Good Luck, Fatty

since she’s still on graveyard) and the piles of crumpled tissues in the wastebasket. “Are you guys gonna find out the sex?” I say, imagining a baby girl with Denise’s kind, oversized eyes and a boy with Orv’s twitchy, lopsided grin.
    “Oh, gosh no!” Denise exclaims. “That’d ruin the surprise!” She reaches over and squeezes Orv’s knee. “We’ll be happy with whatever the good Lord sees fit to give us.”
    “That’s the right way to look at it, I guess,” I say, hoping with all my might that, if there is a divine power, he/she/it grants Orv and Denise a trouble-free pregnancy and a healthy infant.
    For a second, I think of asking about potential baby names (Hell, I’d even had a few monikers on deck during those terrifying weeks I’d thought I might be expecting), but Buttercup’s throaty purring soon lulls me into a hazy, day-dreamy sort of sleep that doesn’t let up until our car hits Gramp’s weed-cracked driveway.
     

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    As it turned out, the goodie bag I received for participating in the Yo-Yo was pretty useful. Because the minute Orv, Denise, and I got home, I slapped the purple flea collar onto Buttercup’s neck (he’s always scratching at some elusive itch or another, and now that he’s officially part of the family, we can’t have him infesting Gramp’s house) and, with my handy new tweezers, dug a few errant shards of gravel out of the road-rash I’ve got splashed up and down both legs.
    Then I hit the hay for, oh, eighteen hours, waking up fifteen minutes before the start of my shift.
     

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    Lex Arlington’s tiger-mobile is parked smack dab in front of The Pit, its newly washed and waxed sheen (where did he get a job like that done around here, the bus depot?) nearly blinding me as I hitch the Schwinn to a tree.
    “It’s a definite possibility,” Harvey is saying to Lex as I waltz in. “Although I think there are some adjustments to be made.” Harvey leans across the counter and shoots me a nod of recognition that excuses my tardiness. “Bobbi.”
    “Hey,” I mumble.
    “I remember you,” Lex says, eyeing me with curiosity. “You were a lot… bigger before, right?”
    That’s one way of putting it. “I’ve lost a few pounds, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Lookin’ good,” says Lex. He reaches for my arm and starts twirling me, so I go along for the ride. (Maybe he’s practicing for an upcoming stint on Dancing with the Stars? )
    “Thanks,” I say, flushing with embarrassment.
    “We were just hammering out the details of the second annual Yo-Yo, to benefit The Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation,” Harvey informs me.
    You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. “Yeah?”
    “Yup,” says Lex, looking peacock proud. “This is kind of…what I do now.”
    Maybe he’s got a public relations problem, I think (pessimistically, I know). Maybe he’s trying to cultivate a wholesome image to replace his reputation as a self-absorbed cad.
    Or he’s just a nice guy.
    “You’re going to change the rules, aren’t you?” I ask Harvey, the image of Duncan pedaling around like The Wicked Witch of the West suddenly popping into my mind. “So nobody can have, uh, modified bikes next time?”
    Lex grins, shakes his head. “That guy’s a piece of work,” he says about my father. “I have to hand it to him, though: He makes a mean-ass racing machine. We could use a guy like that back in The Hills.”
    Hollywood? He wants to take Duncan home with him? “No, you can’t,” I say matter-of-factly. “He’s unstable.” And I’m not so sure this isn’t the truth. I turn to Harvey. “Mind if I use the phone?” I haven’t spoken to Tom since I lost him in the Yo-Yo.
    “Knock yourself out.”
    I sneak around the counter and head for the back, at the last minute calling over my shoulder to Lex, “It was nice meeting you—again!”
    “Likewise!” he yells back.
    I don’t know what I was expecting (something a bit neater than this, I guess), but the office is in complete disarray, the remnants of Scott’s and my goodie bag adventure still scattered among many, many of Harvey’s to-do projects.
    I smush a pile of sales receipts against the wall and drag the phone to the only clear spot on the desk. Then I punch in Tom’s number and wait, pinching and unpinching the phone cord between my thumb and forefinger like an accordion.
    “Hello?” Tom says, sounding as tired as I felt before my sleep marathon.
    “So,” I say, diving right in,