“Charity, sweetie.” Memom has never sounded this serious. Ever. Her voice is low and secretive. “In 1998, a nosy little gossip found out about my side job. I was working at a diner in the cutest little town outside Chattanooga.”
Uh-oh, she’s detouring into Irrelevant Land. I steer her back on track. “What did you do?”
“The whole town turned on me and my clients. They called me a con artist in the town newspaper. Can you believe that? It got so bad, one of my Cindies lost his job. Another one’s wife left him, and he never saw his kids again.” There is panic in Memom’s voice now.
My throat is closing up. “So what did you DO?”
“I pulled your mom out of school midyear and hightailed it out of town. What else could I do?” She goes a little Granny Delta Force. “You’ve got to seal the leak. Now. Before it blows up.”
“How?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s talking to someone else again.
I yell, “Memom! You need to concentrate. I’m in crisis!”
“All right, all right. I’m here.” There’s a little pause. Then she offers, “Dig up some dirt on her—mutually assured destruction. Real old-school Cold War stuff.”
“Seriously?” I bite my lip. I can hear someone talking in the background again. “Memom? What the heck is going on over there?”
“Oh, Lonnie Stevens next door flashed me this morning—shows me her wedding to John Tramond in 14C.” There’s a dramatic pause, then Memom says, “She’s eighty-six, Charity. And I have to get her hitched before she croaks. That’s my crisis.”
I groan in self-pity. Selfish Lonnie Stevens. “But, Memom! I need you!”
“I have complete faith in you. I know you’ll handle it. Like I said, get ahold of her dirt. Or do her a favor so she owes you. Or move to Toledo and change your name.”
“Very funny.”
“You’re right. Move to Portland. Take me with you.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Okay. I’m giving Lonnie a dance lesson. I gotta go, sweetie. Call me with an update tomorrow.” Just before she ends the call, I hear the opening riff to Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine.”
A momentary smile sneaks past my agitation. Even though Memom was less than helpful, the mental picture of eighty-six-year-olds finding their OTP is exactly what I needed to calm my hysterical reaction to the skeezy texts.
Anyway. Problem number one with following Memom’s advice is that I don’t know who I need to dig dirt on. Problem number two is that I seriously don’t have time for this right now. I have trig this afternoon, Poms practice after school, Vindhya’s salon appointment, and a meet-cute to plan. I heave a sigh.
First things first. I stare at my phone for a long time, composing the text. I really—like so bad—want to say, I will have you arrested, you creepy POS. But no, I’ve got to play it cool. Reel them in. Finally I tap in: You know who I am, but who are you?
I send it, then drum on the steering wheel impatiently, waiting for the reply. When it hasn’t arrived twelve seconds later, I pull up a list of the top-ten high schools in Portland. I’m scrolling through the photo tour of Oceanview Academy when the incoming text pops up: I’m Captain America. I don’t like bullies.
What in the Marvel Universe is that supposed to mean? Stalker is delusional. I send back: What do you want?
The answer comes more quickly this time: No more wand waving. Further instructions to come.
I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat and crank up some electro house on my stereo until the car windows rattle. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the beat. It doesn’t work. There are too many questions swirling around my brain. How much does this piece of human flotsam know about me? Where are they getting their intel? Why do they have it out for me anyway? I grab the phone again and type: And if I don’t feel like playing your game?
Three and a half agonizing minutes later, I read: This goes public: Carmen Castillo, Holly Butterman, Sean Slater, Teresa Saint Clair, Olivia Chang, Sara O’Rourke.
It’s everybody. Every single Cindy since freshman year. This deluded cyberstalker would out six people—submarine six lives… seven, if you count mine. At the very least I’d get major side-eye. But it’s the Cindies who would really suffer. They’d be rejected as fakes and poseurs. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I run through the list with best-case scenarios. Carmen has no chance, obviously. Her transformation is too fresh and fragile. Holly is dating JLHS’s star cornerback. He’ll for sure drop her like she’s hot. Sean might be popular enough to withstand the backlash, but what if he’s not? I cannot watch him be tormented and bullied all over again. Teresa, Olivia, Sara… They’ll lose everything.
How could anyone be so horrible? Why attack innocent Cindies? I can’t, I cannot, let this psycho destroy their Happily Ever Afters. Blinking back tears, I write: Why are you doing this?
My finger hovers over send. But as I stare at the words I’ve written, indignation rises inside me and ferments into resolve. Fairy godmothers don’t whine. We don’t beg for mercy like little wusses. Fairy godmothers take charge. We take the steaming crap other people don’t know what to do with and turn it into freaking flower gardens. And above all, we take care of our Cindies.
I delete the wuss-out message and send: I think we should meet.
The incoming buzz is instant: Soon.
* * *
Despite Stalker’s injunction against “wand waving,” I keep my appointment with Vindhya at Angelic Hair and Nails. The show must go on. Besides, they didn’t mention Vindhya in the list, so they must not know about her. Finally, this salon is two towns over from ours. Chances of being spotted are negligible. Nevertheless, paranoia that someone might be following me has me checking the rearview mirror every few seconds as I drive.
There’s a prickly feeling on my forehead as I navigate into a parking spot, completely unrelated to my stalker anxiety. It’s just an annoying sensation, like too much static electricity in the air. “Argh,” I complain to the empty car. “Not again.”
Some Cindies give me a headache. It’s so random. I had a headache client last year—Holly. Every time we worked on her wish, it was like Drumline Live on my forehead. But it’s been a while, and I was hoping I grew out of it or something.
I get out of the car and walk toward the salon, telling myself maybe it’s allergies. Just gotta push through.
Angelic Hair and Nails is where so much magic happens. It’s a tiny storefront with two massage-chair pedicure stations, a manicure table, and one hairstyling station. A brother and sister, Tuan and Phong (whom I genuinely believe to be wizards) run the shop. Phong seems to do everything from answering phones to mopping floors to creating intricate nail art. Tuan does hair. The real mystery is that they’re rarely busy. They seem to prefer to not have customers, actually.
Vindhya pounces on me the moment I walk in the door. “Where do we start? What should I get done? Is there some way to fix my face?”
I kind of want to nudge her some self-love. But it wouldn’t last anyway. Besides, I guess it’s good to have such an eager Cindy. So I gesture toward Tuan’s station. “How about a little hair therapy?”