up from the couch and walks over to me with a serene smile on her face as if she’s pitying me, as if she knows something I don’t. I look over at Dani, who’s rolling her eyes, clearly embarrassed. I look back at Jazz and it’s then that I realize she’s wearing a cream-colored pantsuit, something a preacher on television would wear. For someone who feels most comfortable in tight leather pants and a vintage T-shirt advertising a punk rock band, this is obviously well out of the norm for Jazz. In contrast to her ridiculous outfit, her dark almond-shaped eyes painted in sparkly eye shadow, a row of hoops trailing up the length of both ears, her signature silver peace sign necklace. That is, except for her hair which has changed a million times over the years—her naturally straight, black locks permed into kinky curls, dyed every color under the sun, chopped to every length, even shaved right down to the skull. It’s now fashioned into a lavender-hued Mohawk, crafted into spikes with the help of some extra-strength hair gel. Her head looks like a dinosaur.
“Are you okay?” I repeat, making sure all her limbs are intact. “Why are you dressed so weirdly?” I spin in a circle, surveying my living room. “Seriously, why did you light all these candles?”
Dani smirks and blows out a breath.
“Mace-y,” Jazz says, overpronouncing both the syllables of my name like Oprah, “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please. Join us.”
“What do you mean, so glad I came? I live here, Jazz.” I walk farther into the living room and put the back of my hand to her forehead. “You okay?” I look around the room again at the candles. “You guys are scaring me.”
“Come,” she says again robotically like the leader of a cult. “Let’s have a seat.”
“Did someone die?” I ask, still completely confused. “Are we sitting shiva? I need to remind us all that none of us are Jewish.”
“I told her this was a dumb idea.” Dani sighs, patting her swollen tummy.
Jasmine smooths her silk pants before resting her elbows on her knees and steepling her fingers. “Mace,” she says dramatically. “This is an intervention.”
I look around at the candles and then back at Dani, hoping she’ll provide some answers.
She leans in and whispers, “Jazz kinda got confused between an intervention and a séance. Just go with it.”
I burst out laughing. I wonder if Jasmine’s been sampling her wares more than usual lately.
“An intervention? Jazz, I don’t suffer from any addictions. I barely have any vices. Last time I checked, you were the party girl.”
“Hey! I was a party girl, too,” Dani pouts. “You know, before this happened.” She points to her stomach. A sliver of her dark skin peeks out between the top of her stretchy maternity pants and the bottom of her flowy blouse.
“Don’t you see? That’s the problem. I love you and I think it’s time you loosened up a little bit.”
“What are you talking about? I am loose. Here I am about to have some dinner, watch a part of a movie and relax.”
“Macy, there’s another part of you that I’m concerned isn’t loose enough.” Her eye line goes to my crotch. “I’m talking about your vajean.”
“What?”
Jasmine reaches behind one of the pillows on the couch and removes a plastic bag. A plastic bag that has been stuffed in the back of the first drawer of my dresser for years.
“Hey!” I say.
“Exhibit A,” she pronounces a little too loudly, dumping out the contents of the bag on my coffee table and pointing her finger accusatorily at a heap of lace and chiffon. She extracts something I vaguely recognize from the pile and twirls it around her pointer finger. I then realize what’s spinning around and around is a pair of long-forgotten lacy underwear. “Behold all of your lingerie.” She tosses the pair of panties back on the coffee table with the others. “Underwear, bras, teddies. All of them still have the tags on them.”
“Exhibit B,” Ella joins in, pulling a small box from behind her on the couch. What is this, a magic show? “The vibrator I got you for your twenty-fifth birthday, Frank.”
“You named my vibrator?”
“You don’t remember that? We named him Frank, like a hot dog. Get it?”
The memory comes back to me. “Ah, yes, you’re right.” Between all of the margaritas, the fuzzy memory of us giggling over the pun comes back to me. And then I remember shoving Frank into the back of my pajama drawer and forgetting all about him.
“And lastly, the most terrifying piece of evidence of all,” Jasmine says forlornly. “Your calendar.”
She flips open the glossy wall calendar, every page as pristinely white and blank as the day I purchased it.
“Is this an intervention or a trial?” I ask.
“All I’m saying is that you take way too many Facebook quizzes for a woman in your age bracket. You just took one called ‘Which donut are you?’”
I press my lips into a tight line because I can’t argue against that. It’s true.
“Ugh, that sounds amazing,” Daniella says wonderingly. “Which donut were you, by the way?”
“French cruller.” I sigh.
“The most single of all the donuts,” Jazzy comments.
“Shut up.”
Jasmine holds hands with me and Daniella. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the death of a dear friend...”
“That’s not how it goes,” I say. “You just combined what a priest says during a wedding and a funeral.”
“...Macy Grant’s ladybits,” she finishes. “We barely knew ye. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
“Yeah, I got it loud and clear, Jazz.” I roll my eyes. “You think I’m a pathetic single person. Where is this all coming from?”
“You know how I thought for a long time that monogamy wasn’t for me? Well, I’ve met someone and she’s wonderful, and now that I’ve found what Daniella and Mark have found—”
“Hey, hey—slow your roll. You’re not married with two little cage fighters in your uterus,” Daniella laughs. “You sleep with anything on two legs. So you found a new hookup—”
“First of all, that’s not true. I’ve never slept with a kangaroo and I once dated a one-legged chick. Secondly,” Jazz insists, “this woman’s the real thing. She’s my soul mate.” A dreamy, goofy smile develops on her face. I feel like tiny blue cartoon birdies could start flying around her head any minute now.
“If she’s so important to you, why is this the first time we’re hearing about her?” I ask.
“She hasn’t exactly...come out yet.” Jasmine’s eyes dart to the floor, but then snap up to meet mine.
Ella
