Page 222 of Boss of the Year
“Fine,” I said as I flopped backward on the exam table. “I’ll be there.”
I waited for Lea to hang up, but she surprised me by asking another question.
“So, a doctor? Oh, are you finally getting a second opinion on your knee?”
“No.” I shut that one down quick. Whereas before I thought it might be funny to hear her reaction to me getting a boob job, I’d suddenly had enough of my sister’s opinions. “I told you, that’s done. The knee is finished, so I’m leaving that dream in the dumpster where it belongs.”
There was an uncharacteristic silence on the other end of the line, filled instead with the “yummy noises” my niece made whenever she particularly enjoyed her Cheerios.
Oh, Baby Lupe, you have no idea how good you have it.
As if she heard me, the little one started to cry.
“Mama!” she howled. “Mo-mo-mo-mo-mooooooooooo!”
Saved by the baby, who sounded a whole lot like a bell. Or maybe a siren.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Lea said, back to her more characteristically frazzled self. “I gotta go.”
“Go,” I repeated.
“Tomorrow,” Lea said again, clearly waiting for something in response.
I heaved a big sigh. Yeah, she was going to drag me up there herself if that’s what it took.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated yet again. “I promise.”
The call ended, and I sat back on the table, toying with my escaping curls again and swinging my feet back and forth again.Weird how these tables positioned grown-ass adults so high up that they had to swing their feet like kids. I always liked this feeling, though, the way it made me feel weightless, even though I was still sitting on something. My feet looked so small from up here. At least I’d shaved my legs, but maybe I should have painted my toes before coming here—the hot pink was starting to chip. Then again, all my nail polish was in my room in Belmont, a room I had exactly two more days to vacate, and who knew where I was going to end up sleeping, and?—
A knock at the door interrupted my wandering thoughts. I sat up quickly as the door opened.
“Giovanna?” a deep voice spoke from the other side of the door.
“Er, yeah,” I replied.
The door opened fully, and a man dressed in a pair of gray slacks, polished brown shoes, a pressed gingham shirt, and a white lab coat entered, carrying a clipboard. I couldn’t really see his face, since he was studying the papers on the board. The best view I got was of the rims of his glasses, shoulders that barely seemed to fit under his coat, and a mop of lush, curly brown hair that was the only even slightly disheveled thing about him.
And then there was the fact that the man was approximately the size of an large oak tree. Far too tall to be anything but a linebacker for the New York Jets. Maybe the Giants. Certainly not a surgeon.
“Giovanna Zola,” the doctor read as he sat down on the stool and turned to the computer. “I’m Doctor Hunt. You’re here for a consultation for a breast augmentation, correct?”
“Um, yes. That’s right.” It was kind of odd talking to the back of someone’s head. “Gotta get some moneymakers. I can’t rely on charm alone these days.”
Not even a puff of laughter. The office was officiallythe worst. I couldn’t have been the only patient to tell a titty joke or two.
The doctor continued to mutter through my chart, as if talking more to himself than to me. “Age, twenty-four. Height, five feet, six point two five inches. Weight, normal. Hmm, your blood pressure is a little low, so we might need to watch that. I’ll make sure the anesthesiologist is aware.”
“It’s probably from all the dope I smoke in my free time,” I joked, though I mentally kicked myself for saying it out loud.
Yes, I tended to say inappropriate things when I was uncomfortable. And something about this clinic, with all its sterile surfaces, competent and highly educated people, and the doctor who wouldn’t even look me in the eye while he was speaking, made meveryuncomfortable.
But at least I got a reaction. The doctor straightened immediately, shoulders spreading with the intent of a condor about to take flight.
“Do you actually use drugs?” he asked the computer. “Because if that’s a joke, it’s really not fun—Joni?”
The doctor finally turned around, and my jaw fell open as the list in my head wrote itself faster than I could make yet another insensitive crack.
Unbelievably True Things about My Plastic Surgeon
