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  Irritation creeps back up. What is it with this kid? “Oh yeah? Watch me.” Shoot. That’s arguing, isn’t it?

  “Of course Tabby isn’t the real Peter Cottontail.” Mary walks into the room and immediately order is restored. She gives me a one-eyebrow-raise in passing. Doggone it. I realize she’s heard enough of my conversation to figure out that the kid and I weren’t swapping recipes. She skewers me with a glance that no one could possibly have caught but me and continues on like she’s one happy camper. “Let’s just pretend.”

  How does she sneak up on a person like that anyway? She just appears, like a… Well, I’m not sure if I should say this but… If anyone’s a vampire . . .

  Vampira’s giving me that “get on with it” glare, and I know I’d better start reading… or else.

  Thirty grueling pages and a gazillion kiddie interruptions later, I bid Teresa good-bye until next week, then go to the ladies’ room, zip out of the bunny suit, peel off the whiskers. I stare at my pitiful reflection. My face is blotchy red from trying to get the whiskers to let go and from scrubbing off the makeup. Hideous. But what’s a girl to do? I pack away the suit. And let me tell you, this is absolutely the last time I’m wearing that awful thing. After tucking it away in the costume closet, I walk to the counter, ready to face the music. I try not to be too scared since I’m sure God is directing my steps here. Surely He’s going to reward me for the first half of the day when I was so good about surrendering to Him. Even when I got cut off on the highway. Not only didn’t I flip anyone the bird, but I waved and acted like it was my idea to let the guy over.

  Mary smiles at a customer and hands her a bag. “Happy reading.”

  Then she looks up and sees me standing there. Her smile fades fast like I sucked the happy right out of her. She gives me the evil eye, and I know I’m a goner.

  I wonder if I should ask for a reference.

  By the time I make it home, I’m trying to shove the hideous day aside and focus on my big plans for tonight. My parents are coming over for dinner at the apartment I share with my two best friends, Laini and Dancy—only they’ve decided to be absent. I honestly can’t say that I blame them. I’m not all that crazy about the idea myself, but you know, it’s all about dinner with the folks. A necessary part of every adult’s life. At least every three months or so, I’m obligated to invite the parents over. Otherwise they start to imagine I have something to hide, and once their minds go there, short of marriage to the man of their dreams, there’s no convincing anyone I’m A-OK and not hopping from party to party with Paris or Lindsay.

  Anyway, I figure Mom and Dad will shove off by nine, and I can curl up with my new copy of Soap Opera Magazine. Or better yet, read while taking a bubble bath. It’s my night for a long soak in the tub. Rule number four on our door: One person per night is allowed a long bath in the tub. First of all, because three women sharing an apartment can’t possibly all soak each night, and secondly, because we have water pressure issues, and it takes as long to fill the tub as it does to soak away our troubles.

  Laini is the official—and self-proclaimed—rules person. Being an accountant, she’s big on lists and organization. She works for ACE Accounting. And—not to brag or anything, but—she’s the aciest of all the aces there. A real hotshot with numbers. We’d never get all the bills paid if she didn’t keep track of things.

  Some of the rules are only posted “just in case.” For instance number two: Men are not allowed in the apartment after midnight. Okay, honestly? I can’t remember the last time either of my roommates had a date—unless you count Floyd Bartell, the guy Dancy’s mom is dying to have as her son-in-law. It’s really a curious thing, if you ask me. I mean, they’re both attractive, smart, nice. All the attributes that should act as bait on a hook. But unfortunately, my two gal-pals aren’t getting so much as a nibble. As a matter of fact, the only nibble I’m getting is from Brian Ryan, a total mistake. A guy I went on a blind date with and can’t get rid of. I’m sure he’s harmless. Well, almost sure.

  Sooo, back to this evening. Everything has got to be perfect. Otherwise I’m going to have to hear about it from my mom. I hurry home to the two-bedroom apartment where Dancy and Laini graciously allowed me to crash when I lost my own place three years ago—after I was canned from Legacy of Life. That day still haunts me. The day I realized that after paying off most of the debts I incurred when I thought I had another three years on the show (per my contract—apparently they could terminate if story line necessitated—whatever!). I had two choices: Go home and live with Ma (kill me, please, for even thinking of that as an option) or beg my friends to take me in. After all, I don’t take up a lot of room.

  Not to be a snob or anything, but I had a condo in a high-rise with an elevator, doorman—swanky digs if I do say so myself. Now I live in more of a Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex and the City building. But it’s nice too. I’d never complain. Only, well, the other one did have a doorman.

  Regret—just a twinge, mind you—pinches me. And immediately I realize that the new Tabby who is giving it all over to God has no reason to feel regret. But then… I can’t be too hard on myself. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  It’s not easy to take the high road though. It’s quite a comedown going from a soap opera diva to a reading bunny. I love acting, and darn it, I just want to do something more meaningful with my talent than dressing up for the bookstore. I mean, I still audition from time to time and have an acting coach, who incidentally always smells like a brewery and has more love scenes for me to practice (with him as the male lead, of course) than really seems necessary. But there hasn’t been a lot of time for auditions between working two jobs.

  My whole life I’ve wanted to be an actress. NYU, extra acting classes, auditions. Finally, after tons of rejections and a few embarrassing Tampax commercials, I landed a recurring role on Legacy of Life. A character that the fans immediately took to—and begged to see more of. A role that turned into a five-year run.

  I really was on the fast track to stardom until I had a sort of fling with the head writer’s husband. In my defense, let me be clear: I had no idea he was anyone’s husband, let alone Julie Foster’s. She uses her maiden name. He didn’t have on a wedding ring—believe me, I checked. The producer’s house, where we had the now infamous Christmas party, was enormous. If I had married a man with a roving eye, I’d keep him on a short leash—wouldn’t you? So as far as I’m concerned, it’s partly Julie’s fault that I ended up wasting my entire evening chatting with her husband.

  I truly thought I had maybe found Mr. Right. I mean, we had a lot in common, talked for hours about family (mostly mine, come to think of it), goals, hobbies, and—long story short—Julie caught him just as he was about to move in for a kiss. Not that I blame her, given the circumstances, but she caused a big fat scene. I tried to explain, and Mr. Definitely-Not-Right even took up for me… which I think actually made things worse. But despite my insistence that I was innocent, no one sympathized with me because everyone assumed my shock and dismay were just good acting. After all, I was nominated for an Emmy once.

  Julie had the last word when she concocted a story line whereby two months later my character was killed in a fiery inferno. And the powers that be let her get away with it. Can you believe that?

  I tried to make amends, but she didn’t believe my innocence. Within a week she had thrown her husband out of their condo and started dating the director of the sitcom three sets down from ours. So much for true love. Again, not that I blame her. But she could have taken all that woman-scorned fury and done something a little more constructive with it than kill off the most popular leading actress on the show. And not to brag, but I was. My portrayal of Felicia Fontaine got me that Emmy nomination in the last season I was on the show. I mean, come on. How could they just let that go? But they did. And now I wait tables and dress up like various animal characters to make ends meet. Well, I did anyway.

  I swear, when is Prince Charming going t
o take me away from it all?

  2

  Why can’t my mom get it through her head that Brian Ryan is not my Prince Charming? I just hung up the phone with her. Here’s how the call went.

  Me: “Hello?”

  Mom: “Hello, dear.”

  As soon as she called me “dear,” I knew something was up.

  Mom: “Your father and I are bringing a guest, so be sure you have plenty of food.”

  Sinking feeling in stomach because she said “guest” with a lilt.

  Me: “Ma! You tell me two hours before dinner? I’ve been planning this for two weeks. How am I supposed to ord—uh—fix more food on such short notice?” (Okay, Mom didn’t have to know I called for Chinese—but in my defense it’s the good Chinese place and not the cheap one that was recently closed down for a week after the health inspector found a cat in the freezer. And let me just say—well, no, I’d better not go there.) Back to why my mom drives me crazy.

  Mom: “You’ve had two weeks, and you didn’t plan for extra company?”

  See? It’s that attitude. Have you learned nothing from me? You’re such a disappointment.

  Me: “I was just really hoping for time alone with you and Dad.”

  Totally not true. I dread every second of it. But if there’s any chance… any chance at all that my mom will consider recanting her invitation to whatever unsuspecting male she’s planning to inflict on my life, I’ll do or say anything. I know it sounds selfish, but Brian Ryan is a prime example of why I don’t trust my mom’s matchmaking skills—or the lack thereof. Oh, lightbulb moment… and this is truly a horrific thought. What if she… ? No! Surely she wouldn’t . . .

  Me: “Ma! You’re not bringing Brian, are you?”

  Mom: “And what would be so terrible about that?”

  Me: “Do you want the list? Mother! You’re killing me here.”

  Mom: “Lands, Tabitha, the way you carry on, you’d think he’s a troll. Brian’s a very nice young man. Very handsome and interested. And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly getting any younger.”

  She paused, and that’s where I should have jumped in, but outrage and dread combined to render me completely speechless, thus opening the door for Mom to continue.

  Mom: “And you know, he’s very successful in the restaurant business.”

  Why was it that all of a sudden Mom’s words sounded something like wa-wa wa-wa. Like every adult on the Peanuts cartoons.

  Me: “Oh, Ma! I mean it. Call the funeral director because you’re sucking the life right out of me.”

  There was slight whinage to my tone, I am ashamed to admit. But gee whiz. The guy just doesn’t do it for me. And I don’t care what my parents think, he’s not that great of a catch. It has nothing to do with his choice of profession either. I mean I’m the reading rabbit, so who am I to look down my nose at anyone’s job? But the restaurant business? Hello? He manages a steakhouse franchise with sirloin steak on the buffet. Not exactly a five-star anything. I probably get more respect wearing the rabbit suit.

  Mom: “Don’t be dramatic, Tabitha. We’ll discuss it later. I have to run and set your father’s clothes out for him to wear tonight or heaven only knows what he’ll wear.”

  Me (stupidly): “Sure, Ma. Because heaven only knows how he dressed himself the thirty years he was alive before you took over the responsibility.”

  Mom: “Sarcasm isn’t becoming, young lady.”

  Me (suddenly I’m ten years old): “Sorry.”

  We hung up not so pleasantly.

  So here I am pouting about my mother’s inviting Brian along to my dinner and seriously debating the spiritual damage it might do to me if I were to suddenly come down with a case of Asian flu, when Laini rushes in after work. “I know your parents are coming. I’ll be out of here in two seconds.” She buzzes right past me and into the bedroom we share. (Dancy gets the private room. We don’t mind—most of the time.) I follow Laini because I need a shoulder to cry on.

  She starts pulling clothes from her drawers as I plop down on her bed. “Mom’s bringing Brian,” I say glumly.

  Laini stops perusing the clothes she’s just taken out and stares at me, her big blue eyes beneath a pair of Ralph Lauren glasses going wide. Then she frowns, scrunching the freckles on her nose together. Laini looks like a redheaded Meg Ryan—before Meg cut her hair—more like in When Harry Met Sally than, say, You’ve Got Mail.

  She shakes her head and plops down beside me on the bed. “What kind of a jerk moves in on a girl’s parents?”

  “The kind without caller ID block on his phone.” I give her a sheepish grin. “I ignore his calls. But don’t sell my parents short. It may not have been Brian’s doing. He was probably sitting at home ready for a night of popcorn and Star Wars, minding his own business.”

  “You think your mom called him? Just like that?”

  “Oh yeah.” I’d be surprised if she hadn’t.

  Laini checks out her image in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall and rakes her long fingers through her shoulder-length curls. “I’m glad I’m not going to be here to witness the fiasco.”

  In a rush of panic, I grab Laini’s arm. “You can’t leave. Stay, please. I’ve ordered Chinese.”

  “You invited your folks and ordered in?” Another disbelieving shake of the head. “You’re incredible.”

  Somehow, I know that’s not a compliment.

  “I worked all day. No time to cook a proper meal. Besides, Dad adores Chinese, and Mom never lets him have it.”

  “That’s because it’s loaded with sodium, and your dad’s blood pressure worries her.”

  I throw myself back and lay across the bed, staring at the ceiling. “She nags him all the time.”

  Laini gives me a pat on the knee and grabs her purse off the bed. “She loves him as much as you do, my friend. You really should give her a break.”

  “No. No. No.” I shoot up so fast, Laini jumps and loses her grip on her purse. In a flash I take her upper arms in my hands. We are almost nose to nose as I search her startled face. “You can’t be on her side. Even if you think I’m wrong, you can’t say it. I can’t deal with that.”

  Okay, she’s rolling her eyes.

  “Fine.” Letting her go, I stoop and grab the pink T-shirt she dropped and shove it back into her hands. “Just go ahead and do what you had planned for tonight. I can handle my mother all by myself.” Oh, the self-pity. “Really, I’ll be fine. You go and have a good time.”

  “Oh, please. That’s your worst performance ever.” She grins. “Besides, I’d never leave you alone with your folks and Brian, so you’re stuck with me. But you’d better have ordered egg drop soup.”

  A sense of well-being shoots from my head to my toes. It’s good to have real friends.

  Mom and Dad knock on the door promptly at 6:59 p.m. Laini sets her magazine aside and gives me a nod of support as I smooth my shirt over my jeans so that (God forbid) my midriff doesn’t show. Gathering a deep breath, I open the door and wait for the inevitable.

  “Hi, Mom and Dad,” I say perkily. A little too perkily I suppose because Mom’s eyebrow goes up—just the right one (how does she do that anyway?). “Good to see you.” I’m distracted by Brian’s absence and look past Mom’s shoulder, but there’s no sign of him. Something’s up. I know Ma didn’t go back on her invitation. “Here, let me take your coats.”

  “We’re not wearing any,” Mom says in that tone that sets my teeth on edge and makes me feel small—and not in a good way. “It’s August.”

  Heat shoots up my neck and spreads around to my cheeks in a split second. “Oh yeah,” I murmur. “Come in.”

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Brockman.” Good old Laini senses the need for a little rescue and jumps right in without even testing the water first. “So nice to see you again. How was the ride over?”

  Dad opens his mouth to answer, but Mom butts in. “Traffic was terrible, of course. Frank here is getting blind as a bat, so we have to take cabs the
se days. And I abhor those foreign cab drivers. They all pretend they don’t understand a word we say. But you know darned well they’re taking it all in and reporting back to their superiors.”

  I roll my eyes. No way I’m going there with her. Besides, I’m focused on what she said about my dad.

  “Daddy? When did you stop driving?”

  “Oh, you know your father, he can’t see anything. He hasn’t driven the car in months.”

  Mom’s butting in and snappiness are starting to bug me. I’ve definitely decided I’m not going to allow an argument to arise between us though. I’ll hold my tongue. But not without a lot of effort, let me tell you.

  “Why not just get glasses, Dad?” I send Mom a pointed look and her expression darkens considerably. I might have crossed the line, but then, that’s so easy to do with my mom. Her line is pretty thin.

  “Oh, well, your mother thought they might not be able to—”

  “For goodness’ sake. The glasses he’s wearing are about as thick as they go, and he can barely see through them anymore.”

  A sad kind of nostalgia creeps through me as I look at Dad. When did my hero start breaking down?

  He smiles at me. “Your mother’s right, honey bunny.”

  Uh, don’t remind me of the bunny.

  I know she’s right in this case. I hate it that she is, but I know.

  I loop my arm through his. “How’s your blood pressure, Daddy?”

  I see Mom’s chest expand like she’s going to answer for him, but then she just expels the breath and doesn’t say a word.

  “Fine, I suppose. I take my pills every day.”

  “That’s real good.”

  “What time is that boyfriend of yours going to get here?” Dad just gets right to the point. “I’m hungry.”

  “Um. Actually, Daddy, Brian isn’t my boyfriend. As a matter of fact, I’m not even dating him.”

  “Then how come you invited him to dinner?” Dad gives me a wink. “Trying to catch him with your cooking?”