Chapter One
My name is Evangeline Lyle, but nobody except my parents uses my full first name, and only when I�m in trouble. Everyone just calls me Eva. I�m 17 years old, soon to be legal, and I have called Panama City Beach my home for all of my life. Rajani says that I look like a siren, but that�s a stark lie. I�ve got chocolate-colored hair, or so the hair dye bottle tells me, brown eyes, and pale skin that refuses to tan no matter what. Rajani is the real siren at Tiki Shack. She�s Indian by way of London, with rich caramel skin, jet-black hair, and brown eyes. Men stare at her longingly, even the middle-aged married fathers surrounded by a brood of annoying young children begging for candy. Those same men simply pass me over like I�m part of the tacky scenery.
Tiki Shack is the place Rajani and I work after serving our eight-hour prison shifts over at Panama City Preparatory School. Yes, that�s right, a prep school. The biggest problem now is commuting. I have to commute 13 miles per way, twice a day, five days a week. I think there�s something worked out where my parents get reimbursed, because every so often my debit card has more money on it and I don�t know how it got there. I digress.
�Nothing is happening,� I observed at the lack of any customers. �I�m taking a break now.� I took up my worn grey backpack, filled with textbooks and notebooks, and pointed out the back door to the beach.
�No problem,� Rajani responded in her oh-so-cool British accent. �I�ll keep watch.�
On the way out, I wrote that I was taking a break on the official time sheet, protocol required of me by my crazy, scarcely-seen boss. I found a small nook on the beach and set off to work. Today, it was time to work on Algebra 3, something that never excited me in the first place. I dove headfirst into some sort of intense equations and became engulfed in the work, kicking out of my sandals in order to become more comfortable.
A wise man whose name I forgot once said that it is possible to feel the exact moment when your life changes. Does having a freak wave wash your cheap sandals out to sea count? My concentration was shattered when the waves lifted my shoes away. I dropped my book before realizing that my shoes were never coming back, and they were probably bobbling around in the sea somewhere in Mexico by now.
�Well, shit,� I remarked, hoping that there would be an extra pair somewhere in my car. Just as I settled down with my equations once more, the waves lapped at my feet again. Out of sheer reflex, I let out a girlish squeal at the water, but what happened next elicited a pure gasp from me. Along with the waves came�a guy? The books were abandoned in favor of him. It became clear that he was attempting to surf after seeing his relatively new board lying a few feet away. Right now, I wasn�t too concerned with the guy�s board. I was concerned with him. He was pale, just like me, wearing baggy board shorts from some big-name surf company, with his dark brown hair with blonde highlights all messed up from the sea. At the moment, he looked like he was sleeping. I�m sure this guy was just thrown around by the waves a bit too hard, but I was the only person around and I had to do something.
I slapped him.
It always works in the movies! A few good slaps to the face of a person who�s inhaled too much water always makes them come back to normal. It worked, too, which was good for me because I never learned how to do the Heimlich maneuver. The guy violently coughed up a good amount of water and looked up at me with some gorgeous blue eyes.
�You okay?� I asked, crouching on my knees to see. He looked confused at first, probably because I was still dressed in my full uniform (except shoes and socks). Panama City Prep has us girls wear a white button-down collared shirt with a blue and green V-shaped tie, a matching blue and green skirt, and some sort of stuffy penny loafer shoe that I always kicked off as soon as the day was finished. This was, after all, the beach, where most people wore either bathing suits or cute dresses designed to be worn until it was time for the bathing suits. It�s safe to say that he was confused.
�Yeah, I guess I am now.� He coughed once more and sat up. He had a Southern accent.
�It�s a red flag day,� I said, scolding him. �Don�t you know what that means?� He shrugged. �You must be new.� I offered him my hand. Looking puzzled still, he accepted and I pulled him up to his feet. He was only a few inches taller than me, which is great because I�m only five feet and three inches tall.
�Sure. I fucked up.� The guy shrugged.
�Red means no surfing unless you feel like tempting fate.� I packed up my backpack. �Come on, I help run a little snack place. We�ll get you some water or something.� Heaving, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and waddled up the beach, barefoot, back to the Tiki Shack. Once I got back, I turned around and saw this man obediently followed me all the way back! Bewildered, I got back into the shack through the employee�s entrance. Rajani was lounging around, reading a Harry Potter book and looking deep in concentration.
�Just get me a Diet Coke,� Surfer Man told me after I got to the front counter. Nodding, I retrieved one from the old refrigerator we use to store cold items and brought it over.
�75 cents, please,� I said with a smile, silently wondering where the hell he would get that money from. I mean, I know sometimes guys� swim trunks have pockets, but with the waves out there? Forget it, nothing�s going to stay in those pockets. Sure enough, he reached into his like there would be something in there.
�Um�� His face changed colors. �I don�t have the money.� He stared longingly at the Diet Coke, then looked at me, back at the Coke, back at me, and I think I saw a light go off in his head. �Tell you what. How about I pay you back for that Coke by taking you out to get some food?�
In the back of the shack, I heard Rajani drop her book in shock.
�Sure, like dinner or something?� I asked, playing with my hair.
�Yeah. I saw a place around here that looked rustic. It said something about warm beer and ugly waitresses.�
�Barnacle Bill�s,� I said helpfully.
�Right, that place. I�m going to go home and clean up real quick. How about I meet you back here in twenty minutes or so?� His voice told me that he couldn�t be from around here; nobody talks like he does around here. Somehow, I found that cute.
�Uhhh�sure.� I wanted to say more, I really did, but for some reason my mind was working at the speed of molasses. I smiled at him and he smiled back before running out of my line of sight.
�Eva!� Rajani squealed, leaping up from her chair. �Eva, honey, you just got asked on a date!� She placed her book in her chair and came over to engulf me in a congratulatory hug. I could smell the mango shampoo she used and I knew she was trying to be happy for me. At that moment, my mind was eight million miles away. I was preoccupied with thinking of the future, as I�m prone to doing. I was merrily imagining the fact that, technically, I was going on a date. It all seemed too sudden. My head fogged, I ambled out to my car in order to find some better shoes to go with my uniform. I didn�t feel like driving home to change, but I found a pair of blue Chuck Taylor shoes hidden under the passenger seat. Silently clasping my hands together in thanks, I laced them up and went back to the Tiki Shack.
�Well?� Rajani asked expectantly.
�Well, what?� I asked in reply.
�Aren�t you going to like, rush home and change into something cuter than your school uniform?� Rajani wondered aloud.
�No, I don�t plan to.� I shrugged. My house was 30 minutes away from here, and I really didn�t want to be late or drive over the limit because I was still waiting for my paycheck in order to pay off a blasted parking ticket.
�The least you could do is put on some makeup.� Now I knew Rajani was simply nagging me. She always looked so perfect, immaculate, never any imperfections about her, and she wore a full face of makeup. Sometimes, she would have to put it all on in my car while we were commuting to school, but it was always on. Because of this, she believed makeup was the best thing to ever happen to women. I�ve never worn makeup much. I don�t have time for it in the mornings before school, and that could be why no man finds me attractive. To appease Rajani, I hurriedly swooped on some lip gloss, signed out, and headed for my car.
It was starting to get dark, the sun steadily setting and turning the sky into a brilliant canvas of colors. It was really quite beautiful. I was too busy staring at the sky, so I almost ran into the side of my car. Oh yes, my car. I haven�t discussed this in full yet. I call it bonkura, which isn�t just a bastardization of the word bonkers. Bonkura is a Japanese term that translates to �Numbnuts�. My car�s on its last legs. It�s a 1987 Honda Civic hatchback, meaning that we are roughly the same age. It�s very discouraging to be the same age as your car. It�s a sort of blue-grey color, and I�ve decorated the back bumper with stickers of all kinds. I sighed, heaving myself into the car and smoothing my skirt down before buckling myself up. The passenger area is relatively clean, though the pile of fast-food wrappers is getting a bit too unruly. The back is pretty much my extra mobile storage space. Who knows what all is back there? I sure don�t and you would have to pay me to excavate it.
Did I mention Bonkura is a stick shift? My dad felt that it was important to teach his little girl how to drive manual transmission and manual cars just happen to be a bit cheaper than automatics because nobody knows how to drive them. So, I started up Bonkura and put it in reverse, careful to avoid hitting any of the other cars in the lot. We, as the Tiki Shack employees, have to park in the parking lot of a nearby hotel because cars don�t mix well with sand. I�ve never hit anyone before.
I put it in first gear and set off towards Barnacle Bill�s. I usually despise places like that, fake fisheries constructed only for the amusement of tourists, but something seemed so utterly appealing about the fact that I was going to meet a man there. I felt like saying �in your face� to all the snobby girls at school who said I would never find someone while I set Bonkura into second, then into third, and finally into fourth to drive down Front Beach Road. Sometimes, I have to drive along at about 25 MPH because some tourist rented a motorcycle or some sort of goofy golf cart contraption and they�re putting along, unaware that their top speed is about 15-20 and there are normal cars behind them. Thankfully, none of those odd vehicles were here tonight.
Barnacle Bill�s, a �dilapidated old shack� weathered by paint, varnish, and more than a few hurricanes, faced the beach, providing a beachside playground for all the bratty little uterine dumplings to romp around in. Fake plastic fish and fishnets draped the exterior and some mix of the most heinous music ever was piping in through a loudspeaker. I parked Bonkura, got out, messed around with my hair a little, and went inside.
Inside, I was hit with too much at once. There was a crowd, a large dinner crowd, my least favorite kind of crowd. There was the heinous music, now playing three times louder. There was the visual assault of even more tacky d�cor lining the walls. Finally, there was the noise. It was so noisy, I couldn�t hear myself think. My heart soared into my throat. I really didn�t want to be here.
�How many?� a grumpy young waitress asked. I know why she�s grumpy. She works in the foodservice business just like I do. We get paid in the high peanuts to deal with idiots and bitches all day and all night long.
�I�m looking for someone,� I said apologetically. The waitress nodded me into the dining area, where I started to nervously scan tables in the hopes of finding that man�s hair. A new thought flooded my brain, the thought that I saw him with his hair wet. Now, his hair was probably dry, and it could look different. Nervous, I plodded on, fully aware that people were staring at my schoolgirl getup and saying things. I gulped. I really didn�t want to be here.
�Hey! Schoolgirl!� a male voice called, and I whirled around to see that man sitting at a table with an absolutely picturesque view of the Gulf of Mexico. His hair was dry, and it was clear that he paid attention to how it looked. It was sculpted into brown spikes that protruded from the top and sides of his head, and I usually don�t like guys with spiky hair too much, but something was fundamentally different about him. Now, he was wearing a white button-down collared shirt with the tails sticking out, a thin black tie lazily knotted around his neck. This was paired with pants that had holes and such, but these were real holes, not pre-made holes cut in by the Bangladeshi woman who makes only 3 cents an hour making $50 pants for Abercrombie and Fitch.
�Hi,� I said breathily, slipping into the booth across from him. �I�m Eva, by the way, not schoolgirl.�
�Eva. That�s a pretty name.� He smiled. �Unfortunately, you don�t get to learn my name.�
�Ah, why not?� I asked casually.
�Only three people get to know my real name: me, my mother, and God. Everyone else just gives me a pseudonym.�
�Well, that�s super,� I said sarcastically.
�I�m going to cut straight through the small-talk bullshit and tell it to you straight,� he said, leaning in close to me across the bare table. �I�ve got a business proposal for you.�
�The Tiki Shack already has locations up and down the Emerald Coast.� I�m told to say that.
�Hah! No, I didn�t mean your workplace. I mean you, and just you.� He pointed to me and I noticed that he had no food. Was he expressly waiting in this restaurant for me to show up?
�What do you mean?� I asked, trying to find some clarification. His eyes darted around the restaurant.
�It�s not safe to talk here.� I wanted so much to make a catty spy joke, but his eyes reflected how serious he was. �Come on, I�ll take you somewhere safer.� I nodded my head to show that I would follow him along to wherever he wanted to go. I also noticed an empty basket of the soft rolls of bread Barnacle Bill�s serves free to each customer while their real meals are still cooking. Shrugging this off, I followed him out to the parking lot.
�Hey, I�ve got to come back here sometime,� I started, speaking quietly. �My car�s parked here.� I pointed in Bonkura�s general direction.
�That�s fine. I�ll bring you back here,� the man without a name responded and I believed him. �Come on, I�m over here.� I walked behind him, obedient, not questioning where he was taking me. He took out a set of jingly keys and pressed a button on a remote�wow, he has a remote�to unlock the car, making the lights on a slick new Honda Civic flash.
�Nice car,� I commented.
�Thanks,� he replied, walking over to the passenger side and opening my door. �After you, Schoolgirl.�
�I said not to call me that anymore!� I protested, turning red as I sat down in the nice, comfortable leather seat. Damn, this car is nice. He�s got a 6-disc CD changer, air conditioning that works properly, automatic and power everything�this is my dream car. I just now realized it. He sat down in the driver�s seat (he has no idea how lucky he is) and set off.
�Do you like the car?� he asked when he saw my face.
�It�s my dream car. So, where do you live?�
�I live nearby, in a big high-rise loft place.�
�You mean Orangeville?� Orangeville is, well, it�s a mixed-development community on the beach. There�s condos, apartments, and lofts, all in a big orange building. Thus, the name. Orangeville is pretty much brand new and it�s somewhat pricey because it�s in high demand. My mom�s a real estate agent and she routinely talks about places while we drive by them.
�Yeah, Orangeville.� It was a relatively short and smooth drive down to Orangeville and during that time I fiddled with every single lever and button available to me. I think it made this guy laugh a bit, but I couldn�t really hear it over the sound of the window rolling itself down. Honestly, I was acting like such a little kid in a candy store!
�All right, we�re here. You can stop playing with my car now.� Was he angry about that? I couldn�t tell, but I stopped anyway. He unlocked the doors. �Okay, follow me over to the elevator.� Lit by two soft yellow lights was a series of mail boxes, presumably for those in the apartments, a set of stairs, and a set of shining steel elevators. As I walked towards them, I heard the soft chirp of a car alarm being set and the waves crashing on the shore. This would be a great place to live if I weren�t so tired of this city.
�Nice place,� I commented as he pressed the up button on the wall after looking in his mailbox.
�Sure. It�s good.� His eyes darted from side to side. What�s up with this guy? We got into the elevator together and only when the door shut did he start to talk. �Look, I�m sorry for not saying much, but I�m afraid of being overheard. The truth is that my vocation has to do with life.�
�Life? What, like a doctor?� I asked without thinking.
�No, not life really, more like death.� He must have seen me get alarmed. �No! I�m not going to kill you. Really, I�m not. Why would I want to when I am interested in you? I mean to say that you could be my associate.�
�Associate? Associate assassin, you mean?� The pieces were coming together.
�Sure, and you should really consider putting that on a business card.� He looked around from side to side again as the elevator swooped open and deposited us in a quaint little hallway, dotted with doors. His door bore the number 2677 and he took out a key to unlock it, still looking around every few seconds.
�What�s with the constant vigilance?� I asked.
�You can�t be too safe,� he replied, kicking the door with his foot so that it would open all the way. It opened into a loft with high ceilings, sparsely decorated, but still very nice. There was a soft carpet on the floor of the main room. On one side was the kitchen area and on the other side was a small staircase leading to a bedroom that overlooked the rest of the loft.
�Nice place.� I walked over to a row of large windows that overlooked the beach. �How much does this view run you?� I tapped the window with my finger. Damn, I really need to re-paint my nails. The paint�s getting all chipped.
�Pardon?� he asked, going for the fridge.
�This view. Is it expensive?�
�No, it comes free with the house.�
�Ah! I�m using realtor-speak again. Here, I�ll translate into English for you. Because you have a good view, is your rent higher than people who don�t have a beach view?�
�Yes. But I don�t care. I�ll pay the premium if that amazing view is what I get for it.� He shrugged and poured himself a glass of iced tea, coming over to me. �Come on, have a seat and we�ll talk business.� He gestured to a blue couch, a glass coffee table, and another blue couch. I sat down on one of the couches, he sat at the other, and we talked over iced tea.
�So, let me get this straight. You say that you want me to help you out in killing those who have done you wrong?� I asked, raising my eyebrow to the sky. �Why don�t you just move?�
�Because�I like this place. If the fuckers who don�t like me can�t leave of their own accord, then I will make them leave. That�s all. I just, I just think that I need some help. I can pay very well.�
�Yeah, I can tell.� I mean, the loft, the high-definition television sitting on the wall, the Apple computer humming away softly in the background, this couch, this guy�s got some money.
�What do you think, Eva? I can teach you everything you need to know about being safe and still doing this job. I know you want to live past�um, how old are you, anyway?�
�Seventeen,� I replied, muttering. �But�I want to take the job anyway. I hope my age doesn�t hinder me.�
�No. No, age isn�t anything but a number. I mean, I�m just 23, so we�re both young as far as life goes.� He smiled. �I�m happy to hear that you want the job. Here, let�s exchange cell phone numbers, just in case I need to get in touch with you.� From his back pocket, he took out a thin black flip phone.
�Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!� I exclaimed. �Is that a Razr?� A Razr is defined as: an incredibly expensive, nearly flat as a piece of paper cell phone. It has electroluminescent keys, meaning there�s no buttons, just some sort of touch sensor thingies built under the phone with glowing areas to indicate which button you�re pressing. I think it runs about $400 to $500. It should go without saying that I don�t have a Razr. In fact, I have a flip phone, sure, but it was free with the family plan and is beaten up slightly.
�Yeah,� he said with a small shrug, as if to indicate that ownership of this item was no big deal. �It�s no big deal.�
�No big deal,� I muttered, taking out my phone and seeing the myriad of scratches on the lid better than ever before. �Okay, here�s my number. Are you ready? It�s 850-553-7854.�
�Ready for mine? It�s 850-553-7859.�
�No way! Ours are so close together. That�s really weird.� I finished entering the number and was prompted for a name. �What should I call you, Mister Pseudonym?�
�Mister Pseudonym just doesn�t roll off the tongue very easily. Well, since you�re working for me now, I have a novel idea for a nickname. How about Boss?�
�Works for me.� I keyed in the name Boss, then had a look at the time display on my phone. �Mothershitter! It�s time for Lost. I have to go.�
�What? You have to go back home to watch a TV show?� Boss asked, gesturing towards his TV. �Come on, why don�t you stay over here to watch it? You can go home after it�s over.�
�All right, let me call Mom real quick and tell her I had to take another shift at work. I�ll say Rajani got sick and had to take off.� I stepped out into the hallway and said these exact words into the phone. Mom believed me and was reassured when I estimated that I would be home around 10:30. Remember, my workplace is 30 minutes from my house. Knowing that there wouldn�t be a lecture or punishment waiting for me at home, I sat down on the couch facing the TV. �I love this show.�
�Really? I do, too.�
�No, Boss, now you�re just yanking my chain. Aren�t you?� I asked, looking over, but Boss shook his head no. �Whoa, call CNN! I�m like the only one of my friends who watches this.�
�Now you�re not.� Boss smiled.
�Are you saying that you�re my friend?� I brightened up slightly. It�s always good to make a new friend.
�Sure! I think this is the beginning of a good friendship.� Boss sipped some of his iced tea and settled in to watch the show with me. Is any of this really happening? As soon as the episode was over, and I was once again gushing about Sawyer, my favorite character, I realized that it was time to get back to Bonkura and drive back home.
�Hey, um, I gotta go. It�s a long way back to my house.� I pointed at the door.
�Yeah, I heard. I�ve also been hearing a terrible lot about that Sawyer guy.�
�What, you don�t think he�s hot?�
�I�m hetero, thanks. I prefer Kate, anyway.�
�She�d look much better if she showered.�
�Sawyer would look much better if he showered, too.�
�Hey, he looks just fine when he�s all grimy.�
�Whatever you say. Come on, I�ll take you back to that barnacle place.�
This time, I was too tired to fiddle with buttons. Instead, I just sat and looked out the window the whole way back to Barnacle Bill�s. Sure, I�ve lived here all my life, but there�s still something so appealing about this place, even if it is a complete tourist trap and nicknamed The Redneck Riviera. I can�t quite put my finger on what is appealing, though, because it gets lost in the details. I can�t see the forest through the trees.
�You�re not playing around with things,� Boss pointed out. �Why�s that?�
�Tired,� I replied monotonously. �After I see Sawyer, I get tired.� I smiled. �Besides, I gotta wake my ass up early in the morning to drive to school. 13-mile commute each way. I carpool with a friend, though, so it�s all good.�
�Okay, I�ll drive faster. But I want to follow you home.�
�Whoa! That sounds creepy. Why?�
�I�want to make sure you�re okay. I have a habit of losing friends in car accidents.� Boss looked down at his feet for a fleeting moment.
�Oh, that�s fine.� I softened slightly because this guy seemed genuine. It wasn�t much longer to Barnacle Bill�s, which was good because I had no idea how to breach new conversations after the zinger about losing friends. We arrived and before I got out of Boss� car, I thought of something. �Hey, if I�m going to, you know, be an assassin, um, do I get a gun or anything?� I wanted to know.
�Yes, yes you do. But it�ll all come in due time. I�ll call you with further details.�
�Okay, just try not to call from about 8 to 3 on weekdays, because I�m at school and they�ll take up my phone if they hear or see it.� I shrugged. For some reason, telling him this sounded completely stupid, like a rule about not taking someone else�s blanket when it was nappy-time. �Their rule, not mine.�
�That�s no problem.� The car pulled into the lot at Barnacle Bill�s, which was still fairly crowded. �Damn, how many people in this place want to eat seafood at 10 at night?�
�You�d be surprised.� Boss parked his car near mine, and the side-by-side comparison was embarrassing. We both have Civics, you see, but like I�ve said before, mine is 17 years old. His is less than 1. Fuck, I�m jealous. Instead of commentating on this, I left the car and thanked him for the ride, jumped back into Bonkura, and immediately rolled down the windows. I should really see about at least getting the lack of air conditioning looked at by a mechanic. I started up the car and slipped in a CD of sugary Japanese pop. You wouldn�t expect that from me, would you? I mean, with the way I look, dress, and act, when it comes down to music, I prefer the harmonization of 10 teenage girls to some guy screaming over the same guitar riff over and over. It�s all a matter of personal preference, I suppose.
I left the parking lot to the opening notes of a rock-style song about love and protection and started down Front Beach Road. A quick look in the rearview mirror answered the question of �Was he for real when he said he�d follow me home?� The answer is yes, he�s right behind me. At a red light, I grin and wave. A gaggle of tourists are staggering back to their hotel after a long day and they wonder what I�m on listening to the music I�m listening to. Undoubtedly, they like the R&B and rap crap that the kids at school can�t get enough of. At least these girls can sing.
It�s a long but straight journey back to my house and eventually we make it back. We have a double carport, but Bonkura doesn�t go in there. Mom�s minivan is on the left and Dad�s sporty little thing is on the right. Bonkura parks on the street. So I moved over as far as possible without nicking the curb and parked, got out, and waited for Boss to see that I was okay. When he saw that I was, he waved and pulled back out into the street, turned around, and went back towards Orangeville.
If I were sneaking back into the house, I would use the door in the back of the house, facing the beach. Tonight, I�m not being sneaky, so I went ahead and used the front door. The light in the living room was still on and Mom and Dad were watching some show together.
�Hey Mom, hey Dad,� I said as I placed my keys on the key table. The key table is exactly that, an oak end table we found for $5 at a yard sale. Mom�s keys have keys to the house, her car, Dad�s car, a remote entry thing in case the keys don�t work, and little plastic cards to all sorts of places, like Blockbuster and Publix. Dad has simply the keys to his car and the house. I have the keys to the house, my car, a plastic toy of Ai Kago (one of the singing girls I mentioned before), a bronze logo of my school that they give to all graduating seniors, and a toy dolphin.
�Hey, baby,� Mom said gently.
�Did you eat already?� Dad, the cook of the house, asked. Did I? I nibbled on something at work, but I didn�t eat dinner. Boss whisked me away from the only restaurant I visited before I could order anything.
�No,� I replied honestly.
�Well, there�s chili in the microwave. Just zap it for about a minute and do what you want with it.� Oh, Dad makes the best chili ever. He makes it with tofu crumbles because Mom�s a vegetarian, but I eat it too. He uses a ton of black beans, some green peppers, onions, salsa with more onions and peppers, and the customization options are to add sharp cheddar cheese, sour cream, and cornbread pieces. Sure, it�s about 85 degrees outside, but any time is chili time. Almost without thinking, I made my chili the way I liked, poured myself a glass of water, and went downstairs to my room.
I live in the basement. The word basement has a negative connotation, but remember, my mom is a realtor and her best friend is an interior decorator. It�s furnished and finished. The walls are blue and so is the hardwood floor�man, that was hard to paint. I have a purple couch, a bed with purple bedspread, and a big purple area rug with a soft cuddly Hello Kitty pillow. There�s an oak computer desk, three bookcases because I love books, an iMac G4 on the desk, and a giant painting of a geisha that Rajani�s mom painted for me. Right by my bed is a flat-screen TV mounted on a chest of drawers and a PlayStation 2 on the floor. My bed is up against the wall, with the headboard right below a big window. Part of my bedroom is actually just slightly above ground and I reap the benefits with a rockin� view of the beach. I try to keep my room clean, but let�s be realistic here.
I shed my uniform and threw it into a hamper, replacing it with a matching pajama set illustrating a cartoon cat face. The cat has a yellow feather sticking out of its mouth and the caption �Bad kitty�. Now in my pajamas, I went over to my bathroom�if it weren�t for the kitchen upstairs, I could live down here entirely�and brushed my teeth, put my hair into a ponytail, then settled into my bed. I reached for the remote and immediately turned on the TV. I can�t really get to sleep without the TV turned on, but it has to be on very quietly so I don�t dream about whatever they�re saying on CNN. I set my alarm clock and started drifting off almost immediately�
CONTINUE to Chapter Two
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