Nara

“Mimi, can’t you get me out of this?” I whined. “I don’t want to go on a date with a guy from a bachelor auction.” I could whine to Mimi. That’s how close we were.

The Uber ride back to the office was taking forever. Where was my Betty White look-alike when I needed her?

“No, I cannot. You agreed to this, and now you have to follow through.” She might have been my assistant, but half the time, I felt like she was the boss. In a good way.

“You go for me,” I insisted. “The guy will never know. Just pretend to be me. He saw you bidding on him. He’ll be expecting a redhead.”

Mimi raised an eyebrow at me. “Page Six from the New York Post wants to interview you about bachelor/bachelorette auctions. In fact, they want to see if they can come on your first date.”

“What? Oh my god. Page Six, the gossip column? First, they cannot. And second, by saying first date, they are implying there will be subsequent dates. Which is not going to happen.”

She shrugged. “Okay. I’ll let them know.” She got quiet and looked out the window.

“What?” I asked. “Do you think I should let the most infamous gossip column in all of New York in on my private life?”

“It could be good publicity for Mommy Knows. And, you’re raising money for a homeless shelter.”

My company. My baby.

I hadn’t thought of that. Damn, she was good.

“Oh, right. Good thinking. Yeah, maybe we should set that up. I mean, I don’t know about them coming on the date, but I can talk to them afterward.”

Mimi looked back at me with approval. “Okay. I’ll get in touch with our contact there. You just talk about the company as much as you can. You know how many bored stay-at-home moms with a lot of money read Page Six?”

Maybe these auctions were not such a pain in the butt after all. “God, Mimi. Will you remind me to give you a raise some day?”

She laughed. “I will remind you. As soon as the we start turning a profit.”

Amen, sister.

We pulled up in front of our building. Mimi took off to get our favorite lunch from the corner vendor—hotdogs smothered in mustard and relish. And of course, Diet Cokes. The vendor had a crush on Mimi and always gave us an extra dollop of sauerkraut.

I hustled into the office. In all the morning’s excitement—getting fitted for a dress I didn’t want and buying a date with a guy I didn’t want—I’d missed a call from the asshole, fake husband Simon. His voicemail message was predictable.

“Nara, darling, I hope you’ve been thinking hard about my proposal. I want my ten grand back, and the clock is ticking…”

Bastard!

I deleted his message without hearing the rest. He wouldn’t even be in this damn country if it weren’t for me. He had a career, a great apartment. Probably an occasional date, although I can’t imagine with whom.

But if he ratted me out, didn’t he realize he was risking his own well-being in addition to mine? If it got to the INS, he’s the one who’d be deported. Not me.

I Googled sham marriage INS. And the blood drained from my face.

Up to five years in prison. Up to $250,000 in fines.

Oh dear god.

But he wouldn’t rat me out. He couldn’t be that stupid. Or self-destructive. I mean, he’d be imprisoned, fined, or both, and kicked out of the country. All for ten thousand dollars.

Back when I agreed to marry Simon, I was desperate for money. And I knew other people around the city doing the same thing—earning some quick cash by marrying someone who needed a green card; the non-US resident would get one fairly easily and quickly once married to a US citizen. In fact, one of my girlfriends married an adorable French guy. I figured, how tough could it be? It seemed easier than donating my eggs.

Just as I was dreaming about Simon crossing the street and being leveled by a city bus, my cell rang. The phone screen said Mom.

“Hey there,” I answered.

“Hi honey. It’s Mom.”

“I know it’s you, Mom. My phone recognizes your number.”

“Oh right, you told me that last time.”

“Why don’t you let me get you a nice new phone? Get rid of that old flip phone.”

She sighed. “I know you’re really into technology and all that, but I’m perfectly happy with my old phone. It works great. I don’t do that texting thing, and I don’t know how to Facebook, so I’m doing fine.”

Ugh. How the mother of a software developer like me could be so dismissive of technology baffled me.

“Okay, Mom.”

She sighed. “How’s the company, sweetie? Are people catching on to the idea of being told when their child has a dirty diaper as opposed to the way we did it in my day? You know, wait till you smell something awful, or the kid starts wailing?”

Fortunately, she couldn’t see my eyes roll. “Yes, Mom. People are starting to hear about us. We have several mothers testing the software right now, so far with good feedback.” What I didn’t explain was that the app sometimes had trouble telling the difference between number one and number two, which was vital to our success. Whether the mess was solid or liquid had a big impact on a mom’s approach to keeping her kid’s butt clean. The things I’d been learning about…and the diapers I’d had the unfortunate luck to get a whiff of…

“So, honey, you know your fifteen-year high school reunion is just around the corner.”

Oh shit. That was why she was calling? No way I would not be attending that fiasco. Hell to the no. Just what I needed, to be reminded of the shit show that was my high school life.

“You’re coming back home for it, right?” So much hope.

“No, I’m not. I don’t want to see those people.” Nor did I want to return to the horrendous podunk town I’d grown up in.

“What do you mean by those people? You grew up with those people. They were your friends your entire life until you left town. And besides, don’t you want to see me?” she asked.

“’Course I want to see you. I’ll get you a ticket to New York anytime you like.” She didn’t fly, which was probably just as well because I could really only afford to get her a bus ticket. Luckily, she loved the bus.

Mimi dropped off my hotdog. Mmmm. Salty New York deliciousness. I nodded my thanks, and she disappeared back to her own cube.

“I don’t understand why you are so opposed to coming back home and seeing your old friends. You needn’t be embarrassed you’ve never gotten married.”

It was so cute, her assumption that I didn’t want to come back because I was single. Maybe she’d feel better if I told her about my sham marriage to Simon. In her world, that would probably be better than nothing.

Going to the reunion as a single woman was the least of my worries.

“Mom, you know I don’t fit in there anymore. I have a new life. What could I possibly have in common with them?”

“Now, I don’t know why you think you’re so much better than those people, but just because you went to New York and started your own company doesn’t mean you’re anything special.”

Gee, thanks.

“I want you to expect a call from the reunion committee,” she continued.

“What? How? Mom, you didn’t give them my contact info, did you? I expressly asked you not to do that.”

“Sorry, but you’ll some day regret neglecting your old friends back home. I gave them your phone number and address.”

Note to self, do not answer any unknown callers.

“I asked you not to—”

“I know Becca would love to see you.”

The mention of Becca really crashed my mood even more so than the stupid dating auction and Simon’s extortion.

“Oh, Mom.” I groaned. There would just never be any meeting of the minds on this.

But I couldn’t go back. For one, what would I possibly talk about? How I was no longer the slut I was in high school? How I’d gotten it together, gone to college, and started my own company in New York City? Becca, on the other hand, had had four kids before she was thirty. Our lives had gone in radically different directions, just as I always knew they would. But the guilt of leaving her, my mom, and the town itself gutted me. I’d worked so hard to get out, and yet I felt crappy about it. Made no sense, but it was a fact.

“Hey, Mom, I have a meeting. I gotta go. Talk to you later. Love you. Bye.”

I waited for her to return the sentiment, but all I heard was bye.

Whatever.