LITMIR.BIZ

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under his benevolent umbrella—providing networking opportunities with the other companies he helped.

      My head chef Zoey and her part-time assistants could handle production without me, but I needed to keep my hand in every part of the business, including managing booths at two farmers’ markets a week so that I could hear firsthand what my customers wanted.

      My phone rang and I realized I’d forgotten to turn it off. I checked the screen and saw that it was my friend Yollie. It must be an emergency for her to be calling this early on a Saturday. I stopped running to answer. “Hi Yollie,” I wheezed out. “Everything okay?”

      “Colbie! Thank God!” She sounded as breathless as I did.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I need to ask you a huge favor,” she said. “Can you pick up Steven at his music lesson this morning? My car broke down and he has to be picked up on time.”

      Steven was a senior in high school, completely stressed out by the college application process. He dedicated a lot of time to practicing oboe and hoped to be accepted to a world-class music conservatory. He’d even started using his middle name of Steven years before because there was already a famous oboist with the name Jordan George.

      Frankly, I thought Jordan George had more of a musician sound to it than Steven George, but at his insistence, even Yollie now called him Steven.

      “What time?” I asked. “I have the farmers’ market.”

      “Can you get there before eight?”

      Who had a music lesson so early on a Saturday? “No problem.”

      “Oh thank goodness,” she said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

      “Can you text me the address?” I bounced a little to keep my muscles warm.

      “It’s a couple of miles from your house,” she said. “Hold on.”

      I waited for her to send me the link and clicked on it. “That’s not very far.”

      “I know this is going to sound crazy, but his teacher has a bunch of rules that I’m going to email you.” Her voice was apologetic.

      “Rules?”

      “Yes,” she said. “Like you have to stay in your car until Steven comes out. He’ll get in trouble if you don’t follow all of the rules.”

      “Okay,” I said in my I’m humoring you voice.

      She wasn’t convinced. “Seriously, Colbie. This is important to Steven.”

      “Fine,” I said. “I’ll follow the rules.” I rolled my eyes.

      “I owe you big-time,” she said. “Let me know when you have him.”

      I hung up and stretched my legs before looking at the document Yollie sent. First of all, the teacher’s name was Benson Tadworth. No wonder he had control issues. Second, he called himself an “Oboe Master.” For some reason, that triggered the Darth Vader music from Star Wars to play in my head. Third, the list of rules was way over the top. Parents must arrive ten minutes early for drop-off and pick-up and must stay in their car. Payment must be on time on the first day of the month or your student will be dropped immediately. Students must practice three hours a day and document their times to the minute. Students must master reed making, practicing a minimum of one hour every day and at least fourteen hours a week.

      Geez. I’d run into control freaks like this in the junior music theater world and never knew why parents put up with them. There was always someone else who could teach the same thing and didn’t have all the baggage. But Yollie was Steven’s mom so she got to decide.

      I jogged back home and found my dad in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee, still in his bathrobe. Trouble meowed as soon as she saw me. The cranky look on her face said, What took you so long?

      I told my dad about Yollie’s call while I fed Trouble.

      “Doesn’t he drive?” my dad asked, his before-coffee crankiness coming through.

      “Yeah, but they share a car.” I grabbed my keys before he could get into a kids these days discussion. “Can you wake up Elliott while I’m gone? He has to set up for the costume committee.” Elliott was the co-vice president of the middle school drama club and had volunteered to host the costume committee. For weeks, our dining room had been home to swaths of different material, four sewing machines, and various masks made out of papier-mâché.

      “No pancakes?” my dad asked.

      I usually made pancakes for breakfast and was planning to make them in the shape of lions in honor of Elliott’s play. “Sorry! Tomorrow for sure.”

      “Okay,” he said, disappointed.

      My dad had grumbled a bit about the costume chaos, but I think he was actually pleased that Elliott was comfortable enough here to bring his friends over. I was happy that my dad had been able to see Elliott in a leadership position, something he didn’t realize happened off the football field.

      Elliott had been firmly against the club choosing The Lion King as the fall musical until my best friend Lani Nakano had volunteered to design the costumes and lead the committee. Lani had her own company called Find Your Re-Purpose. She recycled used clothes to create amazing fashions for people willing to wear wild colors and who had the money to pay for them.

      Elliott and the rest of the drama club had fallen in love with her concept of dark pink-spotted giraffes, purple elephants, and antelopes with daisy print fur, while the main characters would have regular costumes.

      She’d also brought in the local puppetry guild to show the student actors how to make some of the more elaborate costumes come to life. They’d been teaching them how to use the puppets safely and decided that the larger animals would enter the stage from the wings and wouldn’t be part of the parade down the aisles.

      I’d been having nightmares about giraffe heads falling on audience members, so having experts around made me feel much better.

      Elliott had become even more delighted when he was cast in the role of Zazu, the red-billed hornbill who advises the King.

      With just a couple of days until dress rehearsals, Lani had scheduled a full day of costume work, and the early birds would be arriving soon.

      At first, Trouble seemed to hate the mess in her kingdom, but lately, she had taken to batting around the masks. We now made sure the doors stayed closed to keep her away from wayward pins, sequins, and anything else she might decide to chew on.

      I entered the address Yollie had texted me and arrived with ten minutes to spare. Unfortunately, I was beside a large hedge that ran the length of the property with no house in sight. This couldn’t be right. I pulled behind a black BMW with dark tinted windows that must be as lost as I was, since the other side of the street was an empty lot.

      I texted Yollie a photo of the hedge. She texted back right away. Sorry! The GPS gets weird in that neighborhood. You’re at the back of the property. Take two rights and you’ll be there. You can’t miss the flamingo mailbox.

      Following her directions took me right to the big pink bird with stork-like legs holding up the mailbox body and a curved head sticking out of the top. Someone really loved flamingos.

      The curb had been painted green with the sign, Ten Minute Parking Zone, in white. It didn’t look like the lettering of other short-term parking zones. Had Benson Tadworth painted it himself?

      The house was the last one on a dead-end street. It was a one story bungalow with Old California charm, the narrow front steps leading up to the porch edged with Mexican tiles. The yard was overgrown and the garbage bin was on the curb, its open lid announcing that the garbage truck had come and gone. It was the only one on the block that hadn’t been brought back to the house. My dad would’ve tut-tutted and brought it back himself, but I wasn’t trying that at a stranger’s house. The detached garage had been renovated, and the

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