“Can we get this dip put into bowls?” said Elena.

“Oh, yeah, are there bowls in the kitchen?” asked Jillian.

“I really don’t have time to check.”

“Ok. Hey, do you want me to start cutting up those sweatshirts?”

“Yeah, I called Sandy and she said she has some costume things she can bring. We probably won’t need those sweatshirts.”

“Oh, ok,” said Jillian.

Everyone in the basement was laughing and taping up streamers and blowing up balloons.

“I think I need you to go on a sandwich run,” said Elena.

“Ok,” said Jillian. “But, I need you to give me some money.”

Elena stared at her. “Can’t I just write you a check?”

“No, because I don’t have a checking account, so, if you wrote me a check I’d have to pay ten percent to get it cashed. I need the cash or a money order.”

“Ok, here’s thirty for lunch, that should be enough for some Subway.”

“Ok, great,” said Jillian.

When she got back with the sandwiches, Elena was mad that the dip hadn’t been put into bowls. The party was almost starting.

As Jillian filled the bowls with the dip (she could wait a second to eat her sandwich) Susie from the kids room came up to her.

“Hey, we have a little problem.”

“What?”

“Well, Adam is in the ladies’ room and he won’t come  out.”

“Oh, are you kidding?” asked Jillian.

“Nope,” said Susie.

The party went until 9:00 p.m. At 9:00, Jillian said, “I’m going to run now.”

“What, you’re not staying for take-down?” said Elena.

During the walk home, Adam looked like he was sleepwalking. Maybe he was.

She opened the door. Crispy had strewn the dirty clothes from the hamper all over the floor and was slowly sucking on the crotch of a pair of Jillian’s underwear.

SATURDAY WAS NO BREEZE for Megan, either. She woke up and immediately felt embarrassed. That nasty, awful, hollow, endless embarrassment that was becoming her life. Randy was still asleep. She lay there, wishing she could be unconscious again. If she got up and out of bed, what would there be to do? She could shower and weep and see if that freshened her up. Maybe she could weep while making pancakes and then, with her gelatinous face, walk into the bedroom and say, “I made breakfast, honey, do you want some?” She could make coffee in the French press and imagine every step as the symbolic destruction of her soul. Grind the beans, boil the water (she could open her mouth for a silent scream when the teapot whistled—possibly that would be satisfying) and then wrap her fist around the plunger and push those fucking grounds down there where they belonged.

She decided this was a good enough idea. As soon as she was under the water, she started bawling. She sat in the bottom of the tub, cried, and washed her feet.