus, would be back from the store with the balloons, and all of her friends would arrive.  She would open up gifts that were stacked high in a pile, dance to her favorite songs by Madonna, and blow out the candles on her cake.  Her birthday was finally here, and she was determined to remain excited and not think about Mrs. Graham, or the boys on the school bus who tortured her every morning. 

            She looked over at her sister with fascination, as Angela was fruitlessly trying to pierce an avocado pit with a toothpick with the intention of suspending it in a cup of water.  The windowsill was lined with Angela’s pots filled with cacti, apples, potatoes, and beets.  Most of her potted plants and vegetable seeds sprouted a few leaves and then died shortly thereafter.  Angela, after breaking the first toothpick, reached into her pocket for another, this time trying to steady the pit on the radiator while hammering the toothpick in with a small phonebook.  Mackenzi grinned at her sister, hopeful that this time her efforts would grow into a verdant plant.

                                                  ♦      ♦      ♦

            Nearly two hours later, Beatrice was the only guest at the party.  Picking at a piece of salami, she eyed Mackenzi with disdain.  She looked vulpine, predatory.  Thin lips revealed too much of her teeth.  Her face was long and pointed; her nose aquiline.  “Didn’t you make sure to tell everyone to RSVP?” she asked.

            “Of course she did,” Angela answered.  “Didn’t you?”  She looked at her sister, who pushed food around her plate. 

            “Everyone except Daniella said they were coming.”

            “Maybe they’re just late,” Angela offered.  “The bus might be running slow.”

            “Excuse me, but our entire class lives within a three block radius,” Beatrice chimed.  “If they were going to come, they’d be here by now.”

            Angela rolled her eyes.  She knew how much Mackenzie loathed Beatrice, and yet the two were always in each other’s company.  It was as if their friendship was based on the fear that if they parted ways, they’d both be alone.

             “Let’s make some phone calls,” Rux said, nervously scrubbing the counters with a dish towel.

            What remained of the cake was quickly turning into a melting slop.  What was moments earlier exquisite, with sugared lilacs and gardenias, coconut whipped cream rosettes, and sour lemon ice cream, no longer seemed grand.  A soupy pool formed around the silver platter.  Noticing this, Angela said, “If no one else shows up, we can eat all of the cake ourselves.”

            Beatrice wiped her oily fingers on a paper plate, and murmured, “The last thing Mackenzi needs is cake.” 

            Angela slid off her chair and went to grab the telephone book.  “Why do you always have to be the most horrible person in the room?  This is a special day for my sister, and you’re ruining it.”

            “Enough,” Rux exclaimed, throwing down the towel.  “I spent all day cooking, and I have a headache.”

            “But you ordered a sand—” Angela started to respond.

            “It doesn’t matter what I did and did not prepare by hand.  You are not the birthday party police, the last time I checked.  Now give me the book.  We’ll start with Alicia.  I go to bingo with her mother.  There’s no reason why that girl shouldn’t be here right now.”

            After Mackenzi’s third slice of cake and hearing countless excuses, from Samantha, who claimed she woke up with the stomach flu, and Henrietta, who said she was so sorry, but she had to babysit her brother, she found herself passing through the parking lot with her mother and sister while wearing a paper crown that read “Birthday Princess.”  Her face was deflated, her eyes puffy.  She felt like screaming at her mother, telling her that she wanted to go back home and bury herself in bed, tear the decorations off the wall. 

            “Let’s just forget it,” she said fixedly.  I shouldn’t have to beg people to come to my party.  I’ll be the laughing stock at my school.”  She felt like she was losing her composure; her eyes began to well up with tears.  “I already am,” she said.  “As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t make sense to celebrate a day that should have never happened.  I should never have been born.”  Her body tightened.  “I tried to make you happy—” she turned toward Rux, whose face was now blank—“I tried to be the perfect daughter.  I put on this stupid dress, these tight shoes.  I pretended that everything was perfect, that I was some kind of teen queen who you could show off.  I gave out those ugly invitations with hideous ducks on them to girls who don’t even acknowledge my existence in the school cafeteria, and do you know what they did?” Her voice got higher, pleading.  “They pointed to the lollipop taped to the envelope and laughed.  They laughed at me.  They laughed at me.”  Mackenzi covered her face with her arm.  She was sobbing, her back jerking rhythmically as she gasped and wheezed.  Rux stood motionless.

            Mackenzi, wiping her face, looked weary.  She dug into some part of herself, some treasure trove of strength, of juvenile obstinacy, and asserted to her mother: “I’m not going to school anymore.  That’s it.  I’m done.  I’m not smart like Angela, and I’m sorry.  I aplogize, but I can’t be the perfect daughter.  I’m thirteen years old now, and I won’t be compared to my younger sister.  I’m just not her.  I know that you wish I were, but I’m not.”

            Angela was struck, as if she were pummeled by stones; she felt immediately consumed by a sorrow that stemmed from the realization that she was a burden to her sister, a source of pain.  She looked to her mother for help, to say something that would make the moment easier.

            Rux, however, could not digest Mackenzi’s declaration.  Her face twisted with befuddlement.  “But I never—” She thought she had given her daughters everything: a nice apartment, as many toys as they asked for, Saturdays spent riding the Cyclone at Coney Island and eating hot dogs on the boardwalk.  She knew she wasn’t perfect, but at least she was capable of providing them with a childhood better than her own, which was one of struggle, abject poverty, and living with parents who were concentration camp survivors.  Nelson was never around; her mother was so lost in grieving for her dead family members that she failed to care much for her living ones, for her daughter who was right in front of her.

            “I thought we were having this party for you,” Rux said softly.  “I threw it to make you happy.  Because I love you.  Because you’re my daughter.  And no, I don’t expect you to be like Angela.  You’re both different, and that’s okay.  You’re your own person.  I think that you need to be.”

            The parking lot was vacant, except for an old man hobbling with a cane.  Rux had told her daughters never to pass through the lot once the sun had set; she tried to foresee danger before it arrived, but now, the lot that was the adjoining space for the seven apartments that made up the complex, along with the park of concrete and shrubs, seemed smaller, less daunting.  Across the street was the school her daughters attended.  Down the block was the supermarket and pizzeria.  On most days, Rux never went further than five blocks with her daughters, but somehow, that wasn’t enough—just keeping them boxed in—somehow, a deep sadness had overtaken her daughter; it had been looming for quite some time, though Rux pretended it didn’t exist. 

            She eyed Angela, who was still, watching a bird fluttering on the branch of a northern red oak.  The bird was gray; it looked frail, like it could have fit in the palm of one’s hand.  Angela turned to face Mackenzi, who was drained, depleted.  “You never did get to blow out your birthday candles,” she said to her sister, “I mean, we just cut the cake, and we were so busy checking to see if the buzzer in the lobby was working and trying to shut up Beatrice, that we didn’t even get a chance to—”

            Angela caught sight of something a few yards away: the tops of white, transparent flowers; an idea was sparked.  She sought to offer consolation; she had felt the need to end her sister’s grief, for in turn, that would end her own.  She stopped at a cluster of dandelions under a lamppost and tore them free, letting out a small yelp.  Then, she hurried back to her sister and mother, who looked confused.  She took a deep breath, and in her high-pitched voice, began to sing: “Happy birthday to you.  Happy birthday to you.  Happy birthday dear Mackenzi—”

            Mackenzi blew, and the flower rays floated away, dispersing through the breeze like fragments of something that once was, but no longer existed; the wind carried them, past the gray apartment buildings, past the girl’s school, the small park with broken swings and a too steep slide, over the fences, further and further until they drifted out of sight, each and every last bloom, and finally, were gone.                                                                            

*Jessie Leon is a student at the City College of New York, where she is earning an M.F.A. in creative writing.  She lives in Brooklyn, where she works as an English teacher. 

We called it the “Horse” because we used it to get everywhere. The movies, the new putt-putt course with the climbing rock wall, even the 7-11 for Mountain Dew flavored Slurpees that made our mouths sweat yellow. Benny walked me through his mother’s laundry room and into the garage, flipping on the light.

“Tada!” he announced. The Horse appeared in dim yellow. The front windshield was smooth and shiny except for the spider-web cracks on the passenger side. The car’s grill slanted to the side, still missing one of its teeth from when Benny took it to baseball practice, and the Horse ate a Matt Wiggin’s fastball.

“Ye-ha!” I said. “Looks brand new.”

“My mom spent two hundred bucks on it. Two hundred bucks!” Benny cried, his long, awkward arms gesturing outward, then inward. “She’s making me pay for it.”

“Son of a bitch. That sucks, man.”

“And I’ve been thinking, since I take you around so much, maybe you could help.”

My head was arched up to look at Benny. He was tall, 6’7” after a growth spurt that made him a real havoc on the basketball court. We had been growing out our hair since No Shave November when our football team made it to the playoffs. It was June now, and Benny’s hair nearly touched his shoulder.

“With the two-hundred?” I said.

“Well,” he looked at my feet. “Yeah.”

“I guess I could ask my parents. Find some lawns to mow.”

He smiled. “All right, man.”

It was hot that summer and I didn’t stop sweating.  “Let’s get a Slurpee. I’ll buy,” I said.

Benny nodded, and we hopped in the Horse and trotted down the road.

                                           ♦      ♦      ♦

The week before the Horse had taken a long leak on the curb, rendering it useless until Benny got it fixed. “What the hell is all this green shit?” Benny yelled. Anti-Freeze trickled down the curb, which Benny’s father sprayed with a hose.

“We don’t want any dead dogs here,” he said.

It had come at a bad time, my date with Nel being only hours later. Without the Horse, I had to rely on my parents to drive me. We saw a short movie together, and then my father picked us up and dropped Nel off at her house. It was 9:30. My father had to go to bed.

But now the Horse seemed almost fine, driving down the highway to the 7-11. Something under the hood kept rattling, which had made me nervous months before when Benny started driving, but now I hardly noticed. The air-conditioner breathed lukewarm air. Benny put in one of the CD’s he had burned called, “Benny’s Greatest Hits Volume 17,” and started banging his head to the music. I had a stack of CD’s Benny had burned me at my house.

“Every CD you burn is your greatest hits, which one is your greatest-greatest?” I had asked once.

He shrugged, but focused on the road. The next week he burned me a CD with “Benny’s Greatest Greatest hits” written in Sharpe. There were three volumes of that.

When we pulled into the 7-11 parking lot, I mentioned Nel. “You know, she wants to go out Friday.”

“Tell her yes then. I’ll drive you. The Horse is back, man.”

Benny head-banged a few more times, his long hair flipping around in the car. He was always willing to help me out with girls. In this way, he was one of my best friends.

                                           ♦      ♦      ♦

Friday came quickly. I mowed two lawns and my parents lent me forty bucks which I repaid by doing laundry, dishes, and helping my mother unpack groceries. I handed Benny the money and he laughed. “Nice.” We played X-box in his house for most of the day. “So what are you and Nel going to do?”

“See another movie, I guess. That’s what we do, see movies.”

“I think we should all go bowling. You know my brother works at the bowling alley. He could get us in free.”

I had heard this from someone else. Mark, Benny’s older brother, had dropped out of college and shared an apartment with another person’s older brother. In high school Mark was an incredible defensive lineman. He was tall like Benny, but fifty pounds heavier.  Every now and then, in school, Benny and I walked by his picture on the way to the locker room, hanging on the Wall of Fame, as everyone called it.

“You want to come?” I said.

“Well, I mean no, unless you want me to. I was just thinking about my brother getting us in.”

“Yeah, come. Sure, come.”

Benny shrugged and then nodded. “All right, if you want me to.”

I didn’t really want him to. He was a good friend, but I knew Nel would be pissed when she found out. Benny never had a girlfriend, and for some reason, I felt some guilt over that. I could imagine Nel saying ‘forget it’ over the phone, after I told her the new plan for our date.

“Oh, okay. Yeah that sounds good. I’ll invite some other people,” was the answer she gave me.

Benny and I made some phone calls too, and by the time it was six o’clock, an hour before we had to meet Nel at the bowling alley. We left in the Horse, banging our heads and sputtering down the road.

We picked up James and Davis. It seemed funny picking them up, Benny being the only one old enough to drive, and both of them living on the opposite sides of town. When the Horse was full we headed to the bowling alley, everyone singing, “Pretty Fly for a White Guy.”

When we reached the alley, we all climbed out. By the entrance, Nel and a few of her friends stood underneath the building’s overhang, which sported a massive purple bowling ball like a trophy. In early summer, the girls’ legs were bare and tan. Wyatt was standing with them. Benny and James and Wyatt were friends from baseball. In the spring I ran track. I never liked Wyatt.

Nel smiled at me. She wore a red and white striped piece that left her shoulders bare. Her sunglasses were pushed back and holding her hair, blonde and straight.

“Hey,” she said and pinched my waist when we walked up. The others mingled. James and Davis talked with the other two girls while Benny talked with Wyatt.

“Let’s get this shit started,” yelled Benny minutes later, and we all funneled into the alley. Inside it was crowded for a Friday night. It was still early and most of the bowlers were families and young couples, slapping hands and saying “yay” over and over again. But there were a few beer drinkers who all wore their hats backward and over their eyebrows.

 Mark looked fat when we saw him. His face was tan and round and it looked like he’d put on another fifty pounds, maybe more. Benny talked with him for awhile before he gestured for us to walk up to the counter.

“I can give you a lane for an hour, but someone has to pay for two to play.”

“Can’t you use your employee discount?”

“That is the discount.”

I had twenty dollars, enough for two to go to the movies. With shoes included (not discounted) we needed thirty more dollars. The money I had given Benny had gone to his Mom to pay for the Horse. James and Davis had money, I suspected, but they didn’t offer any. Wyatt had left to meet some other friends. Laurel and Merissa looked at Nel. Finally, Nel reached into her purse and pulled out two twenties.

“No,” I said.

She just looked at me. How awful? My date paying for everyone? All these freeloaders?

“It’s fine,” she said. “Really.”

Benny typed our names into the monitor that kept score. He tried to be creative. He named himself Ramundo, after the store clerk at the 7-11, where we bought our Slurpees. Nel was Hot Graham, after Heather Graham, because she looked like her. James and Davis were named Laurel and Merissa, and Laurel and Merissa were named James and Davis, respectively. My name was the last to be entered. Benny put me down as Superstar.

“Ramundo like to bowl,” Benny said, and he tossed the bowling ball down the lane. The pins crashed and Benny ended up getting a spare. He was a good bowler, and only after we got back in the Horse did he tell me he bowled a lot with his brother.

Next up was Nel, Hot Graham. I can’t remember if she got a strike or didn’t touch a pin. She looked lovely. In-between our turns, we sat cuddling together on the small seat behind the monitor board. She kissed me. Laurel and Merissa, meaning James and Davis, yelled that we should go to the motel. James and Davis, meaning Laurel and Merissa, said “awe.” Benny laughed. “Ramundo like it. Ye’ he does.” We stopped after a moment or two, after it had gotten too awkward for either of us to continue. I told Benny to bowl my turn. He understood and winked at me; I couldn’t stand up.

The night ended almost as it had begun. Nel and Merissa and Laurel left with Laurel’s mom, and the boys got back into the Horse. Walking out of the alley, Nel smiled and said she had a good time. We made-out for what felt like ten minutes, but it was only long enough for Laurel to reach her mom’s car.

“It was a nice change to go bowling,” she said. We squeezed hands and she left.

After we dropped off James and Davis, Benny scrounged up a few dollars and some change from the dashboard and we went to 7-11. The windows were white and blinding when we pulled up, and a breezy air fell on our necks when we entered. Benny was ready to say “Ramundo!” when we passed through the doors, but he wasn’t there. We headed to the back where they kept the Slurpee machine.

“Let’s have Mixed Slurpees,” said Benny.

“Mountain Dew,” I said.

Benny held out his cup and filled it with all different colors and flavors until it looked brown like dirt. “Seriously, it’s delicious.”

I filled my cup as he had done. Then we paid for the Slurpees and left. On the way out I took a sip of my cup. Benny looked at me. “Well, how is it?”

“I should’ve gotten the Mountain Dew.”

“Nah,” he said. He pointed to his cup. “This is the best.”

We hopped in the Horse and drove away, the lights of the town falling behind us.

“It was fun,” he said.

“It was.”

“We should go golfing next. Or laser tag.”

I just laughed and looked out my window.

“I’m serious,” he said.

Then Benny turned on the radio. The song had too much bass and I didn’t like it. 

“Listen,” he said. “Are you listening?” He stabbed his finger at the radio. “This one. This is Greatest material.”

*Todd Stansfield is an M.F.A. student at the City College of New York. He works for Fiction magazine, and is working on his first novel.