It bounced off the wall two feet away from her, and she stayed where she was, unperturbed. “Let me see,” she begged. “No. Your help is not so helpful.” “Not fair,” she said. “Those shoes would have been fine if the train wouldn’t have broken down. Blame Trax.” “Your résumé coaching was a disaster too,” I reminded her. “And if I could find a reason to blame you for the snag in my tights, I would.” “Come on,” she wheedled. “I won’t comment. I just want to see what you’re thinking about wearing tomorrow.” Knowing she wouldn’t give up, I sighed and waved her in. She stood next to me and stared at the outfits laid out on my bed in anticipation of my interview with Ellie Peters the next day. She kept her word not to say anything, but I could tell she was about to choke with the effort. I ignored her for another minute or two while I debated between a black suit I found on the Target clearance rack for forty dollars and an outfit I had pulled from my closet.
