This Is How It Happened (21 page)

My brother is what you’d call an “idea man.” An innovator. Six months ago, he came up with an idea to provide free rehab services to disadvantaged youth. Particularly black and Mexican kids from the east side of town.

“Not everyone can afford rehab,” Ronnie told me, over one of our cheeseburger dinners. “It can cost thirty grand a month at a good place,” he’d said.

His plan was to provide drug counseling sessions and a distinguished speakers series for troubled teens. And he’d do this at zero cost to the family.

His only problem—and it was a doozy—was lack of funding. Free drug rehab is good in theory, but not so good when someone’s got to pay the bills.

Ronnie figured he’d deal with the money issue later. “I’ll go knocking on doors if I have to,” he’d said. He recruited me to help him devise a new slogan.

“I want something new. Something fresh. Something that’ll stick, Maddy,” he instructed, as we munched our juicy cheeseburgers. My brother rarely asked for a favor, so I knew it was important to him. He even sprung for the burgers. And so, because of this, I brainstormed for a full month.

The “Just Say Yes!” to Sobriety Campaign was the slogan I came up with. My brother wanted a slogan with “staying power.” Something that would attract private donations and help advertise the new program. I did a glossy color brochure and got my old graphic designer from Organics 4 Kids to help design it. I even dipped into my emergency money from Henry to help pay for the set-up.

I go see my little brother at the rehab center.

His office door is decorated with a new poster. It’s a cheesy poster—a family of dolphins swimming underwater. A daddy dolphin, mommy dolphin, and baby dolphin. “Every day is a miracle,” it reads.

Ronnie knows I’m coming because the security guard has buzzed me through. My brother opens the door wide. “You’re never going to believe this,” he says, smiling broadly.

I know what he’s about to say.

“We got the money!” he says, grabbing me in a bear hug. He lifts me off the ground and swings me in a circle. He’s that happy.

“The money?” I ask, as if I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“For the ‘Just Say Yes!’ campaign,” Ronnie says. And I see his face is beaming. “An anonymous donation, Maddy!—Twenty thousand bucks!—enough to pay for everything! Books, materials, advertising—the whole works! We’ve rented out the community center—and we’re starting classes in two weeks!”

My brother sighs and shakes his head back and forth. As if he can’t believe the enormity of it all. He drops into his swivel office chair. “Finally,” my brother says, lifting a finger in the air. “These teenagers can ‘Just Say Yes!’ to sobriety.”

“That’s terrific, Ronnie.”

“Can you believe it, Maddy? An anonymous donor. I bet it’s a former addict. Somebody famous. Maybe an actor, or musician,” my brother muses.

Move over Bono, I think. I’ve got Carlton Connors. My new secret weapon in the war on drugs.

As I anticipated, Dick was able to sell Carlton’s bike and wristwatch in a jiffy. And after taking a percentage for himself for what Dick referred to as his “carrying costs,” I had my favorite hired gun direct the rest of the money to my brother’s “Just Say Yes!” Donor Fund.

“I can’t believe it,” my brother says. He looks up at the crucifix on the wall of his office and crosses himself. “God heard my prayers,” he says.

I think of Carlton. Of the way he loved the Lance Armstrong training bike. And that obscenely expensive watch. I think of how he’d roll up in the driveway with the bike, take off his helmet, and say something ridiculous like, “I’m invincible.” I think of the way he always flashed the watch in meetings, and when he met a new woman whom he found attractive or a man whom he found threatening, he flashed the watch as if it were a Swiss bank account.

So, I think of the bike and the watch and the twenty thousand dollars I’ve secretly donated to my brother’s drug abuse crusade, and for some reason, I smile. I don’t know why—maybe it’s the devil in me—but I can’t help myself. I wish I were the type of person to forgive and forget. But apparently, I’m not.

Carlton will buy himself another bike and another wristwatch, pronto. So, as much as I’d like to think I’ve delivered a mortal wound, it’s just a bee sting.

“Come to the first meeting, Maddy,” my brother says. He grabs his cigarettes and offers the pack to me as a joke. I reach for a cigarette, another joke. My brother snatches the pack away. (We do this a lot.) He shakes a cigarette out, lights one up.

“Come on, Maddy-go-laddy. I want you to see a miracle in action,” he says, his eyes wet with tears. My teenage drug crusader for a brother. My tough brother. Smoking a cigarette and crying tears of joy.

“I’d love to,” I say. And I really would.

I meet Heather at The Tavern for a quick drink after work.
Her work
—not mine. Heather does a part-time gig at the Neiman Marcus outlet store. She’s seven months pregnant and still manages to pad around the store and sell cute designer blouses. Meanwhile, I’m gainfully unemployed and I’m not even carrying baby cargo.

I’m too embarrassed to go crawling back to Henry, so I’ve been spending my days toiling away at Kinko’s. Trying to recreate my portfolios. My plan is…not to have a plan. I’ll start interviewing when the money runs out.

Heather and I slide onto barstools.

“What are you ladies drinking?” the bartender asks.

“Diet Coke,” Heather says.

“Vodka. Neat,” I say.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve decided to join the party people,” he says.

“Make it a double,” I say.

Heather looks at me, her face serious. She tugs at the diamond stud in her ear, an anniversary gift from Michael.

“There’s something I think you should see,” she says, under her breath.

I throw back the vodka. Straight up. Like I’m from Moscow or something. No cranberry juice, no ice. Nothing to take the sting away. Yep, I’m onto the hard stuff now.

Heather pulls a magazine from her messenger bag and slaps it on the bar. It’s a copy of
Young Entrepreneur
.

My heart jumps.

Carlton.

On the fucking cover.

His arms crossed. And…

I gasp.

He’s wearing the T-shirt with my Discount Lunch card program logo.

My organics school kids are smiling in the background. Precocious. Cute as buttons. And dressed in the T-shirts with the new logo.

“Why CEO Carlton Connors Does the Right Thing—”
the title screams.

I cup my hand to my mouth. Suddenly I feel nauseous. The vodka is sticky in my throat.

The pages tremble in my hand as I flip through the magazine. More photos of Carlton. And I know what’s coming next. But when I see the words, I can’t believe it.

R
EPORTER:
“How did you come up with this novel idea, Carlton?”

C
ARLTON:
“The fat content and preservatives of the typical school lunch program has gotten a lot of press in the past few years. I decided to do something about it because parents deserve more for their children. Child obesity in the United States is becoming a major health epidemic. I saw a fundamental need in our society—a need for healthy and delicious school lunches—and I tackled it.”

R
EPORTER:
“How do you respond to critics who say your school lunches are too expensive for the average working family? That only wealthy parents can afford them?”

C
ARLTON:
“As you know, organic food is more expensive to produce and bring fresh to market. However, I’ve created a new lunch card program for single, welfare mothers and other parents with limited resources. I call it the Discount Lunchcard Program.”

“OHMYGOD!” I shout. The magazine drops from my hands and falls to the floor with a thwap!

Heather jumps in her chair and accidentally knocks her glass over. It spills across the bar.

“Maddy! What is it?” she says, mopping the soda with a handful of cocktail napkins.

“He told me they’d thrown out all my files! The housekeepers. On accident. And I believed him!” I cry out.

“I don’t understand,” Heather says. She’s looking at me now and chewing on her lip.

“He stole my marketing files out of my desk! With all my ideas. And my portfolio books!”

“What do you mean, Maddy?”

“The discount lunch card program—I never TOLD Carlton about it! I’d just come up with idea before we broke up. I was still working on the proposal…running all the numbers…It was in my desk. He said the housekeepers threw everything out by accident!”

Heather shakes her head back and forth. “You should sue him.”

“I don’t have any proof. It would be his word against mine. I don’t have any documents, any backup files, nothing…” my voice trails off.

I turn and stare at Heather. I can feel my face burning hot red. My eye is twitching uncontrollably.

Heather rubs my shoulder and shoots me The Look. The dead dog look.

“I’m so sorry, Maddy,” she murmurs.

My mind twists and turns like a criminal’s. Late at night, I do a drive-by. Carlton’s new townhouse is in the posh Heights neighborhood. His car is parked outside. Well, well. Mr. Big Time CEO has traded in his old Honda for a slick, black 7-series BMW. I know the new car is his because I see his stupid sunglasses hanging from a clip on the visor. He’s got a vanity license plate that reads “CEO.” And a bumper sticker with the organics food logo on it, of course.

Hmm.
Bumper stickers. Another idea from
moi.

I park my car two blocks down the street. My heart is beating wildly, as I get out. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I just move. With the stealth of a ninja. The night is my friend. The darkness hides me. I’m a foot soldier. A mercenary. Waging my own private war.

I sneak down the street toward the BMW. The windows of the townhouse are dark. I guess Mr. Big Time is fast asleep. He always did need a solid nine hours.

“Romeo’s beauty sleep,” I used to call it.

I reach the car, and check up and down the street, slyly. It’s three in the morning. No one is around.

I consider breaking a window, but the alarm will surely go off. Inside the BMW, I see a flashing red light on the dashboard.

Who cares about a broken window, anyway? What kind of revenge is that? A broken window is a two-hundred-dollar repair. A nuisance, sure. But not much else.

I suddenly wish I knew more about cars. Like Angelina Jolie in
Gone in Sixty Seconds.

If I knew more about cars, I’d cut the brakes. Like they do in the movies. Of course, knowing Carlton, he’d slide right into a prime parking space, instead of into a tree.

Bananas in the tailpipe?
I don’t have any bananas.

Sugar in the gas tank?
I don’t have any sugar.

In fact, I don’t have any tool whatsoever. What the heck am I doing?

I turn and hurry back to my car. Deflated. Dejected. The wily coyote unable to catch that wascaly wabbit.

But suddenly I remember something. One thing I do have. I smile, turn on my heel, and shoot back to the BMW.

I remove the stickpin from my hair, and let my hair fall around my shoulders. It’s the stickpin Carlton gave me when we first started dating. A cheap rhinestone thingie.

I bend down toward the tire.

Reaching my arm back, I jerk it forward, hard. Stabbing the tire with the pin.

The tire doesn’t budge, but the pin snaps in two. I look down at my hand, at the two pieces of hairpin lying side by side.

How apropos
, I think.

I consider leaving the two pieces of hairpin next to the tire—a little note from yours truly. A symbolic gesture.

Of course, Carlton would probably just run over the damn thing. Or if he did notice the two broken pieces of stickpin—I mean,
really
notice, I still don’t think he’d get the point.

I jog back to my car. My hands are covered in black soot from the tire. I dust them off and flick the pieces of hairpin in someone’s trash.

After jumping into my car, I drive cautiously down the street. I realize I’m tired. I’m tired of this. Tired of trying to win a battle I’ve already lost. I should just give up. Tell Dick it’s all over.

I glance in my rearview one last time and see Carlton’s new BMW parked at the curb. The “CEO” license plate.

Suddenly I see Carlton. Walking out to his car. And…he’s not alone.

My heart drops into my stomach. I pull over to the curb and turn off my lights.

Through the darkness, I watch as Carlton opens his trunk. He’s with a woman, and when she pivots to the side, I can tell from the melon-sized breasts, it’s definitely Nathalie.

I hear the sounds of yelling. A man’s yell.

Carlton.

Nathalie looks like she’s crying up a storm. She’s pacing around Carlton, her arms crossed over her chest.

I watch as Carlton pulls a small overnight bag from his trunk and points down the street toward my car. I duck down and consider speeding off, but then I realize he doesn’t see me. He’s pointing at another car. A taxi rolls down the street past me.

Carlton waves his arms over his head and the cab pulls over. Nathalie opens the back door, and Carlton, gentlemen that he is, drops her overnight bag on the ground. He stalks back into the house.

Nathalie grabs the bag in a huff and disappears into the backseat of the taxi.

Thoughts of Carlton drop away, and I’m suddenly worried for Nathalie. She doesn’t deserve this. No woman does.

I decide to call Henry tomorrow on her behalf because I know Carlton just fired her.

All men would be tyrants if they could—

“It’s time to do something big,” I say, gunning the accelerator.