The Girl's Guide to Homelessness Read Online Free

relationship with some common actress (without the convenience of actually breaking up with me first) was somehow the most sensible plan of action. Mysti, I believe was her name. What the hell kind of a name is Mysti, anyway? I wondered, bitterly. I had no idea what she looked like, but in my wishful thinking she was a trampy bimbo with blonde extensions, a horsey face, fake boobs and a SoCal tan, spouting the platitudes that so many actors keep handily tucked under one arm to prove their depth to the skeptical world.
    I found out about Mysti two days before Christmas. In some subconscious layer of being, I knew, and when I asked, “Who is she?” I prayed that Dennis would respond that he hadn’t the foggiest idea what I was talking about. Instead, he looked stricken, but didn’t deny it; he later told me that, having paused for far too long before responding, he realized that he could no longer make up a convincing enough lie. I threw his Christmas present at his head. Unfortunately, it was an envelope containing two skydiving tickets (he desperately wanted to leap from a plane and I,picturing myself plummeting like a screaming grapefruit, only to splat open on the Lake Elsinore hills, had psyched myself up to do it with him). The envelope had fluttered harmlessly to the ground at his feet, and my life had officially fallen apart.
    Joyce Cato’s voice had trailed off expectantly, bringing my scrabbling thoughts back to the situation at hand, but I wasn’t biting. I remained noncommittal.
    â€œâ€¦Yes?”
    â€œAre you the daughter of Bob Jason Neville?” Well, fuck. No skirting that one.
    â€œI, um, sort of. I haven’t seen him for years. About twenty-two years. I don’t—I mean—my mother remarried. I don’t have anything to do with him. That’s why my last name is Karp now, instead of Neville.”
    If she was a private detective, hired to track me down so this man could reenter my life, I wanted to head her off at the pass. Perhaps she would hang up the phone and leave me alone now. That’s when she informed me that she was with the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office, that Bob had passed away and that she was so sorry.
    Sorry? I wasn’t sure what I felt. I was seated with my ex at a Jamba Juice patio, there was a man smoking to our right, the fumes were bugging me a bit and, by the way, one half of my DNA was dead. Forever. Never to return. Certain questions could never be asked, certain mysteries never solved, doors closed forever. Did I care? Did I feel sorry? I didn’t know. Detachedly, I wondered if I sounded callous to Joyce Cato as I asked, “Was it an overdose?”
    Across from me, Dennis looked up suddenly, his dark eyes pooling with concern. The consummate actor. I paused, absorbing the tinny voice emanating from the phone, then confirmed, “Suicide. Shotgun. Mmm-hmm. Well, right. Iguess I can definitely see that. I mean, that makes perfect sense. From what I know of him, that’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do.” My voice was flat, matter-of-fact, even a little chipper. I was cucumber-cool, could have been conducting a job interview. If anything, I imagine I would have appeared a mite too still to the casual observer. Too collected and serene, with a cruel edge, even.
    â€œYou’re the next of kin,” Joyce Cato informed me. “His mother, Jesse, and his sister, Carol, were notified two weeks ago, when he was found. Jesse told us that there were four children and two ex-wives. We tracked down the other wife and two children fairly easily, since they shared his last name, but you and your sister were harder to find. You’re the oldest, and the next of kin. There was no will or suicide note found, so we need you to come down to the coroner’s office to take care of some things, tell us what kind of arrangements you’d like to make for the body. Unless you were ever legally adopted by your