EXCERPT

DARE YOU

CHAPTER ONE--TALKING POINTS

            I'm about to say I'm so nervous I could die, when Tara nudges me and whispers, "That's him."

            I follow her gaze to a group of commuters huddled on the opposite train platform.  "Who?"

            "Him.  The one I told you about."  She lowers her voice even more and says with a reverence most people reserve for speaking of holy people like the Pope or the Dalai Lama, "The one."

            "The one what?"

            "The hot man, Maggie."  Tara's tone is peevish because I don't immediately fly onto her wavelength.

            I'm a little peeved myself.  After all, this is supposed to be the "All About Maggie" day.  And she should be cruising on my wavelength since I'm the one less than an hour away from The Big Meeting with my boss.  I'm the one who's about to find out if my sentence has been commuted or if I'll be imprisoned in the Land of Impoverishment for another six months.

            My Scrooge of a boss is supposed to decree if I deserve a promised bonus.  And if I'm ready to sit for my Series 7 licensing exam to become a real stockbroker.  If not, I'll be stuck in Sales Assistant Purgatory for another six months.

            Purgatory and prison.  That's where I've been bouncing between for the last six months--since college graduation.

            And all this time my parents thought I was working in Philadelphia and living in the suburbs.

            Tara elbows me again and says, "The man."

            Because Tara's been my best friend since we were joined in Holy Roommate-tude during our freshman year at Penn, I say, "Oh, right.  The guy you've been sharing soulful looks with this week."

            "Yes," she whispers.  "See.  See how he looks at me.  Isn't he absolutely gorgeous?"

            I scan the men waiting for the outbound train to Paoli.  No soulful stares that I can see.  One man's blowing on his bare hands.  I hope he's not Soul Boy.  After all, a grown man should be smart enough to wear gloves on a twelve-degree December day.

            Another guy's reading a paper.  He doesn't even register on my cuteness radar.  Long scraggly hair, a bushy mustache.  And a serious potbelly juts out from his straight-from-the-seventies nylon parka.

            The only other male under the age of fifty on the station platform ranks about five--or maybe six if I'm really, really generous--on the official Maggie Cuteness Scale, and he's not looking at Tara.  But he is staring.  Off into the distance, if I'm not mistaken.  As if he's contemplating the origins of the universe.  Or the meaning of life.  Or solving some super-complicated physics problem.

            Just Tara's type.

            "The guy with the curly hair in the green parka?" I ask.

            "Yes!  Yes!"  Tara squeezes my arm.  "Isn't he lovely?"

            I roll my eyes, but I'm not worried Tara's noticed since she can't take her big blues off this, her latest in a long line of soul mates.  Soul mates she never actually works up the courage to meet.

            She finds these dream men everywhere.

            Meanwhile, she has yet to introduce herself to even a single one of them.  After four and a half years, she's driving me a little nuts with all of her romanticness.  I only hope she meets a real person soon and goes out on a date.  Maybe a dose of reality will knock these fantasies from her brain. 

            I, on the other hand, know romance is dead.  If it ever existed.  The two big relationships in my life were...  Well, let's just say, they didn't end in happily-ever-after.  They just ended.  And I wasn't happy.

            And now, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, I know what my priorities have to be.  I have to start earning money--real money, more than the lousy eighteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty dollars I currently gross a year--and become successful in my chosen career.  Those are my priorities.  Being a successful stockbroker and becoming financially solvent.  Either order works for me.

            I thought the first step in that direction was landing my current position at French & Milhouse Securities, the crème de la crème of brokerages houses, straight after graduation.  Although it wasn't one of the plum Wall Street jobs only a handful of my classmates were lucky enough to snag, I'd thought this position would fast-track me to becoming a full-fledged broker.  And it will--if my boss keeps his promises.

            So, today's the second step in my career advancement.  If that boss deems me ready to sit for my licensing exam and finally pays me what I'm owed.

            To prepare for today's monumental meeting, I stayed at Tara's house last night.  We went over my talking points--I learned about talking points in college, not that I've used them in my job so far as a sales assistant--and I practiced my big speech.  Plus I wrote down responses to Scrooge's potential arguments.

            I also wanted to borrow some professional-looking clothes for the occasion, since I can't afford real stockbroker outfits on my paltry salary.  Tara's mother came through with a serious-looking tweed suit and a pair of navy pumps.

            Now, as we wait for the train to take us from suburban Bryn Mawr into Philadelphia, Tara should be rah-rahing me about the meeting.  But nooo...

            She's yammering on and on about this latest soul mate, and all my talking points have escaped my brain.

            "See how he's looking at me," Tara says, her heart-shaped face all moony.

            I glance at Soul Boy again.  "I'm not sure he's really looking at you," I manage to say gently.  After all, she is my best friend and is usually super-supportive.

            "Of course he is.  Just look at his eyes."

            "Soulful," I say.

            Tara elbows me again.  "You're making fun."

            I sigh.  "I'm not.  I'm just trying to organize my thoughts."  I pause a beat for effect.  "Remember my big meeting?"

            Tara's mouth opens and her eyes widen.  She looks horrified.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."

            I know she is.  That's why I love her so much--even with all her romantic nonsense.  She is just about the nicest, sweetest person, when she isn't getting all carried away with her latest imaginary flame.

            "You'll do great."  She pats my hand just as I spot our train steaming down the rails toward us.  "But he is the one."

            "Sure he is."

            I am not about to waste my breath arguing with Tara.  I'm saving my lungs for my big moment with my boss Howie Richert, AKA Scrooge.