She'll Take It by Mary Carter Page B

whoop. I let out long, barking HA HA HAs while gasping for air. Women try to shove me out of the way as they pour in and spill out, smacking me with their purses and their bulging Brewber’s shopping bags. Each time I’m jostled, pain flares in my ankle like oxygen feeding a fire. I don’t care. I don’t budge. I laugh until I cry.
    Happy tears stream down my face until suddenly, like showers springing from a sunny sky, I’m crying for real. Sobbing, actually, over my prized stolen scarf. Tears fall down my face, my dirty blond hair whips in my eyes from the gust generated from the revolving door, and within seconds a familiar thudding pain settles back in my chest. It’s guilt time. “Jesus Christ, no, please let me be happy for just a little while!” I scream at the Saint of Joy , but it is too late. Gravity reverses the polarity of my lips, tugs at my throat, and ebbs my beating heart back to a dull ache. I am so engulfed in my own misery that I don’t even notice the security guard until his black vinyl sleeves reach for me, his large bushy eyebrows furrowed with concern. He says something to me, perhaps, “Miss, are you all right?” but what I hear is, “You there! Where did you get that scarf?!” And “Stop thief! Backup, I need backup!”
    I pull the scarf tightly around my neck, growl like a mother bear protecting her cubs, and bolt across the street. Well, limp actually. Limp, run, limp, run, limp, run. Cars squeal and drivers slam on their horns as I hobble to the curb. Blimey. That was really, really stupid. Pain shoots through my ankle and I buckle under, once again finding myself on the ground with the rest of the world above me. I decide right then and there that I will never beg, borrow, or steal again. Never, ever, ever. It’s 8:55. I stick my good leg in the air and wave it around. There’s more than one way to hail a cab.

Chapter 5
    I t’s one minute to nine, and I’m waiting for an elevator. Why, why, why can’t at least one of the three get here? I know the stairs are good for you and all, and I’ll use them after today (it will be my new exercise routine) but I can’t climb fifteen stairs in two minutes. Besides, my ankle is still throbbing and if I take the stairs I’ll be panting and sweating and Trina will become enraged because she’ll think that I’ve just come from having sex with Ray. I shouldn’t have said that. Just the thought of it is getting me all worked up. Until I remember that he hasn’t called me in eight days. Come on elevator. I look at my watch. Forty seconds. Come on, come on, come on. Ding. It’s here! It’s a sign!
    I enter the reception area of Parks and Landon and fall in love. It’s modest, but so inviting that I would move in tomorrow. It looks more like a funky SoHo loft than a stuffy corporate law office. It is a wide-open area with wood floors, huge windows, and exposed brick behind the reception desk. The walls are painted a deep yellow, giving the place a golden, friendly glow. There are a few oriental rugs scattered about—plush and beautiful against the shiny floor. Potted trees adorn every corner. And then it hits me—I’m on the wrong floor.
    This can’t be a law firm. Law firms are stuffy and demanding. I’ve stumbled into a PR firm or an advertising agency. Maybe they’ll hire me! Maybe this is where my destiny lies. The Saints knew all along that a creative soul like me doesn’t belong in a sterile filing room doing mind-numbing, soul-killing paperwork. I belong in the belly of the creative beast. “Parks and Landon Attorneys-at-Law, how may I direct your call?” My head snaps toward the reception desk. A harried-looking woman in her fifties is standing behind the desk with the phone cradled in her neck. She is holding a stack of papers and has a pen behind each ear. My creative universe disappears. At least