Gandhi's Guide to Getting By

chapter thirteen

"So you're going to tell her, right?" Stella looks at me, her blue eyes intent on my face. Her blonde hair is tied in a loose ponytail. She's wearing a simple sleeveless black summer dress which hugs her solid body nicely, Stella not one to ever pick up a dress and then, on one of those maybe-if-I-lost-ten-pounds second thoughts, put it back on the rack. "Right?" she repeats.

I look at her. Sometimes she's like a little kid who has to be reassured every few seconds. Or maybe it has nothing to do with reassurance. Maybe it's connected to some A.D.D. issues that were never diagnosed and therefore never treated. "How many times are you going to keep asking me the same question?"

"I just want to make sure we're on the same page," she says. She takes a sip of her water. "What?" she says.

"What do you mean what?" I say back.

"You're staring at me."

She's right, I am staring. I can't figure out if it's just me or if there's something weird going on with her skin-tone. It's not the porcelain white it usually is. For some odd resaon, her skin seems to have an orange hue, but maybe it's the sun playing tricks on my eyes.

"What?" she looks down at her dress, then her arms. "What are you looking at?"

"Your skin looks sort of orange."

Stella rolls her eyes upwards. "Don't worry about it and don't try changing the subject. So we're clear, you're--"

"Yes, I'm telling her," I cut her off. I reach for one of the three menus the waiter has left on the table. Mama Gina's was Jen's idea. They have a nice outdoor terrace. We were lucky to get the last table outside and so what if it's a little too close to the neighboring table where two older women sit.

"Remember, I'm here to back you up," Stella says. She nods a thank you to the waiter who has just placed a basket of Mama Gina's famous homemade garlic bread on our table. "Think of me as your bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?" I put down my menu and just stare at Stella who's practically finished garlic bread slice number one. "Will you please quit making this out to be a bigger deal than it is."

Stella shrugs, her mouth too full to talk. I look at my watch. Jen's a few minutes late and I have to be at the Young office in an hour. My make-it-sound-like-we-support-affordable-housing speech isn't "up to par" according to Justin Jaspers. It was supposed to be ready last week, but then something came up with Young so she didn't need the speech as a.s.a.p as she thought she did, and then something else came up. I finally left it on Justin's desk yesterday because I was tired of holding onto it. He phoned me first thing this morning to voice his displeasure. "Emma," his deep, I'm-so-important voice said, "I'm afraid we have to have a meeting about the speech and then I'm afraid you'll have to rewrite it. Council Member Young has very specific points to make on this issue which you have failed to address. Well maybe Council Member Young should be writing her own speeches, Justin. Ever think of that, you self-aggrandizing prick. And maybe Council Member Young should be answering her own e-mail. What do you think of that, you stupid pompous asshole and by the way, you know Franco, the janitor? Well he's running for president too and he's about fifty times better-looki--"

"Emma? You okay?" Stella's eyes are wide open.

"I just voiced my thoughts out loud, didn't I?"

"You did indeed," Stella says.

"Hmm," I say as I pretend renewed interest in the menu.

"You okay, Stella? Maybe this dating service and writing speeches thing, not to mention your guilt over Matt--"

I tell Stella to shut-up on the guilt. The two ladies next to us have stopped talking to each other, their eyes on me. "Maybe you can talk to her," Stella says to them.