“How was work?” she asked cheerfully.
I pulled off my scarf and let my purse fall to the floor. I handed her the bag with the stuff she had asked me to buy. “Work was fine.” I felt like I’d given her the same answer to the same question for the last thousand years. It was definitely time for a change. “I got thrown up on.”
“That’s awesome!” she exclaimed, blatantly tuning out everything I was going to say as she waited impatiently for her own turn to speak.
I stifled a smile as she bounced a foot up and down, her heavily charcoaled eyes bursting with excitement. “Why, Amanda, how was your day?”
“I GOT A CALLBACK!” she shrieked.
My mouth fell open, and she danced from side to side like a deranged bobblehead.
“I know! It was for that dystopian Western thing. I’m going to be...” she paused for dramatic effect, “Hot Ranch Chick Number Seven.” She pulled the tequila out of the bag and smiled. “I’m going to celebrate with this! I can’t believe I got this gig!”
“That’s amazing,” I breathed, imagining the possibilities. “And to think, I could have been number eight.”
“No, their quota for white girls was filled,” she said practically. “To be number eight, you’d have to be Asian.”
“Oh.” I mulled this over for a second before saying, “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you!”
“Thanks! And thanks for stopping by the store.”
“Not a problem. Oh my gosh!” I suddenly remembered. “I saw a fight today!”
“Wow,” she raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. “Your first genuine fisticuffs. What was it about? Was it gang-related?”
“It was over a parking spot,” I said impressively. “Well, actually I stopped it before they came to blows...but I’m sure it was headed that way.”
She gave me a long look. “So you finally see the makings of a fight, a long-standing life ambition, but you stop it before it can actually get there?”
I felt as though I literally deflated. “...yeah, I guess so.”
She patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. “Come on, I ordered Chinese.”
“Thank you. I’m starving!”
I followed her into the kitchen and was shocked to discover an elaborate setup. She’d pulled out our finest silverwear, and for once, we weren’t eating on paper plates. There was even a chipped tea light or two for ambiance.
“What the—”
She clicked a button and Florence and the Machine started screeching in the background.
My eyes narrowed and I turned to her suspiciously. “All this for Hot Ranch Chick Number Seven?”
“Well, not exactly.” Anxious and excited, she pulled out a chair and shoved me down in a way she obviously took to be endearing. “The thing is, Bex... I actually got the two of us a gig. But it has nothing to do with hot ranch chicks.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.”
“It is, and it isn’t.”
I cocked a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we don’t get paid like normal.” She grinned as I frowned. “But it’s great for our image. And we have the potential to meet some big names. And we can earn a big bonus by mentioning the agency. If we bring in work, we get a big, fat bonus. Think of this as fun work. We’re going to a party! And it’s tonight!”
“A party?”
“Who doesn’t want
to party on a Friday night? I’ll tell you more at the salon,” she said. “They’re getting us all fixed up!”