48

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE USO party, I call Chris on speakerphone as I’m rolling a log of
shortbread dough in sage sugar. “Chris, can I borrow your Rosie the Riveter poster?”
“You can have it but what do you want it for?”
“For the 1940s USO party I’m throwing at Belleview tomorrow—”
“Stop, I’m bored. God, all you ever talk about is Belleview!”
“It’s my job!”
“Ooh, should I get a job?”
I roll my eyes. Every conversation we have turns back to Chris and the concerns of Chris. “Hey,
speaking of fun jobs for you, what do you think about being a cigar girl for the party? You could wear
a cute outfit with a little hat.”
“Real cigars?”
“No, chocolate ones. Cigars are bad for old people.”
“Will there be booze?”
I’m about to say yes, but only for the residents, but I think better of it. “I don’t think so. It could be
a dangerous combination with their medications and their walkers.”
“When is it again?”
“Tomorrow!”
“Oh, sorry. I can’t give up a Friday night for this. Something better will definitely come up on a
Friday. A Tuesday, maybe. Can you change it to next Tuesday?”
“No! Can you just please bring the poster to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but you have to text me with a reminder.”
“’Kay.” I blow my hair out of my face and start slicing the cookie roll. I still have to chop carrots
and celery for the crudités and also pipe my meringues. I’m doing red-white-and-blue-striped
meringue kisses, and I’m nervous about the colors blending together. Oh well. If they do, then people
will just have to live with purple meringue kisses. There are worse things. Speaking of worse things.

.. “Have you heard anything from Gen? I’ve been so careful, but it seems like she’s barely playing.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“She’s probably too busy doing sex voodoo on Peter,” I say, half-hoping Chris will chime in.
She’s always the first in line to rip on Gen.
But she doesn’t. All she says is “I’ve gotta go—my mom’s bitching at me to take out the dog.”
“Don’t forget the poster!”