What other people want
The last time Marla VanBuren didn’t get what she wanted was the Christmas of 1994. Now she had everything, including Ed Daniels’ modeling agency.
“You little bitch,” Ed said. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out after all the support I’ve given you.”
Marla lounged, legs crossed, in one of the chairs in front of his old desk – her desk now.
On her eighteenth birthday, Marla left life in the suburbs of Philly and took the train to New York City. She didn’t care what her family thought. They tried to make her feel guilty, but it was her life, not theirs.
Ed first approached her outside of Grand Central station where she stood huddled against the building’s cold stone, out of the windy chill, watching for the friend who was supposed to pick her up.
“Excuse me?” he said.
Marla glanced at him and immediately noticed his well-groomed appearance – expensive shoes, expensive suit, expensive watch. Marla straighten and pasted her best smile on her lips.
“Hi,” she said.
“Sorry to bother you, but I watched you get off the train and I just wondered if you have representation.”
“Representation for what?” Her smile slipped a fraction of an inch. What kind of creep was this guy?
“Modeling. You are a model, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.” But her shaky lips regained their confidence. “Who are you?”
“Sorry. Ed Daniels.” He dug a business card out of his inner breast pocket and handed it to her.
Marla read it and began to tremble. “You work for a modeling agency?”
“No,” Ed said. “I own a modeling agency. I am My Modeling.”
“And you think I’m a model?”
“I did until you said you weren’t. You could be if you wanted to, though. You’re beautiful.”
Her gaze jerked to his face. “You really thinks so?”
“Absolutely. Dark dramatic eyes set against a soft face. You’d do really well in the modeling business. What’s your name?”
“Marla... VanBuren.”
“Tell you what, Marla. Come have lunch with me and I’ll tell you more about it.”
Marla wondered for a moment if she should trust him before shrugging off the thought. “Sure. Why not?” she said, thinking that, if he tried anything, she’d handle him.
Two days later, she scribbled her trembling signature on the bottom of a My Modeling contract, thrilled that she didn’t have to wait tables. Ed also found her an apartment, so she didn’t have to slum it on her friend’s couch.
Her first shoot was for a department store catalog . Her last shoot was for Victoria’s Secret. In between she got rich, not just from modeling but from being smart and investing well. Then she decided she would rather own the agency than work for Ed. Since she had everything she could ever want, why not take what Ed wanted.
“Think of it this way, Ed.” She studied the glimmer of her manicure. “If you hadn’t gambled away all of your money, you wouldn’t have needed a loan from me. And If you hadn’t gambled that away, I wouldn’t have taken your company. If you’re going to be irresponsible, then you don’t deserve to own a business, do you?”
Ed stuffed a glass paperweight into his cardboard box.
“I gambled on you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I’m a lot more reliable than those horses. Keep gambling and eventually you lose. You should know that by now, Ed.”
His shoulders bunched. His head lifted in slow motion. The look in his eyes had panic tripping inside of her.
“You little bitch.” A sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “You’ll pay for this.”
He snatched up the box and stalked away.
Marla flinched when the front office door slammed. The walls rocked. A twinge of regret twisted her chest. Maybe the day before Christmas wasn’t the best time to let him go. Taking charge of a company at year end couldn’t be good business.
It couldn’t be helped now. She shrugged her shoulders and drummed her nails against the arm of the chair.
The staff, her staff, would do most of the work anyway. All she had to do was enjoy what was hers. She’d learn how to be the boss one day. Right now, though, she wanted lunch.
Stretching, she swiped her coat from the visitor’s chair. The outer office buzzed with whispered conversations and ringing telephones. At the front desk, she stopped to chat with the receptionist.
“How’s office morale?” Marla said.
The other staff members dispersed.
The receptionist smiled, but her lips trembled. “So far so good, Ms. VanBuren.”
“This place is better off without him, you know?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Ms. VanBuren.”
“Okay. I have a lunch meeting.” She tugged on her coat and buttoned it up. “I’ll be back by two o’clock.”
On the sidewalk, Marla scanned the traffic for a cab. She glanced down the sidewalk when she heard someone else yelling for a cab. A pregnant woman about to pop clutched her belly and waved her arm above her head, screeching like a lunatic. A cab swung to the curb. The woman doubled over. Marla walked toward her.
“Are you all right?” Marla said.
The woman groaned. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and pain dug deep lines into her face. “No. I think I’m in labor.” The pain squeezed her voice.
“Which hospital are you going to?”
“St. Anthony’s.”
“Okay.” Marla nudged her back with a hand on her elbow and opened the door. “Let me help you in. I’ll ride with you.”
The woman waddled to the curb, stepped down, and backed herself into the cab. Marla climbed in beside her.
“St. Anthony’s Hospital,” she told the driver.
“Two people’s extra,” the driver said.
“No problem. Just go.”
The driver flicked his meter before merging back into the sea of cars.
“How are you doing?” Marla asked.
The woman huffed and puffed, squirmed and moaned. “I don’t know if I’ll make it to the hospital.”
Figures. “You’ll be there soon. Just relax.”
“Is she gonna have that baby in my cab?”
“No. She’s fine.” Marla glanced at the woman and winced. “Just drive.”
The huffing and puffing had Marla’s gut churning. After a few more blocks, she told the driver to stop. The driver pinned her in the rearview mirror.
“St. Anthony’s isn’t around here, lady,” he said. “We’ve only gone six blocks.”
“I know, but I want to get out. I don’t feel well.” And her restaurant was across the street.
When the driver stopped for traffic, Marla stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Hey.” The driver hunkered down, looking out the passenger side window. “You gonna leave this lady with the fare?”
Marla leaned in the open door. “Yep.”
The woman’s huffs grew huffier. Her puffs puffed louder. Marla didn’t bother to look at her.
“Wait a minute.” The driver leaned closer to the window.
She shut the door.
“Hey.” Glass and metal muffled the driver’s demand.
Marla ignored him. Lunch was on the corner. She stepped behind the cab and jaywalked across the street.
Before she reached the other side, yellow and silver danced in the corner of her eye. Curious, she turned her head. The squeal of tires screamed, and she froze in the middle of the street.
The bumper crushed her knee. Bones splintered through her skin. Her hip and elbow hammered the hood. Her shoulder skidded along the windshield wipers, burning, tearing, before her head crashed into the glass.
The world revolved. Her back slammed the pavement. Tires squealed again. A strip of sky and clouds hung above her. Something wet clogged her ear and dripped down her face. The breeze chilled the dampness and whispered the tune of a Christmas song she hated more than any other.
The Christmas of 1994, when Marla was fourteen years old, her little brother Michael played his “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” cassette over and over until it become the background music in every one of Marla’s nightmares.
She tolerated the noise until December 26th. Then she grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped the tape into brown confetti. She tossed the cassette on the carpet and pulverized it under her heel.
“Hey?”
Marla’s head snapped around. Michael stood watching her, his hands on his skinny hips while plastic crunched under her shoe.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“What’s it look like, brat?”
Michael’s glare might’ve worked if tears hadn’t begun to shimmer and pool against his lower eyelids. His chin wobbled, tugging the corners of his mouth down.
“I hate you,” he said before he turned away. “I’m telling mom.”
Then he ran from the living room.
Panic beat at Marla’s belly, but at least the music had stopped.
“Marla. Get in here. Now.” Her mother’s shout clawed the length of Marla’s spine.
Back straight and strong, she walked to her doom. She might be in trouble, but she had done what she’d needed to do. The punishment would be worth stopping the music.
Her mother stood at the stove, stirring a sauce with one hand, and jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
“Sit down,” she told Marla.
Marla chose a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar – a barrier between the wrath about to be let loose and her fluttering heart.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said.
Her mother slanted a look her way. She slammed the wooden spoon onto the splattered spoon rest then stomped across the kitchen.
“If you ever treat your brother like that again, you’ll be grounded until the day you move out of this house. Do you understand me?”
“But he wouldn’t stop –”
“I said do you understand me?” Her mother’s lips stiffened and peeled away from her teeth like a snarling dog.
Marla decided not to argue. She would take her mother’s wrath. She had already gotten what she wanted. As long as she didn’t have to listen to that stupid song, she was happy.
“Yeah, I understand.”
“You apologize to your brother.”
“Fine.” The word ground through Marla’s teeth.
“And don’t expect an allowance next week. It’ll be paying for a new cassette.”
Marla’s stomach plunged. “You can’t. I’m so sick of listening to that song.”
“Then don’t listen to it. Go to your room when he’s playing it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It wasn’t fair for you to break his tape, either. Let me tell you something, Marla. What goes around, comes around. The next time you think about hurting someone else, you remember that. Something will happen someday that will hurt you just as badly.”
The clouds over New York faded along with the memory. The whispering breeze waned. Then the strip of sky went black.
The end.
Copyright 2020 Beth Pontorno
“You little bitch,” Ed said. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out after all the support I’ve given you.”
Marla lounged, legs crossed, in one of the chairs in front of his old desk – her desk now.
On her eighteenth birthday, Marla left life in the suburbs of Philly and took the train to New York City. She didn’t care what her family thought. They tried to make her feel guilty, but it was her life, not theirs.
Ed first approached her outside of Grand Central station where she stood huddled against the building’s cold stone, out of the windy chill, watching for the friend who was supposed to pick her up.
“Excuse me?” he said.
Marla glanced at him and immediately noticed his well-groomed appearance – expensive shoes, expensive suit, expensive watch. Marla straighten and pasted her best smile on her lips.
“Hi,” she said.
“Sorry to bother you, but I watched you get off the train and I just wondered if you have representation.”
“Representation for what?” Her smile slipped a fraction of an inch. What kind of creep was this guy?
“Modeling. You are a model, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.” But her shaky lips regained their confidence. “Who are you?”
“Sorry. Ed Daniels.” He dug a business card out of his inner breast pocket and handed it to her.
Marla read it and began to tremble. “You work for a modeling agency?”
“No,” Ed said. “I own a modeling agency. I am My Modeling.”
“And you think I’m a model?”
“I did until you said you weren’t. You could be if you wanted to, though. You’re beautiful.”
Her gaze jerked to his face. “You really thinks so?”
“Absolutely. Dark dramatic eyes set against a soft face. You’d do really well in the modeling business. What’s your name?”
“Marla... VanBuren.”
“Tell you what, Marla. Come have lunch with me and I’ll tell you more about it.”
Marla wondered for a moment if she should trust him before shrugging off the thought. “Sure. Why not?” she said, thinking that, if he tried anything, she’d handle him.
Two days later, she scribbled her trembling signature on the bottom of a My Modeling contract, thrilled that she didn’t have to wait tables. Ed also found her an apartment, so she didn’t have to slum it on her friend’s couch.
Her first shoot was for a department store catalog . Her last shoot was for Victoria’s Secret. In between she got rich, not just from modeling but from being smart and investing well. Then she decided she would rather own the agency than work for Ed. Since she had everything she could ever want, why not take what Ed wanted.
“Think of it this way, Ed.” She studied the glimmer of her manicure. “If you hadn’t gambled away all of your money, you wouldn’t have needed a loan from me. And If you hadn’t gambled that away, I wouldn’t have taken your company. If you’re going to be irresponsible, then you don’t deserve to own a business, do you?”
Ed stuffed a glass paperweight into his cardboard box.
“I gambled on you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I’m a lot more reliable than those horses. Keep gambling and eventually you lose. You should know that by now, Ed.”
His shoulders bunched. His head lifted in slow motion. The look in his eyes had panic tripping inside of her.
“You little bitch.” A sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “You’ll pay for this.”
He snatched up the box and stalked away.
Marla flinched when the front office door slammed. The walls rocked. A twinge of regret twisted her chest. Maybe the day before Christmas wasn’t the best time to let him go. Taking charge of a company at year end couldn’t be good business.
It couldn’t be helped now. She shrugged her shoulders and drummed her nails against the arm of the chair.
The staff, her staff, would do most of the work anyway. All she had to do was enjoy what was hers. She’d learn how to be the boss one day. Right now, though, she wanted lunch.
Stretching, she swiped her coat from the visitor’s chair. The outer office buzzed with whispered conversations and ringing telephones. At the front desk, she stopped to chat with the receptionist.
“How’s office morale?” Marla said.
The other staff members dispersed.
The receptionist smiled, but her lips trembled. “So far so good, Ms. VanBuren.”
“This place is better off without him, you know?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Ms. VanBuren.”
“Okay. I have a lunch meeting.” She tugged on her coat and buttoned it up. “I’ll be back by two o’clock.”
On the sidewalk, Marla scanned the traffic for a cab. She glanced down the sidewalk when she heard someone else yelling for a cab. A pregnant woman about to pop clutched her belly and waved her arm above her head, screeching like a lunatic. A cab swung to the curb. The woman doubled over. Marla walked toward her.
“Are you all right?” Marla said.
The woman groaned. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and pain dug deep lines into her face. “No. I think I’m in labor.” The pain squeezed her voice.
“Which hospital are you going to?”
“St. Anthony’s.”
“Okay.” Marla nudged her back with a hand on her elbow and opened the door. “Let me help you in. I’ll ride with you.”
The woman waddled to the curb, stepped down, and backed herself into the cab. Marla climbed in beside her.
“St. Anthony’s Hospital,” she told the driver.
“Two people’s extra,” the driver said.
“No problem. Just go.”
The driver flicked his meter before merging back into the sea of cars.
“How are you doing?” Marla asked.
The woman huffed and puffed, squirmed and moaned. “I don’t know if I’ll make it to the hospital.”
Figures. “You’ll be there soon. Just relax.”
“Is she gonna have that baby in my cab?”
“No. She’s fine.” Marla glanced at the woman and winced. “Just drive.”
The huffing and puffing had Marla’s gut churning. After a few more blocks, she told the driver to stop. The driver pinned her in the rearview mirror.
“St. Anthony’s isn’t around here, lady,” he said. “We’ve only gone six blocks.”
“I know, but I want to get out. I don’t feel well.” And her restaurant was across the street.
When the driver stopped for traffic, Marla stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Hey.” The driver hunkered down, looking out the passenger side window. “You gonna leave this lady with the fare?”
Marla leaned in the open door. “Yep.”
The woman’s huffs grew huffier. Her puffs puffed louder. Marla didn’t bother to look at her.
“Wait a minute.” The driver leaned closer to the window.
She shut the door.
“Hey.” Glass and metal muffled the driver’s demand.
Marla ignored him. Lunch was on the corner. She stepped behind the cab and jaywalked across the street.
Before she reached the other side, yellow and silver danced in the corner of her eye. Curious, she turned her head. The squeal of tires screamed, and she froze in the middle of the street.
The bumper crushed her knee. Bones splintered through her skin. Her hip and elbow hammered the hood. Her shoulder skidded along the windshield wipers, burning, tearing, before her head crashed into the glass.
The world revolved. Her back slammed the pavement. Tires squealed again. A strip of sky and clouds hung above her. Something wet clogged her ear and dripped down her face. The breeze chilled the dampness and whispered the tune of a Christmas song she hated more than any other.
The Christmas of 1994, when Marla was fourteen years old, her little brother Michael played his “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” cassette over and over until it become the background music in every one of Marla’s nightmares.
She tolerated the noise until December 26th. Then she grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped the tape into brown confetti. She tossed the cassette on the carpet and pulverized it under her heel.
“Hey?”
Marla’s head snapped around. Michael stood watching her, his hands on his skinny hips while plastic crunched under her shoe.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“What’s it look like, brat?”
Michael’s glare might’ve worked if tears hadn’t begun to shimmer and pool against his lower eyelids. His chin wobbled, tugging the corners of his mouth down.
“I hate you,” he said before he turned away. “I’m telling mom.”
Then he ran from the living room.
Panic beat at Marla’s belly, but at least the music had stopped.
“Marla. Get in here. Now.” Her mother’s shout clawed the length of Marla’s spine.
Back straight and strong, she walked to her doom. She might be in trouble, but she had done what she’d needed to do. The punishment would be worth stopping the music.
Her mother stood at the stove, stirring a sauce with one hand, and jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
“Sit down,” she told Marla.
Marla chose a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar – a barrier between the wrath about to be let loose and her fluttering heart.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said.
Her mother slanted a look her way. She slammed the wooden spoon onto the splattered spoon rest then stomped across the kitchen.
“If you ever treat your brother like that again, you’ll be grounded until the day you move out of this house. Do you understand me?”
“But he wouldn’t stop –”
“I said do you understand me?” Her mother’s lips stiffened and peeled away from her teeth like a snarling dog.
Marla decided not to argue. She would take her mother’s wrath. She had already gotten what she wanted. As long as she didn’t have to listen to that stupid song, she was happy.
“Yeah, I understand.”
“You apologize to your brother.”
“Fine.” The word ground through Marla’s teeth.
“And don’t expect an allowance next week. It’ll be paying for a new cassette.”
Marla’s stomach plunged. “You can’t. I’m so sick of listening to that song.”
“Then don’t listen to it. Go to your room when he’s playing it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It wasn’t fair for you to break his tape, either. Let me tell you something, Marla. What goes around, comes around. The next time you think about hurting someone else, you remember that. Something will happen someday that will hurt you just as badly.”
The clouds over New York faded along with the memory. The whispering breeze waned. Then the strip of sky went black.
The end.
Copyright 2020 Beth Pontorno
