{"product_id":"a-calliope-reaper-jones-novelisbn-9780441016945","title":"A Calliope Reaper-Jones Novel","description":"\u003cb\u003eBuffy fans will go wild!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSHE WAS TARA ON BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now she’s the author of Ace’s hottest new series— killer novels featuring Calliope Reaper-Jones, who doesn’t want to be daddy’s little girl anymore...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eView our feature on Amber Benson’s \u003ci\u003eDeath's Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCalliope Reaper-Jones so just wanted a normal life: buying designer shoes on sale, dating guys from Craig’s List, web-surfing for organic dim-sum for her boss...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But when her father—who happens to be Death himself—is kidnapped, and the Devil’s Protege embarks on a hostile takeover of the family business, Death, Inc., Callie returns home to assume the CEO mantle— only to discover she must complete three nearly impossible tasks in the realm of the afterlife first.AMBER BENSON co-created, co-wrote, and directed the animated supernatural web-series \u003ci\u003eGhosts of Albion\u003c\/i\u003e with Christopher Golden, followed by a series of novels including \u003ci\u003eWitchery\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAccursed\u003c\/i\u003e, and the novella \u003ci\u003eAstray\u003c\/i\u003e.  Benson and Golden also co-authored the novella \u003ci\u003eThe Seven Whistlers\u003c\/i\u003e.  As an actress, she has appeared in dozens of roles in feature films, TV movies, and television series, including the fan favorite role of Tara Maclay on three seasons of \u003ci\u003eBuffy the Vampire Slayer\u003c\/i\u003e.  Benson wrote, produced, and directed the feature films \u003ci\u003eChance and Lovers, Liars, and Lunatics\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcknowledgements\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwo\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethree\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efour\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efive\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esix\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eseven\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeight\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eten\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeleven\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwelve\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethirteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efourteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efifteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esixteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eseventeen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeighteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enineteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-three\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-four\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-five\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-six\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-seven\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-eight\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwenty-nine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eepilogue\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNICE DOGGIE . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCerberus turned its Snarly head, and the giant, jaundiced eye unblinkingly trained itself on my frozen form. The dog’s eye narrowed, and I knew without anyone saying anything out loud that I was only one slo-mo minute from getting digested.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe other two heads stopped their obsessive licking and raised themselves in line with Snarly head. They didn’t look nearly as mean as Snarly, but as I watched, something much worse began to register in their eyes: excitement. The big hellhound’s tail started thumping more quickly against the gate.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen, without warning, Snarly head swooped forward, teeth bared, giant eyeball trained in one direction . . . \u003ci\u003emine\u003c\/i\u003e. Frozen in shock, I could do nothing but stare as Cerberus, the guardian of the North Gate to Hell, prepared to make me its lunch . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublished by the Penguin Group\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePenguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand \u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, \u003cbr\u003eSouth Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDEATH’S DAUGHTER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn Ace Book \/ published by arrangement with Benson Entertainment, Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePRINTING HISTORY \u003cbr\u003eAce mass-market edition \/ March 2009\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright © 2009 by Benson Entertainment, Inc.\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-01451-6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eACE \u003cbr\u003eAce Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. \u003cbr\u003eACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFor the two special men in my life:\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDad and Adam\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAcknowledgments\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere are three people integral to the creation of this book: my awesome literary manager, Brendan Deneen; my equally fantastic editor, Ginjer Buchanan; and the man who started it all, my frequent collaborator and good friend Christopher Golden. Without their encouragement and support, Calliope Reaper-Jones would never have seen the light of day. I also want to send a shout-out to the singersongwriter Angela Correa, whose album \u003ci\u003eCorreatown\u003c\/i\u003e furnished the sound track for the writing of this book.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy name is Calliope Reaper-Jones, and I think I’m losing my mind.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOkay, maybe I was being a \u003ci\u003etouch\u003c\/i\u003e melodramatic. I  \u003ci\u003ewasn’t\u003c\/i\u003e completely losing my mind, but things were definitely getting a little screwy in my neck of the woods.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was like the universe couldn’t help itself. It had to mess with you every once in a while—you know, just to make sure you were paying attention. I guess it reasoned that since we were all so busy being anal little worker ants, its job was to step in occasionally and shatter whatever carefully constructed illusions of normalcy we had created for ourselves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJust to shake things up a little . . . for our sakes, of course.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause, unlike us, the universe knew that illusions were just that: illusionary—and they could be destroyed with one well-placed roundhouse kick.\u003c\/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003emy\u003c\/i\u003e kick in the pants came last Saturday: the day of my most recent blind date.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy next-door neighbor, Patience, had decided she was sick and tired of my sad ass feeling all sorry for itself—her words, not mine, but the sentiment was definitely correct. I mean, I hadn’t had a real date in, well . . . It was so pathetic an expanse of time that I didn’t even want to talk about it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou see, my not-so “dream job” job had totally precluded me from having any kind of social life. Period. I spent all week working my butt off, so that when Saturday finally \u003ci\u003edid\u003c\/i\u003e roll around, I was too dead to the world to enjoy it. Plus which, my few pathetic attempts to “hook up” through craigslist were just that—pathetic.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI usually ended up in zombie mode until Sunday when—somehow mildly recharged—I’d get up, do my laundry, run a few necessary errands, then meet some girlfriends at whatever new “happening” breakfast place they’d decided we were going to have brunch at that weekend. They never bothered asking for my foodie opinion, just e-mailed me the address—for reference only, since I wouldn’t know a “happening” place if it hit me over the head with a shovel and whispered into my ear: “I’m a hot spot!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnyway, that’s enough about my pathetic excuse for a social life. Let’s go back to the blind date, and the day everything in my life went to hell in a handbasket.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSaid blind-date guy was one of Patience’s office mates at Brown, Stimple, and Brown, Esquire, a big law firm uptown. I wasn’t exactly sure what she did there, but she had a really big television hanging on her wall, so it must’ve been something very important and unbelievably exciting—\u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e. The legal world was nothing if not nail-bitingly . . . \u003ci\u003etedious.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnyway, the guy she’d decided was my soul mate worked in a different department, but since they had mutual friends, she said it would be as “easy as pie”—her words again—to get him to take me out on the town one Saturday night in the near future, ending my fantastically \u003ci\u003elong\u003c\/i\u003e dating dry spell—\u003ci\u003ehurrah!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, it turns out the “near future” was only two days after she’d told me about the idea in the first place. There wasn’t even enough time to get freaked-out about the whole thing. All I could do was take my Friday lunch break at Saks, and pray there was something on the designer sale rack that fit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUnfortunately, the one dress I fell in love with at first sight, a beautiful DKNY silk number that was marked down to a ridiculous forty-three bucks, was way too big. No matter how I tried to cinch the waist, it looked like I was wearing a mumu. Empty-handed, I went back to work feeling—for the first time in my life—slightly perturbed that I wasn’t twenty pounds \u003ci\u003eheavier\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat night, I was stuck in the office until eight thirty collating four copies of my boss’s son’s book report, by which time all the stores were closed, or getting ready to close. I knew right then and there it was gonna be Saturday afternoon or nothing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I got home, I set my alarm for nine thirty, determined to get up, brush my teeth, and go find something slinky, sultry, and cheap to wear on the blind date. I had decided that even if the guy was a total dog—which he probably \u003ci\u003ewould\u003c\/i\u003e be, with my luck—\u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e was gonna look hot, and take \u003ci\u003esomebody\u003c\/i\u003e yummy home, even if it only turned out to be my old standby: Ben and Jerry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat night, all tucked up in my little Battery Park  City bedroom, I fell asleep with visions of department stores in my head, more excited about a Saturday than I’d been in a long, long time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHad I known what the next day was going to have in store for me, I don’t think I would’ve slept a wink. Needless to say, I was completely clueless, so I slept like a baby . . . on Ambien.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe day did not even \u003ci\u003estart\u003c\/i\u003e well.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst, my alarm decided to not go off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’d set that sucker, checked it twice—I can be a bit OCD when I feel like it—and even made sure the alarm was set to \u003ci\u003ebuzzer\u003c\/i\u003e rather than \u003ci\u003eradio.\u003c\/i\u003e I knew it was going to have to be one of those screaming “alarm only” mornings if I was going to make myself crawl out of bed at a quasireasonable hour, so I took, like, extra, \u003ci\u003eextra\u003c\/i\u003e precaution.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo, of course, no alarm meant no wakey-wakey on time. Which in plain English meant that when I finally did get up, it was one (!) in the afternoon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe next thing I discovered was that \u003ci\u003eall\u003c\/i\u003e the water from every tap in my apartment was boiling hot. The scalding water made it almost impossible to brush my teeth, let alone take a shower or wash my hair, so now I was stuck stinking my way into what was supposed to be a brilliant Barney’s shopping-excursion day.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWeird, but not unheard of.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn fact, only six months earlier the entire building had been without water for two days, in which time I learned the true meaning of the term “Irish bath.” Take it from me, not the best way to make friends on the subway.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn retrospect, I guess I should have seen all the above  weirdness as a sign. But at the time—and you have to believe me here—it did not seem like a big deal, definitely not strange enough to warrant an exorcism of the old homestead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt wasn’t until I got to the front hall of my building that I realized I might very shortly be in the market for the phone number of the local Catholic church.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe monster was blocking the whole length of the entranceway to my building. His back was to me, his front facing the window-paneled door. (I guess so he could watch the traffic?) I say it was a \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e, but that was only a hypothesis. I just could not imagine any self-respecting female—monster or not—ever getting as pudgy as this thing was.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStrangely, I wasn’t frightened of the big guy, not even as I was getting my first glance of its tremendous bulk. I don’t know how to explain that other than to say that there was something about the creature that was . . . soothing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the time, I had no idea what kind of monster the thing was, but if I really think back on it, I’d have to guess it was probably, at least, \u003ci\u003epart\u003c\/i\u003e dragon. I mean, it had a long, scaly brown tail, huge brown haunches, and a row of blue triangular-shaped flaps of skin that ran the length of its back. So, it was either a medium-sized dragon, or a smallish dinosaur. Take your pick.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLuckily, it didn’t appear to notice my arrival—which I took as a good thing—but I played it safe by standing still as a statue on the bottom step of the stairwell, trying not even to breathe if I could help it. I was a lot of things, but \u003ci\u003esuper idiot\u003c\/i\u003e wasn’t one of them. If the dragon\/ monster thing wanted to sit in my front hall and watch the traffic go by out the window, like a dog, I wasn’t gonna be the dum-dum who disturbed it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs quietly as I could, I backed my way up the front stairs until I hit the second-floor landing. Then I hightailed it up the next four flights until I was back in the relative safety of my own apartment.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter taking a moment to catch my breath, and have a shot of the Bailey’s I’d had in the back of my fridge since Christmas, I sat down on my couch and made my plans: I was gonna go next door, get a witness, and then go back downstairs. Patience would see the dragon\/ monster and freak out, verifying the fact that I was not losing my mind.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was just one slight hitch in my plans: She wasn’t home.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI thought about knocking on some random person’s door and trying to get them to go see the dragon\/monster with me, but I was too scared it might have gotten bored in the interim and left—which would’ve made me look like a real nut job—so I put an ix-nay on that one.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter taking another calming sip of Bailey’s, I did the only rational thing a person could do in my situation: I called Animal Control.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m making this complaint anonymously,” I said tersely. “There’s a big monster dog in my front entranceway, and I need you to send someone out to get it!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe woman on the other end of the line kept asking me for my name, but I wasn’t stupid. If I gave it to her, then everyone would know \u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e was the weirdo caller, and I might \u003ci\u003eactually\u003c\/i\u003e end up in Bellevue before my blind date could save me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFinally, sick of her wheedling for more information, I blurted out the address and hung up. Then, I raced to my bathroom, which was home to the only window in my whole apartment that looked out onto the street in front of the building, and rolled up the shade, ready to watch  and wait for the man with a big net to come and catch my monster.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI waited a long time. I called again. I ate some peanut butter out of the jar, returned to the bathroom, and waited some more.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt six thirty my buzzer sounded. I was sitting hunched over the lip of the bathtub, furiously filing my nails with a weather-beaten emery board. I quickly sat up straighter, so I had a better view out the window, and craned my neck to see who was at the front door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI could just make out a man-sized shape on the stoop, and my heart began to beat inside my chest like a nasty little ball-peen hammer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDamn, had Animal Control traced my phone number to my apartment?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was only when I peered closer that I saw that the Animal Control guy was carrying a bouquet of . . .  \u003ci\u003eflowers\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eCrap!\u003c\/i\u003e It wasn’t Animal Control . . . it was my \u003ci\u003eblind date\u003c\/i\u003e! I had totally forgotten about him!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had always thought of myself as a normal kinda gal, and normal gals—even if they saw a giant dragon\/ monster in their front hall—did not let said monster interfere with a possible encounter with Mr. Right. I was gonna have to pull it together, stop being a wuss, and answer the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI ran to the living room and pushed the button on the intercom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Shit! I mean, hello . . . ?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Uhm, is this Calliope?” a dreamy voice said, sounding uncertain.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMaybe this date won’t be such a dud after all. The guy is definitely in possession of one helluva sexy voice.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI nodded, pleased with Patience, then realized that the guy wasn’t standing in front of me and probably thought I hadn’t heard him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Definitely! This is, uh, definitely Calliope Reaper-Jones!” I said in an overloud voice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was silence as the blind date digested what I’d said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI couldn’t believe what an idiot I sounded like. He must’ve thought I was one of Patience’s \u003ci\u003eslow\u003c\/i\u003e friends. I don’t know what it is with the opposite sex, but I just can’t seem to keep an intelligent thought in my head when there’s an attractive man in my vicinity.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m Brian. I work with your friend Patience,” he finally replied.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s my neighbor,” I burbled back at him like a ninny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce again, radio silence from Brian, the blind date.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay, yeah, your neighbor.” He cleared his throat. “Uhm, I don’t mean to be rude, but can I come up?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Come up?” I asked smartly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, uh, come up to your apartment?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t know if you want to do that,” I said. “There’s a big, fat dragon\/monster thing in the front hall.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI clapped my hand over my mouth, almost jarring my front teeth loose in the process.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just kidding! Just kidding!” I screeched through my fingers. “Come on up!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI buzzed him in immediately so I wouldn’t have to hear the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement at a terrified run.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Crap!” I said out loud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen I caught sight of myself in the mirror that hung above the living room couch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Crap!” I said again, this time in reference to the fact that I looked like a homeless woman.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI couldn’t believe what a rat’s nest my hair was. I had on absolutely \u003ci\u003eno makeup\u003c\/i\u003e, and I was wearing an old, comfortable pair of Juicy sweats. Good for an intense shopping expedition. Not so good for a blind date.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot knowing which mess to address first, I nearly sat down on the couch and gave up, but instead, my brain thankfully switched into autopilot and sent my body on a fact-finding mission to the bedroom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFiguring, with the five flights of stairs Brian, the blind date, would have to traverse to get to my door, I’d have seven minutes to get myself together, or forever hold my peace.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTripping my way across my messy bedroom floor, I threw open the closet door and grabbed the first thing that caught my eye: an adorable little jumpsuit I’d gotten on sale at Saks. It was made of organic white linen and felt just like butter on my skin.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven though it had been kinda scrunched in the corner of the closet floor when I picked it up, it didn’t look that wrinkled in hand, so I gave it the sniff test, which it passed with flying colors—\u003ci\u003eyea!\u003c\/i\u003e I yanked off my sweats and slipped on the jumpsuit, zipping it up so quickly I caught a little piece of my boob in the zip’s teeth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ahhhhh!” I screamed, trying not to rip skin, as I yanked the zipper back down. There was a huge red welt on my left breast, but I ignored it, this time being a little more careful with the zip as I reworked it back up into position.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDigging my way through the messy pile of dirty clothing that surrounded my bed, I found my favorite pair of cream kitten heels under a crumpled skirt and slipped  them on, silently cursing myself for not having gotten a pedicure recently. The bright purple nail polish I’d loved when I’d had the girl put it on three weeks ago looked like toe fungus now, all old and chipped.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was nothing I could do about the would-be fungus, so I ignored it, making a run for the bathroom to slap on as much makeup as I could in the space of sixty seconds. Makeup done, I grabbed an elastic band from one of the crappy cultured-marble vanity drawers and scraped my rat’s nest into what I hoped was some semblance of a ponytail, praying Brian, the blind-date guy, wouldn’t notice a few errant pieces of hair sticking out here and there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe doorbell rang just as I was putting on the finishing touch, something I used only for \u003ci\u003especial\u003c\/i\u003e occasions: a spritz of Chanel No. 5.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd voilà! I was ready to rumble . . . or at least have dinner. As unbelievable as it seemed, I had gotten ready for an important date in less than seven minutes. A bloody miracle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI threw open the door, hoping against hope that Brian, the blind date, looked like Clive Owen. I knew in my soul that with a voice like that, the body had to match.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Is Brian here yet?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePatience stood in my doorway, holding a thick manila folder in her hand. She looked amazing, as always, her thick blond hair hanging loose and curly around her angelic little face. She was like a miniature version of that doe-eyed French actress Julie Delpy. If she weren’t so nice, I would’ve totally hated her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI mean, the little bitch was wearing a tank top and  \u003ci\u003ebicycle shorts\u003c\/i\u003e—and her butt looked good in them. \u003ci\u003eSo\u003c\/i\u003e  not \u003ci\u003efair!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hello . . . ? Earth to Callie? Is your date here yet?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Not yet,” I stuttered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Did he stand you up?!” she said incredulously, ready to go beat him up for me, bicycle shorts and all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shook my head, trying to reconnect to reality.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, I mean, he’s not here yet because I just buzzed him in, and you know, there are five flights of stairs, so . . .” I trailed off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePatience raised an eyebrow at me, then rolled her eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Here,” she said, thrusting the manila folder into my hands. “Make sure you give him this.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI nodded vigorously.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s important, Callie. For work.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was like she didn’t trust me to give the guy a stupid manila folder. Jeez, I wasn’t a total screwup . . . was I? The look on her face gave me pause, but I brushed it away. Of course Patience didn’t think I was a screwup. You didn’t introduce screwup friends to hot guys from work. It just wasn’t done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I will give him this manila folder if it’s the last thing I do,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Make it the \u003ci\u003efirst\u003c\/i\u003e thing you do, and I’ll be happy,” she called over her shoulder as she walked to her door and let herself in, leaving me alone in the hall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomething niggled at the back of my mind. I tried to ignore it, push it to the nether regions of memory where the bogeyman and the My Little Pony Universe still resided from childhood, but suddenly the thought would not be laid to rest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh, Jesus!” I choked out, making a desperate run for the stairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat was I thinking!! I let the blind-date guy come  right into the building, even though the big, scary monster might still be in the lobby! And all because I wanted to look hot! I\u003c\/i\u003e am \u003ci\u003ea screwup, after all!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI took the stairs two at a time, my kitten heels double clacking so loudly behind me that it sounded like the Easy Spirit basketball team was overrunning the stairwell.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Shit,” I said under my breath as I almost went down the third flight headfirst.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI reached the bottom of the last set of stairs after what seemed like an eternity. My hair was in my face, and my cheeks were red from exertion, but I had made it. I was almost in the lobby, and I was gonna save my blind date if it killed me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Get away, foul beastie!” I screamed, brandishing the folder Patience had given me as I leapt off the last step, my velocity pushing me toward the front doors. I felt a sudden lurch, and I was falling face forward, the cool, green marble tile of the front lobby coming toward my unprotected face at amazing speed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI felt two strong hands grab me from behind, and instead of hitting the floor face-first like I had predicted, I was suddenly on my feet, kitten heels making one loud, final clack as I caught my balance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thank you,” I said as I looked up into the face of my savior. My blind date . . . Brian.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling. “That was almost a bloodbath.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was shorter than me. That was the first thing I noticed. Shorter and fatter than me, with a large head, and small round John Lennon glasses perched low on his long nose. If he had been maybe seven inches taller, I might have been thanking Patience, instead of cursing her heartily in my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re . . . Brian?” I said weakly. He nodded happily.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh, God,\u003c\/i\u003e I thought to myself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This is for you,” I said, thrusting the folder into his chubby hands. He took it, flipping through it before smiling back up at me. It was obvious that he was smitten. I was probably the most attractive female he’d ever touched.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You didn’t see that big dinosaur-looking monster I mentioned down here when you first came in, did you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI looked around the lobby. Nothing. And then it hit me—if there had been something here, it would have eaten Patience when she came home. I couldn’t believe I had spent the entire afternoon hidden in the bathroom waiting for Animal Control because I was losing my mind, seeing things that were obviously \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e real.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBrian gave me a quizzical look, but shook his head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sorry, no dinosaurs. But I did see a cowboy in his underwear playing a guitar in Times Square.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esince brian had saved me from certain facial disfigurement, I went to dinner with him. He was a nice guy. Short, but nice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was gonna kill Patience . . . right before I checked into Bellevue.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003etwo\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf I had any doubts about my sanity, they were not assuaged during the rest of the weekend. I spent all of Sunday hiding in my apartment, afraid to so much as turn on my television for fear of seeing more freaky things that would confirm my diagnosis of insanity. Feeling a little bit better when I crawled into bed that night, I said a quick thank-you in my head and closed my eyes, hoping Monday morning would put the weekend craziness into perspective.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI woke up late. So, instead of walking to work—which is the only exercise I get these days—I decided to take the subway. Now, I love the trains, but taking them in the mornings, and after work, is like willingly cramming yourself into a tin can of sardines—and smelly sardines at that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot something I enjoyed doing even on mornings when I was running late. Still, I really didn’t have a choice—the only other option was to take a cab, which  would cost a small fortune, and probably make me even later.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo, that was how I found myself standing in a rickety subway car, holding on to a sweaty pole and praying someone would get off at the next stop so I could finally grab a seat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was totally minding my own business—trying to find my iPod headphones that somehow always ended up at the bottom of my purse wrapped around a tampon—when, suddenly, a homeless man was standing in front of me, staring at me with dark, hollow eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow, normally, I would just throw some change a few feet in the other direction, causing a homeless person free-for-all, but this guy didn’t even blink when I tossed a handful of quarters at the heavyset Hispanic lady who was taking up the whole row of handicap seats behind me. I felt a little bad about sending Mr. Homeless in her direction, but then I figured she \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e taking up \u003ci\u003eall\u003c\/i\u003e  the handicap seats so she was fair game.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut instead of freeing myself from the Homeless Man’s eye-embrace, something strange happened. Something I had never experienced in my two years of Manhattan living—living that had exposed to me to lots of unseemly things which were rather scarring to my delicate countenance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInstead of chasing the coins I’d thrown, the homeless man dropped to his knees—in a crowded subway car no less—and, looking up from his position of supplication on the dirty subway car floor, he wiggled his greasy eyebrows seductively at me, his eyes full of awe, and blew me a kiss.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat was not the bad part.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHere’s the bad part: As the car came to the next  stop . . . Mr. Homeless leaned forward, \u003ci\u003eand tried to kiss my feet through my Marc Jacob sandals!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eEwwww!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe only way I could get the dude to cease and desist was to throw myself out the subway car doors right before they slid shut. Needless to say, I ended up engulfed in morning-rush-hour commuter traffic. I was lucky a gaggle of Wall Street number crunchers didn’t trample me and my knock-off Kate Spade bag right there on the subway platform.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll of this alone was heart-attack-inducing enough, but the worst part was yet to come. As I was free-falling out the subway doors, I actually thought I heard Mr. Homeless say:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re next in line, Mistress Calliope.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDouble ewwww!!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow the hell did Homeless Man know my name! I mean, I understand the guy intuitively sensing that I was a lovely thing of exquisite beauty that needed her feet kissed every once in a while, but c’mon, this was no idle beauty worship hit. This guy had some kind of agenda, and it probably included stalking me all day, then following me home to my sixth-floor walk-up and putting all my underwear on his head before murdering me in my bed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTriple ewwww!!!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSo much for good, old Monday-morning perspective,\u003c\/i\u003e I thought miserably.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen i got to work, immediately all my own worries were forgotten in favor of my boss’s needs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI started the morning in what was turning out to be a fruitless search of the Internet for a restaurant that did  organic dim sum. Easier said than done. I mean, have  \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e ever eaten organic dim sum? Well, I hadn’t, but my boss, Hyacinth Stewart, had.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had gone to some hoity-toity party on the Upper East Side the night before, and the hostess had bragged for hours about the organic dim sum she had served, and how Jennifer Aniston \u003ci\u003eonly\u003c\/i\u003e ordered from the place whenever she was in town.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Ace","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303825101029,"sku":"NP9780441016945","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780441016945_4f5b4269-9cbb-4bcd-b111-3fc496473e60.jpg?v=1730755464","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-calliope-reaper-jones-novelisbn-9780441016945","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}