Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan

any time of the day or night. The door’s always open. Or at least she has the key. But next time you’re coming over, I’d appreciate it if you used the doorbell. And some advance warning wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”
    â€œYou used to like it when I surprised you,” Mimi says, flirtatiously strumming her fingers on his shoulder. “You know what I mean, don’t you, darling? That night in Vienna. The black lace garter belt. I know you remember.”
    Bradford looks momentarily embarrassed. Okay, so he does remember. Mimi notices Bradford’s expression, too. “I still have that garter belt,” she says, rubbing her hand seductively along her hip.
    The woman is shameless—and appropriately named. For her, life is all about Me, Me, Me. But I refuse to let myself be jealous of Bradford’s ex-wife. Mimi’s the past and I’m the future. Bradford’s told me a million times that he made a mistake marrying the slick, social climbing Mimi. This time around, he wanted something real. Someone real. I pinch myself. Yup, I’m real all right. Though the situation is feeling a little absurd.
    Luckily, Bradford’s not falling for Mimi’s charm act. “I’ve got an important meeting in the morning,” he says, putting an end to the conversation. “I’m heading out early, but Skylar can sleep in. Sara will be here when she gets up.”
    â€œSure will,” I say chirpily, happy to prove to Bradford that despite the midnight intrusion, I’m glad Skylar’s here. “I’ll make breakfast. I whip up a pretty good banana pancake.”
    â€œAren’t you the good little housewife,” Mimi says, releasing Bradford’s shoulder and reverting to her snarky self. “Your little flapjacks. How quaint. Let’s see how they measure up to the soufflés Skylar ordered every morning in Paris at the George V. When she was with me.”
    Turning on her heel, Mimi reaches for her alligator purse, pulls out a gold compact and powders her nose. As if leaving with a shiny nose at three a.m. will blind the doorman.
    Bradford follows his ex to the front door and throws the dead-bolt lock as soon as she’s gone. He comes padding back into the bedroom and climbs into bed.
    â€œWe’d better get some rest,” he says, kissing me amiably. So much for our post-midnight passion. Within seconds he rolls over and falls into a sound sleep. I lay awake for the rest of the night—or what’s left of it—watching the pulsating digital numbers click toward dawn. Come to think of it, Mimi’s right. Bradford doesn’t like sex in the morning. Wonder what else she knows about him.
    Â 
    Dylan is already eating a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch when Skylar sleepily slouches into the kitchen. He barely looks up when she flops down at the table, dressed in skin-tight white shorts, an orange halter midriff top, and a chain-link belt wrapped around her tiny waist. If she were one of my students, I’d send her home to put on some clothes. I look protectively at Dylan. But fortunately, he’s still at the age when he doesn’t notice girls and he thinks Britney Spears is famous for her singing.
    Dylan peels back the top of his sandwich and starts cheerfully making little Swiss cheese balls which he shoots across his plate. Across the table, Skylar stares at him disdainfully.
    â€œGood morning!” I say brightly to my almost stepdaughter. “Or I guess, good afternoon! Sleep well?”
    â€œThe bed didn’t feel right,” she says huffily. “Don’t you know that anything less than three-hundred-count sheets makes me break out in hives?”
    Dylan looks up, finally interested. “Do you want to count to three hundred by threes?” he asks. “I can do it. Three . . . six . . . nine . . . twelve . . . fifteen . . .”
    â€œYou’re such an idiot,” Skylar says, rolling