Chapter Six. The Post-It Note Promise #2
“Well, then you’re fucked.” Playfulness gleams in his eyes, and he wets his plump lips before breaking into another cheeky grin.
We hold each other’s gaze for far too long before he walks over to my desk and roots through his PRADA fanny pack.
I move away when I catch a hint of his weird, eau de wet dog cologne and feel his warmth radiating too close for comfort.
He discards tissues, a fancy French hand cream, and a luxury black credit card on my desk before pulling out a pad of Post-it notes.
“I’ll give you the money to escape your mob boss up front.
My accountant will call this afternoon to work it out,” he says.
He snags a pen from the jar on my desk and jots something onto a Post-it note.
He straightens from being hunched over the desk, peels the note off the pad, and extends it toward me.
Scrawled across the paper, in what has to be the messiest penmanship I’ve ever seen, is:
IOU $23,500
—F.Song
A sound halfway between a laugh and an incredulous gasp works its way out of my throat. “What’s this supposed to be?” I blink at the note, bewildered, as he thrusts it toward me again. Fed up with my refusal to accept his offering, he slaps the note onto my forehead.
I peel it off as he says, “If you feel like I’m goofing off, you can leave at any time. Hand me this IOU, and I’ll send you what I owe. No strings attached. Unless you wanna attach strings…”
“Um. I’m sorry … You can’t hand me a sticky note with an IOU for twenty-three thousand dollars! That’s not something people just … do!” I exclaim.
“I wanna prove to you that I’m committed. You can leave if I’m not taking it seriously.” He sticks his pinkie finger toward me. “Pinkie swear.”
I fight an eye roll, but he doesn’t retract his finger and, instead, stares me down. I heave a sigh and, on the exhale, hook my pinkie around his.
I get a wire transfer for $16,501 with the note “the extra $1 is a treat” at 4:00 p.m. on Wednesday, and by 4:30 p.m., the bank has sent me confirmation that they’re processing my $12,506.
95 payment for the Center. We’re not out of the danger zone, but we’re not going to be foreclosed on. It’s a win.
I exit out of email and refocus on cramming my clothes, sketchbook, laptop, some books, and my wallet into my backpack. It’s a tight fit, but I manage to successfully zip it in the end.
Jo lets herself into my bedroom. I sigh when I see she’s wearing the embroidered District 12 hoodie she bought me for my birthday. She hands over the suitcase she uses to transport her belongings to and from residential school.
She’s letting me borrow it to haul Ginger’s supplies. Packing my things was easy; I basically only have four outfits, and my two forms of entertainment are reading and drawing. Packing for Ginger is the problem.
She needs bowls, food, grooming tools, poop bags, toys … Her list is longer than mine.
And I can only fit a few days’ supply of kibble in the suitcase, so I’ll have to track down a pet store that carries her brand of food at our first tour stop.
Jo sits with me as I arrange Ginger’s things like an elaborate jigsaw puzzle. She pokes me to get my attention.
“You nervous?” she asks.
The one time I’ve been out of the country was when I drove three hours to Vancouver, British Columbia, for a book signing by my favorite author, but I’ve never been on a plane.
Sure, I’m a little nervous, but with Ginger by my side and all travel expenses being paid by someone else, I feel oddly prepared to venture outside my bubble.
Despite my initial resistance, maybe even a touch excited.
“I’m mostly sad I can’t spend all summer with you.” I pull her into a side-hug, and she rests her head on my shoulder, sliding a Y-shaped hand between us—the sign for “same.”
After a few seconds, she scoots away and smirks. “Can you bring me a signed album?”
“What would you do with an album? You can’t hear, remember?”
“Wow! Funny!” She reaches out to smack my arm, and I dodge her with a laugh. “People buy signed DAYDREAM albums for, like, $1,500.”
My eyes widen. I’d rather stub my toe every day for a year than ask Felix for a signed album and, god forbid, for him to think I’m a fan, but evidently, there’s a lot I’d do for money. I can put my pride on the back burner to make an extra $1,500.
“OK-OK. I’ll try.”
“Posters are good, too. Maybe a life-size C-A-R-D-B-O-A-R-D cutout. The F-E-L-I-X ones sell best, but M-A-T-E-O is the cutest.”
I flash her an appalled look. Why do they have life-size cardboard cutouts?!
She laughs, then asks, “Have you told Mom?”
My abject horror at the concept of Felix being immortalized in the form of a cardboard cutout shifts to irritation at the mention of Mom.
Since our latest blowup, she hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction.
Honestly, though, I prefer the signless treatment over our never-ending cycle of arguments.
Usually, I’ll be the bigger person and smooth things over, but I’ve never been this hurt before.
I can hardly even think about her without that deep, cutting feeling of betrayal rearing its head.
“You’re not allowed to give me shit for being a procrastinator anymore. You have to tell her!”
“I know, I know!” Then I continue, “I’ll tell her! Mind your business.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t blame ME for any of it.” Her nose scrunches in displeasure, likely not wanting to be caught in the middle. “You’ll text me when you land?”
I choose not to argue that she is absolutely to blame for some of it. “I have to finish packing.” I lift my index finger, pinkie, and thumb in the air and shove it in Jo’s face, “I love you.”
She shakes another Y-shaped hand between us.
Thirty minutes later, I successfully zip the overflowing suitcase and catch my breath. Packing this thing was a full-body workout.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I grumble at Ginger, and she replies by squeaking her obnoxiously loud duck toy.
I stage my backpack and suitcase near the front door, then peer down the hall.
My eyes land on Mom’s bedroom door, and I tense up.
I briefly debated writing a letter and dipping, but that’s not exactly a mature response.
I mentally run through what I’ll tell her. It’s one quick conversation. I can do this.
Before I talk myself out of it, I head straight toward her room and open the door.
She glances away from the book she’s reading in bed, her face blank. I take a breath.
“I accepted the S-O-N-G-S’ offer. I’ll be gone before you get up tomorrow,” I explain from the doorway. Her gray eyes shoot daggers at me though her glasses, but her expression doesn’t waver. “I paid the bank,” I continue.
Her attention flickers back to her book, and an indignant scoff escapes me.
I vigorously flap my hand until she looks up again.
“You’re not even going to acknowledge me?
” A fresh wave of anger washes over me. She practically has a PhD in giving me the cold shoulder, but she’s never ignored me quite like this before. “Mom?”
I stare at her, waiting for a response. For acknowledgment. For something.
Instead, she wordlessly returns to her book, delivering a final, devastating blow to our fractured relationship.