The suit fits like it was made for me. The skirt hugs my hips and thighs and lands somewhere in the mid-calf region. The jacket part has almost puffy sleeves that gather around my forearm as if I pushed the sleeves up to get down to business. There are large black buttons on the sleeves and four on the front of the blazer that somehow makes my waist look snatched.
I know this because Carlos tells me, “Damn, your waist is snatched in that.”
He pulls out large black plastic earrings that complete the ’80s vibe. If nothing else, I’ll have a kick-ass Halloween costume next year. I tug on the skirt and then the fitted jacket.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My dark hair is pulled into a low bun thing, but it still has some volume and waves around my face. It doesn’t even look like me. I had no idea I could look so soft and feminine yet still fierce at the same time.
Now I know why people hire makeup artists.
If this harebrained scheme works, I should make ESPN hire Carlos as my personal makeup person. I doubt anyone will ever be able to make me look this good ever again.
He must be a magician.
It’s time to get this ball rolling.
With my Vans on my feet and patent leather pumps in a bag, Carlos and I head over to the dog park.
That was my brilliant idea. To visit different dog parks and report on their playing as if I were calling a game. I’m not actually a dog person. After a neighbor’s pit bull tackled me when I was about nine, I’ve never been super comfortable around them.
But dogs equal views and clicks.
We’ve timed it well, as the park is crowded. There are at least three golden retrievers, a labradoodle, a few muttish-looking dogs, and a much smaller dog that is barking its head off as if it owns the place. I zoom in with my Google lens to find out that it’s a corgi. Apparently, it’s the kind that Queen Elizabeth had. I know even less about the royal family than I do about dog breeds, so I file that fact away. I do a quick search of the other dogs, just to make sure I’m somewhat believable and so that I don’t look like an idiot.
More of an idiot.
It’s hard to take yourself seriously when you look like an extra from theWorking Girlset while you are using a kitchen spatula as your pretend microphone and talking about the athletic prowess of a walking baked potato.
“You ready?” Carlos is setting up my phone on a tripod, complete with a ring light.
I quickly switch into my shoes, which look like something my grandma would wear to a funeral, and then nod, signaling Carlos to start the timer. I put my finger to my ear as if I’m getting vital information from an earpiece and then lift the spatula, my pretend microphone, up.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter 5: Callaghan
There’s nothing likebeing humiliated on national TV and in front of your college coach to ruin a good mood. At least my parents didn’t waste their time making the trip. Thank God for small favors.
