Page 24 of Rules for Second Chances

“Scandal.”

“Cheating.”

“Athletes. Oops.” I smack my forehead. “Sorry. That wasn’t the right thing to say. I…”

McHuge claps his hands, waving us all to the infield. He’s sketched two squarish shapes in the gravel with his heel.

“Second objective! Respect the environment! We’re going to work with objects in space. Teams will decide what these shapes”—McHuge points at his dirt rectangles—“represent. Thebig one is something the size of a table or a car. The smaller one takes up as much floor space as a chair or a fence post. To you, they’re real. No walking through the car. All good, my brethren? Okay, at the big station, Sharon, Dave, aaaaaand—”

Please not me, please not—

“—Liz. At the small one, Béa, Jason, and me.”

I wish I could stop hating Dick Head, but there’s a dark well of loathing in my soul that never runs dry. Today, he spent fifteen minutes in front of my desk telling Craig how his personal contributions have shaved 3 percent off our marketing budget. At least once a minute, he flashed his giant Rolex with a tiny diamond on its face.

I should start calling him David instead of Dick Head. I’ll concentrate on his redeeming qualities. All humans have some of those, I feel sure.

David’s eyes turn my way. His expression looks like he showed up for a casting call for “tall white guy, face like this party only has second-best caviar.” If I were him, I wouldn’t be able to resist punching my reflection in the bathroom mirror every morning.

He might be the exception to the redeeming qualities rule.

Sharon windmills over, neck cords popping. “I’m allergic to wasps. I get welts the size of a twelve-ounce steak. If I get bitten on my face, one of you has to give me my EpiPen.” She indicates the zip pouch at her waist.

“I’m the first aid marshal at work; I know how. But really, it’s all about prevention. Should you stay inside?” I eye her fanny pack. It’s bright purple, hand-inked with “NOBODY ASKED YOU” in a trendy, loopy cursive. All right, Sharon. Way to dominate the quote game.

She gives a scornful harrumph. “Nah. Not afraid of needles. Or wasps. Mid-April’s usually too early for them. But you never knowwhere a queen might be laying her brood.” Her eyes narrow at a nearby fieldhouse.

“Our shape could be a bug tent,” I suggest. It has possibilities: low doorways, zip closures, tension between players inside and those left outside. And it’s not a table or a car, which could involve pretend sitting. My thighs are in no way ready for chair-free imaginary family dinner.

“I say it’s a gullwing McLaren.” Di—David slides his wrist forward, checks his watch, scans to see who’s caught the diamond twinkle. He smirks at me—fell for it, dammit—but his smile fades when his eyes slide to Sharon, whose mind is on wasps instead of douchey displays of wealth.

“A McLaren, Di—David?” Last time, I played along with all his self-important topics. In return, he’s rejecting my very first suggestion. Although on second thought, a gullwing door could swing up, right into his face.

My inner scream thickens with another layer of shellac.

I didn’t realize, before I lost it at my party and walked out on my husband, how much energy I was burning to make myself small. Managing people’s emotions is hard work. Getting along and going along aredifficult.I’m worn out.

I thought it would take so much courage to let out my scream. Turns out, the work is in keeping it in.

McHuge bustles over. I didn’t think bustling was in the skill set of people who are six feet six, but he pulls it off.

“How are you three doing?” His tone says,I can sense your negative vibes from across the field, my dudes.

“Great!” I say, as Dick Head snarls, “Liz can’t agree on what our object is.”

“No problem.” McHuge crosses his arms. “What was the first suggestion?”

“A bug tent,” Sharon says, stepping inside its boundaries. Oddly enough, her waving settles down.

“Fantastic. Quick teachable moment: argument delays action. Listen to your co-players, give them a ‘yes, and.’ That keeps the scene moving.”

Dick Head rolls his eyes as McHuge jogs away. Over at the small square, Jason makes shooing gestures at a growing gaggle of kids. Béa takes an imaginary microphone out of its stand and promptly freezes, mouth half-open, with what looks like non-improvised stage fright.

I feel so damn… vulnerable. God, I wish I didn’t have to do this.

But that option isn’t available. In this timeline, I have two choices: in the tent, or out of it.

I open the imaginary zipper and step inside.

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