The water has cooled and I shiver as I rush through washing my hair and my body. I feel a lot more human and a lot less barfy after I'm clean. Exiting the bathroom I find Amie has tidied my apartment.
The garbage and dirty dishes that were stacked in the sink and on the counter have either been thrown out or washed. My sheets have been changed, and the pile of clothes on the floor is now crammed into my laundry basket.
"You didn't have to clean my apartment."
"Well you sure don't seem capable of it. You look like hell. I'm taking it the audition didn't go well."
"Not unless I was trying out for a part in The Exorcist." I flop down on my bed, the energy it's taken to bathe requires me to be prone again.
"What do you mean? What happened?" She hands me a steaming mug with a slice of lemon in it. I set it on the nightstand, unsure if I can stomach the last thing I hurled.
I give her the abridged version of the events, including the worst parts, like the projectile vomiting.
"Oh lord."
"Yeah. I don't think I'll be getting another audition with that director unless I officially change my name."
"Do you think it was food poisoning? Oh God. Is this my fault?" She claps one hand over her mouth in horror and grips the arm of the chair with the other.
The well-worn chair is one of the few items in this apartment I actually own. I've had it since freshman year of college. I bought it from a thrift store in a show of rebellion against my father, who disapproved fully of my plan to pursue a career in theater. He still footed the bill for what my scholarships didn't cover in tuition. And he dropped money in my bank account that I obviously used along the way-just not for furniture.
"It's not food poisoning. Some random guy mistook me for someone else and jammed his tongue down my throat when I was leaving the party. Then he coughed in my face and his date accused me of being a slut."
"Pardon?" She drops her hand and gives me a disbelieving look.
I can understand why it sounds crazy-and realistically, the whole situation definitely is. Again, I have to wonder if karma is responsible for this. I explain the entire thing from the beginning.
"So this is my fault."
"How are you responsible for some random guy mistaking me for his date in a semi-dark hallway?"
"They were probably my guests."
"It's still not your fault." I close my eyes for a few seconds and consider whether or not I can tolerate food yet. The thought of chewing exhausts me.
After a long pause Amie asks, "When was the last time you asked your dad for money?"
It's an odd lead-in question considering my current state. "Not in a while. Why?" Amie knows how much it burns my ass that I'm still reliant on him at all. For the past five years he's been taking care of my rent, and some of my other expenses. When he threatened to cut me off a while back I opened another account, including an additional credit card and a small line of credit.
My plan was to be able to put away some money on my own and not use his so I could show him, once and for all, that I'm capable of surviving without his bank account. Unfortunately, with the recent lack of paychecks, I've had to use my credit card more than I'd like. And my line of credit.
"Are you by chance planning to move, but forgot to tell me?"
"If I was moving out of this craphole you'd be the first person I'd tell." I have no idea why she's asking me this.
"I was afraid you'd say that." Amie sighs and pushes up, crossing over to my desk-which she didn't bother to clean-and picks up a piece of paper. I live in a studio apartment that's about 350 square feet so it doesn't take much for her to retrieve it. "I hate to bring this up right now, unfortunately, it's kind of a big issue that needs to be managed."
Huge, block letters spell out LEASE TERMINATION NOTICE at the top of the page, followed by a bunch of legal jargon outlining the parameters of my lease agreement and the date by which I have to be out of my apartment, which is five days from now.
I read the blah-blah-blah between the TERMINATION and the date of my lease's expiry. The last three checks have bounced.
"This doesn't make any sense." My father's new secretary-the one he's not married to-puts money in that account every month to cover the rent.
"Maybe you should call your dad."
I drop down on the edge of the mattress. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. "I'm going to call his secretary." I pull up my contact list and scroll down to Yvette. She's only been working for my father for the past six months or so. I preferred his previous secretary, unfortunately I have a feeling my stepmother may not have appreciated her youth or her bubbly personality. Yvette is significantly older.