Last Woman Standing. Amy Gentry

tell, the only two things he’d ever cared about were Kenny and the GMC. When Jason insisted I was the only one who could fit through the dog door in Mattie’s garage, I was flattered, but skeptical; Jason had filled out in the shoulders that year, but I’d been filling out more or less continuously since the third grade. Moreover, the idea of crawling through a dead dog’s door at night and stealing keys from the pocket of a drunk’s dirty jeans while he slept a few feet away nauseated me. I told myself that would be true even if that drunk were someone other than Mattie.

      But Jason was getting defensive. “Because this is a prank, not a crime.” He snorted. “I’m not a criminal.”

      “Oh yeah. Grand theft auto, totally legal.”

      He’d started on an angry retort, then caught himself and laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said. He ran his hands through his hair, and I could see that his palms were sweating from the damp trail they left in his bangs. “Maybe I’m also a little worried I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. I nearly failed shop.”

      “So that’s why you got mono last year.”

      “Saved my GPA,” he admitted.

      My own GPA was in free fall. I’d already guessed I wasn’t going to UT with Jason next year and wanted to spend as much time with him as I could. In the end, I had agreed to do it for the same reason I agreed to everything Jason wanted: because he wanted it.

      I was supposed to set an alarm for one a.m. and sneak out of the house, and I went to sleep early but full of adrenaline, sure that I would roll out of bed at the first beep. Instead, I awoke to a desperate tapping on my window sometime in the early-morning hours, still dark but way past one. Lost in a thick waking haze, I couldn’t tell if I actually saw Jason standing outside my window in the bushes, pale and shivering, or just heard him furiously tapping. But whether awake or asleep, I knew that I would never crawl through that dog door and steal Mattie’s keys, much less follow Jason to a field three counties over and watch as he banged up Mattie’s truck so I could drive him home afterward. I told myself I wasn’t really awake, and the tapping sound followed me into my dreams.

      I caught up to Jason the next day in the cafeteria. Standing in the nacho line, he couldn’t get away from me, but he wouldn’t look at me either.

      “Okay, top ten reasons I didn’t do the plan last night,” I said. “Number ten: It was a stupid fucking plan.”

      Wrong move. He stared resolutely at the floppy cardboard boats under the heat lamp, their tortilla chips stuck together with greasy cheese, then slid one onto his tray.

      “Number nine: Dreamed I was helping; woke up in the bathroom trying to shift the toilet into third gear.”

      Nothing. I swallowed.

      “Number eight: I’m a rotten friend.” I touched his sleeve and, in a different tone, said, “Jason, I’m sorry. Really.”

      As if he hadn’t heard me, couldn’t even feel my hand on his arm, he mechanically heaped sour cream and guacamole onto his nachos.

      “Fine, skip to number one,” I said. “I chickened out, Jase. I didn’t want to tell you, but I was scared.”

      Eyes still fixed on his tray, he slowly grinned, then chuckled. “You should have seen the look on your face when I was telling you about it.” He tossed the guacamole scooper into the hot-water tin with a splash. “It was like hurdle-jumping day in gym class all over again.”

      I beamed, relieved. “In my defense, I still don’t think you should have to have a doctor’s note when you’re obviously a midget.”

      By the end of the day, we were acting like it had never happened. Jason never brought up pranking Mattie again—although he took up smoking shortly afterward, which seemed related somehow—and when his girlfriend dumped him right before prom later that year, he gave her ticket to me. Standing next to him in a pile of silver balloons for the picture, my red column dress looking slightly silly next to his Texas tux, I felt thoroughly forgiven.

      Deep down, though, I knew I had lied about the reason I’d stayed in bed that night. It was true I was scared of Mattie, but I wouldn’t have let that stop me from helping Jason out. The number-one reason I hadn’t helped Jason steal Mattie’s truck was that he couldn’t admit he was too scared to do it alone. We both pretended he’d have gone through with it if only he’d had the keys, but he wouldn’t have. And that was ultimately why I couldn’t join him in crossing the line. He needed me too much.

      Trust me now? The question still hung unanswered in the little speech bubble on my screen.

      Amanda had crossed the line without me, unhesitatingly, on my behalf.

      I do, I typed into the text box, and pushed send.

7

      Absolutely not.” I glared at the red cross-front apron full of spray bottles that was lying on Amanda’s sofa. “You said I’d be a runner. You never said anything about a maid.”

      “It’s the only Runnr service he uses regularly!” Amanda protested. “Think of it like a part.”

      “I don’t do maids.” One of the reasons I’d stopped scouring the audition boards years before I left L.A. was that I got sick of showing up to read for the best friend and getting handed sides for the cleaning lady.

      “It’s just a costume,” she said, seeming genuinely bewildered. “And you won’t be wearing it long. Once you get inside—”

      “I know, I know.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was a finalist for Funniest Person in Austin. “Just shut up and give it to me.” Amanda dropped the apron into a shopping bag, and I stalked out to the car with it wedged under my arm.

      Once home, I donned the cleaning outfit as quickly as possible, to get it over with, and forced myself to look in the mirror. The red Runnr apron aged me ten years, and the half-empty bottles of cleaners in the pockets along the front forced my shoulders into a heavy slump. I thought of my mother hustling off to work in heels every day, her shoulders thrown sharply back. Even after getting laid off from her secretarial job at the helium plant, she had refused to return to the housecleaning work she’d done when she first came to Texas. “I don’t clean up messes anymore,” she’d insisted. “Not your father’s, not yours. Not anyone’s.” I pulled my own shoulders back, straining against the apron straps, and even attempted an old acting-class trick of inventing a walk for the character. But in the end, my waddle more or less invented itself, an attempt to minimize the sloshing of the bottles as they bounced off my belly. Pilot idea, I thought, then stopped myself. Too depressing.

      I checked my phone for activity on the app. For a regular weekly job like this, Amanda had explained, Branchik would get a notification on his phone to approve the run before it went out on the app. It was part of the company’s philosophy not to allow standing gigs to go to the same runner week after week. That might foster an independent relationship between user and contractor, encouraging them to drop the middleman altogether.

      “The Runnr philosophy is based on the fungibility of labor,” Amanda explained, and then she saw my blank expression and clarified. “Price, speed, and quality are the only variables that are supposed to matter to the algorithm. The way Runnr sees it, familiarity breeds wage inflation and tolerance for mistakes. You get to know someone, you learn their kids’ names, suddenly they’re a person. The Runnr customer is supposed to be able to order up human help like an appetizer, at the spur of the moment, without worrying about that stuff.”

      Just then, the notification arrived with a ding. The words We have a Run for you! popped up on my screen, a shower of confetti raining down behind them. I tapped details and watched as Doug Branchik’s address came up with the specs for the cleaning job; bathroom, kitchen, laundry, all boxes checked. At the bottom of the screen, the bidding price Amanda’s program had auto-generated to ensure I would win the run: $16.79.

      Unbelievable.