Daniel Price - Slick

“In this case, it is.”

“Shit, they call him everything short of a horn dog. And the only three songs of his they keep mentioning by name are ‘Chocolate Ho-Ho,’ ‘Keep Ya Head Down,’ and of course ‘Bitch Fiend.’ But I looked up the album on Amazon. He has at least six other tracks with perfectly respectable titles, including a sweet one called ‘Dear Papa.’ Funny how no one listed that.”

I smiled. “Are we learning?”

“We are freaking.”

“I do notice a couple of green words in the mix.”

“Oh yes,” she replied with perfect wit. “Apparently he’s quite buff.”

I searched my junk drawer. “Okay. You’re doing a great job. So now I’ll throw in one more color.”

With that, I tossed her a pink highlighter. She caught it. “What’s this one for?”

“All the mentions of Annabelle Shane.”

“I see. And what will I learn from this?”

“That pink is worse than orange.”

She yawned again. “All right.”

With an old man’s moan, I hunkered down on the sofa. I barely had a chance to get comfortable before the red phone rang. Crap. I didn’t want to take it all the way back upstairs. Screw it. I’d just talk around Madison. I’d be fine as long as I didn’t call Harmony by name.

“Scott Singer.”

Harmony spoke in a panicked whisper. “Scott. It’s me. I think I’m in trouble.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Some reporter guy just called for me…”

“Andy Cronin?”

“Yeah. But I was out at the store when he called. One of my roommates took the message. Now they asking me all kinds of questions. What should I say?”

“What did you say?”

“I said I couldn’t tell them nothing.”

“That’s fine. Just keep saying that. But listen, the more nervous you act around them, the more nervous they’ll get. So the next time they corner you with questions, deal with them confidently. Say, ‘Look, I love you guys but I’m not ready to talk about it.’”

I could see Madison’s mind working to process the conversation. Who does he keep talking to? Is it business? Pleasure? Both?

“But what happens when the story breaks? What do I say then?”

“You say good-bye,” I told her. “I just talked to our mutual friend. He’s getting you out of there tomorrow. You’ll be set up somewhere nice.”

She squeaked something inaudible.

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.”

“I said I don’t want to lose my roommates. They the only family I got.”

I casually eyed Madison as she worked. “They may freak out a little, but they’ll get over it. When this is all over, they’ll understand. Trust me. These are the kinds of things that only make a friendship stronger.”

God, that was trite, not to mention bullshit. I knew that as soon as the tabloids started waving around the cheddar, all bets were off. I really should have prepared her for the possibility that one or more of her friends would sell her out for cash. I really should have taken the phone upstairs.

“You mean that?” Harmony asked.

“It’ll be fine. I swear it.”

I felt terrible. I’d never been this deceitful with her before. Each fraudulent comment, each creative omission, was a crack in the ice. A few more of those, Mr. Singer, and you’re in for a really cold swim.

But at least she felt better. “Damn, Scott. You always know what to say.”

“Hey, it’s my job. I’m your lifeline.”

She laughed. “I’m gonna keep this phone with me forever. So, like, twenty years from now, when I’m in a jam, I’m still gonna call you up and go ‘Scott! What do I do?’”

It was a cute thought, but I knew Harmony wouldn’t be under my wing forever. In the media world, you tend to grow up fast. I figured in a week she’d be a black belt at this. By Presidents’ Day, she’d be permanently speaking in eight-second sound bites.

Meanwhile, under my other wing, Madison continued to highlight all the mentions of Annabelle Shane. Once I closed the phone, she threw me a teasing grin.

“Girlfriend?”

“No thanks.”

“Come on. Who was that?”

I folded my hands over my chest and closed my eyes. “My mother.”

“You told me your mother was dead. You said it like an hour ago.”

“Okay, then it was your mother.”

“Somehow I don’t think so.”

“Well, she sounded like your mother.”

“Fine,” Madison said. “Sorry I asked.”

I suddenly remembered something Jean told me. “Hey, your dad’s a college professor, right? I mean your real dad.”

Madison eyed me warily. “I know who you’re talking about. And yes. He is.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but how does he teach classes? I mean being deaf and all. Does he use special technology, an interpreter, or what?”

She smiled coyly. Oh, look who wants information now?

“You ever been to D.C.?” she asked.

“I used to live there.”

“Me too. There’s a school there called Gallaudet. It’s a famous deaf university. They pretty much do everything in sign language.”

“Ah. I get it now.”

“My dad’s been teaching there for twenty-five years. Why do you want to know about that?”

“No reason. Your mom mentioned it in one of her e-mails and it made me curious.”

“I see,” she replied frostily. “So you guys aren’t just talking X-Men. You’re talking ex-spouses.”

Clever girl. It was definitely genetic.

________________

Last night, at the stroke of midnight, I had replied to Jean’s Z-shaped note with a Y-shaped apology for not getting back to her sooner. Unable to resist the thematic convergence, she quickly countered with an X-shaped tribute to her favorite team of comic-book mutants. Very cute, but the text-sculpting thing was getting old. So instead of burying my next message under a great big “W,” I discussed my favorite X-Men (Beast, Rogue, Storm) in words of five letters or less.

Never one to be outdone, she described all the things she loved about her namesake heroine, Jean Grey, in words of four letters or less. That may seem like an easy task, but try to keep it up for more than a line or two. It’s very, very hard to pull off. And yet she had sent me a flat-out full-page mash note, just ripe with hep puns, fun gags, and sly bon mots. And she did it all in no time.

The challenges only got harder from there. Anagrams. Palindromes. Cryptoquotes. Syllacrostics. As long as the game didn’t involve phonetics, she was indomitable. The English language was her bitch, and so was I. I did everything I could to keep up but she threw me around the virtual room, breaking every lamp and mirror. By the end of the lightning pun round, I was begging for mercy. Please. No more. Need rest…

And yet Jean had barely broken a sweat.

Wow, Scott! That was an AMAZING run! As you’ve noticed, I love these kinds of word games. Sadly, few ever want to play with me and the ones who do, sadly, suck at it.

So thank you! It’s been ages since I’ve had a good mental challenge. It makes a nice break from all the emotional ones.:)

In response, I admitted I was feeling somewhat mentally-challenged myself. But in her own gracious style, she waved me off.

Oh, stop. I told you I had the natural advantage. And I learned from the master. Not only was my first husband twice my age and IQ, but he was also an English professor. He wiped the floor with me (literately, not literally). He found my tenacity to be “cute,” but all I wanted to do was wipe the smug off his mug.

So I kept taking him on, losing and learning, losing and learning, until that ONE FATEFUL DAY…ha ha ha.

He divorced me. Typical man.

(Shit. I’m never going to hear from you again, am I?)