Gandhi's Guide to Getting By

chapter seven

Anne, Shelby and I are hanging out at Stella's tonight. We're having take-out pizza, or at least Shelby, Stella, and I are. Anne grabbed a bite after she finished work at the hospital lab where she's interning for the summer. Rosetta, who is still here, yelled at Stella to make sure she ordered paper plates with the pizza because if she sees one more dirty plate, she's "going to break it on somone's head". She usually leaves by seven, but tonight she's staying later than usual because Bibs decided to make her own grilled cheese sandwich and almost set the kitchen on fire. Stella tells us Frank had to pay Rosetta an extra week's salary before she'd agree to stay and clean up the mess.

The phone rings. We can hear Rosetta, who's in the kitchen, say, "Wrong number, lady," before hanging up. The phone rings again. This time Rosetta says, "Listen, crazy lady, you prank call this house again and I'm calling the police. There's no Rosetta here. You get it or you so stupid you no understand English?"

"Welcome to Frank's loony bin," Stella mutters as she pulls out her phone to see who's just texted her. Her face goes bright with the smile on her face. She settles herself a little more comfortably on the plush couch and texts something back.

"Let me guess," I say. "Greg?"

She nods, the smile on her face only getting bigger. Mr. Perfect, a.k.a. Greg Hastings, is what Stella calls "every ad agency's dream client, the kind who's wealthy, prominent, and doesn't argue bills." Apparently she's had the hots for him since she started work a month ago. All fine, really, except it's a bit weird she's never mentioned him until tonight.

Her not telling us until tonight bothers me. Correction. Her not telling ME bothers me because up until this moment, I didn't think there was anything Stella didn't tell me. She must sense this is what I'm thinking because she makes it a point to now say, "Imagine seeing someone every day for a month and all you say to each other is hi, bye, with the in-between conversation restricted to work. It wasn't until today that I realized it wasn't one sided. It's why I didn't mention him earlter. I figured if my love is unrequited, then forget it. Twenty-four years old and I finally realize there's nothing more embarassing than pining away for some guy who doesn't even know you exist."

I shift, Stella's use of the word "unrequited' a little too close when one considers my love for Josh Keever. Shelby, too, shifts ever so slightly. Only Anne, who is content with being single, doesn't shift.

"Can you imagine?" Stella says. She looks at us without actually seeing us, her vision clouded by the euphoria of one who knows requited love. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed in comfy sweats and sweatshirt, she is the epitome of fullfillment, blissfully unaware of the discomfort Shelby and I, suffering from one-sided-have-no-idea-we-exist affairs, are experiencing. "Here I was thinking he hardly knew I existed and he says, So what about dinner tomorrow night? I don't know how I didn't faint."

For a split second, a part of me wishes that little bitch of my cousin had fainted. Permanently. At least we wouldn't be here, the requited versus the unrequited. It occurs to me the unrequited outnumber the requited. We could take her down, Shelby and I. I look over at Shelby, my fellow, unrequited ally.

"So what are you wearing tomorrow night?" Shelby says, "Maybe the beige dress you just bought with your..."

So much for flimsy alliances.

"Don't answer," Rosetta's voice instructs at the sound of the phone.

"Who is it?" Stella asks.

"Bibs. If she's calling, it's because she needs me to do something and God didn't put me on earth to serve your horny father's sex toys."

Swear to God, this is exactly how Rosetta talks.

"Why doesn't your horny father just fire her," Anne asks.