FlyGirl 2.0

Chapter 1 - Siobhan

BAD THINGS SHOULDN'T happen on beautiful days. Bad things should only happen on rainy days. Really bad things should happen during natural disasters.

What was about to happen to me, well, I think the only thing that would have prepared me would have been a nuclear holocaust.

Anyhoo, the day in question was a rare day in early August when there's not a cloud in the sky, and the humidity's not so high as to choke you out. I took one look outside and grabbed my bikini. I was going to the beach.

When I say beach, I mean the beach at Oak Street, on Lake Michigan, right there on the Gold Coast of the best city in the United States--Chicago, Illinois. I was living in South Bend, Indiana, home to Notre Dame University, and after surviving the worst summer of my life, I could finally say everything was back on track.

This year, I had everything planned. I would finally decide on a major. I would get involved in campus activities. I would start participating. I would stop being a spectator. It was my life. My rules. My choice. #TeamSiobhan.

Yep. Everything was right. Everything was good. Everything would be good... except what was going on with my feet? My toes looked like crap. Oh, no. It's happening. Ugly toes mean one thing... you're single, and you've got no mingle.

And okay, sure, I was single. I had no boyfriend, or girlfriend, or friend of undefined gender, but I shouldn't take it out on my feet. After all, it's a slippery slope. If I let my feet go, the next thing I'll be doing is watching Hallmark movies with my cats while eating Haagan Daz as a substitute for sex. N'uh. Not yet. Get it together girl.

I grabbed my purse and quickly made a series of appointments for mani-pedis, facials, and massages, too. Self-care was important. It showed on the outside how you felt on the inside.

Then I marched to the bathroom to strip off the old polish. Can't show up to the beach looking all raggedy AF. Better no nail polish than crap nail polish.

I'd just dug out my bottle of nail polish remover when my phone rang. Oddly enough, it was my landlord. Her name was Doris, and she had this weird "I may be fifty, but I'll pretend I'm still young" vibe going on that was both admirable and off-putting.  "Hello, Doris," I answered. "How are you?"

"Siobhan!" she exclaimed. "Hey girl! Are you back yet?"

I choked back a laugh. Hey, girl? Oh, stop. Doris was one of those women who hated other  pretty women strictly on principle. "I am. Yay."

"Yay, yay. Well, that's great." She paused. "Um, about your rent." Another pause. "Have you changed banks, or something? Because I haven't gotten it, and you know... it's the 6th."

I didn't know, so I didn't reply. I have a trust fund. All my bills are paid through the trust.

"So, um, maybe, you know, you could pay it," she continued, "and then, when I get the check... and I'm sure I will... I'll just credit you a month ahead? Okay?"

By that point, I had contorted myself onto my bathroom vanity and was diligently scrubbing off the remainder of my toenail polish. This was a challenge, because of the cast I was still sporting from a water-skiing accident earlier this summer. "What was that, Doris? I didn't catch the last part."

"I need you to pay your rent, Siobhan," she said. "Now."

Well, snap. I stopped scrubbing. "Doris, by now, do you mean now? I was going to the beach--"

"Yes. I mean now. You're late. Pay it now, or I'll charge the late fee."

I studied my feet. Better, but not great. "Okay. How much is the late fee?"