"Just keep a closer eye on him than usual. Watch his back. Report suspicious people hanging around. Be our Jenny on the block."
"My name is Jessica, douchebag. What if I refuse to cooperate with you?"
The affable expression on the agent's face is replaced by impassivity, made worse by his ice-blue eyes. "You're gonna want to make a deal with us, Jessica. We know who you really are. We can keep you out of prison. There is no statute of limitations on murder, you know."
I try to stare him down, but he's got mad staring skills, so I fold. "Let me take a picture of your ID so I can call the field office and check if you're legit."
* * *
In my twenty-eightyears of living, I've discovered that an established routine is my key to success. When my body is running on endorphins, and I'm flooded with post-workout testosterone, I feel six inches taller and can challenge anyone to a fight and win. After I shower and everything goes back to normal, another persona takes over my body.
I become a twitchy, spastic, eager-to-please ninny who's also neurotic and paranoid that anything that's supposed to go wrong will go wrong because goddamn it, why should I catch a break? God decided years ago that he hates me and will do everything to make my life miserable. I'm the modern Job. I hope I don't get leprosy.
So, of course, I oversleep, step on my poor dog again in panic, jump into the shower only to realize I had already showered after my workout just hours before, and jump out again, this time with wet hair.
The clock tells me I have eight minutes to make it to the bus stop, so I get dressed at warp speed, only to find that Kinzi had barfed on my shoes.
Why wouldn't she?
I've stepped on her twice in a matter of hours. I put on shoes that don't quite match my outfit and decide to leave the vomit cleanup for later, even though it's going to make my whole apartment stink.
I run to the bus stop with wet hair and shoes that pinch a little because I haven't worn them in a while, arriving just as the goddamn bus was pulling away.
The next bus is scheduled to come in seven minutes, which means I'll be seven minutes late on everything today. On the bus, I prefer to sit up front so I can get out as quickly as possible. Today divine providence has decided to bless me with a seatmate who is as congested as the 405 Freeway at rush hour and seems to be working up enough mucus in his throat to lubricate the Suez Canal.
As my mild OCD kicks in, I press myself as tightly as I can to the window and wish I had a raincoat to protect myself from spittle. I’m going to have to start wearing a mask, so I don’t breathe in other people’s particles. Thankfully, I soon arrive at my destination with fifteen minutes to spare before work.
I stop by the coffee shop in the lobby of Neptune Holdings to pick up my usual breakfast of café au lait and a chocolate croissant. When I get to the head of the line, the girl at the counter tells me she gave the last chocolate croissant to the kid about to walk out of the shop.
I can't allow another aspect of my life to go wrong today. I tell the cashier to hold on and run after the boy with the backpack.
"Hey kid, come here. Kid with the Jansport!"
The boy stops and looks at me. He's maybe fourteen or fifteen. About ten pounds overweight. A smattering of adolescent pimples on his chin and cheeks. "What do you want, rando? I'm gonna be late for school."
"I'll give you ten dollars for that chocolate croissant."
He gives me a look of disgust. "What kind of asshole says 'KWA-sawnt' instead of cross-ant? Fuck off, lady."
"All right, I'll give you twenty for that…." I take a deep breath. "Cross-ant."
He holds up the bakery paper bag and takes out the pastry goodness. "You mean this 'KWA-sawnt'?” He drags his tongue over the entire back of it. "How much will you pay for it now?"
I tell myself I shouldn't practice my high kick on a bastard kid half my age. "Karma will get you, you little shit. I hope you die a virgin." I turn back to the coffee shop.
"And I hope you die alone with only your cats to mourn you and eventually eat you!"
I grit my teeth. These fucking zee-lenials have no respect. Goddamn TikTok generation. Back in my day, we only had Myspace.