Fluffy(2)

Huh. Suddenly that egg-donor thing is looking less painful. Even Nigerian princes have more promise. Could I get someone to pay me $6,000 a month to sleep in a lab with a Nigerian prince who extracts my eggs? Because I would totally do that before I’d ever go to my high school reunion.

I stare at the date. Ugh. It’s still the exact same day as my favorite town festival.

Easy out. Every year, I volunteer at the table for the local Habitat for Humanity chapter, recruiting volunteers. That’s way more important than some stupid reunion.

Right?

I’m about to close my laptop when I get a notification. I look at email and to my utter shock, there’s a reply for the professional fluffer job.

Hi Marley. You sound like a good fit. What’s your number to text?

I blink. What does that mean?

Hi! Thank you. Could you tell me more about the job? What kind of set? I grab a pen and start chewing on the cap.

We’re filming today. You know. The standard. Text me 555-444-0001.

The standard. What does this person mean by ‘the standard’? Self-doubt floods me. This is some staging lingo I don’t know, but I’m clearly supposed to know.

Play it cool, I tell myself. Fake it till you make it. It’ll be fine. Remember your bank balance.

I pull out my phone and start texting.

Right. It sounds very interesting. I am available if you’d like to see my resume and portfolio. It’s Mallory, by the way.

Reminding myself that if I don’t get the gig, the world doesn’t end, I take deep, cleansing breaths that expand my diaphragm.

It’s the only diaphragm I use lately, so might as well exercise it.

You have a portfolio? LOL. Wow. That’s real professional. Most of our people come to us word of mouth, but a bunch of them quit and went pro, on their own. So we got desperate and listed on Craigslist.

I frown at the phone. Is this person mocking me?

Another text comes through from him. Her? Not sure.

We need someone right away, Mallory. You sound like you know what you’re doing. All we really care about is that it gleams in the light and has staying power. It’s the focal point, right?

I sit up straight. This is promising. I need to say the right affirming words to make them understand I would be a valuable addition to their team.

Oh, I’ll make sure it all stands tall and looks beautiful.

There. Mission accomplished.

Great. You’re hired.

“What?” I squeal, shocked and relieved. Finally! Someone values me professionally!

We need it to shine. Bring whatever it takes to really make it shine.

Wow. They obviously care about lighting and art direction.

No problem. With enough spit and polish, anything can shine, I reply.

Spit, huh? I like the way you think. Attagirl.

I’m a little taken aback by attagirl. Seems... gendered. Demeaning. I need to show them I’m made of serious stuff.

I’ll send you my standard freelance contract shortly. Your ad said cash paid at the end of the day. What is the fee?

The pause before his (her?) next text comes through feels like a kind of soul death. Was I too blunt? Did I blow it? Please tell me I didn’t blow it.

Blowing it would suck.

$300. Shouldn’t be more than four hours here.

That's a really good hourly rate. My eyebrows go up, my mouth goes down, and my brain calculates what my bank balance will be if I get three hundred dollars in there.

$293.11. Sad math. Math is always sad, but it’s even sadder with dollar figures attached.

My dollars.

And you don’t need a contract. Just show up. Be here in an hour and we’ll get it done.

I stare at the screen, body flushed with adrenaline.

An hour?

Yeah. We’re in Anderhill.

That’s where I live. What are the odds? I stare dumbly at the screen. Is this a joke? Or, worse, a trap? What if I’m being lured into some sex-slave human-trafficking thing?

What’s the address? I type.

He names it. I quickly map it.

I know where that is. Maplecure Street is where all the super-well-off kids lived when I was in school. I wasn’t friends with any of them. They were the country club crowd, the kids who went to Aspen for winter break and Martinique for spring break. I was friendly with the ones in band or theater, but not best friends. Not close enough to be invited to that side of town.

It’s not exactly a den of criminal activity.

The only road in town with even more wealth is Concordian Road, and that’s where the richie-riches live. Harmony Hills High School combines the towns of Anderhill and Stoneleigh, and while I live in Anderhill, I don't live in this part. I know all about Concordian Road, though. Used to drive past it almost daily in high school.

But I’m not going to think about that.

Especially not when I am so broke.

You still there? the guy asks. I assume it’s a guy. Maybe it’s a woman. I don’t know why I’m assuming it’s a man, because most real estate agents I’ve worked with are women. Something about that attagirl.

And yet, beggars can’t be choosers. Three hundred bucks cash for four hours and the potential for more work is pretty much a slam dunk.

I’ll be there in an hour. Perfect. What’s your name?

Spatula.

I laugh out loud, the glow of the small screen casting a surreal feel on the moment.