Darkhouse

“There’s still time!” she exclaimed wryly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I know it was harder for you than it was for me.”



“Really, I am so sorry. I have no excuse.”



“I don’t want to hear it! What’s done is done, OK? It doesn’t matter.”



She started to head for the door.



“Wait,” I called out after her, not wanting her to leave me alone with the bomb she just dropped.



“I’ve got things to blog about. Don’t you?”



I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”



“You know you do. Screw everyone. Write what happened anyway. And if no one believes you it doesn’t matter because I believe you, this Dex dude believes you, and people believe what you tell them to believe. It’s just like fashion. They’ll wear what you tell them to wear.”



How come I wasn’t that smart when I was fifteen? Oh right, the drugs. What a waste.



“Oh, and congrats on your new job,” she added before leaving the room.



Right...the new job. Sam. Old Roddy. Dex. Blogging. Training a receptionist. My sore head.



It was time for bed.



***



“Good afternoon, Allingham and Associates, Melody speaking,” Melody, our future receptionist, picked up the phone and answered in an overly saccharine voice.



I was leaning against the wall and watching her as she did her first trial run of phone answering. I had been training her all morning with the basic logistics of the job, even though she had done the job in my absence last week without any trouble. Still, I found it mildly entertaining to stand back and watch as the torch was passed down. Entertaining and extremely relieving.



See, whereas I did not make a good receptionist, Melody did. She was bubbly, amiable and focused. Though it might have been all for show—most people tried their hardest the first day on the job—something about her screamed “RECEPTIONIST.” It could have been she was cute, tanned and blonde, with the whitest teeth I had ever seen north of California. Or her enthusiasm and immediate organizational skills (she filled all the staplers on her morning break, you know, for fun). Or it could have been that she seemed genuinely interested in helping people, unlike me, who believed a dull stare was just as effective.



As I watched her take over my old job, I realized how happy I was to be going on to a new position. It was scary, of course, taking on new responsibilities. The more I thought about it, the more I worried I wouldn’t be good enough. On the other hand, maybe I could rise to the occasion, do a great job and once and for all put all my laziness, procrastination and overall apathy behind me. I could be a new person. I might surprise myself.



That didn’t mean I didn’t think about Dex during random times of the day, though. I still hadn’t heard a peep from him. I considered texting him or Facebook messaging him. Something very low key and casual, but I didn’t want to come across as desperate. You didn’t call someone back right away after a date; it was the same kind of thing.



It’s stupid how I kept on comparing our adventure to a date when it was very much the opposite. We weren’t even work partners, for crying out loud, and I started to doubt that would ever happen. But I couldn’t help it. It felt like I was in some semi-relationship with him, which made me feel even more stupid. This is how stalkers get started!



I shook my head and let out a disgusting sigh.



“Did I do something wrong?”



Melody was looking at me inquisitively, phone to her ear. I must have drifted off in my head as usual.



I shot her a quick smile and answered truthfully, “No, you are doing just fine.” I, on the other hand, was not. My mind continued to be torn between getting excited about the new position and feeling disappointed at the lack of one with Shownet.



And I didn’t improve as the day went on, either. As soon as I got home my mother whisked me off for a little shopping spree.



Now, I know a shopping spree sounds like a lot of fun, and I know Ada rightfully gave me daggers when my mother hustled me out the door, but this wasn’t supposed to be an enjoyable experience.



My mother usually takes me out on one of these excursions because A) she has bad news and wants to sweeten it up somehow, or B) she wants to go all “Eliza Doolittle” on my ass. I suspected this trip fell into the latter.



“So, what’s the deal, mom?” I asked as she gingerly pulled the car into the narrow mall parking spot for the umpteenth time.



“Is there enough room to get out?” she asked, looking over at my side. There wasn’t unless she was imagining I was thirty pounds lighter, but instead of prompting another attempt at parking, and perhaps a lecture about my diet, I told her to park. Somehow I squeezed out of the car but not without squishing my boobs against the door—glad the children in the neighboring car found that funny.



Once inside the mall, I felt my heartbeat quicken. The crowds, the pushiness, the people in the middle of the hall who worked the kiosks and practically ran after you with hand cream and hair stylers; the mall did nothing to help my panic attacks and was one of the worst places for me, especially when my nerves were shot.



My mother took no notice, as usual. She just ushered me into the Macy’s women’s department. I had it figured out, even before she started pulling various blazers and skirts. She wanted me to look more professional for my new position.



That was fair enough, I suppose. I did need to amp up my wardrobe and my band t-shirts weren’t cutting it anymore, even if I paired them with a nice skirt. I just knew my mom would squeeze me into some very unflattering and un-Perry like clothes.



And I was right. Ten minutes past and I made it out of the changing room with just one new outfit that suited me and one hell of a lecture about my weight.



“We could at least get you new shoes. Maybe some heels? You can’t gain weight in your feet,” she said brightly, and before she had time to insult me again, I was dragged in the direction of the shoe department.



Don’t get me wrong, I love shoes. But I love my kind of shoes, and my kind of shoes are the funky or comfy kind. The shoes my mom wanted me to wear would be better suited to someone else. Someone like Jenn.



The thought of her quickened my pulse.



I think my mom could tell because as the bored salesman shoved a pair of shoes back in the box, she said, “So, tell me about this man you were with. Dex?”



“You mean the producer of the show?” I said, not wanting to go down this road with her. “He’s really...interesting.”



“You like him?”



“No, Mom,” I sighed, and fingered the smooth patent finish of a pair of four-inch pumps. “Does anyone ever listen to me?”



“Pumpkin, you shouldn’t let something like a girlfriend stand in your way,” she said with a little too much conviction.



I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Even the salesman looked shocked at what she said, but he quickly hurried away before he could hear anymore.



“Mom,” I managed to say. “That is terrible advice to give your daughter.”



She smiled at me, and for an instant I felt like we were sharing our own private joke. “I’m not saying you should do anything. I’m just saying that sometimes life works in funny ways. When I was dating your father, there was a nice man who wanted me. He would send me flowers, ask me on dates when your father wasn’t looking. I never ended up doing anything about it; I was loyal. But I often wonder what would have happened if I went for that other man, Ted was his name, instead. Sure, your father might have been heartbroken, or at least his pride would have been lost, but he’d go on and find someone else. Ted was a very successful businessman. He went on to make millions with some sort of telephone company. My life might have been a lot better if I had ended up with him. You never know.”



This made my mind reel, never mind the pain shooting up from the balls of my feet as I attempted to stand in a pair of narrow-toed platforms.



“Uh, well you wouldn’t have had me or Ada if you went with this Ted dude,” I admonished her while trying to keep my balance.



She shrugged. “I guess. I’m just saying, perhaps it’s best to take a chance. That’s all. You should take those. They make your legs look skinniest.”



I looked down at the shoes. They didn’t make me look anything except bow-legged. But I agreed for the sake of ending this horrible conversation. It’s not that I thought my parents had the most perfect marriage, and I wouldn’t even be surprised if they secretly yearned for different lives, but to hear your mother disclose that so glibly was disturbing, to say the least.



But it wasn’t over. Things kind of got worse at the till when she paid for the devil shoes.



“Now, Perry, I hope this new advancement in your position means you’ll think more seriously about getting your own place and moving out.”



This too? The salesman and I were able to exchange a look that said “It’s not over yet?”



“Oh my God, Mom,” I exhaled loudly.



“Well, I’m just saying. You’re old enough to be responsible and move out. Please don’t think we want you to leave or anything, but with more responsibility comes… more responsibility. And I’d really love to turn your bedroom into my own room.”



“What do you mean your own room?” I eyed her suspiciously.



She shrugged and took the bag from the clerk. He looked happy to be rid of us and relieved that he didn’t have to go home with her, unlike me.



“I don’t know, pumpkin. Sometimes you get to a certain age where you want your own room and your own space. Besides, your father snores. It would be nice to get a good night’s sleep.”



I don’t know exactly how long my parents have been married but this was the first time I ever heard my mom complain about my dad’s snoring. I didn’t like where this was going at all.



As we left the mall and started our walk in the grey drizzle towards the car, our conversation drifted onto other topics, such as the newest reality show she was hooked on. I pushed what she said out of my head as much as I could.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



The rest of the week went quickly since I was training Melody (easy) and being trained by Frida to prepare for my new job (not so easy). Not everything I learned was going to stay in my head, but I knew perfection wasn’t going to be expected right off the bat on Monday.



Melody learned quickly, as I thought she would. This allowed me to try and wrap my head around the new Excel spreadsheets that I had to get used to for the upcoming production schedule while she greeted clients and answered the phone. I was so zoned out in my Excel tornado (Excel was my nemesis) that I barely noticed when she handed me the phone.



“Perry? It’s for you,” Melody said cheerfully, nudging me in the arm until I looked up.



“Oh,” I said distractedly, mind blown away by some formula that didn’t add up. I took the phone and put it to my ear. Melody removed her headpiece.



“Perry speaking.” My voice didn’t sound as friendly as it should have but whatever, this wasn’t my job anymore.



“Aww, hello is this a Perry? Perry Palomino, yes?” a man said in a high-pitched accent that was borderline ridiculous.