interest in listening to opinions from anyone who lacks a Y chromosome, turns away from her and focuses his laser gaze on me. “That girl is fired. Period.”
Alice smiles merrily. “What a shame that he’s too late, since you called Winona and offered her the job back,” she says to me, her eyes glinting with triumph.
Well played, Alice. I would never call my sister out for lying, and now I don’t have any choice but to re-hire Winona.
“Absolutely not. I’ve been told that she’s behind the whole mess with Sloane,” my uncle says.
I arch my eyebrow. “You just heard my sister. I did offer Winona her job back. You may not know this, but we have a saying in our family. When a Hudson makes a promise, he keeps it.”
Chapter Twelve
Winona
“Friends, Romans, countrymen,” I call out. “We come not to praise Blake Hudson, because he’s lower than a snake’s belly, but to whack him.” I gesture at the Blake Hudson pinata that Clarita hastily assembled for me last night. It’s dangling from the branch of a maple tree in our building’s courtyard.
The likeness is impressive. I described him to Clarita in heated, outraged detail, in between huge bites of Chunky Monkey ice cream. The pinata has one eyebrow sarcastically arched up, and she got the gray of his suit just right.
My gaze sweeps the crowd of friends, neighbors and Kitchen Krew Bulletin readers who’ve gathered at this very weird and last-minute event, and I actually manage to crack a smile.
Sure, I got fired yesterday, but in the grand scheme of things, life isn’t so bad. The breath of spring blows through the courtyard, rustling the fluttery streamers Clarita’s husband has hung from the trees. I’m alive and healthy. And I’m surrounded by people who care about me.
Jemma’s whipped up a tray of iced coffee drinks. Edna has set out a plate of her terrible cookies. Nobody’s touching those; we’ve all been burned before. Isabella brought queso fritos and ketchup dip. Clarita’s husband Nestor brought an ice cooler full of soda. Delroy donated bags of chips. Everything’s laid out on a folding picnic table, and we’ve got games, and an iPod pumping out music. We’re turning my tragedy into a party. I can return to simultaneously panicking and weeping tomorrow. I cannot return to ice cream binging, because I’m down to my last ten bucks and I’ll need it for subway fare.
“And can I get a special round of applause for Clarita’s pinata-making skills? That thing is amazing!”
The adults respond with enthusiastic whoops and hollers. The kids ignore us. They’re busy with important things, like shooting each other with Super Soakers and knocking over folding chairs.
Clarita beams and leans forward in her wheelchair to do a little bow. Nestor, who’s reclining in a rickety folding lawn chair, looks up from his classic car magazine and lets out a “Woot woot!” of appreciation. He owns an auto body shop and he’s a classic automobile fanatic.
“That’s my girl!” he yells, waving his magazine in the air. Xena, who’s leashed to Isabella’s wrist, throws her head back and barks in agreement.
“Are you talking about me, or that ’64 Mustang hardtop?” Clarita calls out.
“Either one. Both of you are sweet, cherry pieces.” He winks at her, and she makes a hmpph sound of annoyance, but she’s smiling.
“That pinata…I don’t know how you did it,” I shake my head in admiration.
She shrugs modestly. “Putting those years of making kindergarten crafts to good use.” That’s why she’s the Hell’s Kitchen MVP. Nobody can pull together a party like Clarita. I don’t think she’s ever hosted a “You got fired after one day at work” party before, but there’s got to be a first time for everything.
One day. Seriously. This is impressive, even for me.
My smile fades. “I was just so excited,” I say mournfully to Clarita.
“You’ll get a better job,” she tells me, patting my arm. “With a hotter boss.”
“Doubtful,” Isabella sighs. She takes a long sip of her Diet Coke. She has to leave in a little while to cover for a nurse who’s called in sick, but I promised her a whack at the pinata, so here she is.
Clarita purses her lips, then nods. “Yeah, probably not. He was very pretty.”
“But awful,” I remind them. “The worst.”
“Terrible.” Isabella nods vigorously. “He’d better not show his incredibly gorgeous face and his broad shoulders and his perfect ass around here again.”
I give her a look. She shrugs. “I just want to be very clear about which of