The Plan Read Online Free Page A

on the balls of her bare feet.
    No other parts bounce. She is disgustingly fit for someone who spends all day surrounded by baked goods.
    “Gooooood morning, Emma,” she half-slurs sarcastically and points back toward our living room. “I have something for you!”
    “Is it a sleep?”
    “What?”
    “Never mind. What is it?”
    “Inspiration.” She smiles beatifically, spins, wobbles, and commences to tromp about the house.
    On the sofa sits a shopping bag filled to the brim. It bursts with items ranging from satin to silk to what I hope against hope is not white latex. Predominantly lacy, uncomfortable looking underthings. Frederick’s of Hollywood kind of things.
    I do wish there were assless chaps. Not that I would wear them. But there is nothing funnier than the words assless chaps .
    But, tangentially, answer me this: Do any chaps actually have asses?
    I enjoy lingerie even more than the next person. Don’t get me wrong.
    That being said, I am exhausted and have no wish to humor her and go through these items. Clara would never allow me to go back to sleep if I deny her this. So, with as much desire to handle objects as is typically reserved for radioactive isotopes, I reach in and grab out whatever is nearest the top.
    Electric blue coordinated bra and panty set. Nice.
    Plum and lavender inset bustier with matching cheekies. I will wear this one some day soon just for me.
    A bra so padded it could double as a Muppet. I would have to refer to my breasts as Kermit and Fozzie.
    Hot pink fishing line.
    Oh, wait. It’s a thong.
    I cannot be expected to wear a thong. I am not a stick figure. Thongs ride up my butt crack. The removal of undergarments is not supposed to launch a full scale search and rescue operation.
    I refuse to go spelunking just take off my undies.
    “I am not wearing these,” I say.
    Clara snatches them away. Snorts.

Day of Employment:
363
    1:11 p.m.
* Personal Assistants Who Started Today : 3.
* Personal Assistants Still Employed: 1.
* Fit to be Tied : Rebecca.
* Actually Tied : Bert and I. We placed identical bets.
    “HOW C AN I B E E XPECTED to accomplish anything constructive if I have to replace personnel every damned minute of every damned day?” Rebecca fumes. She must be very upset; her blotter and stapler no longer run at perfect, intersecting lines. She buttons, then unbuttons her suit jacket on repeat.
    Madeline smartly tucks the betting pool notebook behind her back. “Wonder why Mr. Canon is acting nastier than usual. Do you suppose it’s the holiday blues? I always hear the holiday season can cause depression and loneliness.”
    Bert laughs. “If that guy is lonely, he has only himself to blame. He probably ate all his young.”
    Oh, low blow. That hardly seems fair.
    There is no replicant technology that affords androids procreation.
    8:59 p.m.
* Final Exam : Impossible to complete in the three hours allotted.
    “E MMA ! E MMA !” A particularly nice girl from first semester study group snags me in the hallway immediately after I leave the classroom.
    “Hey, lady,” I say, as I try to cover for being unable to recall her actual name. Anything would be preferable to calling her what I remember her as: Age Inappropriate Pigtails.
    “Are you taking Klassen’s Divorce and Child Advocacy intersession course?” She scoots to the side to allow others to pass, ringlets swaying below her ears.
    “Yes, I rented the texts last night.”
    “Great,” she says. “We’re forming a study group. We’ll probably meet right after class every afternoon in room one-nineteen. See ya!”
    She leaves too quickly for me to tell her that I have to use all my vacation time every morning just to be able to attend the class. I won’t have enough time this year for any real vacation. Or study sessions. Or a life.

Day of Employment:
364
    8:41 a.m.
* Laundry : Sorted. Categorized. Pre-treated.
* Basically : Everything but actually washed.
* Kitchen : Suffers from an appalling lack of