“I’m sorry,” he says apologetically. “I just wasn’t expecting this. I’ve got lots of other things on my mind. You know the two duplexes off Western and Forty-seventh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the crackheads are taking over the whole damn street, and black people are moving out of there left and right. Between them, the Koreans buying up everything, and the Crips and Bloods destroying it all, the neighborhood’s turning into a war zone. I might have to sell both units.”

“And what fool do you think would buy those dumps?”

“Those ‘dumps’ provide almost half of my annual income, which you don’t seem to mind one bit.”

“I’m sorry.” But I don’t mean it.

“It’s all right. I just have to get used to this whole idea. Give me a few days. At least. But right now I better get Shanice over to the track.”

“Are you going to wait for her?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t say anything to her about this. I want to wait until I’m at least ten weeks.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get an amnio and that’ll tell me if everything’s okay.”

“Whatever.”

“And, plus, I want to be the one to tell her,” I say, and hold the door open for him to enter.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he says.

After they leave I walk into the kitchen to get a banana. I love my kitchen. It’s spotless. Just the way I like it. I can’t stand for things to be out of place or in disarray. It drives me crazy. Every open shelf in here is filled with black knickknacks I’ve collected over the years: Daddy Long Legs, All God’s Children, Aunt Sarah’s Attic—and any other kind I could find.

My house is pretty. Soft. Clean. All lace and pastels. Parquet floors, except the foyer is a creamy marble. It’s imitation, but it looks real. I guess my taste is modern with a traditional twist. I bought the entire living-room set from Scandinavian Designs and my dining-room table from Ikea. They’ve got nice things at reasonable prices. I live for one-stop shopping. One day I hope to be able to afford some real artwork instead of the prints they sell at the mall.

Once in the study, I sit in my beige leather reading chair. It reclines, and has a matching ottoman. To tell the truth, I don’t feel like going to the library today, but I’m going. I don’t feel like studying either, but I will. I’m trying to teach myself to finish what I start. To follow through. The book on contracts is in my briefcase, but so is my romance novel. Oh, why not? I’m addicted to love stories. They relax me. Help me escape the ho-humdrummedness of my own uneventful, inconsequential world. Everything that’s missing in my life I find in these books. Some nights I thank God for Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, and Janet Dailey alone.

The only reason I’m taking this real-estate course is because a psychic once told me I was a “people person,” and, plus, I’m trying to find something I like to do. Something I enjoy. No doubt, it’s been hard. But I give myself credit for trying. Nobody else seems to. Yes, I’ve been going to college off and on for what seems like forever, but I’ve gained more knowledge and insight than I ever would working at the DMV or the post office, or, say, Nordstrom’s. I’m no prodigy, and I’m not all that creative either—this much I do know about myself. But I like people. And I like houses. And I’m sure I can sell them. Especially out here in Palmdale and Lancaster, where they’re building them faster than you can blink. If I do it right, I might even go for my broker’s license later on. But these classes are harder than I thought they’d be—very technical—and you need to be good in math, which was always my worse subject, so, if I don’t end up doing so hot, I’m seriously going to look into becoming a personal trainer or a nutritionist.