WRONG SIDE OF THE SUBWAY TRACKS
Lacey
“I’m here, hurry up!” Marcia’s voice booming from the front door up the stairs of my family’s brownstone made me smile.
“Coming!” I squealed, grabbing my sunscreen and stuffing it in my bag with everything else I might need. Marcia’s ability to tan in all conditions, even under the raging midday sun on the open ocean while drinking a margarita, was the thing I envied the most about her. It was like even the sun knew she was too precious to burn. Whereas my mortal flesh would scorch under the umbrella and through my clothes . . .
Thumping down the stairs, I was met with kind brown eyes and a soft smile at the bottom where my grandma was standing in front of Marcia.
“Have fun, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Grandma.” I leaned in and kissed her wrinkled cheek, inhaling a little of the perfume she wore every day, even when she didn’t leave the house or take her apron off.
“Is Martin back yet from his doctor’s appointment?” I asked her. “I was gonna see if he wanted to come with us to a boat party later. Friday night and end of the year and all.” My younger brother had been out all day yesterday and was now at some doctor’s appointment with my mom, so I hadn’t seen him since school ended. Having a nurse for a mom meant the slightest sniffle was cause for alarm. His lingering cough and sore throat from the flu he’d come down with had Mom convinced he had mono. Poor guy. He probably hadn’t even kissed a real girl yet but would still somehow die from the kissing disease if Mom had the diagnosis right. She and Grandma liked babying him. And he liked it too. It meant snacks delivered to his room so he didn’t have to pause his video game, and crusts meticulously cut off his grilled cheese.
He milked it, and I couldn’t say if given the chance, I wouldn’t do the same. We just didn’t get the same opportunities.
“No. They’re still out.” Grandma’s smiled wanly, and the strange look in her eyes flashed concern. No doubt she, too, thought Martin was suffering from mono, and she was already planning her strategy to nurse him back to health with home-cooked meals and hot water bottles propped under his back.
I, on the other hand, knew he was fine. Fine enough to send spam texts about the new superhero movie coming out, like I cared.
“Too bad. Martin would have so much fun. That boat will be loaded with hotties—the perfect way for a seventeen-year-old guy to start the summer.” Marcia winked, but her charming grin faded after a moment of contemplation. “Although I’m not entirely sure I could stand to watch him hit on girls.”
“Or have girls hit on him.” I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe we should reconsider inviting him out from now on.”
Martin was equally Marcia’s and my favorite person. He was funny, sarcastic, witty, and always such a homebody. He was starting senior year in September, and I wanted him to have fun, to stop missing out on the good times that being a young, connected person afforded him.
“I’ll send him a text to see if he wants to meet up. See ya Sunday night, Grandma.” I hugged her hard and took a cookie from the plate she was holding.
Marcia was already chewing away on one, moaning. “Your cookies are the best, Grandma. My dad hired a pastry chef from Alsace, and even his cookies aren’t this good.” She stepped back, shimmering in the sunlight like a Greek goddess, no doubt the result of some ridiculously expensive highlighter made from the souls of seahorses and only distributed to the wealthy elite.
“Oh, Marcia, stop. And don’t text Martin to come party with you two. He’s not old enough for your kind of trouble. Leave him be. He’s a good boy.” Grandma waved Marcia off, not taking even a sip of the flattery lingering in the air. She didn’t like Marcia much; entitled was the way Grandma described the entire La Croix family, based strictly on the fact that they were wealthier than anyone needed to be. It wasn’t like they could help being rich, the same way Grandma couldn’t help being widowed, but she didn’t let Marcia get away with anything as far as behavior or attitude went for that reason alone.
Marcia didn’t seem offended, though. It was a weird relationship to witness. Almost like Marcia needed a firm hand sometimes and Grandma knew it.
“Have a good weekend, Grandma!” I hurried out the door, letting her close it.
“Can we please call a car?” Marcia complained as we hurried up the street away from my parents’ house toward the subway station.
“No.” I scowled at her, feigning disappointment. “Don’t hate on the subway. I saw Keanu Reeves riding last week. If it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for you.”
“What does Keanu Reeves have to do with me?” She arched a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow.
“He’s way more famous than you, dick.” I smirked as we left Third Street and crossed Smith, hurrying for the Carroll Street station.
“He is not! I have way more followers on Instagram, firstly, and secondly, I guarantee his ass wasn’t getting on the subway in the hood.” She glanced around as we descended into the dim lighting that flickered as if it were sending Morse code. To her, the message would be a warning the way it was a greeting to me.
“Oh my God,” I said with a groan, so tired of defending Brooklyn to everyone I knew. “Not today, Satan. It’s our first Friday of summer break. You need to keep that ’tude in check.”
Getting down to the subway platform was one thing; Marcia survived by holding her finger under her nose, sniffing her rose-oil moisturizer to avoid smelling the warm recycled air down there and rocking her best don’t-mess-with-me expression. Actually getting her onto the subway car was always a whole other endeavor.
She was confident and cool to an outsider’s perspective, but the second she got onto the train, her body tensed, she panicked, and her eyes darted both ways as if to ascertain which direction was less offensive. Her hands balled as she stared in violent jerks from the pole to the seat—pole, seat, pole, seat—and her upper lip glistened just slightly before she decided on a seat, wincing as the hard plastic squeaked under her.
I slumped beside her and shook my head, whispering, “I think it’s getting worse. It took eleven seconds for you to choose. Last time was only six.”
“Shut up,” she whispered back, her eyes surveying the people next to us, sizing them up to determine a threat level.
She couldn’t see it, but all of them were just living their lives—reading, texting, closing their eyes for the moment of rest they saw the subway as, or even staring into space and processing. They weren’t out to get her with poor-people germs or gang-life plans.
Life in Brooklyn, and almost every place in New York City, was nothing like where we were going.
Where Marcia lived was a different world entirely.
She wasn’t just wealthy. She was also the queen bee of our group. In fact, she was the queen bee of our school, which was saying something. NYU was filled with rich kids; being wealthy was nearly a prerequisite to attend. The tuition was higher than almost every other school in the country.
Last I checked, we were number three for getting raked over the coals for costs. But NYU was a great school with excellent academic ranks, which was why I chose it. And I didn’t have to move, which cut the cost a lot for me. Considering I had only a very partial scholarship, cutting that housing cost corner meant I could still afford something resembling a life. Commuting twenty minutes each way to college and staying with my parents was the best way for me to graduate debt free. Although living at home was not ideal, I was on the path to freedom, which was more than I could say for a lot of my peers. One more year and I would be working full-time and able to afford my own place.
“Are you going to get a job with us this summer?” It was the question I asked Marcia every year, and like every year before this one, she wrinkled her nose and gasped.
“Not a chance. I don’t want to work for my dad.” She said it like the mere idea was beneath her, which should have insulted me. But it didn’t. I wasn’t ashamed of working for her dad; in fact, my entire future rested on him and his company, La Croix Marketing & PR.
That was only one of his companies, actually, but it was the best in my opinion. He always sold his other ventures; the marketing and PR branch was the only one he’d insisted on maintaining himself.
Frederick La Croix was one of New York’s top business developers, but unlike most, he wasn’t an employee of a company. He was the man behind the company. He bought out small businesses that had an idea but not the funds to meet their potential, and after growing the companies, he would sell them. Everyone won, especially him. He was a genius, and if I was being honest, he was my man crush on most Mondays. He wasn’t just a brilliant businessman; he was the cool dad who wanted to know what was trendy for my age group, thus paying attention to our needs and likes and desires. He picked our brains and spoke to us on a level that made us feel seen and respected. He was different from every other dad I’d ever met, especially my own.
And I loved nothing like I did the summers when I got to work in his office and assist in all the greatness going around. He kept the marketing and PR firm happy and stable because he used it to grow whatever company he was working to build at that moment. The days were long and grueling right before a sale, but the work changed frequently, and there was plenty of healthy competition to go around for everyone in the office.
“I can’t imagine working for my father.” Marcia hugged her handbag tightly. “Business seems so barbaric to me. To sell something small and easy like hand cream might not be too hard, if I had to do it, but a whole company? I don’t know how he does it.”
“So what’s the plan, then? Travel, lie around, get manicures?” I mocked her.
“No. I don’t know.” She said it exasperatedly. Her dad had clearly been at her again, nagging her to find some drive and direction. It was the same song and dance he did at the beginning of every summer. Not that it ever worked. “Why does everyone care what I do for the summer?” She gave me the side-eye glare she was famous for. It killed Prince’s, my favorite meme in the whole world. He really did slay the side-eye.
“Because you don’t do anything over the summer except get a tan and a damaged liver.” I tried to say it like I was sort of joking. It was hard. I wanted so many things for her. And seeing the potential for greatness in her being wasted again every year was annoying. “This is our last summer of fun and freedom before we have to start contributing to the world, not just taking from it. Next year when we leave college, there will be expectations. We won’t be in school. We’ll have to work. Will you honestly want to say you’ve graduated and are still living at home with your parents?” I nudged her, still trying to go easy. The lecture was a frequently revisited theme in her life. Do something. Be someone. Stop mooching.
“It’s called summer break. And I do things,” she argued.
This was my favorite part of the conversation.
She frowned as she continued. “Last summer I did that relief thingy with those people who needed help in Mexico. And the summer before that I handed out water bottles at that triathlon. Twice.”
“Dear God.” I sighed, noting her answers were getting more desperate and far between. “You know what, I give up. I won’t say another word. When you decide what you wanna be when you grow up, if you ever decide to grow up, you let me know.”
“Okay, good.” She tried to sound like she was fed up with it all, but I knew that secretly she liked that we didn’t give up on her. Her mom never grilled her about anything, and it bothered her. She would worry more if her dad stopped. She liked that he cared. And that I did too.
I didn’t know if she was aware how hard it was for him to watch her skate by, though.
He was more like me.
He grew up middle class and ended up a billionaire.
When he was twenty-five and had made his first hundred million, he married a rich girl, and unfortunately Marcia’s mother’s influence on their daughter had been stronger than his. His hard work and dedication matched my parents’, which was sad since my parents were still middle class, but they influenced me to improve myself. I saw the results of hard work. And different kinds of work.
My family lived in the city, which was a feat for a lot of young families.
We had food and warmth, and I never really wanted for anything. And even if I did want for something they couldn’t provide, I worked and bought it myself.
And yes, my parents were basically treading water, never getting too far ahead, but my brother and I would both graduate from college without student loans, and for whatever reason that was more important to my parents than anything. They made sure we were both going into growth-opportunity careers, also important. They wanted more for us than they had for themselves.
Our dad was lucky his sales position was still relevant, because a lot of sales jobs had suffered through the internet revolution and the recession. Our mom’s job in health care was always going to be relevant, but she had no desire for Martin or me to live like her, on our feet doing shift work for the rest of our lives.
My parents might not have become billionaires, but they had set it up so maybe Martin and I could. Best schools. Tuition paid. Live at home for free. Work only in the summer. We had it made.
“Guess who I saw yesterday?” Marcia muttered so no one else could hear us, interrupting my thoughts on how great her dad and my parents were.
“Who?” I asked, not really caring.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she whispered, making my stomach tighten a bit. Her sightings were always bad—something to do with scandal.
I didn’t know a single person from Marcia’s world who hadn’t been involved in some kind of scandal, except her and me. Even her boyfriend, Monty, had a scandal. His parents, another rich family from the Upper East Side, recently sold their family’s dusty old historic mansion near Central Park when Monty’s grandpa died, and they bought a new penthouse in Tribeca. It was a travesty to the upper echelons of New York to see Midtown and Tribeca and SoHo become trendy, while the Upper East Side lost its sexy appeal.
Gasp!
The lives of the rich and famous.
I rolled my eyes inwardly and realized I’d missed half of what Marcia had said. “What?” I said, cutting her off.
“I know, right? So then his dad got in the limo with her, and they drove away. Maya is going to be pissed. Her mom swore it was over. But Mr. Sandu had a lot of ass in his hand for it being over.”
“Gross.” I cringed, catching up fairly fast even though I’d missed most of the conversation.
Maya Costa and Harry Sandu were friends of ours from high school. Learning that their parents were getting it on last year had been a massive outrage in our world. You couldn’t even have a dinner party for about a month after the news leaked without someone being accused of taking sides. And both families were smack in the middle of our groups. Well, not my group. My parents didn’t even know they existed.
My parents were way too busy for that shit, or for scandal in general.
“I wish I had another cookie.” She smacked her lips together. “And some almond milk.” She gave me a look. “You think if I sent Darren over to your house, Grandma would give him a bag of cookies for us?”
“No,” I laughed. “Grandma is a spicy old lady who hates the fact that you have a driver. She’ll give him cookies all right, but they won’t be in a bag for us. They’ll be on a plate for him and come with a glass of real milk and be served in front of the TV while she lets him have a damn break.”
“A break from what? He’s a driver. His entire life is a break. He sits and drives. That’s not even hard work.”
“I know. He’s so lazy,” I mocked again.
“Shut up.” She held her purse tighter to her chest. “I didn’t say he was lazy, but it’s not like he’s out digging ditches in the sun.”
“No.” Not like you, I thought to myself. I loved her, sometimes to death. As in sometimes I got so annoyed I wanted to strangle her. Lovingly. Some of my favorite conversations between Martin and me, late at night over a plate of Grandma’s baking, were based on these moments of the ridiculous. And usually involved me laughing at him mocking everyone in our separate groups of friends, particularly Marcia, but always with love. She really was a handful. Although his friends were no better—rich and lacking a sense of reality because of it. “We’re almost there.”
I chuckled at Marcia’s dislike of the subway, but then the very thing she always assumed would happen, did.
“Hey.” A guy came and sat next to her, offering a cheeky grin and wandering eyes that took a stroll down the front of her top.
“Fuck off.” She gave him her own version of a cheeky grin: resting bitch face and a whole lot of New York City sass.
“Don’t be rude, baby. You can’t sit on the train all dolled up and not expect a guy to come over and give it a try.”
“Why do you guys have to push it? Did I give you a hint that I was at all interested? Was it my breathing or the way I took up this space that did it? Do I have to start filming you as I try to explain how much I seriously don’t want to be hit on while you’re sexualizing me and threatening my peace because you think with your dick and feel entitled to all of this?” She waved a hand up her body. “Or will you go away?”
“What?”
“Go sit over there and think about what you’ve done!” She pointed.
“Damn, girl.” He got up and moved, going even farther than where she’d pointed.
The girl across from us laughed, nodding with approval.
“God, I love you,” I muttered, always stunned by how far some people would go and Marcia’s ability to put them in their place. That kind of thing never happened to me on the subway. It was like Marcia invited trouble, but even for having a privileged upbringing, she sure could pull the street side out. And that was from me. She learned to talk a certain way when she needed to. Mostly it was in Brooklyn while riding the subway, which did explain her fears. But since she was the only person it ever happened to, I tried to make her seem irrational for having them. That’s what being a sibling was all about—rounding off those edges. And Martin and I were as close as she was going to get to siblings, so we took our work seriously.
“Finally.” As the train halted Marcia jumped up and grabbed the pole, closing her eyes momentarily and making peace with the fact that she would have to wait a minute before using her hand sanitizer. She was way past the guy hitting on her. In her mind, the germs of the filthy subway were worse than being sexualized by a stranger.
She was the epitome for nature versus nurture as far as obsessing over cleanliness went. She had grown up in such clean conditions, she wasn’t accustomed to filth. Now she was on her own in the real world, or as alone as she could be with her dad’s credit card as support, and it was both crazy and amusing to watch her shirk from exposure.
We jumped off the train at the Twenty-Third Street station and hurried along the dirty platform to the stairs.
“Ahhhhhh,” she sighed as we surfaced. “Fresh air!”
“Thank you.” I smiled brightly, nudging her as I acknowledged her version of hardship in this friendship.
“You’re welcome.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you can’t just ride in the car like a normal person.”
“Normal New Yorkers don’t have drivers! My dad even leaves his work car at the office in Jersey because it’s faster to take public transport.”
“It’s not much faster.”
“On a good day, at midnight, driving’s more efficient. But on a bad day, which is almost every day, taking the subway makes a huge difference. I’ve gotten out of the car when Darren’s been driving me somewhere, because some accident happened or the roads were so backed up that I gave in and walked to your house. I’ve had to take my shoes off partway and walk barefoot if I was wearing heels.” I folded my arms.
“Gross.” She shuddered. “Barefoot in New York is like rolling around on a field of used needles.” She linked her arm in mine and started the short walk to her place at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Twenty-Sixth.
When we arrived, West, the doorman, beamed at us both. “Ladies, how is the first weekend of summer break treating you?” His knowledge of our comings and goings always surprised me. His memory and skills at observation were sorely misused working here. He should have been in the FBI or CIA. Sometimes I wondered if he was and this was an undercover gig for him, watching the rich and famous come and go.
“Excellent, thank you, West. And how is your day going?” And there was the thing I loved, absolutely loved, about Marcia. She might have talked a good game as a snob, but she legitimately cared about her people. And they knew it. She meant it when she asked and paid attention when they answered.
“Not too bad, Miss Marcia. Weather’s fine, streets aren’t too busy, traffic’s been all right all day, which for a Friday is some kind of miracle.” He chuckled. “And my wife messaged me that she’s making my favorite pot roast and Yorkshires for dinner. I love her homemade gravy, the way it sinks into the pudding.”
“That sounds great! You have a good weekend. Tell her I said hello.” Marcia smiled wide and entered the building.
“Will do. You both have a lovely day.”
“You too,” we said at the same time.
In the elevator, Marcia leaned back, losing that charm. She didn’t waste it on me anymore. I was like family. “What do you want for dinner?” She rubbed her stomach. “Those Yorkshires sound good. I wonder if the gravy is homemade or from a packet.”
“Don’t even think about asking him to have his wife send some over.” I bumped her, teasingly but half seriously. She didn’t have normal boundaries.
“I wouldn’t,” she hissed.
“Liar.” I grinned as the elevator took us directly to her family’s penthouse.
“Shut up.” She huffed and stepped off, smiling wide again when she saw Girt, her maid. “Hello, Girt.”
“Miss Marcia, Miss Lacey. How are you?”
“Excellent, thank you. TGIF, Girt. What are your plans for the weekend?” Marcia asked.
All the house staff got weekends off, even though they lived with the La Croixes. It was another cool thing about Mr. La Croix. He forced Marcia and her mom to take care of themselves at least a couple of days of the week. No cook or butler on Saturdays or Sundays.
“Oh, not much. I was thinking about hitting the farmers market and possibly taking a trip out to Sleepy Hollow with my sister. She’s in the city for the week and really wants to see it. Tourists.” Girt offered me a knowing smile. “And you must be starting your summer job soon?”
“Yes, ma’am, Monday. I’m pumped.” I was beaming at the prospect.
“Good luck.” She winked at me. “Though we know you won’t need it.”
“Thanks,” I said as I followed the sound of Marcia’s clicking heels across the foyer, which was the size of the entire main floor of my house.
Her two-story penthouse was off the charts, thousands of square feet.
Walls of windows overlooking Madison Square Park and Manhattan.
Marble floors that gleamed so brightly I could check my makeup in them.
Glitzy light fixtures that sparkled like they were made of diamonds. They probably were, now that I thought of it.
Modern decor and custom everything surrounded us at all times.
Marcia had four closets in her room. The maid, Girt, had two, one and a half more than I had at home.
Marcia’s parents had his and hers master bedrooms; they didn’t even share a room. I didn’t ask questions about that since I didn’t need answers that would scar me for life.
Even her dog had his own room, and his was bigger than my bedroom. His door had a custom sign with his name, Floof. Senor Floof. He was a Chihuahua. His name made no sense to me for a dog with short hair, so I just called him Senor.
The butler, a man named Moser, was a proper British butler, and he had some résumé. He’d worked for royals and huge icons in his day. He was older now and felt a nice, calm job here would be a great semiretirement. I didn’t see how tending to the needs of American royalty was preparing for retirement, but I also hadn’t worked for true royals, so I didn’t know how it could get any worse than this.
“Lacey!” Mr. La Croix welcomed me first, always.
“Mr. La Croix! How are you?” I let him embrace me and kiss my cheek.
“For the millionth time, call me Frederick or Dad, for God’s sake. We’re not at the office, where I also insist you call me Dad.” He winked when he pulled back.
“No,” I said with a laugh, refusing to call him Dad. What if I slipped up at the office by accident?
“Marcia, what are you girls doing home?” He kissed her as well. “I figured you’d be out causing a scene; it’s the first Friday of summer break.”
“All in good time, Daddy. We’re going on a cruise of the harbor later. End-of-year parties are in full effect. We just need to prep. This thing here would wear jean shorts if I left it up to her.” She pointed a thumb at me.
“As I suspected.” His eyes darted from Marcia’s to mine. “Grades?” He held his hand out.
“Oh, right.” I pulled my phone out and logged on to NYU’s dashboard, showing off my grades for the final semester.
“Holy Moses, kid!” He beamed. “Excellent work! Were your parents excited?” His eyebrows rose.
“Oh, uh.” I took my phone back. “They weren’t home when I got there. Mom’s been taking extra shifts and forcing Martin to the doctor for imaginary diseases, and Dad was away all week.” I nodded, pretending it was cool.
“I’m certain they’ll be thrilled when you give them the good news.”
“Yeah.” I let him think that. My parents hadn’t seen a report card of mine since junior year of high school. Which was fine with me. They trusted me to get my grades and attain goals on my own.
“Well, you must be excited to be starting work again on Monday.” He beamed with fatherly pride. “Back at the old sweatshop.”
“More than excited.” I ate it up. “Is Hennie coming back too? I emailed her, but she’s terrible at responding.” She was the other summer temp whom I’d worked with for four years, and I adored her. Together, we adored La Croix Industries. It was like having a second family—a second family that I saw more than my own.
“She sure is. Asked me about you yesterday.”
“Awesome! I can’t wait. Do we have any major sales coming up?” I risked Marcia’s annoyance by talking shop at the house.
“We might. I have something I’m really excited to talk to you about, actually, but I’ll give you the weekend off.” He chuckled. “And how about you?” He turned his attentions to his daughter, who was wrinkling her nose, something she did right before lying. Worst poker player ever. “How are your grades?”
“I passed. I’m sure I did.” She didn’t sound sure.
“I expect those grades emailed to me.” He pointed his finger in her face but then softened and leaned in to kiss the side of her head again. “Be good. If you need Darren to pick you up at some ungodly hour, let him know ahead of time. He doesn’t like getting out of bed to come traipsing after you, and he has Saturday off,” he said, before lifting his phone and going back to work.
“We will,” Marcia said, laughing.
“We’ll take a taxi like normal people and let him sleep.” I scoffed and glanced back at her, lowering my voice. “Did you pass everything?” I worried about her.
“I think so.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet.”
I slumped my shoulders and covered my eyes with my hand.
“You promised not to bring it up.”
“I know, I’m counting backward from ten.” I stopped when I got to minus four and the annoyance lifted. “Let’s celebrate!” I forced a smile on my face. Because even if she was super irresponsible and some days I wanted to say “not my circus, not my monkey,” the truth was, she was my monkey. And I would always be there for her.
Especially if her dad was going to kick her out when he saw this latest set of grades.
I needed to be patient with her.
Very, very patient.
And successful so I could afford her.
“Let’s get dressed. You can’t wear that.” She plucked at my shirt. “We only have two hours before we have to be there.”
She dragged me down the hall.
Her house was so weird.
There was no grandma to offer cookies and snacks, and no one to make sure we did things like eat or drink or sleep. It was like adulting, only not.
“Can we get something to eat? I don’t want to party on nothing but my breakfast burrito from seven hours ago and that cookie Grandma gave me.” I rubbed my belly.
“No, it’ll make you look bloated. There’ll be appies on the boat.” She said it like that was normal. For food to be an afterthought.
The rumbling in my stomach was my own version of disagreeing. “So all that talk of roast and Yorkshires was a lie?”
“Yes,” she said as she forced me to her room and pushed me toward the back of the chair as she sat at her vanity filled with all the best makeup from around the world. “We are going to be so hot tonight, even Monty won’t recognize us!” she gushed. “Do my makeup that way you did it for the glitzy ball we went to. Where I looked like a fairy with all the shimmer and unicorn magic. And my hair was like—” She lifted her blonde mane and poofed it out like a bad eighties hairdo for some glam-metal rock video and gave me a horrifyingly sexy model glare. Her description and the weird pucker she was making while holding her hair was worth the entire effort it took to give her the silver and purplish hue to her eyes and cheekbones while also offering a subtle pink baby-doll pucker with extra gloss. I added a slight gray tone to her eyebrows and started blending her cheeks.
“I think you should do yours like an Egyptian princess. I have the perfect dress for it,” she remarked.
“Egyptian?” I chuckled, a little scared of what that entailed and what level of sexy she was considering. Or should I say scandalous?
Thanks to Marcia, this summer was already shaping up to be a thrilling ride away from reality, and it had barely begun.