“Thanks, Mom.” I blow out a big breath. The municipal guard checks my visitor badge, nods, and opens the door for us. The presentation before mine by Mr. Wilson Phillips, whose namenobodythinks is as funny as I do, is concluding.
“And that’s why I hope youse will vote to investigate Sammy’s Steaks, so-called Best Cheesesteaks This Side of the Delaware, for misleadin’ advertising. They don’t even use provolone!” With that, Wilson Phillips saunters away, leaving a trail of mic feedback and a scandalized audience.
The crowd murmurs as Sammy DiFiore, owner of Sammy’s Steaks, makes his way to the podium next. “First of all, Cooper Sharp, or GTFO, am I right?”
The whispering intensifies, the crowd divided on this cheese take.
“Second, half the businesses in this town claim to be the best this side of the Delaware. There’s nothing wrong with pride in your business, and today’s complaint by Mr.Phillips,” Sammy eyes each member of the council, “is another example of the unfair disparagement of my steak shop.”
Council-friend Mike Tonuto, a car dealership magnate, conservative, and Italian man who cherishes his .1 percent Irish heritage for all of March, leans over the desk, his thick, pale lips nearly kissing the tiny microphone head. “Exactly what are you inferring, Mr. DiFiore?”
“Youknowwhat I’m inferring, Mr.Tonuto.” Sammy narrows his eyes. “I’ve been audited, investigated by the zoning commission, andinspected three times this year by the health department.” He glances at the audience. “All glowing scores, mind you. Your steaks are in safe, clean hands at Sammy’s. But the city council’s unfair treatment of my shop must stop! I pay my taxes on time, I’m a good citizen of this town, and I’m sick of being targeted like this.”
The Council-friends exchange wary glances, and Chair-friend Chester bangs his gavel. “The city council will vote on whether to investigate claims of misleading advertising at Sammy’s Steaks at the next meeting. This item is closed.” He bangs the gavel again, which he’s upgraded recently. “Next up, Ms. Wyeth and,” he squints at the agenda, “the Stranger Drugs dispensary?”
I stand, and Julian’s cruel, ice-queen eyes home in on me. A smirk twists his full lips into something fantastically obnoxious. Thisfoolwants to debateme? Doesn’t he remember how I blew his sterling record out of the water? Hot, competitive energy surges up from my core. His eyes register the change in mine, and his smirk turns gleeful.
My palm flexes, Mr. Darcy about to slap a bitch.
“I will annihilate you,” I mouth the words to him in exaggerated, bared-teeth fashion as I walk to the front.Annihilateisn’t the easiest word to mouth, but after a confused pause, he registers my meaning.
The red tip of his tongue presses archly against his upper lip as he feigns consideration of my threat. After a second, the expression resolves into an insolent smile.
“We’ll see, Shoulder Pads.”
I take my place at the podium, ready todestroythis jerk. The audiovisual tech loads my presentation, now visible on a large screen where both the council and audience can see it.
I take a deep, steadying breath, wishing I’d vaped the new strain I got for anxiety rather than broach this straight-brained. Public speaking never scared me growing up—I was great at it, a nationally rankedspeaker in debate. But once Crohn’s kicked in and every stressful event triggered a painful attack, I developed a fear response to the public presentations I used to dominate. Now, microphones equal pain. Attention equals embarrassment. Putting myself out there at all equals quality time with the nearest toilet.
But I can do this. I’ve practiced. I’m prepared. And dammit, it’s terrifying, but I want this. If my dispensary’s future isn’t inspiration enough, now I want to defeat Julian D’Angelo, too.
I straighten my shoulders to their full, padded glory. “Good afternoon, council members and citizens of—”
“Council-friends,” Chair-friend Chester corrects into his mic. “We’re all friends in lovely Sparrow Nook, New Jersey,” he recites, sounding anything but friendly.
“Oh, ho, that we are!” I present a single finger-gun at Chester, then die a little on the inside. He’s a swing voter, oscillating wildly between the liberal left and conservative right withzerowarning, but I’m hoping he’s a stoner at heart. How else can you explain a gun-toting gay conspiracy theorist who wrote in Missy Elliott for president, is obsessed with the Revolutionary War, and only shops at Tractor Supply?
Weed. Ipraythat it’s weed.
Then, there’s Council-friend Min Lee, second only to Julian for the highest person at our Pot Luck due to all the donuts she consumed. She will vote yes. She’s tight with Council-friend Shar, a profit-driven accountant, but I couldn’t get a read on Shar at the Pot Luck. I did learn she’s obsessed with Beyoncé’s country album, though. Ifeelthis means a yes.
Next to Shar is Council-friend Vlad. He owns the tile-and-flooring store and can often be found steaming his hairy chest at his wife’s Russian banya. He has amazing pores and will vote however Mike Tonuto votes.
Last in the line-up is Tonuto. He speaks too fast, calls everyonedear, and works in his dealership’s latest sales event at every meeting. He’s eitherlosing his hearing or strategically deaf to women’s voices—he never seems to hear a word I’m saying. He is profits-driven like Shar, so… maybe?
One definite yes and four maybes. I needtwoof those maybes to get the local license approved.
I clear my throat, wincing at the mic’s feedback. My gut feels like a balloon that wants to pop, but I ignore itandthe pervasive sense that Julian’s laughing at me. Mom beams at me from where she sits beside Gisella, a duo of supportive mom energy in the audience. Eve catches my eye next, standing past the screen. She mouthsmajor top energy, then gestures for me to hurry up.
“As I was saying, thank you for having me here today. I’m Nomi Wyeth, and I’m here to win your approval to open the first cannabis dispensary and lounge in downtown Sparrow Nook!”
“Wait, what’d she say?” Wilson Phillips glances up from his phone where he sits next to Sammy, like they’renotnemeses.
“This lady’s gonna sell weed downtown.” Sammy eyes me and sniffs approvingly. “Looks classy, too.”
“She’s not,” Julian says behind a fake cough.
My eyes narrow, and I’m ready to knock Julian to the floor and press my heel into the sensitive flesh of his neck. Perhaps I should be thankful because, thanks to Julian and his rage-inducing smirk, my nerves disappear, completely consumed by our old, competitive rivalry, and the presentation goes flawlessly. Whenever I feel my energy slip, all it takes is a glance at Julian’s mounting dismay and the pouty set to his mouth, and I’m back. The Council-friends are little deer eating from my palm, asking interested questions between slides about tax revenues, job creation, and the nonprofit Stranger Drugs will fund to expunge marijuana-related offenses from people’s criminal records.
