Sometimes it stunk being second best. Especially when first best was five-foot eleven-inches of all-American blonde
beauty named Monica Starke.
At Ferndale High School Monica had been the “It” Girl. Cheerleader, captain of the debating team, president of the National Honor Society, the lead in the play and valedictorian. She dated the captain of the football team and was the envy of every girl in school.
Jane Brown, barely five-foot tall with mousy hair and unremarkable features, was the salutatorian—something to be proud of for sure—but otherwise relatively invisible. After graduation, Jane waited tables at a Coney Island to pay her tuition at the local community college. Two years later, after enduring umpteen million pick-up lines from married, middle-aged men on the prowl for their midlife crisis trophy, Jane graduated with an associate’s degree. She landed a starting position for just above minimum wage at a small advertising company in Southfield.
In contrast, nothing changed for Monica after she graduated. She still lived a blessed life. Daddy paid her tuition at U of M Ann Arbor and she had a riot playing sorority sister. Monica and the rest of the Gamma Kappa Chis partied morning, noon and night for four years. At graduation, she proudly displayed her certificate for her bachelor’s degree in graphic design and then enjoyed her small graduation gift from her father—a trip to Europe.
After landing stateside again, she snagged a job at the same small advertising company—for quite a bit more than minimum wage. She was dating a billionaire jewelry broker who bought her a house in Birmingham for Christmas and a Lexus for her birthday. On the weekends, they played golf at Oakland Hills and hung out with his rich friends. Gee, what a rough life.
Jane heard about their weekend plans every Friday morning at work and although she tried to pretend that it didn’t bother her, it sometimes did. Life was unfair. Some people got things the easy way and some people struggled for everything they had.
Never the whiner, and normally grateful for everything she had since she’d busted her butt to get it, Jane didn’t complain, and she didn’t sit around and ruminate the injustice of it all. She liked her studio apartment. It was cozy, cheap to heat and all hers, and her subcompact didn’t have leather seats or a built-in game system, but it started every morning and got her from Point A to Point B.
But every now and then, when Monica was bemoaning her latest tragedy, Jane indulged in a guilty pleasure and daydreamed of when she would be best, when she would land the dream account or date a multi-zillionaire. Monica would learn how it felt to be second.
Naturally, Jane knew it would take the act of some god for that to happen, but like dreaming of winning the lottery on Friday nights before the numbers were drawn, it was occasionally fun to think about. And today was one of those days.
It was Friday, not Jane’s favorite day of the week but not her least favorite either. It didn’t start out bad. She woke up feeling rested and ready for the work, her shower was hot—something that didn’t happen too often—and she’d managed to avoid all the major traffic snarls on the way to work. Yet the moment she walked into the office, her Friday took a turn for the worse.
“Do you have a minute?” Monica asked the second Jane stepped in the door.
She knew what those words meant, and frankly she wasn’t interested in ending her week by playing Monica’s therapist. “Wow, you’re here early. I didn’t expect anyone… I have a lot of work—”
Monica pressed her palms together and held them in front of her chest as if she was praying. “Please? You’re the very best friend I have in the whole world and I need someone to talk to. It’s important.”
Liar. She says that to everybody. Jane held back a sigh, walked to her cubicle, dropped her purse and lunch on her desk and sat in her chair. “Okay. But five minutes. That’s it. I’m setting a timer.”
“You’re the best!” Monica pulled up a chair to Jane’s desk and plopped in it. “It’s about the Kelly’s Yogurt account. I was supposed to finish up the coupon layout this week and turn it in today by five, but I had a major personal crisis and didn’t get the chance to work on it. Today’s the two-month anniversary of my breakup with Jason and I was so depressed all week long I couldn’t concentrate on anything—”
Oh boy, Jane could see where this was heading. “Uh-uh. I can’t. If I do your work then my stuff won’t get done and I’ll look bad. Again.”
“Pretty please? It would mean everything to me. I’d owe you big.” Her bottom lip started trembling and the whites of her eyes turned a pretty shade of pink that matched her lipstick and coordinating nail polish. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through.”
Yeah, like no one else on earth has broken up with their boyfriends. “You have my sympathy, really. I’m sorry you’re…suffering…but I can’t afford to be late with this project. It goes to print tomorrow—”
Monica leaned forward and caught Jane’s hand, gripping it tightly until all circulation was lost to her fingertips. “Look, I’mdesperate. What’ll it cost me? I’ll pay anything.”
“It’s not about money.” She tugged, trying to free her hand before suffering any serious damage. Her knuckles were grinding together. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”
“I can get you backstage passes to any concert at Pine Knob.”
She gave her hand another sharp tug but Monica still didn’t release it. “Not into concerts, sorry.” “Box seats at a Red Wings game?”
“It isn’t hockey season. Besides I hate hockey.” Accepting the fact that Monica wasn’t going to voluntarily release her hand, she started prying Monica’s fingers loose, one at a time.
“What born and bred Detroiter hates hockey?” Finally releasing Jane’s hand, Monica dropped her face in her hands and turned on the tears full blast.
Her shoulders shuddered, her breath came in raspy bursts. It was a pathetic sight. Good grief, I’ve seen better acting on those old Godzilla movies. She’d better not quit her day job.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Monica moaned, sounding like something between a dying cow and an overwrought teenager. “I just can’t. You don’t know what it’s like to be me.” Oh God.
“I don’t have anybody. I’m all alone. No one to help me.”
You expect pity? Where’s your zillionaire boyfriend? Where’s Daddy? He’ll take out his checkbook and everything will be rosy. Jane forced herself to pat Monica’s shoulder in a show of support. “I’m sure everything will be all right. Mr. Kaufmann likes you. You’re his top star. He’ll give you an extension and everyone will be happy.” “I can’t ask him for another extension. He threatened to fire me the last time.”
“Fire you? He’d lose fifty percent of his business if you left and he knows it. He won’t let you go.”
Monica fished a CD jewel case out of her designer briefcase and set it on Jane’s desk. “I’m telling the truth. Please? I’m begging. I need this done by today. It’s half finished. It’ll only take an hour or two.” “Then what’s the problem? You have all day.”
“I have something else to do. Something vitally important. Please. I won’t ask you again. I’ll give you all the credit if you want. You’re probably due for a raise, aren’t you?” Don’t I wish. “Well…”
“See? It’ll be good for both of us. I saved the file on this CD.” She slid the plastic case across the desk, closer to Jane. “Come on. You’ll get a raise and I’ll get a break. No one loses.”
She would probably regret this, but what the heck? Only an hour or two wouldn’t kill her. She’d still have plenty of time to finish the layout for the car wash newspaper ad she promised this afternoon. “Okay. But just this once. Don’t ask me again.”
“Oh, I promise I won’t. Thank you! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I owe you big!” Monica leapt to her feet, swept up her briefcase and as Jane watched, charged out of the office, waving over her shoulder just before going out the door. “See ya Monday,” she half said, half sang. “Wish me luck.” Where the heck was she going?
Dread gnawed a hole in the pit of Jane’s gut. She had a feeling an hour or two was a gross understatement.
