French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  After several deep, appreciative breaths, I shot an apologetic grin in Joyce's direction. My exit could be deemed rude, yet an arch of her penciled-in brow and stifled smile told me she took no offense.

  "There's a picnic table by the pool you can use to fill out the application." She used her cigarette-free hand to point the way. "Bring it all back once you're finished, and remember, no third courtyard." The stern shake of her bent forefinger drove the point home.

  Note to self: After job offer, get more third courtyard specifics.

  I walked along the cement pathway, exploring the open first courtyard. There wasn't much in the way of color. Brown doors. Brown fascia. Tan walls. Brown staircase leading up to the brown second story. Greenish-brown grass. Greenish-brown shrubbery. Yet, it was clean. Not a single piece of trash or graffiti. No barred windows. No couches in the walkway. It wasn't the koi-pond apartments next door, but it was better than the armpit I was about to be kicked out of.

  I strolled through a short ivy-laced breezeway and found the picnic table next to the pool. Taking a seat, I began filling out the application. It wasn't too difficult, and I nailed the first page—name, birthday, social security number, current employer, and previous employer. Unfortunately, a questionnaire was attached.

  Please explain how you would handle the following situations:

  1) The tenant in Apartment 5 and the tenant in Apartment 6 don't get along. The two call you daily to complain about the other, and both refuse to move.

  2) You notice the tenants in Apartment 6 have a constant flow of visitors. The visitors tend to arrive and leave within minutes.

  3) The tenant in Apartment 19 plays his drums during the day. The neighbors complain constantly and have threatened to move.

  I had no idea how to correctly answer any of these questions. Sure, I could use common sense, and I had enough common sense to know there were legal forms and procedures to follow before one can start passing out eviction notices like candy. I just didn't know what those were.

  Self-doubt slithered through my mind like the soul-crushing serpent it was. I should have stayed in college. Everyone warned me when I had taken the year off to find myself that I wouldn't return. They were right. All I'd learned during my quest for self-discovery was that VH1 played an entire season of America's Next Top Model in a single day. My one-year hiatus had quickly turned into seven. I'd already moved out to LA from my hometown of Fresno and gotten myself knocked up by the time I realized the value of a degree. I found a job as a barista and worked my way up to manager. I was doing OK until the owner decided to sell the property to support his new girlfriend.

  I gnawed on the end of the pen, staring down at the ashy questionnaire, when out of nowhere a pair of work gloves plopped down in front of me. I jumped, dropping my pen, and gazed up at the stranger sliding onto the bench across from me. I froze, unsure of why this random, albeit very attractive, man had shown up. The Universe was not typically this generous.

  My eyes ventured down his tan shirt, past the wisps of blond hair peeking out from behind the button-up collar, to the word Maintenance embroidered in blue above his shirt pocket. This, coupled with the paint specks scattered across his dark blond hair, plus the gloves on the table, gave me reason to believe he worked there.

  Obviously, espionage should have been my chosen career path.

  "Do you need help?" the stranger asked, flashing a perfectly straight white-toothed grin.

  "Um…" Breathe, Cambria. "Sure," I answered in a voice three octaves higher than my own. I found his scruffy jawline and unkempt hair wildly attractive. A tiny scar under his left nostril made him look edgy in an I-fell-down-when-I-was-a-kid kind of way. I cleared my throat, realizing I was staring. "Hi, I'm Cambria," I said, more even-toned. I then shot my hand out like an idiot.

  He slipped his hand into mine. His strong, callused grip caused my insides to dance and flip and flutter and beg for more. It was the most physical contact I'd had with a man in years.

  "I'm Chase," he said, prying his hand out of mine. He removed a notepad from his shirt pocket. "What unit are you in?"

  "Huh?"

  "What unit are you in?" he repeated, this time slower.

  "I don't live here. I'm interviewing for the apartment management job." I held up the application in case he didn't believe me.

  He scrunched his cute face and looked around. "Joyce said there was someone sitting at the picnic table who needed my help."

  Note to self: Send Joyce a thank you card.

  He looked around the empty courtyard until his stunning green eyes met mine then ventured downward. I pretended not to notice him checking me out but felt myself blushing anyway. "Not sure if you knew this," he said. "But you have a little something…" He pointed to my chest.

  I looked down to see the French Vanilla dribbled down the front of my dress.

  "Ah, bleep," I said under my breath.

  Chase planted his forearms on the table, leaning forward. "Did you just say bleep?"

  "Oops, yeah, I probably did." I blushed again. "I try not to cuss in front of my daughter, and now it's sort of become a stupid habit." I pulled a package of tissues from my bag and began dabbing the spot.

  Now I had an ice cream stain dotted with tissue residue. Great.

  Chase laughed. "Wait, you replace profanity with bleep?"

  "Um…yes." I pulled the elastic band out of my hair, releasing my Einstein-inspired dark mane. I tamed Einstein down to a side ponytail and slouched my shoulders. Trying to cover the spot. "Better?"

  His face said no, but his mouth said, "Sure." And I liked him even more for it.

  He slipped the notepad back into his pocket. "What did you need help with?"

  I could think of a hundred and two ways he could help me. None of which would be appropriate to ask for, having only known him for about a minute. I glanced at the questionnaire. "Well, I'm curious, how might you handle a tenant who was getting a lot of foot traffic? I'm assuming it's drug-related."

  Chase made a V with his brows. "Why?"

  "There are questions like this on the application. I haven't been an apartment manager before, and I want to get them right."

  "I'm not sure. I've never been a manager." He ran a hand through his hair. I resisted the urge to reach over and do the same. "Maybe record all the information in the apartment file?"

  I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. "That's a good idea. Then I would call the police once I've gathered enough evidence. Like, who are the visitors? How long do they stay…?" I began writing my answer. "I think the police code for that is, like, 10-50 or something."

  Chase shrugged.

  "I watch a lot of crime shows," I explained. "I need to get this right because I really need this job."

  "I'm not sure how much help I can be. But I'll try." He rested his chin on his palm and watched me scrawl down my answer.

  "Can't you give someone a three-day notice if they are being loud, or do you have to give them a certain number of warnings before you give the notice?" I asked.

  Chase shrugged again. "They told you about Kevin, right? That'd be more concerning than foot traffic."

  "Who?"

  "He's the owner's son who lives here. He can be a real bleep."

  My light bulb flipped on. "Does he happen to live in the third courtyard?"

  He nodded yes then returned his chin to his palm.

  "I take it he and Joyce don't get along?"

  "You could say that."

  I looked past the pool and out to the third courtyard. All I could see from where I sat was another courtyard for Lilly to play in, Chase's left bicep deliciously bulging under his sleeve, and, at the top of the back stairwell, a black door. There appeared to be red paint dripping down the front, and the window beside it was boarded up with fresh wood.

  Strange but…meh.

  It's LA.

  I'd encountered every shade of strange since moving here.

  If there was anything concerning happening
in the third courtyard, it would have been reported on the Rent or Run app. People love to complain.

  It would take a lot more than a black door and an unruly teenager to stop me from taking the job, if I were offered it. I still had to get through an interview, and if there was one lesson I'd learned during my employment drought, it was that I was a terrible interviewee. I'd been practicing though. Watching dozens of YouTube videos on what to say, and more importantly, what not to say. I prayed I'd be able to come across as poised, skilled, and normal.

  I hurried through the questionnaire without further input from Chase, who was summoned away by a bathroom emergency. His presence served only as a physical motivator anyway—and what a physical motivator he was. A cute co-worker could offset whatever was happening with Kevin.

  I think.

  I should probably get more specifics on that.

  When I swung open the lobby door, Joyce was seated in the floral armchair. She looked to have aged during the time I'd been gone.

  "Here she is," Joyce announced, sounding as if she had swallowed sandpaper. "This is Patrick." She motioned toward a tall man with a cul-de-sac of brown hair sitting on the couch.

  Patrick half stood and held out his hand. I shook it, hoping he didn't notice my sweaty palms. A casual wipe on his pants afterward told me he had. Great.

  "Have a seat." He plopped back down and began rummaging through his briefcase.

  "Here, take mine," Joyce offered, sliding off the chair. "I'm going to get some packing done."

  "Thank you." I slipped into the floral atrocity, feeling like a child waiting in the principal's office. Nerves crawled through my stomach and down to my intestines, butterflying around in my gut. Authoritative figures had this effect on me. It didn't matter how many deep breaths I took or positive thoughts I had—my nerves still managed to get the best of me.

  Joyce leaned down. "Good luck. I'm pulling for you," she wheezed into my ear before shuffling back to her apartment.

  "You have the application?" Patrick asked. He struck me as a no-nonsense type of guy with his stern face and permanent stress lines around his eyes. He wore khakis, a checkered shirt, a silver band on his left ring finger, and stark white Nike running shoes. His attire reminded me of Forrest Gump.

  I handed him the application and watched as he sat back, crossed his Nike over his knee, and read through it. At one point he squinted and looked closer with a scrunch of his forehead. Perhaps moving the drummer in Apartment 19 next to the arguing neighbors in Apartments 6 and 5 wasn't the right answer. I thought the two could bond over their shared hatred of their new neighbor. Then I'd give the drummer a three-day notice to find a new hobby. Seemed like a creative win-win to me.

  Patrick tossed the application on the coffee table and grabbed a yellow notepad. "First, you pronounce your name Came-bree-ah not Cam-bree-ah, right?" he asked with a click of his pen.

  "Yes. The correct pronunciation of my name is Came-bree-ah." Then, for no apparent reason, I added, "I'm named after the city I was conceived in. Just two teenagers on a little road trip, and bada-bing-bada-boom, here I am."

  Whyyy?

  Obviously, my nerves had taken my mouth hostage.

  Patrick made a noise I believed to be a stifled laugh or a burp. I wasn't sure. I bit my lip, afraid I would ask. He made note of my stupidity on his notepad then continued to ask sharp questions regarding my previous employment and how I might handle situations that seemed unlikely to ever occur. I stammered through, fidgeting with my thumbs, trying to use the whole "think before you speak" notion I'd been practicing. When we finished, he placed the notepad on the coffee table and rubbed his temples with his forefingers.

  "I will say this," Patrick began. "I was impressed with how you answered the questions on the application. You seem like a 'think outside of the box' kind of person. That's a good quality for this job. I like that you've had some management experience. I spoke to your references yesterday, and they all sang your praises."

  I'd used my grandma as a reference.

  "I need to tell you this," he continued. "The owner's son lives on the property."

  "Oh, I know about Kevin," I hastily interrupted, too desperate to recover from the whole "bada-bing" incident to remember my manners.

  Patrick's eyes grew in diameter. "You know about Kevin?"

  I nodded. "Chase told me all about him, and it's not a problem." His gaping expression told me I might have redeemed myself from the unfortunate "bada-bing" incident.

  "That's good to know," he said. "I still have a few people to interview today and will be making my final decision tomorrow. Thanks for coming in."

  "My pleasu-roo."

  Stop talking, Cambria.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Applicant must be dependable, punctual, and able to multitask without becoming easily frazzled.

  I rolled Lilly out of my arms and onto the bed. She flopped over without stirring. The sequins from her Cinderella dress caught the reflection of the light streaming in through the blind slats on the window, causing rainbow specks to dance across the far wall. The display was a little too cheery for my current mood.

  I twisted the blinds shut and snuck out. The heat-swollen floorboards squeaked with each careful step. Transferring a sleeping toddler without waking her required ninja-like abilities, a skillset my clumsy self did not come by naturally. I was determined, though, knowing that being productive during Lilly's hours of operation was near impossible. I urgently needed the extra time to stress and sulk and shovel ice cream into my mouth.

  It had been one week. Seven days since my interview. A park-like courtyard, free rent, two bedrooms, safe neighborhood, and a sexy co-worker: The job was tailor-made for my needs. Then I had to open my mouth and share my conception story of all things.

  Bada-bing-bada-boom?

  The memory was mortifying. I shook my head as I crept down the hallway, eyeing the dirty laundry tower in the corner of the bathroom. I was wearing a red lace thong I'd found buried in the bottom of my drawer. A memento of a time when a thin piece of fabric shoved up my crack seemed sexy and didn't cause chafing. Now it meant I was out of clean underwear.

  With a sigh of defeat, I grabbed my laptop from the hall closet and headed to the living room. As uncomfortable as my wedgie was, it was more doable than laundry. I dragged the cord behind me as I weaved through the sea of toys scattered across the scratchy, vomit-colored carpet. If my mother were here, she'd fall into her routine speech on how I was way too young and far too pretty, with way too much potential, to still be squished into a flea-infested apartment with bars on the windows, homeless women fighting over my trash, a toilet that only occasionally flushed, a neighbor who was frequently visited by his parole officer, and upstairs neighbors who sounded like they tap dance twenty-four hours a day.

  She would then take the two-step journey from the living room to the shoebox-sized kitchen, point to the collection of empty ice cream containers lining the counter, and do her signature eye roll. She had this ability to get her entire iris shoved so high up into her lids that only the whites of her eyes showed. It was unnerving. I didn't know she had blue eyes until I was out of adolescence.

  When I told my mom I was pregnant, she rolled her eyes so far back into her head I thought she was having a seizure. Her reaction had less to do with the fact that I was unmarried, barely made over minimum wage, and couldn't keep a houseplant alive (although I'm sure it didn't help), and more to do with my determination to raise my baby in Los Angeles. I'd impulsively moved to LA a year earlier with my best friend, Amy. My mother, bless her controlling heart, was upset she wouldn't be able to effectively manage the situation from afar.

  However, I had a secret, and the four-hour drive cushion made it easier to keep. I didn't like to think of it as a lie but more of an omission of one detail that would break my father's heart, please that woman he insisted on marrying (my parents divorced when I was eight), and kill my mother.

  Cause of death: mortification.
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br />   It happened when Amy and I were bar crawling our way down Third Street. Amy had landed the role of Smiling Girl #4 in a toothpaste commercial, and that had to be celebrated—and celebrate we did. We ran into an attractive-enough group of law students who insisted on buying us drinks. The free-flowing alcohol proved a challenge to my system, but I was never one to back down from adversity, and I didn't want to be rude. Both adequate grounds for stupidity.

  We laughed. We sipped. We flirted. We gulped. We danced. We glugged. Based on the YouTube video, I serenaded everyone with what was supposed to be Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman!" but sounded more like a Jabba the Hutt impersonation.

  After a few (or ten) drinks, one of our almost-attorney fellas caught my attention. Tom Dreyer. Tall, very tall, tousled dark hair, glossed-over hazel eyes, and a side-smirk that had me seeing hearts and flowers and fireworks to the point where I questioned if I were solely under the influence of alcohol. I'd never been a one-night-stand kinda gal. But, hey, there was a first (and last) time for everything.

  I walk-of-shamed my red lace-thonged butt out his door the next morning with a hangover that lasted nine months. When I told Tom, he got all lawyer-y on me and demanded a paternity test. Which of course came back positive. I'd been too busy battling morning sickness to have the opportunity to hook up with anyone else. Then he swore. He cried. He cursed. He sobbed. He attached the F-word to a variety of different nouns. Then, he accepted it.

  Now, here's where my secret comes in. It was one thing to have a child out of wedlock. It was an entirely different thing to get yourself knocked up while in the midst of a drunken stupor by a guy you'd known all of two minutes. Which is precisely what I did.

  When I told my parents, I may have insinuated Tom and I were in a loving, committed relationship. Even though we weren't. Not that I didn't try. Several times. Tom never reciprocated. He did me one worse. He put me in the friend zone. The Friend Zone. It's the Alcatraz of zones—escapable only by death. I was devastated. In the midst of my heartbreak, I may have insinuated we broke up. I may have also implied the reason was that Tom had finally come out of the closet. My parents had met him twice and never questioned me on it. It got my grandparents off my case about not getting married first, and honestly, I didn't want my parents to hate Tom for rejecting me then proceeding to stomp on my heart as he slept his way through Los Angeles and Orange County. There was also some Ventura County and San Diego in there. Bottom line: Almost all of Southern California's single ladies had seen Tom naked at some point.