Elated, I showed the application to Joey, then used the copy machine to reproduce the contact information. We worked quickly now. I got the office back to the approximate state we’d found it in, and Joey tore herself from the computer to deal with the lock on the door.
“This doesn’t look so bad,” she said. “I mean, you do need a key to open it, but let’s try a credit card. Oh. I didn’t bring a purse in. Did you?”
I had my backpack. Joey said not to use a card I really needed, so I handed over my Blockbuster Video card, then my Costco membership, and, finally, reluctantly, my library card. When all three were mutilated, I started searching drawers for a spare key.
“You know, Gun Girl never had this hard a time,” Joey said, still working the lock. “I realize that was TV, but…” She stood back and surveyed the glass. “I suppose it’s a bad idea to smash the whole thing.”
“Yes. Bad. Try it, though.”
“Looks pretty flimsy. I bet I could just-”
For such a skinny thing, Joey was strong. She gave the double doors a shake that simulated a mild earthquake.
It didn’t open them, but it did set off the alarm.
34
In my next life, if I’m a woman again, I’m going to be petite. I realize it’s a drawback when you’re at a rock concert or a parade and trying to see over the person in front of you, but for getting through bathroom windows, it’s indispensable. Also, shoes look better in size five than they do in size eleven.
In the bathroom we found the plunger, which we broke while trying to smash the front door. Then we found the window. Joey squeezed through first, barely making it, which should have alerted us, but it’s her nature to jump first, ask questions later, and I was distracted, watching our back. I expected armed security personnel to come bursting in-Secret Service, for all I knew, since au pair agencies are regulated by the State Department. When I heard Joey’s “All clear” I threw my backpack through the window and followed it, arms first, then head, with my feet balanced on the toilet tank. My head made it. My rib cage didn’t. Okay, my breasts.
“Joey, I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” She grasped my upper arms to pull me into the alley. “Just inhale. No, exhale. On the count of three. One, two-”
“Stop.”
“Just try it. Come on. Big breath, then let it all out. Flatten yourself.”
I exhaled. It worked. Joey was able to get another six inches of me out into the night air. The downside was that I was stuck tighter. It was an old double window in a half-open position, big enough horizontally for my shoulders, too small vertically for my chest.
“Again,” Joey said.
“I can’t. This is not physically possible.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
“It has to be,” Joey said. “I did it and you can too.”
“You did it because you’re Olive Oyl. I’m Betty Boop.”
“You’re not stuck. You can’t be stuck. I won’t let you be.”
I now saw the kind of toddler Joey had been, forcing the round peg through the square hole with the plastic hammer, breaking the toy. “Joey, I like your can-do attitude, but without a breast reduction, this is it for me. I’m having a little trouble breathing and I might panic.”
“No panicking. Okay, we’ll put you in reverse. Here we go.”
“Ow! Ow! Stop. Don’t push. Major pain.”
“Sorry.” Joey raised her hands and stepped back. She was just a touch below my eye level, in the alley. She looked up and smiled. “Go at your own speed. Plenty of time.”
I struggled to get myself back into the bathroom, but all I could do was wiggle the bottom half of me like a mermaid. The windowsill dug into my sweatshirt, bruising my armpits, and random bits of hardware scraped my back. “It’s like when you try on a ring that’s a little tight and then your knuckle swells up and you can’t get it off.”
“Canola oil. That’s what we need. Or-uh-oh.” Joey turned to look down the alleyway. “Is that a car door? Do you see headlights?”
“I can’t see anything from here, I- Okay, go. Run.”
Her head whipped around so fast I was hit in the face with a wave of red hair. “Are you nuts? I’m not leaving you here.”
“No, listen,” I said. “There’s no point in both of us getting arrested-”
“We won’t. I’ll talk our way out of it.”
“What if you can’t? Someone should be on the outside, arranging bail or whatever.”
“I’ll be a decoy,” she said. “I’ll run out front, head them off, they won’t know-”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be stuck here for the weekend while you’re in jail. Sssh. Listen.”
We listened. Silence. The alarm had stopped. Did I hear voices in the office behind me? “Joey,” I whispered. “Don’t argue. Take my backpack and go. No, leave the backpack, but take the stuff on Marie-Thérèse, the folded page-do it. Don’t get sentimental on me.”
Joey, torn between the unthinkable-abandoning me-and the illogical-sacrificing us both-hesitated. Then she grabbed my backpack, tucked the photocopied page into her jeans pocket, and looked me in the eye. “Tell them you work here, you were working late, you forgot your key. Tell them Marty Otis will confirm it. But stall. I need half an hour.” She gave me a fast kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave San Pedro without you.”
She slipped down the alley as a voice behind me in the bathroom said, “Hold it right there. Don’t move.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
The voices in the bathroom turned out to be two people, from the security company. I assured them that I wasn’t a dangerous criminal and that I was, incidentally, female, something the bottom half of me apparently didn’t make clear. One of them actually informed me that my feet, standing on the toilet tank in sneakers, were men’s feet. I suggested they reach under my heavy sweatshirt and check out my breasts, straining to get through the window. They declined. I told them to come around to the alley and meet the rest of me. One did. The other stayed behind to guard my legs.
A flashlight appeared first, then a uniformed woman, her hair in a tight ponytail that meant business. She shone the light in my face. “Bernie, she’s right! She’s female! You stuck?” I nodded. “Bernie, she’s stuck!” She pointed the flashlight at the window. “You armed?”
“Heavens, no, I don’t like guns. I was here working, going through that mountain of boxes you waded through.” This was true enough. “And the receptionist locked me in, not knowing I was here, and I couldn’t find the key and I accidentally set off the alarm. Um, Ms.-”
“Sims. Wait a second. You sound like-” The light blinded me, and I heard an gasp. “Criminy. It’s you. Bernie! It’s the woman from that show-that late show-what’s it called?”
“Biological Clock,” I said.
“Biological Clock! It’s her. The blond one.”
“What?” Bernie’s voice, muffled, came back.
“That reality show, where we pick which ones should have a baby!”
“What about it?”
“It’s her, the blonde!” The light hit my face again. “You work here? You’re a TV star.”
“We all have day jobs,” I said. “We get paid for the show, but not a huge amount.”
A second flashlight came around the corner. Another uniform, this one a guy with close-shaved hair. Another light in my face. Then: “Who’s she supposed to be?”
“The one on that TV show, Biological Clock. The blond contestant.”
“Who, her? You’re nuts. She doesn’t look anything like her.”
I said, “We wear a lot of makeup. Everyone on TV does.”
“No kidding,” Ms. Sims said. “I saw Courtney Thorne-Smith one time in Century City and you couldn’t even tell it was her.”