Tales Of A Drama Queen. Lee Nichols

remodeling.”

      I know she wants me to beg for info, so I play it cool. “Yeah, I saw him looking around.”

      “I told him I couldn’t afford it. And Dad would pop a vessel if I even repainted. It’s the only reason I haven’t taken down the shtetl gallery. I’m thinking of having the lights removed, though. The ones blocking the skylights. And—”

      “Okay, okay! What did you tell him?” I shift roughly, going up Carrillo Hill. “I mean about me!”

      “Hmm?”

      I glare.

      She smiles. “Guess what his name is.”

      “Theodore Bundy.”

      “Here, he gave me his card.” She pulls it from her purse and hands it over.

      I glance down. It’s a classy card. White linen, and embossed black sans-serif font, with his name, the word “Architect,” and a phone number.

      His name is Merrick. Louis Merrick.

      “Watch the road!” Maya yells, as car wheels shriek.

      It’s a good thing Beemers are the ultimate driving machines.

      After I convince the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.

      “So?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”

      “It’s…really a BMW,” she says.

      “1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.

      “Great,” she says, unimpressed.

      Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.

      “It’s great,” she repeats, with a little more enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”

      “Thank you.”

      “And the color doesn’t bother you?”

      Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.