When we walk into Farantelli’s, we see Toni standing in line. She’s holding our place, which is good because the line wraps around the room nearly twice. Everyone wants to eat out on Saturday.
“Heya girlies.” She turns to hug us. “Lunch is on me today.”
“No way, Aunt Toni, I’m buying,” Faith says.
“Your money’s no good here,” Toni tells her. Then she looks at me and says, “We’re celebrating!”
“What are we celebrating?” I could really use some good news right about now, so I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the Jets winning. I couldn't care less about sports.
“I may have figured out a way to solve your cash flow issue.”
Please God, let it not involve lap dances. Toni’s sister works at a gentlemen's club and the last time I complained about money, she suggested asking Tonya if there were any openings.
I give her a skeptical look while we take a couple steps forward in the line.
Toni immediately knows what I’m thinking of and whispers, “Not that. Although, cha-ching! Tonya’s pulling in eight hundred in tips on the weekends alone. She figured out this new way to slide down the pole … apparently it’s quite the hit.”
“What pole?” Faith asks in her loud preschool voice. “And how does Auntie Tonya slide down it so special?”
I glower at Toni, who gives me an apologetic look. “You’ve got such good hearing, kiddo.”
“The one at the big park,” I tell her.
“Oh yeah, that’s the best pole in the city,” Faith announces authoritatively.
We’re next in line, so by the time we order, get our food, and snag a table up against the window, I’ve all but forgotten about Toni’s latest “get rich quick” plans. We peel off our jackets and breathe a collective sigh of relief as the air becomes less stifling. After we hang them over the wooden chairs, we finally settle down to eat.
Faith unwraps her sandwich and carefully smooths out the paper to turn it into a makeshift plate while I open her bag of plain chips for her.
“Okay, so I’ve got three words for you,” Toni says, her words muffled by her tuna salad on rye. “Rent-a-Pal.”
“What?” I ask, pouring out the chips.
“Rent-a-Pal. It’s a new website that people can advertise themselves on. You can make anywhere from twenty to fifty bucks an hour, just hanging out with someone who needs a friend,” she says.
“That sounds really sketchy.”
“It’s not. I read an article about it on Buzzfeed. Totally above board. For the most part,” Toni says.
“Come on, for fifty bucks an hour, there’s got to be a catch,” I tell her, having my first bite of my clubhouse. Oh, yes … salty bacon goodness with just the right amount of melted cheese, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, turkey, and ham. It’s my meat for the entire week, so I’m going to enjoy every bite.
“Well, I guess some of the people have some … odd hobbies that they want you to participate in,” Toni admits. “Like this one old lady who wants someone to praise her while she licks stamps during their hang out sessions.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, yup. Let’s strike Rent-a-Pal off the list.”
“Fifty bucks an hour,” Toni says slowly. “You’re telling me you can’t say ‘good job’ to someone for that kind of cash?”
“You mean a total weirdo,” I say.
“Auntie Holly, you said it’s not nice to call someone a weirdo,” Faith tells me, giving me a look more suited to a sixty-year-old librarian.
“You’re right, Faith, that wasn’t kind of me.” I wipe some red sauce off her chin, and I turn back to Toni. “I really appreciate you coming up with ideas. Honestly, I do, but I can’t see myself wanting to get involved in that sort of work.”
“All right,” Toni says with a shrug. “But your insurance is due soon and last time we talked, you couldn’t cover it.”
Insurance is our code word for the Dartmouth tuition fee—who names a preschool after an Ivy League university? Talk about overselling yourself. I lose my appetite the second the topic of insurance comes up. I was supposed to have paid for the next semester already and I’ve just been sent my third reminder notice. If I don’t scrape it together by Christmas, they’re going to “rescind her invitation.”
“I know. But I should have it soon. That woman I’ve been trying to sell the Disney cruise package to is making her decision today, and honestly, I think this one is going to happen. Family reunion for twenty people. Twenty. It’ll cover the … insurance for sure.”
Toni’s eyebrows knit together. The last three “sure thing” vacation packages I was about to sell all fell through.
I’m lucky to have such a good friend who cares so much, not only about me, but about Faith too. Needing a break from my problems, I shift the conversation to Toni’s job as the executive assistant to Archibald Harrington the Third, bazillionaire investment banker and workaholic extraordinaire. Toni’s always got stories about him that make Faith and me laugh.
“His Highness has decided we all need to work through Thanksgiving this year,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Apparently ‘hostile takeovers don’t care if I want to eat pumpkin pie.’”
“Seriously?” I ask. “You should just quit. Or at least threaten to quit so he’ll give you the holiday off.”
She slides a chip off Faith’s wrap and pops it in her mouth with a wild grin on her face. “Mr. Harrington’s not the kind of man you play chicken with, or as he would say, ‘with whom you play chicken.’ If I threaten to quit, I have to be prepared to walk, and it’s too good of a job for that.”
I let out a sigh that’s meant to permanently expel my frustration at the ways of the world. “That’s why the rich just get richer …”
“True,” Toni says. Then she smiles at me. “Which is why I’m going to learn everything he knows about getting rich. Then we’ll do it too.”
“Um … I’m pretty sure being born one of the heirs to the Harrington fortune is step one, and neither of us was lucky enough to be born into that family,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip instead of my sandwich.
“Buck up, little camper,” she says. “And remember, we can do this. We just have to embody our inner Oprah.”
Oprah’s our touchstone for going from rags to riches. She did it on her own without compromising her values. “You’re right,” I say, glancing at my niece who is now building a teetering chip tower. “I can be Oprah.”
“Yes, you can, Holly. You just have to figure out what path is going to lead you there.”
And that’s the problem …
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