Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion by Saxon Bennett

would write off on the business account. “Why can’t I just drive the Hummer? It’s a nice-looking car,” Chase had said.
    “Because the Hummer, despite being a biodiesel, is not politically correct and has the potential to create an unpleasant scene with your green readers, and the Mini Cooper is too recognizable,” Donna had replied. Chase lapsed into a disgruntled silence.
    “It wasn’t that bad. We just need to work on some skills,” Donna said, as she entered the freeway. Chase sipped her water and looked dully out the window as the Sandia Mountains turned the watermelon color they were named for. “Like what kind of skills?” She could only imagine—a stint with Toastmasters, a debate class through Continuing Ed at the university or a holistic tongue practitioner who specialized in foot-in-mouth syndrome.
    “No, I think you’ll really like this,” Donna said, as if she’d read Chase’s mind.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a group I checked into because I thought it might be necessary,” Donna said as the Volvo wheezed its way up the canyon. The mountain sides were still covered in corn silk-colored grasses—the result of winter dormancy.
    Chase glared at her. “So you anticipated that I’d fail.”
    “Not exactly, but there was a possibility and I wanted a contingency plan. Remember The Black Swan.” It was a book they’d both read about the impossibility of predictions. “‘Invest in preparedness—not in prediction.’ I did not predict you’d fail, but I prepared in case you did.”
    It figured that she would wind up with a philosophical private assistant, Chase thought glumly. “So what hoop of fire do you have planned?”
    “According to my research you suffer from SUP.”
    “What does the weather have to do with anything? I like all the seasons in their manifestations of time and growth.” That was almost John Donnean, Chase thought.
    “That’s SAD. SUP means Socially Unacceptable Proclivities,” Donna said as she honked the horn to prevent a tractor trailer from running them off the road. She rolled down the window and yelled, “You stupid cake sniffer!” using a term used in the Lemony Snicket series. They’d all decided this was more appropriate than using the F-word in Bud’s presence. Chase wasn’t certain how it would go over in school if Bud called someone that, but it wasn’t truly offensive. Sniffing cakes wasn’t a crime after all.
    “Oh, great, more sessions with Dr. Robicheck,” Chase muttered, even though she still saw Dr. Robicheck biweekly. Adjusting to her new life as Shelby McCall was proving to be a difficult transition. As Chase Banter, life was neurotic but at least it was real. Shelby’s life was nothing but one huge sordid lie.
    “No, there’s another way—a more helpful way. SUP can be the result of genetics, biological makeup and environmental experiences.”
    “So I can blame this on Stella?” She had been getting on better with her mother; still, it was always a good idea to have ammunition in the arsenal, just in case.
    “I think in your case it’s a product of your bipolar disorder and environmental experiences. Stella is well-adjusted.”
    “And I’m not?”
    Donna raised an eyebrow and they bumped along the horrid dirt road that led up to the fortress that was home. Chase got out and opened the gate, scowling from the book-signing debacle and Donna’s idea for remedying it.
    Donna took her up to the house. “I’ll find out the schedule for the next available meeting.”
    “As in group? I don’t do groups,” Chase said.
    “You do now.” Donna tooted the horns for the dogs and left.
    Annie and Jane leapt at her as she entered the sunroom.
    “I love you too. You don’t care if I’m socially unacceptable.”
    Chase flopped down on the couch, which was really a futon bed that they’d moved from the den after they’d purchased a new Natuzzi leather couch and love seat courtesy of a hefty royalty check from that fucking bitch