Underneath It All by Margo Candela Read Free Book Online Page A

to trek across the city by bus six days a week with the Fast Passes that Mrs. Mayor has me purchase for them. Just because she trusts them with her panties doesn’t mean they won’t take the $35 and buy crack, or costume jewelry on QVC.
    Around my office I’ve scattered some scented candles along with the tall plain white candles in thick glass containers I got at the botanica around the corner from my flat. When I’m feeling especially superstitious or desperate, I group them all on a table and burn a little sage. This is something I picked up from a wannabe hippie roommate while at Berkeley. Up until then I thought you had to haul your ass to church to ask for what you wanted.
    My parents are lackadaisical Catholics and, aside from an odd cross or two, religion was relegated to church, appropriate holidays and moral occasions where they could use Catholicism to bend me to their will. But my college roommate, a white girl from Connecticut, had a whole shrine set up in her room and it seemed to work for her, so what the hell? There is nothing wrong with lighting a few candles and burning a tad of dried sage during times of crises or indecision. Right?
    At least I don’t dive for the Xanax like Mrs. Mayor does, which then makes my life all the more difficult. It’s hard to present her as the caring and articulate First Lady of San Francisco when she’s higher than a cloud and couldn’t care less about anything except waving her fingers in front of her face.
    “Jacqs, honey, you decent?” Natasha pokes her head in. Without waiting for an answer, she lugs her makeup case over to my bathroom vanity. “We gotta make this quick. Mrs. Mayor will want a touch-up after she’s done getting dressed. You’re looking a little peaked, darling.”
    “I have jaundice.” For all I know I might.
    “Honey, what you need is a vacation and some sex. That’ll perk your complexion right up. Always does mine.” Natasha takes my chin into her huge paw and begins to paint on foundation.
    “Sex? Vacation? I don’t think either is in my job description.” But I could use more sleep. When I sleep I can enjoy both in my head, don’t have to go anywhere and don’t have to explain to my mother why I went on a real vacation (and probably had sex, lots of it) instead of coming home for a visit like the obedient nonsex-having-three-times-a-week-calling daughter she thinks she’s raised me to be.
    “Just tell her you need a long weekend to get laid. She’ll understand that.” Natasha flicks an extra coat of mascara on my lashes.
    “Oh, sure, and afterward we could braid each other’s hair and eat s’mores while I tell her all about it.” Mrs. Mayor loves gossip. So do I, but this woman thrives off it, especially when it’s about her.
    “I doubt that woman has ever had a true woman friend. She even finds me threatening.” Natasha rubs, tickles and smears with singular concentration.
    “Natasha, honey, you’re more woman than most biological women can ever aspire to.”
    Natasha executes a graceful curtsey and then comes at me with a lip brush. In a matter of minutes I look like I’ve had a week of sun and sex. Or at least some fresh air.
    “The ‘Isla Bonita’ look ...” Natasha caps her favorite red lipstick.
    “Natasha, I hate to break it to you, but you are aware that Madonna is Italian, not a Latina or Indian or whatever she’s into this month.”
    “She’s Jewish now, I think.” Natasha worships at the altar of the Material Girl, who can do no wrong in Natasha’s eyes. All her makeup looks are based on the different phases of Madonna’s career. Last week she sent me out Madonna circa “Like A Prayer” and Mrs. Mayor looking like a Waspy version of “Justify My Love.”
    “So is she pissed at me?” Last thing I want is for Mrs. Mayor to hold a grudge. It’ll just grow over the weekend, and I don’t want to face an angry wannabe socialite on Monday morning.
    “Pissed? Maybe a little high. She is clueless.