Page 10 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Now,” Hannah says. I stand up, but I do it slowly so she knows I don’t want to.

It really is nice outside—a mid-August day but not too humid, and unlike my bedroom, it doesn’t smell like fake hot dogs. There’s a light breeze in the air, and all around us the cicadas are screaming.

Same, cicadas. Same.

“I wish I could stay with you,” I say glumly.

“I know for a fact that you have some savings,” she says.

“Like three months’ worth.”

“That’s plenty. There are tons of studio apartments for rent this time of year. You just need to hit the right neighborhood. Like Buffalo Park. Off the end of the Brown Line.”

“Allthe way at the end?” I wail. “Is that even still in the city?”

She stops and gives me a hard look. “I’m sorry, as opposed to your parents’ house, which is practically a runway at O’Hare?”

“It isfree, though,” I mutter.

“You have two choices here, Mo,” Hannah says sternly. “You can be a hot mess withFinding Nemowallpaper, or you can at leasttryto get your shit together.”

I want to explain that I’m a hot messwithoutFinding Nemowallpaper, too, but I’m too afraid she’d agree with me.

“So what’s it going to be?” she asks.

“I’m going to look around for a cheap studio,” I recite.

“Good girl,” she says, and we start walking again.

“But that still doesn’t fix the job problem,” I say. “How am I supposed to pay for an apartment? Not to mention all these health problems I’ve accumulated today.”

“You could get marketplace insurance,” she suggests.

“Oh, sure. If I want to pay a billion dollars in premiums only to thenalsopay for everything else.”

“Okay, so let’s put a budget together. What do you think you spend the most money on?” she says.

“I don’t know, it just disappears!”

Hannah sighs, and I can tell I’ve disappointed her with my chaos monkey lifestyle once again.

The truth is that, over the years, I fell into a habit of letting Chris pay for all the essentials, which—I know—does not reflect well on me. I try logic instead.

“Believe me, Iwantto be gainfully employed. But even if I apply for a job today and got an interview tomorrow, it’ll take at least a month—”

Hannah stops abruptly. I slam into her. “Oh my god,” she says.

“What?” I ask, alarmed.

She turns around with a huge grin on her face. This is not a moment for a huge grin.

“I know you think my predicament is hilarious,” I say, “but this is actually my real life.”

She points toward the corner across from the grade school, where the neighborhood gardeners have really dropped the ball. A patch of desiccated tulips has fallen over, and impaling them is a plastic yard sign. “We just fixed your job problem.”

I squint, reading the sign. This can’t be happening.

“Hannah? No. No way. You’re obviously kidding, yes?”