“What a bitch,” I blurted out.

“When she asked me how I liked it, I told her the truth. That I hated it. And ever since then, she’s treated me like crap. I can’t wait till I’m eighteen and go away to college.”

By now we’d walked the length of Rodeo Drive, past the Hermès scarves and the Gucci handbags and the Louis Vuitton luggage.

“Heidi,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what happened to your mom?”

“Cancer. She died when I was ten.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“Why couldn’t SueEllen be the one who got cancer?”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say to take away the pain, so I squeezed her hand, and hoped it would comfort her.

“What would you like to do next?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shrugging.

“Sure it does,” I insisted. “We’re going to have fun if it kills us.”

She managed a weak smile.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s go to the Museum of Television and Radio. It’s right around the corner. I go there all the time after school.”

We tossed our empty yogurt dishes into a trash can and headed around the corner to the Museum of Television and Radio. A stark white minimalist building, the museum has an amazing collection of vintage TV and radio shows. You pick out the show you want, and watch it on your own private console.

For the next few hours Heidi and I sat watching TV shows of yesteryear. I whiled away the time with two of my comedy favorites, Lucy and Alf. Heidi’s choices proved to be very interesting: My Little Margie and Bachelor Father.

Bachelor Father is a show about an orphaned teenage girl living with her unmarried uncle. My Little Margie is about a young woman living with her widowed father. Not a stepmom in sight.

You didn’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out that Heidi would have given anything to be like these girls and have her father all to herself.

Chapter Six

“First kick them in the groin. If that doesn’t work, try gouging out their eyes.”

Kandi was sitting across from me at Paco’s Tacos, sipping a margarita and plying me with self-defense tips. Ever since she started her martial arts class, she’d morphed into an encyclopedia of dire warnings.

“If you’re ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out a back tail light and stick your arm out the hole and wave like crazy.”

“The next time I’m thrown into the trunk of a car, I’ll do just that,” I said, digging into my beef burrito.

“It could happen,” she warned.

“I know. And if it does, I’ll do it. I promise.”

Her eyes lit up with the fervor of the recently converted.

“I can’t tell you how much I’m learning from this class.”

“I think you already have. Thanks to you, I now know twelve different ways to maim a guy.” I took a chip and dipped it into my refried beans. “So what’s happening with your instructor?”