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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.”
My company. My baby.
“Wow. Good thinking, Mimi. Yeah, maybe we should set that up. I mean, I don’t know about them accompanying us on the actual date, but I can talk to them about it after.”
Mimi looked at me with approval. “Okay. I’ll get in touch with my 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 we start turning a profit.”
Amen, sister.
When pulled up in front of our office 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.
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—”
I deleted his message without hearing the rest. He wouldn’t even be in the damn country if it weren’t for me. He had a career, a great apartment. Probably an occasional date, although I couldn’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 was 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.
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 citizen would get one once married to a US citizen.
In fact, one of my girlfriends married an adorable French guy. I’d figured, how tough could it be? And it seemed easier than donating 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 was baffling.
“Okay, Mom.”
She sighed. “How’s the company, sweetie? Are people catching on to your product? You know, the idea of being told when your child has a dirty diaper as opposed to the way we did it in my day does sound…like it has potential. Much better than waiting till you smell something awful or the kid starts wailing. I suppose.”
Fortunately, she couldn’t see my eyes roll.
“Yes, Mom. People are starting to learn 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?
