Coffee brewed while she took a shower. After, wearing sweat pants, her thick terry robe, and fleece-lined slippers, she sipped it from her favorite mug with a breakfast of peanut butter and jelly on toast. Normally, if she didn’t have a gig, she’d cook up a hearty, complicated breakfast. But this morning her appetite felt pinched, and the second piece of toast got tossed out to the squirrels.
With a second cup of coffee, she reviewed the notes in her calendar. Nothing happened in her life without getting noted in the calendar. Her own memory might be flawless, but Dini couldn’t ever be sure of anybody else’s. Her calendar was her voice: multicolored notations and Post-it notes, stickers. Sometimes neat, bullet-point lists, some illegible, slanting scribbles. She opened to the next day, Sunday, and wrote, Brunch w/Quin. She held the pen aloft for a moment before adding, Carmichael. A bit of coffee sloshed as she wrote, and she wiped it up with her thumb, smearing the ink.
The soothing voice of the Waze app guided her on and off loops and highways as she drove to the party site. Soothing might be an exaggeration. Her pulse still pounded, her eyes darted constantly from the road to the mirror to the other mirror and back. Other people might listen to their favorite music or catch a podcast, but not Dini. She could take a stage in front of thousands of people (or dozens of children) and remain smooth and cool and in total control. But she hated—hated—driving. She clutched the wheel (at 10 and 2) and took solace only in the occasional comforting glimpse at the ring she wore on the first finger of her right hand. This was part of her brand, something distinctive and attention getting and, ultimately, distracting for the audience. A flash of a ring might bring their subconscious to focus on it rather than on the sleight of hand she was performing. Today, in honor of the party, she wore a miniature snow globe with a tiny princess caught midtwirl within the swirling flakes. It had been a gift from her best friend, Arya, who would be one of the moms at today’s party, not to mention somewhat of a mother to Dini herself.
At the locked gates of the Carved Oaks community, Dini showed her ID to the real human guard and checked her pocket for business cards while he waited for the confirming text from the hostess. If even half of the guests came from this neighborhood, that could mean a slew of bookings. Waze led her past one sprawling property after another before declaring her destination on the right, where two young men—teenagers—stood next to a pyramid of pink and gold balloons. They were dressed in fairy-tale prince costumes, and the one who came to her open window could have been the model for Cinderella’s beau.
“Are you here for the celebration of Princess Isabelle’s birthday?”
“I’m the entertainment,” she said, trying not to sound dazzled.
“Very good. If you don’t mind, I will take your car and park it for you.”
Dini motioned. “I have my things—my trunk—in the back.”
“Not a problem at all, ma’am. My friend Charming will get that for you and deliver it wherever you please.” She stepped out of the car and obliged the eager prince.
To Dini’s surprise, her friend Arya opened the front door before the chimes completed their complicated tune.
“You’re here early,” Dini said after the two exchanged their traditional air kiss. This act of affection was a sacrifice on Arya’s part, as she was a hugger by nature but had long since acquiesced to Dini’s zone of touch.
“Three properties for sale in this neighborhood.” Arya, one of the most successful real estate agents in San Antonio, was never one to miss an opportunity. “I made some visits.”
“That explains why you’re wearing an eight-hundred-dollar outfit to a child’s birthday party.” Dini had been with her when she bought the blouse and shoes.
“Well”—Arya looked Dini up and down and up again—“at least I have an explanation for my outfit. You look like a punk rock Tinkerbell.”
“Exactly what I was going for,” Dini countered good-naturedly. She’d chosen a multicolored toile tutu, black leggings, Doc Martins, and her well-worn leather bomber jacket over a hot-pink turtleneck. “Now, show me to the hostess.”
Arya’s daughter Beatrice (called Bea with two syllables—Bee-yah) came barreling into the front hall and wrapped her little arms around Dini’s waist, burying her face in the tutu. Bea alone was granted such physical dispensation, and Dini patted her hair—all twisted up in a pretty princess do.
“I can’t wait for Auntie Dini’s magic.” Bea looked up adoringly, her cheeks dusted with glitter.
“It’s not magic,” Dini said, prompted by Arya’s familiar scowl. “Just illusions, remember? I play little tricks on your eyes. Now, go. I need to get back to the kitchen so none of the guests will see me before the show starts.”
Bea ran off, up the stairs, with a confidence that spoke of a familiarity with the house. She wasn’t merely a guest at the party, she was a friend of the birthday girl. The realization brought the usual pang, a reminder that Dini had no such memories of birthday parties or childhood friendships. The life she lived now began just eight years ago, marked by the death of her parents and, being alone in the world, given over to Arya and Bill Garner, who served as foster parents specifically for teens. She lived with them for three years, homeschooled by Arya. After earning her GED, the two of them enrolled in St. Phillips Community College, where their previous roles as guardian and child cemented into this unlikely friendship.
“There’s a few other parents here too,” Arya said, “and I’ll introduce you to Jessica. She’s a bit high-strung on any given day and is feeling some party pressure, so give her some slack, okay?” She led Dini past a pristine living room and through to an enormous family room where the furnishings had been moved to the edges of the space. It was decorated with streamers and balloons—all in the pink-and-gold theme—with the brick fireplace embellished to look like the outer wall of a castle. One end was screened off, and the young man from the front was wheeling Dini’s trunk behind it.
“I’ve never been to a kids’ party with valet parking before.”
“Don’t be too impressed. They’re dispersing the cars up and down the block so the driveway doesn’t look crowded. One of them is the older brother of the birthday girl, and the other is his buddy. I think Jessica is signing them off as school community service hours. Anyway, more important things…There’s going to be a guy here, owns his own air-conditioning repair service, divorced”—this she whispered—“with the cutest little boy. His name is Marcus, the dad, not the boy, and—”
“Stop,” Dini said, drawing the word out with a good-natured laugh behind it.
“No, really. This guy is maybe thirty-four? Thirty-five? Probably younger. And super handsome, in that blue-collar, manly man kind of way. I met him at the kids’ Valentine’s Day party and had to convince Jessica to make this a boy-girl party so he could come and meet you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have.” Dini was used to Arya’s matchmaking attempts—men from her church, her gym, her monthly Do You Need a Realtor? seminars. Thus far, Dini had agreed to a handful of dates: Bea’s pediatric dentist, the bass player in the church’s praise band, and a widower finally ready to sell the house he and his wife enjoyed for their five-year marriage. But none got past a third date.