Over. (This. Is. Not. Over. #2) (11 page)

             
So daddy and Malcolm have both cut me off. $0 funds available. I need cash.

A
s I sit in my hotel suite, I’m writing you because I want you to understand me and I want you to understand why I’ve been driven to desperate measures. I know that others will have you believe that I’m insane. But as you can see, out of my sister and me, I was given the extra dose of sense. I don’t care what my psychiatrist says. (Don’t worry about me going to a therapist; when you have a certain amount of prestige, you
have
to have one. It’s a formality really. By the way, who do you use?)

So here’s the real reason for this letter: I made it out of the house with an atlas sized book in my hands. I’m talking close to a thousand pages. Guess what it was? My diary! I have enou
gh information about The Blair-Rossi-March Family to turn my diary into a bestseller. It’s the reason I had to grab it. I think that the Rouge Literary Agency should publish it. I know how hard it is to get a book deal so I figure that since I know someone who owns their own publishing agency, well … this all should be fairly easy. This diary will put Rouge Literary Agency on the map. Because let’s just be honest, presently, you’re just a two bit book-girl with a staff of four.

This isn’t personal. I need money and I have no job. This diary is sure to bring me a steady source of
income. So this is how this will all go: Either you give me a hefty book advance and publish my diary as a fictional novel (changing the names and places, of course) or I’ll shop this diary around to another company and publish it as a non-fiction biography (keeping the names and places, of course). The fate of the Blair-Rossi-March family is in your hands. Choose wisely.

In closing, this isn’t about you. I would never go after the other woman; it’s not your fault that you were raised to be a whore. I’m going after Malcolm … and money. So tonight, I’ll be visiting a ‘friend’. As a matter of fact,
that’s what we’ll call this person in future letters:
Friend
. Because, until you make my diary a bestseller, I need money in order to survive.
Friend
will most certainly oblige the deal that I plan on offering. I do believe Friend is the type to care about what I’ve just found. Some people really are only concerned about appearances. Shame. I hate those kinds of people. I mean, look at you. You were fucking Malcolm when you were married. You had the man that you’re fucking draw up your divorce papers. (Even though that seems like a faux pas, at least to me … and to the journalist at The Boston Globe I just spoke to.) Lastly, you wore a powder pink cashmere sweater to Starbucks last week, even though pink is the mortal enemy of redheads. And you’re doing all of this –fucking Malcolm, divorcing husbands, wearing pink– in front of your son. What’s that boy’s name? Ricki? Dicky? Mickie?  (I’m acting like I’m not too involved in your life, after revealing that I’ve watched you at Starbucks. So I’m pretending that I don’t know your son’s name when I of course know it’s Nicky.)

Good golly, you’re a mess! I like that. It makes you human. You could care less about what people say about you. That’s the kind of person I want to represent me.

I admire your gumption,

Laura

PS

It really is fortunate that I grabbed my diary as Cadence was dragging me out of the house. If I hadn’t, I never would have found this picture nestled between the pages of it. I’ll save this picture for Friend.

Oh, if only Malcolm wouldn’t have burned me out of my home, killed my gymnast trophies and frozen all of my accounts. You can thank him for what’s to come.

Malcolm

9 p.m.

             
“What the hell is she up to?” I ask Jacob as we sit in my parent’s kitchen alone, both with a glass of scotch in our hands. Cadence, Rossi and Eva are already asleep, all claiming that they were worn out from their ‘long weekend’. Mind you, I still haven’t been to sleep. I’ve been trying to buy off a journalist who called me a few hours ago, claiming that someone informed him of the fire … and Red’s marital status when we first got together. After some research he discovered that I owned the house and that Red was likely having an affair with me. I’ve tried everything on this journalist:

H
umor:
Come on, me having an affair with a married beautiful redheaded black feminist? I wish I was that good.

C
harm:
I admire your work, I read your column every day. Surely you’re above this soap opera shit you’re talking about now. Leave this story to Us Weekly.

B
uy-outs:
How much do you want? … Everyone has a price, I’m willing to compromise on yours.

A
nd most recently threats:
Try me muthafucka. I’m begging you. Try me.

He’s still threatening to publish those two stories in the paper tomorrow. It’s not looking good. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll eventually take his job and credibility but it’ll be
after
he publishes those stories. And, as far as the human mind is concerned, it tends to believe the first story it hears. If I drag my feet on this, the public will hear his story first and already be convinced of its merits. I was debating on releasing a statement by tomorrow morning, when Jacob came back to my parent’s house with news about Laura.

             
“I have no idea what Laura’s up; she didn’t even get out of the cab. Cynthia rushed out of the house, passed her money through the window and then the cab took off. I didn’t even have a chance to get out of my truck. She went to a hotel, I waited around and followed her
there
.”

             
“And that’s when you saw them?”

             
“As clear as day. They were standing outside, talking.”

             
“What the hell are they up to?”

             
“I can’t even imagine.” Jacob shakes his head and downs his scotch. “Shit …” He pours himself another glass. “I just hope …” He lets his words drift off as he starts to sip his scotch.

“And when she pulled away in the cab, you lost her in traffic.”

“Yeah.” He exhales deeply and takes another sip of scotch. “The streets are icy, the holiday traffic is crazy … shit.”

“It’s alright. At least we aren’t completely in the dark here.” I lean over and slap him on the back. “No need to worry, you and I will figure this out.” I smile at him before I take a sip of my scotch. “Don’t we always?”

Sunday

Danielle

12 a
.m.

Tennessee

             
“I think I should call Malcolm.” I pick up my new prepaid phone and flip it open.

             
“Don’t touch that goddamn phone!” Rena snaps. I drop it on my lap like it’s hot.

             
“Well it’s ringing now.” I say as I look down at it.

             
“Who is it?”

             
“My parent’s house. I texted them my new number.”

             
“You may answer.”

             
“Thank you … gee whiz.” Now Rena’s phone is ringing.

             
“Oh boy, Jasmine.” She says as she looks at it.

             
“Good luck.” Jasmine’s royally pissed off about the fight and she’s been calling Rena’s phone all day. Each sentence has been starting with ‘
And another thing’
. It’s been torture.

             
I answer the phone for my parents. For about ten minutes, while they have me on speaker phone, I regale the story of a desperate Jon and his low life entourage who tried to murder the innocent and unsuspecting Malcolm.

“He’s a prince, Malcolm’s simply a prince. And Jon’s the evil dirt bag
.
” I say to them.

“Oh yeah? Good.”
 
My mother replies
,
“Ya know, I’m thinking we can go to aunt Gisele’s house for hushpuppies and moonshine tomorrow night! Actually, I already called her and told her we’d be there.”
My mom giggles.

“I didn’t hear that,”
my father, the law man, says, “but I’ll be there.” Mom and dad aren’t necessarily as appalled at Jon’s visit to New York as I want them to be. Don’t you hate that? You’re all pissed off about something and you want someone else to be pissed off with you but they can see the ‘flip side’ of the matter? Needless to say, mom and daddy just got on my damn nerves.

“Okay, gotta go. I’m using all of my minutes.” I say to them. I get a faint bye from them as they continue to talk about hushpuppies and moonshine. I end the call and then turn around to check on a sleeping Georgie. At this point, I would call Lola and we’d talk about Jon’s ass like a dog. Speaking of Lola, I have to tell Rena about what really happened.

“Have you called Lola?” She says as she ends her call with Jasmine. Damn, I just spoke Lola’s double-crossing ass up.

             
“Well,” I say as I look straight out of the windshield, “her sister’s home just burned down, she’s probably with family. Right? I figure she’s busy.” I then look out the corner of my eye at Rena. Oh Rena, if you only knew.

             
“You’re right.”              

“What did Jasmine say just
now?” I say to quickly change the subject. How can I tell Rena that I was wrong about Laura, wrong about Lola, and wrong about Malcolm? She’ll begin to think that my word is good for nothing.

             
“Well first she mentioned something about you moving, I have no idea what the hell that was about. But she’s still in rare form over that fight.” Oh, damn.

             
“Did she call Jon and cuss him out?”

             
“Yep.”

             
“Good.” I have yet to talk to Jon. He’s been calling Rena’s phone trying to get in contact with me but I’ve been pressing connect, calling him a dirt bag and then hanging up. I’m making him suffer. “Wait, something just came to me. Are Laura’s accounts still frozen?”

“Oh shit!” She bangs the steering wheel.

“Rena!”

“Shit! I forgot to unfreeze them.”

“Did you bring your lap top?”

“No.”

“No?”

“
I was nervous and in a rush! Did you bring yours?”

“No, I was nervous too!”

“Great … fuck. I can get fired over this shit.”

“Just text Matt and tell him to unfreeze them.”

“I don’t text and drive Danielle, that’s wrong.”

“Then I’ll text him.”
I flip open my phone.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Matt involved in this; Georgie’s going to need a parent around after I’m gone.”

              “That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?”

             
“Hell no! We’re just sinking ourselves deeper and deeper into this shit. Not only do we have an arson and attempted murder charge but now we have a white collar felony charge.”

“I need a drink.” I look out of the
passenger window and shake my head in disgust. That’s what I’ll say at my trial: ‘No one is more disappointed and disgusted by my actions than me.’ Maybe they’ll knock off a few life sentences for that. “We’re pulling over for gas soon right? I can get a pack of those mini Sutter Home wine bottles from the station.”

             
“I’m not pulling over for gas in Tennessee, remember the song?”

“Please don’t remind me.”

“I’m just saying.”             

             
“Well when we get to Alabama, pull over for gas.”

             
“Alabama …” She sighs and shakes her head. “That may be the last pullover we have.”

             
“What? Why?”

             
“Wasn’t Rosa Parks arrested there?”

             
“What in the world does that have to do with us?”

             
“I don’t know, people are nutty these days. You never know what’s going through their heads.”