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6. My father, hoping I have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday. Which is great, except that I turned twenty-six today. But since it’s my birthday, I’m choosing to be magnanimous. (He’s never gotten my age right. Once he gave me a birthday card with my name spelled wrong. But at least that meant he’d addressed it himself.)
7. Ling Su and Perin. I totally made it a point not to mention my b-day to anyone at work, so I have no idea how they remembered. This is an example, though, of Perin’s extremely high-level organizational skills, and why I’m glad I hired her.
8. Ex-high-school-nemesis Lana Weinberger (I mean Rockefeller. So hard to remember that she goes by her married name now).
This was surprising since I haven’t talked to Lana in ages, even though she lives just up the block from here, on Park and Seventieth (in Penthouse L, as she always makes a point to remind us. She even had it emblazoned in block letters on her monogrammed wedding and baby announcements).
Lana left a long, rambling message about how we need to spend more time together because Best Friends Are Forever! and it’s been way too long and she knows I’m super involved with this “after-school thing” I’ve started for “all the juvenile delinquents” (even though I explained to her last time I saw her that it’s a community center open to all students in the five boroughs, not just ones with criminal records), but couldn’t I “take one day off from being a politically correct do-gooder to get a mani-pedi and bikini wax, for old time’s sake?”
“Also,” she went on, “there’s something really super important I need to talk to you about, just a teeny tiny favor that only you could help me with, Mia, so can you please call back as soon as possible? Okay, bye-yeeee bitch!”
The good thing about being in one’s midtwenties is that you know nothing bad is going to happen if you don’t return people’s texts and voice mails . . . especially the texts and voice mails of people who probably only want to use you for your fortune or political connections.
9. Shameeka Taylor. Shameeka wanted to say how sorry she is about the protesters (who are gone today, thank God. I guess Grandmère was right—either that or Cousin Ivan only paid them to protest for one day) and that everything is going well with the new boyfriend (even though he was only supposed to be a one-night stand, but he makes such amazing breakfasts that she’s decided to let him turn into a thirty-night stand) and she appreciates my wearing the red Vera suit (she does marketing for Vera Wang) to the benefit for victims of Hurricane Julio.
• Note to self: Did she send me the suit, or did I buy it? I seriously don’t even remember. Check into this.
Am I doing so many public events these days that they’ve all begun to blur? Am I slipping into early-onset dementia? How early does early-onset dementia begin, and what are the symptoms besides forgetting where my clothing comes from? Is one of the symptoms a twitching eyelid?
Or is it the Tylenol PM? I know I’ve only just started taking it, but seriously, I can’t even remember falling asleep, let alone any of my dreams.
And finally:
10. My ex-boyfriend J. P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV. I can’t believe he had the nerve to contact me.
Oh, wait, I forgot: he’s J.P.
Anyway, he posted the following on my Instagram (where, of course, EVERYONE can see it).
And even though at the restorative yoga class I took with Grandmère to prove to her that yoga isn’t so bad and she should do it to improve her joint health, the yogi said that hatred bars the path to spiritual enlightenment, I really do hate J.P. Or at least dislike him a lot:
Mia, I’ve been following you on social media. May I just say I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become? You look more beautiful every day. I don’t understand why Michael hasn’t proposed yet. I’m sorry the press is now calling you “Why Won’t He Marry Mia.”
Really? He had to bring that up? Also, he had to mention that I look great, nothing about everything I’ve accomplished, like founding the Community Center or the op-ed piece I just had published in the Wall Street Journal?
Then he made things worse by listing his own accomplishments.
I’ve been keeping quite busy! As you know, I’ve always had a creative side. Screen- and playwriting have always been my thing in the past, but to my surprise, this winter I was inspired to write a novel! Even more surprising, it’s a YA novel set in the dystopian future featuring a love triangle centered around a racially diverse, strong-minded heroine who is also suffering from radiation poisoning.
Of course it is. Because J.P. knows so much about all of those things, being a white male who has never suffered from radiation poisoning and doesn’t know anyone who is racially diverse (except Shameeka and Ling Su and Tina, and they stopped being friends with him long ago, after what he did to me).
The words just seemed to pour out of me. I think it might even end up being a trilogy!
Of course.
Since you’re a published author, Mia, I was hoping if I sent Love in the Time of Shadows to you, you’d read it and give me your thoughts, and also perhaps send it on to your editor. (Do take your time, I know how busy you must be, especially dealing with your father’s arrest. And I was so sorry to hear about Frank, by the way. Please give my regards to your mother.)
Of course he had to bring up my stepfather’s death and my father’s arrest. BECAUSE IN HIS MIND THESE TWO THINGS ARE EQUALLY BAD.
OMG, I seriously hope J.P. gets radiation poisoning, then has to go live in the dystopian future.
Oh, wait. Maybe he already does:
Unfortunately things haven’t been going so well for me recently either. My latest film, which I wrote and also produced and directed, Nymphomania 3-D, was not well received by critics (or audiences). I am really in the hole to my investors, and have been forced to take a job working here in the city at my uncle’s company. But I won’t bore you with the details!
Too late.
Thank you, Mia. Despi
