A Day in the Life

Saturday, 6:15 AM; Pasadena

Daybed. Bookcase. Vanity. Dresser. Desk and chair.  

Creamed-colored walls, but ice-blue this early in the morning. Framed photos from across a lifetime. Posters; too dim to make out.

It’s quiet.

The room sat in a house nestled deep inside a cul-de-sac, well-insulated from the unrelenting bustle of LA roads. There were trees, but the birds were hushed today; lazy Saturday, maybe. Whatever the reason, the whole world seemed to be holding its breath, as though waiting for some sort of cue, for permission to break the still of the morning.

Inside, the room was calm, but not silent. The ticking from a number of unsynchronized alarm clocks echoed about the room. And there was breathing. Two sources- easy, unaffected respiration from what appeared to be a massive mophead in the corner; and the quick, tight breathing of a fitful sleep from the woman on the daybed.

The woman tossed. A moment later, the woman turned.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Without warning, the woman let out sharp, desperate, drawn out gasp that shattered the silence. Her eyes shot open, her head whipped up, and she looked around, confused, still snared in the fast fading tendrils of sleep. In this light, she could just make out the picture frames on the wall, the still-sleeping form of Gom (ko̞m) in the corner, Mom’s model mannequin on her desk- Amy was in her bed at home, back in Los Angeles, same place she’d been for almost a year now. She flopped back against her pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling. Of course. Quietly, she brought her hand up from beneath her blanket, resting her fingers delicately against the side of her neck.

Then, with a heavy sigh, she reached for her phone. 6:17. Then she groaned and placed an arm across her eyes. She wanted to go back to sleep, but there was no way that was happening, not with those birds making all that fucking noise outside. Besides, the three alarm clocks she’d placed strategically around her room were set to go off in like five minutes anyway. Ugh, fine. Amy struggled upright, then turned to dangle her legs off of her bed. She hated when this happened.

7:00 AM

When she was ready for the day, Amy slipped downstairs and into the kitchen. Gom bounded faithfully behind.

“Hey, kid.” Dad greeted her, not bothering to look up. He was at the dining table, reading his newspaper, same as always. Amy came up from behind, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek. “What about your new iPad?”

Dad gestured toward John, who was staring into the tablet just across the table, dressed in a surprisingly well-fitting suit. It was a big day for John; Amy and the family had spent a good portion of their Friday evening drilling him for his high school competitive civics competition today.

Amy straightened up and grinned in greeting. “Hey there, Superstar,”

John looked up from his tablet and smiled politely. “Morning, Amy.” Then he went right back to studying. He was so much more intense than she was at 18; all of her stepbrothers were.

Gail shuffled in from the kitchen with a tray of food- bacon and eggs for dad, rice and soup for John. “Good morning, Amy!” Gail was probably already up for hours. Amy didn’t know where the woman got her energy, but it definitely wasn’t from sleep. “Let me make you breakfast. American, or Korean?”

Amy held up her hand. “Thanks, Gail. I actually made plans today, but definitely next time.” But Gail was already on her way back to the kitchen, no doubt to ladle out another bowl of soup. Amy hastily made her way to the front door. “Gail, thanks, but I’m already late. Tomorrow!”

“Don’t be home too late,” Dad spoke into his newspaper as the door shut behind her. Amy leaned back against the wood and sighed. She didn’t like lying to her family, and Gail was a really good cook. But sitting in a empty diner to think quietly before work had become an indispensible part of her daily routine.

On her way to where her car was parked, she shot a pointed glance at the tree in their yard. “Shut up!” she shouted pettily. The birds ignored her.

8:00 AM; Downtown Los Angeles

“Good morning!” Grant stopped, sighed, and turned warily toward Amy’s voice. “Morning.” Ouch.

But Amy smiled, pretending not to notice the cold reception. She took the elephant in the room and kicked it right in the crotch.

“How’s your nose? It’s looking...” ‘Good?’ ‘Better?’ Almost anything nice Amy could say to complete her sentence would have been a lie. “...less bloody.”

Grant winced and gingerly touched his nasal cast. “It’s fine, thanks.” Then, with an abrupt turn, he went right back to setting the floor for the next class.

Amy threw up her hands behind him. She accepted that what had happened was partially her fault. He couldn’t really be blamed for assuming that “let’s sneak into the gym and go a couple of rounds in the ring” after a (pretty stellar) third date meant, “let’s go and fuck in the boxing ring at work;” here in the real world, that’s a perfectly reasonable interpretation. And Amy hadn’t exactly told anyone at work that she’d come from the AFW so… okay, mostly her fault. Fine; whatever.

But, I mean, come on; it’s been a whole week.

As Amy went to the office to check in, Grant moved to the storage space to retrieve some mats. Stacy, perhaps having sensed the blood in the water, bounced flirtily behind. Amy watched them interact. She couldn’t blame Stacy for the way she was acting, either. Grant was only a personal trainer until the summer, which is when he expected to finish up his MSW. Once he had his degree, he would begin working with kids for the city, a job he’d been promised after an internship last term. On top of everything else, he was funny and had a great smile and was remarkably attentive in bed. So, in summary: fit, smart, charming, passionate, good-hearted, solid earning potential… by any metric, the perfect catch. If Amy had any sense at all, she’d be scrambling to lock that down.

But Amy watched Stacy laugh and touch Grant’s arm, Grant laugh back, and felt nothing. Oh well. Amy proceeded to clock in at the station. Too bad.

1 PM; Silver Lake

“Wait, so you’re just going to give up?” Amy’s lunch companion had a voice that was less surprised than it was accusatory.

Amy tried to look helpless. “What am I supposed to do, Priya? The guy barely acknowledged I existed!”

Priya shook a fry at Amy. “If it really mattered to you, that wouldn’t be an issue. Remember Jen Desmidt? From 101?”

Jen Desmidt from 101 was dead set on asking Nathan out freshman year, and she was livid when Nathan and Amy became a couple, instead. This spring, Amy was a bridesmaid at Jen’s wedding, the first of two she attended since coming back.

Amy shrugged. “I didn’t do anything special with Jen. I just talked to her- she’s a reasonable person. And besides, that’s different; we were going to be on a bunch of projects together, and I didn’t want someone I had to work with hate me.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “Grant is literally your co-worker.”

“Not for long he’s not.”

“Are you changing jobs?”

“He is. But maybe. Dad wants me to join his company.”

“What doing?”

“Personal Assistant to his boss.”

Priya made a face, and Amy laughed. “I know. I told him I’d think about it.”

Their food arrived, and the conversation should have moved on. But, out of nowhere, Priya asked, “What ever happened to that dude you were seeing in Japan?”

There was only the briefest pause- no one else would even have noticed. But Priya registered the look that flitted across Amy’s face and took note. “Who, Army? It didn’t work out.”

“What? You gave up on Mr. Muscles, too?”

Amy was nonchalant. “Don’t get me wrong, he was a lot of fun, and we tried to keep it going after I came back. But eventually we decided that long distance wasn’t working for us and called it off.”

“We decided, or you decided?”

Amy didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved a forkful of greens into her mouth and looked away.

Priya threw a fry at Amy. “You’re such a dumbass.”

Amy ducked away from the assault. “Hey, there were other problems, too. His sister does all the cooking and cleaning at home, and he spends so much money on comic books that I’m afraid to ask his credit score, and- oh, we’re both stupid competitive and have zero self-control. One time, the clock in his room ran out of batteries, and we lost all track of time, so we ended up fucking until daylight, and we were so sore the whole next day that… what?”

Priya was staring at Amy with her mouth open. “Oh my god, I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Amy was alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

“His credit score? Were you thinking L.T.R. with the pro-wrestler?”

Shit, did she say that? “It’s just an express-”

Priya put a hand up. “I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before in my life. ‘He’s so bad with money I’m afraid to ask him what his credit score is’? That’s not a thing. Oh my gaaad, Amy.” Priya’s voice settled into a pitying coo. “You’re super into this guy and you’re super bummed it’s over. Oh my gaaad.”

Amy threw a crouton. “Stop that. And ANYWAY, it doesn’t matter; we broke up, and that’s it. Sorry, that’s just how it is dating in the real world. We can’t all marry the first guy we kick our roommate out for.”

Priya grinned. Priya’s was the second wedding; Amy was Priya’s maid of honor, just like they’d promised. “Maybe more people should. It’s pretty great.”

Amy cringed. “God, then I’d be married to Henry… no, wait. Harry?”

“Harrys only exist in books and movies; no one’s named that in real life. And you’ve definitely never fucked a Henry. I’d have remembered.”

“Don’t you kind of remember a Harrison that went by Harry? Anyway, I told you that Nathan was my first. Henry or Harry turned out to be a massive douchebag, so I made him leave. Then, since I knew you were gone for the night, I slept in your bed.”

“Fuck you, no you didn’t.”

Amy’s smile was teasing. “I kept my shoes on and everything.”

Priya rolled her eyes. “I’d tell you to fight me if I didn’t think you actually would.” Priya took a bite from her sandwich. Then she lifted her water to her lips and muttered into the glass, “Can’t believe you broke that dude’s nose.”

Amy heard, and she wasn’t sorry. “Listen, Grant told me he had 3 years of Muay Thai under his belt. Like I wasn’t gonna try and punch that in the face?”

They stared at each other for a moment, then they burst out laughing. When she had a moment to breathe, Priya managed, “There’s something wrong with you.”

“Yeah,” Amy agreed. “There is.”

3 PM; North Hollywood

Amy danced.

She was at the De Lavallade Dance Studios in North Hollywood, taking advantage of their Saturday afternoon “Free Dance” block. The room was nearly empty- a handful of other dancers had staked generous claims on the floor, but there was plenty left to go around. But not many more than this showed up on Saturdays.

Most made the journey to North Hollywood on “Groove Nights”- Thursday nights from 9 to 11. Three dollars bought you entry to an open floor and an infinite playlist of funk standards- no classes, no structure, just space and the freedom to use it the way you liked. It was quite the commute to North Hollywood from campus (particularly on the hell that is the 405), but Amy used to make the drive almost every week, often to the detriment of her grades.

Thursdays could be loud and a little claustrophobic, but the people were friendly and Amy fed off of the energy coming off of the crowd. On Saturdays, dancing was a workout- quiet, serious, free of distractions.

When she first came back from Japan, Amy was a regular at both sessions. Slowly, though, Amy attended Groove Nights less and less. It wasn’t just that the scene had changed in the three short years she’d been away, though it had- like her, dancers had graduated or changed jobs and moved on. No, Amy started to prefer Free Dance because, too often, some fresh-faced newbie would recognize her, grin like an idiot, and pump a fist while chanting, “BAM! BAM! BAM!” Amy would flash a friendly smile and quickly flex an arm back, but it was disruptive, and it was distressing. This was exactly why she’d stayed away from Japan.

Groove Nights were way more fun. But Amy was grateful for Free Dance.

Amy danced. She was fine-tuning her mills and transitions today, so she was spending a good deal of her time here on the floor. But even when she was sitting, resting, she was watching the other dancers at work. Learning, focused, not thinking unwanted thoughts.

She made sure to make time for dance wherever she was- that was as true here in LA as it was in Japan, as it was in Vietnam and in France and in Italy and everywhere else she’d been. Dance was a constant in her life; something that, when everything else around her changed, she could count on to stay the same.

She danced. Same as she did every Saturday- losing herself in something familiar.

At five, she broke her trance. She looked at her phone. Shower, dinner, then one last thing on her agenda today.

7:00 PM; Boyle Heights

She could hear the bar from halfway down the block, but it wasn’t until after Amy pulled into the dirt lot did the dull thumping of drum and bass morph into anything resembling music.

It's like this and like that and like this and uh...

Amy parked her little Civic gingerly between two rows of choppers; hers was one of maybe 3 vehicles that wasn’t a motorcycle or a pickup truck. Even above the 90's hip hop played much too loud, and even through the heavy wooden door, the cacophony of drunken revelry settled about the building like a dense smog- shouting, laughing, the occasional shattering of glass, followed by even more shouting.

The clock on the dash reported that she’d gotten here plenty early, but Amy elected to wait it out in her car. This wasn’t exactly the sort place where someone like her came just to hang out.

Amy switched off her engine and stretched out. She tilted her head back into the headrest. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, Army was there.

He straddled her lap, weighing her down, breathing hard, eyes sharp with lust. Amy opened her mouth in surprise, but before she could even make a sound, Army was already on her- heavy hands holding her in place against the seat; rough lips, then aggressive teeth playing on her neck. Amy didn’t struggle. She let it happen, eyes closed, chin raised, body surging forward, starving for contact. Her fingers flew to his waistband and fumbled with his belt until a single, powerful hand grabbed her wrists and yanked her arms above her head. Amy gasped at the sudden stretch in her sides, and Army leaned in, purring softly into her ear, sending chills up and down her spine. She couldn’t see his face, but there was a chuckle in his voice. “Can’t let your guard down, pretty girl.”

Amy’s eyes rolled back, and her body shivered as anticipation lanced like electricity from where Army nicked her neck, down through her core, to the tip of each fingertip and every toe and back again. Her temperature rose by a thousand degrees, and her breath came out in little puffs of steam. A strangled moan clawed its way out of her mouth, as though it had been bottled up, trapped in her throat for months. When Amy’s eyes opened again, there was a long-absent fire in them, and the smile on her face was ravenous, predatory. “You’re so dead.”

She twisted herself loose from Army’s grip; one hand flew to her seat belt and released the catch while the other wrapped around his neck, drawing him close. She moved her lips to his...

8:10 PM

Amy woke up with a violent gasp, and her hands balled up into fists as she tried to figure out where she was. Realization was not long in coming, and, when it hit, Amy settled back against the seat with a frustrated ”Ugh.” Not again. Quietly, she brought her hand up to the side of her neck and rested her fingers delicately against the warm skin there.

Then, with a drowsy sigh, she pulled out her phone. What she saw woke her right the rest of the way up.

6 missed calls. Oh shit. An instinctive glance at the clock- ten past eight. Shit shit shit.

Amy fell out of the driver’s seat and onto the gravel and scrambled toward the bar, only just remembering to lock her car as she did. Her cell rang again, but it stopped before she even moved to pull it out of her pocket.

Ahead of her, just outside the bar entrance, a lanky, clean-cut man put away his phone. In this setting, Daniel Wakada stood out here almost as much as Amy did. But, as AFW’s “Senior Recruiter- Greater Los Angeles Area,” he belonged to the scene as much as anyone. Daniel wasn’t a huge fight fan, but he had numbers like you wouldn’t believe, thanks mostly to a keen eye for talent and a heart made of ice-cold granite.

It wasn’t often that wrestlers fraternized with recruiters beyond the official handoff to HQ in Japan. But when Amy was jonesin’ for a face to punch, she called Friction in Tokyo with an wholly impressive and totally bogus combat pedigree and asked to be put into contact with a local recruiter. Daniel was annoyed by the bait ‘n switch, but he was exactly what Amy was looking for: a reliable resource for the lowdown on nearby underground fights. As a plus, he turned out to be pretty chill, besides.

Though he wasn’t really just then. “There you are. Get inside. You are so late.”

“I know, I know.” Amy kept her head low, but Daniel heard something in her voice and stopped her all the same. He peered into her face.

“What’s wrong with your- did you just wake up?!” Daniel’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Amy shook his grip off her shoulder and pushed the solid door open. Pete scowled at her from behind the bar as she made her entrance. He pointed at the little door in the back and mouthed, You’re late. Amy waved him off. She knew the drill.

The parking lot was no less full than it had been an hour ago, but the bar was almost completely empty. That’s because no one came to The Road Warrior just to drink. And for good reason; it was a pretty shitty bar.

No, the establishment’s main draw lay beyond the little door in the back, down the rickety staircase, and inside a primitive looking cage- or ‘The Pit,’ as the regulars affectionately called it. Someone actually died in the Pit three years ago, if bar owner Pete’s stories were to be believed. But he also claimed Jeff Goldblum came in to fight a few Wednesdays in ‘93 before “Jurassic Park” had come out, so Amy tended to take his tales with a grain of salt. Also, it was pretty clear that Pete had a tough time letting go.

The crowd, already rowdy with impatience, roared to life in the packed room when Amy approached the ring- some cheers, a good number of boos at Amy for having made them wait, but overall a general frothing at the violence near at hand. Pete shouted at the crowd to move back, and the crowd did its best to give Amy room to approach the cage. One patron moved to slap Amy’s ass as she passed, but his friend grabbed his arm just in time. The friend shook his head and gestured at Gap-Toothed Gary, who kept his hands respectfully and conspicuously stuffed into his pockets for the entirety of Amy’s entrance.  

Tracy was already in the ring, pacing like a hungry lioness. Amy lifted a hand, and Tracy gave a curt nod back. The cage closed behind her, and the crowd’s cheering swelled. Pete came out to the center of the ring and started to shout into a microphone, but Amy was already miles deep into her mantra. Fight fight fight...

8:30 PM

90 seconds. 90 seconds was by no means a record. In fact, given the tendency for total mismatches here, it was actually one of the longer fights at The Pit. But it was a personal worst for Amy.

She sat at the bar lost in thoughts about nothing in particular, tilting her water glass this way and that. Her arm was still sore from the armbar she tapped to, but she did her best to ignore the pain, along with the world around her. That’s why she hardly reacted when Tracy burst through the back door into the bar, and only looked up when instinct called attention to the dangerous way Tracy beelined for Amy.

Amy watched warily as Tracy approached. She had really pretty curly hair when it wasn’t tied up in those cornrows. She was still in her fight gear- just like Amy- and she was carrying the satchel with her cash winnings from tonight’s win carelessly under her arm, like it didn’t even matter to her. Tracy was also sporting a fierce bruise under her right eye- did Amy give her that?

When they were close enough to hear each other over the deafening music, Amy managed a smile. “Hey Tracy. Good fight.”

Tracy cut her off. “No it wasn’t damn well wasn’t. What the fuck, Amy?”

The half-hearted smile faded. She knew what she meant. Tracy was right, it hadn’t been a good fight. Amy was still waking up, she was unfocused, and her heart hadn’t really been in it. She hadn’t been sleeping well recently, and, if Tracy had bothered to ask her politely if everything was okay, Amy might have bothered to offer any of these as an excuse, and maybe even an apology.

But it had been something of a long day, and Tracy was working Amy’s last nerve. So, instead, Amy shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Tracy. You were just too much for me today.”

Tracy slammed a frustrated fist down onto the bar, rattling Amy’s glass and catching the notice of the few patrons still on the ground floor. The report also earned the bar-back’s attention, who finally picked up on Tracy’s threatening aura. He moved to fetch Pete, who was busy minding the next fight downstairs. From somewhere above them, the sound system admonished, Don’t call it a comeback!

Tracy moved in close, eyes crackling with a wild anger. “Listen. I’ve told you how much I needed this, what it means to me. You KNOW what my schedule’s like. You KNOW I spend what little spare time I have with a coach to polish my fight. You KNOW I’ve been eating nothing but boiled chicken breasts and raw arugula since I met you. I’ve been turning down dates and happy hours for a fucking month, and you…” Tracy laughed or choked back a sob- it was hard to tell. “You couldn’t even be bothered to show up on time. So you owe me a little better than ‘I was too much for you.’” Her last line was punctuated with a stiff, painful finger jabbed just below Amy’s collar.

Amy bristled. Not okay. “You need to back-” Amy shoved Tracy back and found her feet. “-the fuck off.” But Tracy was fishing for a reason. She planted her foot and clocked Amy hard across the face, knocking her back into the bar. Amy saw stars, then she saw red. With a snarl, she lunged back at Tracy with strikes of her own, a wild hook that Tracy slipped, followed by an uppercut that sunk perfectly into Tracy’s ribs. Tracy grunted and dropped her prize money. The satchel fell from her grip and burst at their feet, sending money flying every which way into the air. The bills that escaped took on a life of their own; they swirled around the combatants in a frantic dance as they continued to fight, caught on an unseen and impossible wind.

The men in the room with them retreated to a back wall with their beers. These were the luckiest men in the world- a private catfight, practically close enough to touch! They whooped and whistled and grabbed at the loose cash if the storm ever got close enough, but they gave the ladies themselves a wide and respectful berth. The brawl was wreaking havoc on the bar, but LL Cool J was wholly unfazed:

I’m gonna knock you out!

Tracy landed a kick that sent Amy careening over a table, knocking it and the bottles it was supporting to the floor.

Mama said knock you out!

Amy tackled Tracy into a stool and drove them both into a wall. The stool smashed into splinters, evoking a pained shout and bringing Tracy to a knee.

I’m gonna knock you out!

Tracy stunned Amy with a beautiful cross across her mouth. As Amy stumbled back, shaking the cobwebs from her head, Tracy locked in a crippling standing guillotine...

Mama said knock you out!

...which she was forced to release shortly following a blind but savage haymaker that burst over her nose.

Without warning, two heavy mugs- one after another- exploded at their feet, and the women jumped apart. And, instantly, the chaos faded- the cheering stopped, the money settled on the floor; someone even thought to kill the music. “You know the rules, ladies.” Everyone turned to look at Pete, who had suddenly appeared behind the bar. He was panting, and he wore a thin sheen of sweat over his bald head, but he was pure authority when he pulled out a long-barreled revolver from somewhere beneath the bar and laid it gently on the countertop. “Not in the bar.”

The room was full again, populated by rubberneckers who had followed Pete up from The Pit. Yet, impressively, for a pregnant moment, it was dead silent. Everyone held their breaths, and all eyes were on Tracy and Amy, scanning for their reaction.

Then some anonymous dickweed from the crowd broke the spell.

“...Unless you strip and fight naked.”

“Fuck off!” Tracy and Amy retorted at the same time. They exchanged glances.

Tracy raised her hands in resignation. She had a bloody nose now, to go with her shiner. “Whatever. You can go to hell, Amy.” She picked up the satchel and whatever money was left inside and made to leave, kicking at the discarded bills as she walked toward the door.

Daniel walked in just as she was walking out. He had just signed a promising young brawler to Friction- a good night’s work. Daniel brightened up as he held open the door.

“Hey Tracy, have you given any more thought to…”

“Get bent.”

That’s what he’d figured. “Okay, I’ll get right on that.”

The scene inside made Daniel stop in his tracks. The toppled tables and chairs, the hundreds of dollars on the floor, the crowd squeezing out of what was supposed to look like an unused door. The music was back on, and the Road Warrior’s customers felt safe talking again. Some were making a run at the money, but Pete and his bar-back had made their way over to where the cash was densest, insisting that the funds were rightfully his, and that they would go to replacing the broken furniture. But no one dared to bother Amy, who stood stock still and all alone in the center of the room, bleeding from a rapidly swelling lower lip, and staring at the door with a stricken expression on her face.

He took everything in. Then he nodded at the glass of water still standing on the counter. “How about something a little stronger?”

9:00 PM

Daniel was on his second beer; Amy was barely a third of the way into her first.

It’s not that she didn’t need a drink,- she did- or that she wasn’t appreciative of Daniel’s gesture- she was. But, fact of life: beer is gross.

Even among alcohols, beer tastes disgusting, like penny-flavored acid. But at least it also smells bad and is full of calories and is low in alcohol content. Ugh. Wine could be sweet, and spirits got you to where you were going quick. Beer though... beer is just useless.

But Pete did brisk business without having to stock anything but varieties of bottled piss, so it was Coors all around.

Amy sat with her head on her arm, and her arms on the bar. The bar was sticky and gross, but it was fine, since that was kind of how Amy was feeling inside. One hand grasped the handle of her mug, and her eyes stared unthinkingly forward, focused on nothing.

Daniel watched the room. They’d been sitting quietly like this for about fifteen minutes now- quiet, that is, except for the occasional “No.” from Amy- forceful, final- to ward off the idiots who thought they had a shot with her.

The fights were over for the night, and Daniel was ready to go home. But he sighed, bothered. “Tracy turned me down again.”

Amy didn’t turn her head so much as redirect her eyes toward his voice. “Obviously.”

Daniel faced Amy and retook his seat. His hands were animated as he explained himself to Amy, as though Amy were Tracy herself. “But she would make so much money at the AFW!”

Amy sighed. He didn’t get it. She lifted her head. “You know she’s a law student, right? She’s going to make a lot of money anyway. And besides, she doesn’t care about any of that. I mean…” she gestured at the floor. The bar-back had done a decent job of sweeping up the bills, but there was still a good amount of stray cash tucked away here and there. “Her plans are bigger than the AFW or getting rich; she wants to help people with her degree. And she works fucking hard to get there, too- she volunteers and she tutors and she’s on the editorial board of her law review and she’s an all-around boss-ass bitch. All this-” Same gesture. “-is just a weird thing that she needs to do.” Amy settled down into her arms again. “I’m jealous.”

Daniel paused mid-sip; that was unexpected. “Of Tracy?”

“Yeah. She’s so driven. She’s wanted to be lawyer since forever, and so she up and went to law school. I wish I had something like that.”

“A goal?”

“Direction. Or, I don’t know.” Amy closed her eyes. “It’s like… everyone around me’s got things figured out. It feels like I’m standing still, and the world’s moving forward without me.”

Daniel turned to face the bar. This was veering into dangerously close to heart-to-heart territory, a place he had no patience for, particularly this close to bedtime. “Do you feel like you’re where you want to be?”

Her eyes opened again, and she sat up with a sigh. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you know where that is?”

Amy paused. She took a moment to watch Pete polish mugs, his customary frown cutting even lower down his chin than usual. It was clear he hated this particular chore. But there was a note of pride in Pete’s voice when he told stories about this bar. When he talked about Jeff Goldblum, the Pit was a Hollywood landmark, and, when he brought up that girl three years ago, the Pit was the goddamn Thunderdome. Pete loved The Road Warrior, maybe even more than he loved 80’s and 90’s pop culture. Amy couldn’t imagine him being anywhere else- this was his Place. He belonged here. He was Home. Did Amy have anyplace like Pete had his bar?

“I don’t know,” Amy lied.

Daniel was quiet for a few seconds again after that as he finished his beer. Something was bothering him, and it took him a little while to figure it out.

“Hey, how do you know so much about Tracy?” Daniel asked innocuously. Daniel knew because he had meticulously-researched dossiers on potential recruits. But Amy...

Amy was still watching Pete. By this time, she had the decency to feel guilty about how the night turned out, and she felt like she had to make it up to him. “I took her out for drinks.”

Daniel did a double-take. “What? When?”

“After our first fight.”

“What, the night you knocked her out?”

“Yeah. And she bought me dinner after our second fight.”

“The one she won by decision.”

“Right.”

Daniel faced the room again, shaking his head. “Something’s wrong with you people.”

But Amy already knew that. “Hey, Pete!”

Pete turned her way. “So what’s Arnold Schwarzenegger like in real life?”

Pete’s brow furrowed, which made his head looked like tilled earth. “What in God's name are you talking about?”

“Isn’t this the bar from Terminator?”

Pete rolled his eyes and moved down the bar, but Amy convinced herself that she saw him smile a little.

Daniel rolled his eyes too. He pulled on Amy’s arm. “Okay, hey. Get up. Let’s go get some In-N-Out, my treat. Amy, come on, In-N-Out, let’s go.”

That sounded so good. “Can’t.” Amy’s voice broke for just a moment. “I’m on a solidarity diet with the students in my aerobics class.”

10 PM; Pasadena

There was a light on in the kitchen when Amy pulled up to the curb. She hoped it was one of the boys, up late studying... or better yet, no one at all; a bulb wasting money, a rare miss by her frugal and ever-vigilant stepmother.

But no, there was Dad, working away at his laptop at the kitchen table. He looked up. “Rough day?” Amy just nodded, too tired to answer, much less assume her usual enthusiastic front. If he asked about the lip, she had a ready-made lie about boxing lessons, but she really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She just wanted to get to bed.

But Dad must have sensed something, because he stood up, came over to Amy, and draped an arm about her shoulders and leaned in. Amy put up a token struggle. “Dad, you’re heavy.”

“I’m really glad you’re home, kid.” Aw. Amy stopped struggling and turned in toward Dad to reciprocate his hug.

“Silly. You saw me this morning.”

“You know what I mean.” She did. He told her how glad he was that she wasn’t off gallivanting around the globe about once a week. “Want to talk about it?”

Amy shook her head against his chest. “Just a long day, is all.”

“Okay.” They disengaged. Dad sat back down at his laptop, and Amy made to go upstairs.

“You know you can talk to me about anything.”

Amy turned around. His laptop was still open, but he was looking straight at her. Amy’s smile was tired, but genuine. “Of course, I do.”

Dad glanced briefly toward the living room before snapping his focus onto his daughter again.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk to me about?”

Amy was suddenly wary. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“I just…” His eyes fell to his laptop screen for a second before he made eye contact again. “Come sit.”

Amy wasn’t sure what was happening, but she obeyed her father, taking the seat opposite his own. She watched the man who raised her take a moment to collect his thoughts.

“You haven’t really been yourself lately.”

“Who have I been?”

“Amy.”

“Sorry.”

He sighed and started over. “Let me start by saying that I couldn’t be happier that you’re home, and I hope I’m wrong about all of this. But your mother had the travel bug, too. Before she got sick, she’d get stir-crazy if she had to stay in one place for too long.” He leaned forward. “A part of me hopes that you’re all traveled-out, and you’re home for good. But I know that that’s optimistic. If something’s wrong- if there’s a problem that’s keeping you from doing what you want- I want to hear about it.”

Amy took a moment to digest what Dad was saying. He wasn’t off by much. Did she want to be abroad? Absolutely. Was something keeping her from going? Definitely. But, because she'd deliberately kept her career in Japan a secret from her family, there just wasn’t an easy way that she could explain the fame, the stifling public attention; how she couldn’t go outside and buy a fucking soda without getting recognized and accosted for a signature or a conversation.

But this wasn't her. Even Dad knew- Amy was a girl on a constant adventure. Her being at home went against the laws of nature.

She needed to do something. For now, though, she smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Seriously, dad, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He didn't seem entirely convinced, but there was still some relief in his voice. “Alright kid. Stay as long as you need. And just know that we're fine here, if that's what's keeping you.”

Amy stood up. She had lots to think about. “Thanks, Dad. And tell Gail thanks, too.”

Dad was suddenly very interested in the tablecloth. “For what?”

Amy laughed. Sure, Dad. Whatever you say. “I don’t know. For breakfast, I guess.”

Amy disappeared upstairs. A moment later, Gail stepped in out of the darkness of the living room, Dad's new iPad in hand. “You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, Chris.”

Dad rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Gail came over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It was the right thing to do; she’ll be happier this way."

“But what about my happiness?” Dad whined. The voice he used was a joke, but the sentiment was not.

Gail laughed a bit. “Well, that’s just something dads do- they sacrifice their happiness for their daughters.” Dad let out a deep sigh. Gail wrapped her arms about his shoulders. “You’re a good man, Chris Poford.”

He kissed his wife’s hand. “I’d rather be evil and see my daughter more than once a year,” he grumbled.