It would be so that the gods of irony would decree that I would arrive home from gaining my first job to find Michael's voice on my answering machine. There it was, the blinking red '3' situated on the bookshelf between the Mary Higgins Clark paperbacks and the battered edition of the Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Now one or two messages in a few hours was normal, but that one extra number was enough to announce the vocal presence of Michael.
I tossed my purse and the remainder of my Wendy''s meal on the couch and let the door slam shut behind me——the lady down the hall whose name I had yet to learn would probably whine about that tomorrow. "Michael," I muttered. "Why are you calling me?" The number 3 continue to blink.
A mirror hung over the television set. An odd place for a mirror, but it was a convenient enough position to check my appearance during the commercial breaks of Smallville. Oh, but Tom Welling deserved the best from me. Good thing the actor was older than the character. I paused before the mirror and brushed a stray blonde lock back into place. Now I looked perfect. As usual. Though the lipstick needed replacing. Well, Michael didn't deserve lipstick while I listened to his message. After all, I hadn't seen the boy in almost a month. Yes, one month next week. Kendra and I had booted him out of the apartment during the middle of slip-covering the couch. Michael had never understood decorating.
The couch, speaking of that, looked great. Bright yellow. Sunflowers were my favorite, and Kendra, my artsy friend who liked to dabble in Trading Spaces impersonations, had set to work on the living room. Now my apartment was not fantastic by any means, nothing to boast of in Better Homes and Gardens or Lucky. One bedroom, one bath, most space devoted to a little kitchen/dining room/living room. Well, I was young and single and hadn't exactly been raised in the lap of luxury, so cheap rent suited me fine. Now with a yellow couch and murky mirages of sunflowers pressed into a sandy wall, I thought the place was downright gorgeous.
I picked a piece of chicken from my teeth. Yup. Gorgeous. Just like me. No wonder Michael was calling.
I was going to feel very stupid if there were no message from Michael.
The first message was from my mom. Probably calling to chew me out about Michael. She had actually liked him, the crazy woman. The second call was a wrong number. I deleted it. Could no one hear the perky "You've reached Tansy Bryner!"?
And the third was, surprise surprise, from Michael.
For an eternally long moment my finger hovered over the 'delete'. He hadn't called me in a week. I had almost dared hope that he would finally give up and leave me alone. Just maybe. That was the irritating thing about Michael. Most guys might pester you for a few days or even a week after the breakup and then move onto the next thing-in-a-skirt to waltz into Wal-Mart, but not Michael.
"Tansy, baby kitten, it's me," said his voice.
"Me who?" I replied, knocking a picture frame out of the way. I usually kept an emergency lipstick on the bookshelf.
"Tansy, I know that you said it was over, but I can't stop thinking about you. I know that you said you never wanted to see me again, but I really think we should get together and talk."
"You probably want the iPod back." I found the lipstick. Boy, but it could be satisfying talking to a machine. "Well, the iPod is mine now! And all the songs of yours on it."
"You see, I found your old N'Sync CD in my car last night, and it made me think so much of you. And our song."
N'Sync did not sing our song. "We never had a song, moron. 'Sides, that entire CD is on the iPod." Oh, how I loved his iPod. Now I had been fond of Michael, while we were dating. Though I had never felt the way about him that I had felt about Jeff. But that mistake had been two years ago. But Michael's iPod, the one he had bought just two weeks before our breakup, now that I loved.
"You know I still care about you." His voice was pleading, a pathetic state for something so annoyingly deep and husky. ""At least, I want you to know that. I want us to be able to work through this."
I squeezed the lipstick over my lips and pressed. "Don't count on it, Michael."
"Bye, baby kitten."
I hit the 'delete' button. "Night, Michael." I flopped onto the couch. Smallville wouldn't be on for another two hours. Was that so pathetic of me? Devote a Friday night to watching Smallville? Reasonably, I should be gathering the girls together for pizza or video, or maybe even dancing. I hadn't been dancing for so long. I had a job, albeit one I had no clue about. But I had never been the one to ask too many questions. All in all, that deserved a celebration!
But somehow I didn't feel quite up to it. The girls would have to wait for a celebration.
My purse lay next to me, half open. The box Mr. Maser had given me poked out. I pulled it out and stared at the box. Far too slender to be a normal curling iron. I pulled off the lid.
Inside lay a long white stick.
No image of a page of beauty supply catalog jumped up in my mind. This had no plug, no switch. It was a stick. I pulled it out and tested it in my hand. Testing for what, I had not idea. But it was smooth, heavier than expected. It set it back on the table. "So, Mr. Stick, what do you?"
It continued to lie there.
Now this was unacceptable. I had barely graduated high school and college had been a complete mistake, but if there was one thing I knew, it was beauty, and I knew beauty. But I still had no idea what this thing was. "I know you're hiding something. I know you're important."
My clock radio ticked in the background. A perfect soundtrack to…… a stick.
I leaned back into the couch and sighed. This wasn't right. Mr. Maser had hired me because I was a licensed beautician. He obviously wanted a beautician. He even said something about that in my job description. At least that's what I thought it alluded to. But apparently that man was crazy. Crazy because all he had given me was this psychotic stick. But it had to be something I knew. A curler? No, too long. A curling iron. Nothing like I had ever seen. Perhaps it contained a little something extra to be added to the dye chemicals when they were mixed. Maybe. I continued to stare at the stick. It had to be something.
The stick suddenly jolted. I screamed.
The jolt came from the door. Knock loud enough on that thing and the entire place rattled. I grabbed the stick and shoved it back into the box. How embarrassing. Me in here talking to a stick. It was probably the crazy lady down the hall. It was probably Michael.
The door opened, and in stepped a walking pack of pink carnations and white baby's breath with a giant box of chocolates. "Delivery for Miss Tansy Bryner. Aka 'Baby Kitten.'"
"That would be me." Did he see anyone else in the room?
A face appeared around the flowers. The guy wasn't even that cute. "Here ya go. They're from a Michael Laub."
"Of course." The purse was still in my lap. I fished out a crumpled dollar bill for tip and took the flowers. I hated carnations. He didn't even know what my favorite flower was. At least the chocolate was okay. Chocolate was always okay.
The breakup with Michael hadn't been exceptionally dramatic, I suppose. Just the usual things, us going our separate ways. It just wasn't working. Except he couldn't see that. The thing is, when a guy was out of my life, he was out of my life. I don't believe in the whole friendship thing.
I grabbed the fairy tales book and opened the chocolates. It was one way to spend a Friday night. Worked for me. Lie here, eating trash, and reading about Prince Charming. What more could a girl want?